Paint Pablo was not a pleasant sort of a gentleman. In fact, it is
stretching the imagination considerably even to speak of him as a
gentleman. It is also doubtful whether Pablo ever laid any claims to
the appellation.
He was about five feet five inches in height, fairly wide of girth for
such a short person, and with an evil, pock-marked face. His little
brown eyes were close together, his nose little more than a blob of
flesh, his mouth crooked and badly in need of a dentist.
Still, he thought well of Mr. Pablo. He had a passion for pinto horses.
His four cowboys, “Tucson Charley,” Mose Dickey, “Pokey” Speed--who had
been christened Polk--and Mike John all rode painted ponies.
Tucson Charley’s mother had been a Piute, his father, a Spaniard. Mose
Dickey’s paternal ancestors were unknown to him. Pokey boasted Irish
and Mexican blood, while Mike John’s blood was a mixture of Yaqui and
Basque.
It was an aggregation to be proud of, and Paint Pablo was proud of
them. So variegated was everything about the ranch that it was commonly
known as the “Paint Pot.” It was located across the Antelope range from
the mouth of Rainbow Valley, and about ten miles in a straight line
northeast from the town of Antelope.
That Paint Pablo was dishonest, there was no doubt in the minds of
Antelope and Rainbow Valley folks. But he had never been caught. If
there was a hold-up within miles of that country, Pablo and his crew
were under suspicion. But Pablo did not mind. He went along in his
own dumb way, caring little what any one thought about him.
His ranch house was a huddle of unpainted shacks in a grove of
cottonwoods, sitting high enough on the hill to overlook much of the
country. Paint Pablo did not build up there for the view.
And it was at this Paint Pot ranch that Bill Smith, erstwhile Tex
Rowland, Number 1733, made his first stop on his return to Antelope.
He rode in on a jaded gray horse, cheap saddle and a bridle that was
little more than a leather thong.
He had managed to scrape together an outfit of cowboy raiment, belt,
gun and a small stock of ammunition. Pablo was sitting in the shade of
a cottonwood, putting a hondo on his rope, when Bill Smith rode in and
dismounted.
He had known Pablo for years, and felt that Pablo would recognize him,
if such a thing was possible. But there was no sign of recognition in
his little eyes; only suspicion of this handsome cowpuncher. Pablo was
no conversationalist. He grunted softly and continued to work on his
rope.
Bill Smith grinned and rolled a cigaret.
“What outfit is this?” he asked.
Pablo grunted, spat thoughtfully, and drew the lightning sign in the
dust with his forefinger.
“Lightnin’, eh?” queried Bill.
“Um-m.”
“You know Rory McPherson?”
“---- right.”
“You know Big Jim Mott?”
Pablo shifted uneasily.
“Um-m.”
“You know Tex Rowland?”
Pablo looked up quickly, a glint of suspicion in his eyes.
“You officer?” he asked.
“Nope. Tex was my friend.”
“Um-m. What you want?”
“Job.”
“You look for Tex?”
“Not so you’d notice it. I need a job, and I was just wonderin’ if
McPherson could put me to work.”
Pablo squinted closely at him.
“You been sick? You pretty ---- white skin.”
“Yeah, I been sick,” grinned Bill Smith, “Almost died.”
“Too bad. I was sick once. Wood alcohol! ---- near die, too.”
“What about that job?” asked Bill.
Pablo shook his head and went to work on his rope.
“No job here,” he declared, “I got too much help. Mebbe Jim Mott give
you job; mebbe McPherson give you job--I dunno.”
“Got a horse yuh want to trade?”
Pablo took a quick glance at the skinny gray and shook his head. He was
not interested in anything but painted horses. Bill Smith threw away his
cigaret, told Pablo good-by and rode on toward Antelope.
He was satisfied now that no one would recognize him. If he escaped the
keen eyes of Pablo, there was little chance of any one discovering that
Tex Rowland was back of that handsome face. It was going to be difficult
for him to pose as a stranger in a place where he knew every one. He was
beginning to get used to his new face and name. It would be like coming
back from the grave to hear himself discussed, and he felt sure that he
would soon know what folks thought about him.
He rode into Antelope and tied his horse to a hitch-rack. It did not
seem to him that he had ever been away from the old town. Old Ase
Bradley, who owned a general store, was sitting on the same old bench
in front of the store, chewing tobacco and arguing politics with a
couple of old cronies.
Pete Sutherland, the blacksmith, was swearing audibly at a broncho
that wouldn’t stand still. Pete always swore at them, whether they
stood still or not. It was a habit with him. A girl was coming out of
the bank, and Bill Smith stood silently watching her.
It was Della Marsh, coming straight toward him; Della Marsh, the girl
he was to have married. He stared at her hungrily. It was the supreme
test of his disguise. She glanced at him without recognition and passed
on into a restaurant. Bill Smith sighed deeply and walked slowly on.
For the first time since his recovery he realized that even Della would
not know him.
And that moment he realized that he was a stranger to
everybody--everywhere. He was the only living person who knew who he
was. The gods of fate had created a full grown human being; created
a creature which had no past.
“My ----!” exclaimed Bill Smith to himself, “I dunno whether I’m winner
in this game or not. I can’t claim relationship with anybody on earth. I
was born in a train wreck, where a lot of folks died--and among them was
Tex Rowland. I’m just a ghost, tha’sall.”
No one spoke to him in the Fashion Saloon. There were men he had known
intimately for years; men who were his friends. They looked at him and
saw only the good-looking puncher, a trifle run down as to raiment, a
stranger to Antelope.
Big Jim Mott was there, playing poker. He glanced at the stranger and
went on with his game. Bill Smith bought himself a drink. It was the
first one he had drunk since his arrest. He questioned the bartender
about the cattle ranches, intimating that he was looking for a job. The
bartender advised him to see Big Jim. Bill Smith grinned to himself. It
seemed ridiculous for the bartender not to know him.
Marvin Crane was also in the poker game. He was a thin-faced,
swarthy-complectioned, middle-aged man, who was continually blinking
his eyes. It was Crane who had sworn to the complaint charging Tex
Rowland with the theft of six XO-Bar-5 horses.
Some one had corralled the horses in an old pole-corral in a coulée,
several miles from the XO-Bar-5 ranch-house, and with the six XO-Bar-5
horses was a RMP mare which Tex had been looking for.
Tex had dismounted and was inside the corral, rope in hand, when Crane
and “Slim” Whelan, his cowpuncher, rode up. Tex had noticed that the
animals were covered with sweat and were weary from a long run; but
gave it no thought.
He was also unaware that just outside the little corral were the
preparations for a branding-fire, which had been recently put together.
There was also the rod from the end-gate of a wagon, which, in all
probability, was to be used as a running-iron to change the brands.
In range parlance--Tex was caught with the goods. Crane and Whelan
covered him with their guns, disarmed Tex and took him to the sheriff.
There had been too much horse-stealing in the Antelope country for the
law to deal lightly; so Tex had been convicted.
Bill Smith, erstwhile Tex, loafed around the saloon until the poker game
broke up, and then approached Big Jim Mott. Luck had smiled upon Big Jim
and his grin was expansive.
“Want a job, eh?” he asked jovially. “What can you do?”
“Anythin’ from wranglin’ broncs to runnin’ the ranch,” replied Bill
Smith.
“Well, you’re not a bit modest,” laughed Big Jim. “Where are you from
and what is your name?”
“Are you hirin’ pedigrees or punchers?” asked Bill.