“Yeah, I reckon that’s who it was. Do they all talk alike?”
“All I ever knowed, except one, Slim.”
“How’d he talk?”
“Through his nose.”
Slim’s face was very serious as he digested this mentally.
“Well, there’s exceptions to all cases, I reckon. I’ll show yuh where
to fill that straw-tick. I’m glad yuh come to work here, Smith. We sure
need another man here.”
“Plenty of work, eh?” queried Bill Smith.
“No-o-o, not much work. But we’ve got twenty hens that are layin’ every
day, and the ---- aigs are spoilin’ on us.”
* * * * *
It was near closing time at the bank on the following day. Della’s head
was aching from trying to absorb knowledge of the banking business, and
she was almost ready to slam down the top of her desk and run away into
the hills. It was all so complicated, and Eddy had tried to teach her
the whole system in one day. Consequently her mind was awhirl.
Big Jim came in and leaned on her desk, puffing away at his cigar, a
grin on his lips.
“Learning the game, Della?” he asked.
“Oh, I don’t know what I’ve learned,” she said nervously. “It is all
Greek to me yet. I don’t think I’ll ever understand what it is all
about.”
“I don’t understand it,” he laughed. “Too much for me.”
“Why did you give me this position?” she asked.
Big Jim laughed and squinted at his cigar thoughtfully.
“Well, I thought you needed a good job, and,” he lowered his voice and
leaned closer, “I wanted to have you around, Della.”
“Wanted to have me around?” Wonderingly.
“Sure. I wanted to have the prettiest girl in the State working for me.
You are pretty, Della.”
She looked down at her desk and began arranging papers. It was clear to
her now that Big Jim Mott did not hire her because of her ability. She
knew that he was looking down at her, but she did not look up.
“I suppose those papers were not sufficiently shuffled,” he laughed
softly. “You’ve got pretty hair, Della.”
Still she did not look up; so he laughed and went back to his private
room. Eddy, the cashier, was locking the vault, and now he came up to
her.
“Closing time, Miss Marsh,” he said pleasantly. “You may go now. I
suppose it has been a hard day.”
“Rather a confusing day,” she said wearily, as she put on her hat. “I
shall dream of banking terms, I suppose.”
“I have,” he confessed. “But later on it will be all in a day’s work.”
She went out and he locked the door behind her. A man was coming down
the sidewalk toward her, and she recognized him as the one they called
Tucson Charley. She merely gave him a glance as she started across the
street. He was more Indian than white in looks and garb.
As she reached the sidewalk and started up the street, she happened to
glance back and saw that Tucson Charley was following her. Perhaps, she
thought, he was merely coming up to one of the stores. But he turned
down a side path, following her straight to the home of the little
milliner.
Della was not afraid of him, but she was curious to know why he was
following her. On the steps of the little house she stopped and waited
for him to come up. He glanced around, as if wondering if any one was
watching him, before coming up to her.
“What do you want?” she asked.
He dug inside his dirty shirt and brought out a begrimed envelope, which
he passed to her. There was no name on the envelope. She looked at it
curiously, noting that it was sealed.
“What is it?” she asked.
“You open,” he said shortly.
Wonderingly she tore one end off the envelope and drew out a folded
piece of paper. The writing on it had been done with a soft lead-pencil
and was barely legible. Quickly she glanced at the signature on it and
gave a gasp of surprise. It was signed--
_Tex._
“Where did you get this?” she asked hoarsely.
Tucson Charley shook his head and looked blankly.
She stared at him for several moments then read the note,
Dell I want to see you but I’m afraid to show myself.
I have been hurt but am able to travel again. I need
money to get me out of the country and don’t know
where I can get it. I need about $500. Don’t tell
anybody about this because the officers are close
on my trail. You can trust the man who brings this.
Just sign your name on this so I will know you got
it. You will hear from me again.
Tex.
She crushed the letter in her hands. Never for a moment did she question
the authorship of the note. She had never seen any of Tex Rowland’s
writing. But she did know that Tex Rowland, the man she loved, was
hiding away in that country, recovering from injuries, and badly in need
of money.
“Where is he?” she asked hoarsely.
Tucson Charley shook his head. Either he did not know, or would not say.
She read it through again before taking a pencil from her little bag. He
had only asked her to write her name, but above the name she wrote:
_Tex, I love you in spite of everything._
Quickly she put the message into the envelope, gave it back to the
half-breed and watched him walk back toward the main street. She wanted
to follow him and ask more questions about Tex; but she knew that Tucson
Charley would not talk. She knew that Tucson Charley worked for Pablo,
at the Paint Pot ranch, and wondered if Tex were hiding out there.
It was not like Tex to ask her for money. But under the circumstances
she was about the only one he could ask for help. Her pocket-book
revealed the fact that she had just twelve dollars. It was out of the
question for her to get the five hundred dollars for him.
She did not confide in Miss Freeland that night. It would be like
trusting the news to a reporter. Miss Freeland’s tongue was of the
hinged variety, and no secret was sacred to her. The next morning
she went back to the bank, still wondering what she could do to help
Tex.
It was difficult for her to get interested in the work. The room seemed
hot and stuffy, and her head ached slightly. Some men were talking to
the cashier about some accident, and she heard the name of Tucson
Charley used several times.
As soon as the men went away she asked the cashier about it.
“One of Pablo’s cowboys,” he said. “They call him Tucson Charley, I
think. Anyway, he got drunk last night and his horse kicked him in the
head. He likely went out to the hitch-rack and fell into the horse.
They found him there this morning.”
“Dead?” she asked breathlessly.
“Yes.”
The cashier went back to his work, while Della slumped back in her
chair, her mind awhirl. They would find that letter on Tucson Charley,
and it would lead them to Tex Rowland. She knew that Tucson Charley had
never delivered that letter to Tex.
It was some time before she could control her nerves sufficiently to
ask the cashier more details. But he knew no more than he had told
her, except that the body had been turned over to old Paint Pablo for
burial.
“Didn’t they notify the sheriff,” she asked, “or the coroner?”
“I don’t think so, Miss Marsh. You see, it was an accident; so there
was nothing to interest the law. Doctor Sibley examined him, and they
all decided that the horse kicked him.”
“But why don’t they bury him here at the town cemetery?” she asked.
“Nobody wanted to assume the responsibility, I suppose. He has no
relatives around here. Some of the boys have taken him out to Pablo’s
ranch in a wagon.”
The cashier went to attend to a customer’s wants, and Della made a
pretense of working. She felt that there was a bare possibility of
no one finding that letter on Tucson Charley. As long as the sheriff
or coroner had not been notified, it was hardly likely that any one
would search the corpse.
It was nearly noon when Big Jim rode into town and came to the bank.
Della was suffering from a severe headache and he noticed that she did
not look well.
“You look awful pale,” he told her. “Don’t you feel well?”
“Just a bad headache,” she told him wearily. “The figures get all
tangled up in my brain somehow.”
“Say, you sift out of here and go home,” he ordered. “You ain’t in shape
to work, Della.”
He walked over and explained it to the cashier, who apologized to Della
for not sending her home earlier in the day. She was more than glad to
leave the bank. Big Jim went outside with her, offering advice in the
cure of headaches.
“You ought to take a ride into the hills,” he said. “You’ve been
working too hard. I tell you what to do: You go to the livery stable
and tell ’em I said to let you have a good saddle-horse. Pick out the
best one there for today, and after this I’ll see that there’s a good
horse kept there for you.”
“But I couldn’t do that,” she protested.
“Yes, you can, too. It’s the least I can do for you, Della. If I wasn’t
so busy today, I’d ride with you. I’ll try and ride with you once in a
while, after today. Now you run along and get that horse. Tell Johnny
Harris to put it on my bill. No, don’t tell him anything, Della. You get
the horse, and I’ll see Johnny later.”
The temptation was too great for Della. For years she had ridden the
hills; riding as wild and free as any cowpuncher, and it had been as
much a part of her life as eating and sleeping. She took the horse
down to Miss Freeland’s house, where she made a swift change into her
riding clothes.
But her clothes were hardly conventional according to riding academy
standards. A pair of overalls, light flannel shirt, boots and a sombrero
completed the outfit. She owned a .30-30 Winchester carbine, a gift from
old Rory McPherson, but decided against taking it with her. On account
of its recoil, she had never quite mastered it although she shot fairly
well.
At a short distance away she could easily be mistaken for a slim, young
cowpuncher, as she rode out of Antelope, heading north into the rolling
hills. She was taking the shortest distance to the Paint Pot ranch, and
intended to keep away from the road for fear of meeting those who had
taken the remains of Tucson Charley to Pablo’s place.
V
The XO-Bar-5 was sort of a rundown place, and Martin Crane seemed to
expend little effort in keeping it going. A half-breed woman, Alice
Spotted Horse, did the cooking--or what passed for cooking. Alice was
very fat, slow of foot and heavy of hand, and expressed every emotion
with the same exclamation:
“I be ----!”
“She’s a elocutionist,” declared Slim, after Alice had used up her
vocabulary on acknowledging her introduction to Bill Smith.
Alice grinned blandly and repeated herself. Bill praised her cooking and
asked her why in ---- she ever put flour in her soda-biscuits. They were
as yellow as saffron and fairly sizzled with their soda content. Alice
thought Bill was praising her cooking and it pleased her mightily.
“You jiggers let Alice alone,” ordered Crane. “She’s all right.”
“But not for cookin’,” declared Slim. “She’s too danged thoughtful.” And
then to Bill:
“About six months ago she seen Crane take a spoonful of soda for
indigestion. He was sufferin’ quite a lot and it fixed him up fine.
Since then she’s dumped soda into everythin’ she cooked. By golly, I
stirred my coffee the other mornin’ and it blew up in my face. She’d
loaded it with soda, I reckon.”
Crane laughed and called to Alice:
“Never mind what they say, Alice. Yore cookin’ keeps me in shape.”
“I be ----!” said Alice blankly.
“Aw, she appreciates praise all right,” said Slim laughing. “When yuh
goin’ to get married, Alice?”
“Huh!” Alice snorted and turned her back.
“She’s got a sweetheart,” grinned Slim, “Tucson Charley. You don’t know
Tucson Charley, Smith. He works for Pablo. Him and Annie are goin’ to
get married some day. I dunno what she can see in that cock-eyed breed;
but love beats ----, don’t it?”
“It sure does,” said Bill Smith slowly. “I reckon a cock-eyed half-breed
can love. He sees things different than me and you, Slim; so we hadn’t
ought to laugh at him.”
“Aw, I ain’t laughin’ at him,” protested Slim. “I _sabe_ that he thinks
Alice is as cute as a hair-trigger on a cannon. I’ve been in love, and I
sure appreciate the feelin’, Smith.”
Slim leaned back in his chair and gazed at the ceiling:
“She was a village maiden, Smith. Her eyes were like jet and her hair
was like----”
“Oh, for ----’s sake, don’t tell it!” exploded Crane. “You make me itch
for a gun every time yuh start it.”
“Does he tell it often?” queried Bill Smith.
“Every time he finds somebody that’ll listen.”
Slim laughed and fumbled for his cigarette-makings.
“I’ll slip it to yuh sometime when Crane ain’t around, Smith. It sure is
a dinger of a recitation. Yuh can make it fit any girl.”
Bill Smith nodded seriously and got up from the table.
“You scare that gray bronc into the hills and help yourself to a decent
animal,” said Crane, as they went outside. “There’s a tall roan down
there that’s broke to everythin’ except a rope and a gun. Yuh might
teach him a few things.
“There’s a good saddle down in the bunkhouse, too. That hull you rode in
here is liable to fall apart and leave yuh settin’ down. You might as
well go with Slim over to the Paint Pot and see Pablo today. Pablo’s got
about a hundred white-faced cows, which Big Jim wants, and I’ve got to
try and buy ’em cheap. If Pablo knows that Big Jim wants ’em, he’ll jump
the price; _sabe_?”
“All right,” agreed Bill Smith, “but if he don’t talk more than he did
yesterday, we’ll never know whether we’ve bought somethin’ or not.”
“He’ll talk to Slim.”
“Yeah, he’ll talk to me,” laughed Slim. “But I’ll betcha we’ll never get
a short price on them white-faced cows. Pablo thinks they’re pintos.”
They saddled and rode off across the hills toward the Paint Pot ranch.
Bill Smith had taken the tall roan, a half-broken, hammer-headed brute,
which wanted to hurdle everything in sight. Slim grinned in appreciation
of Bill’s horsemanship.
“That roan made me do a hoolihan,” he confided. “Crane thought he could
fork it, and he ate his meals standin’ up for a few days. If he ever
starts doin’ his wormfence, you’ll know you’ve been well-mounted; but I
reckon you’ve forked ’em before.”
It was about eight miles to the Paint Pot, and by the time they had
covered that distance the roan was willing to take its time.
They found Pablo and Mike John sitting against the shady side of the
old ranchhouse, hugging their knees. Both of them squinted at the two
cowpunchers but did not get up. Mose Dickey came around the corner of
the house, halted at sight of Slim and Bill, and leaned heavily against
the corner.
Slim squatted on his heels in front of Pablo and rolled a cigarette.
He had not spoken; neither had Pablo nor his men. The Indian blood
predominated in their actions, and Slim knew them well enough to
appreciate this fact. Bill Smith squatted down and offered his tobacco
to Pablo, but it was refused.
“Well, what do yuh know, Pablo?” queried Slim, after a long interval of
silence.
Pablo spat and rubbed his chin. Then--“Tucson Charley dead.”
“Huh?”
Slim removed his cigaret slowly, wonderingly.
“Deader’n ----!” said Mike John.
“Tucson Charley dead?” grunted Slim.
“---- right!” grunted Pablo nodding violently.
“Pretty ---- dead,” observed Mose Dickey without emotion.
“Sounds like a settled fact,” observed Bill Smith.
“What killed Tucson Charley?” asked Slim.
“Horse kick ’m,” said Pablo.
“Men say horse kill ’m,” corrected Mose Dickey.
“Um-m,” said Pablo.
“’Pears to be a difference of opinion, Slim,” observed Bill.
Pablo got to his feet and motioned for them to follow him. They filed
into the house where they viewed the remains of Tucson Charley, laid
out on a sagging cot, covered with a gaudy blanket.
“He’s dead,” said Pablo softly.
“Deader’n ----!” said Mike John, with finality.
“Where did it happen, Pablo?” asked Slim, as Bill Smith made a close
examination of the dead man’s head.
“Antelope.”
Pablo hooked his thumbs over his belt and nodded slowly: “Charley he go
town yesterday. Men say he got ---- drunk. I guess that right, too. Find
’m this morning by hitch-rack.”
“Pretty ---- dead,” added Mose Dickey.
“Got drunk, fell into the bronc and got kicked in the head, eh?” said
Slim.
“Men say so,” agreed Pablo.
“His horse?” asked Bill Smith.
“---- right,” nodded Pablo. “Men bring horse, too.”
“Where’s the horse?” asked Bill Smith.
“Jus’ pinto horse,” said Mose Dickey.
“Down by corral.”
He jerked his thumb in that direction.
Slim and Bill walked outside and looked down toward the tumble-down
corral, where the pinto horse was still tied to the fence.
“Let’s take a look at it, Slim,” suggested Bill.
Pablo and Mose Dickey followed them down and watched Bill Smith throw
his sombrero at the pinto’s heels. The animal jumped ahead, whirled and
pulled back, but did not kick. Bill spoke softly to the animal, moved in
close and soothed it. After working around it for a while he was able to
examine its hoofs.
“That’s a pretty good horse, Pablo,” said Bill after he had finished his
examination.
Pablo grinned and nodded quickly. There were four more pinto horses
inside the corral and Bill looked them over.
“You like pinto horses?” asked Pablo.
“Yeah, I like ’em--in a circus,” replied Bill seriously.
“I sell you good one--mebbe,” said Pablo.
“Mebbe,” grinned Bill.
They went back to the house and squatted in the shade, but this time
Pablo accepted Bill Smith’s tobacco.
“You got plenty white-faced cows, Pablo,” said Slim. “Market bad now.
Meat not much good, skin small price. How much you want for white-faced
cows?”
Pablo thought this over for quite a while, alternately squinting at Slim
and looking down at the ground. Then, his decision: “No trade now. Too
sad, you _sabe_? Gotta bury Tucson Charley.”
“Sure,” agreed Slim. “We talk ’nother time, eh?”
“Um-m.”
“Goin’ to have a preacher, ain’t yuh?” asked Bill Smith.
“What for preacher?” queried Pablo blankly.
“They don’t _sabe_ that,” said Slim before Bill had a chance to explain.
“Let’s go home before they wish a shovel on to us.”
They got on their horses and rode away, without even saying good-by to
the Paint Pot outfit.
“No use talkin’ business to ’em,” stated Slim. “They’re all in mournin’
now, don’tcha know it? I _sabe_ ’em, Smith. They don’t act a danged bit
mournful but, I’ll tell yuh right now, they feel bad. Mebbe they’re
just a tough bunch of hombres, but they’ve been together a long time
and this hits ’em hard. Tucson Charley wasn’t worth the rope it would
take to hang him; but right now they all think he was the finest jigger
that ever lifted a cow-critter.”
* * * * *
They swung out through a coulée, cutting across a hog-back ridge, when
Slim drew up his horse and looked back. A rider was swinging in toward
the ranch, coming from the south. The rider was only about five hundred
yards away, traveling slowly.
“By golly, I’ll betcha that’s Della Marsh!” exclaimed Slim, and then
turned to explain who Della Marsh was.
“That horse belongs to the livery-stable in Antelope,” declared Slim,
“and Della Marsh works for the bank down there. Now, what in ---- is
she doin’ at the Paint Pot?”
“We better go back there and find out, eh?” suggested Bill Smith.
“That’s no place for a girl, Slim.”
“We’ll sure do that little thing--and it ain’t. C’mon.”
They turned and rode back in a hurry. The girl had dismounted and was
talking to Pablo. She looked curiously at them, as they rode up and
swung off their horses. Their coming had put her in an embarrassing
position, and even Pablo grinned sourly at them.
“We seen yuh comin’, Della,” said Slim, “and I wanted yuh to meet my
friend Smith.”
They looked at each other for several moments and Della held out her
hand to Bill Smith.
“I am glad to meet you,” she said softly, as their hands met.
Bill Smith mumbled something. He hardly knew what he was saying, because
it seemed so ridiculous to be introduced to a girl he had known for
years. Unconsciously he squeezed her hand and she drew away from him.
“How come you ride away out here, Della?” asked Slim.
“Why--” she brushed a lock of hair away from her eyes and smiled at
him--“I don’t know. It just happened, I suppose.”
“She want see Tucson Charley,” offered Pablo blandly. “She know he
dead.”
“Yes, I heard he had been killed,” said Della quickly.
“She want look in his pocket,” stated Mose Dickey.
“Huh?” Slim was interested.
Della flushed for a moment, but her cheeks grew pale. She did not want
to tell Slim and this stranger what she expected to find in Tucson
Charley’s pockets.
“Look in his pocket?” muttered Slim wonderingly. “What for?”
“She no say,” Pablo shook his head.