HE ARRESTS A SUSPECT
Johnson caught his most dependable horse and rode out from the Anvil
headquarters. Strapped to his hip was a .45 Colt and he had a 30-30
Winchester in his saddle holster. Florence Steel, on foot, overtook him
at the gate of the home pasture.
"What's this I hear? Where're you going, Mr. Johnson?"
Lafe told her glibly that he had been sent by Mr. Horne to recover
certain cattle which had been run off by hostile nesters during the
festivities. It was true that some cattle had been stolen.
"Sure," said Florence, gazing intently into his face. "If you meet up
with him, better watch out. A man who'll stab in the back will do most
anything."
"What do you know about this?"
"When you catch him," the girl added, "just give him this. Ask if this
doesn't belong to him." She thrust into Johnson's hand a large clasp
knife. There were blood stains on the blades and handle. Lafe nodded and
put it in his pocket. He did not even inquire how the girl had come by
it.
About dusk, on the following day, Johnson sighted Bass moving quietly
up a ravine on the west side of The Hatter. Some cottonwoods intervened
to spoil a shot. Lafe made a detour and quickened his pace, hoping to
head him off. As he emerged from the ravine on to a mesa, Bass perceived
him. Instead of fleeing, he turned his horse and threw up an arm as a
caution to Lafe to halt.
"What do you want?" he cried.
"I want you. Better come along quiet. It'll save trouble."
"I wouldn't choose to, thanks. No. I reckon I won't."
Johnson was not one to take chances with an assassin. He began to pump
his Winchester. At the second shot Bass's horse lurched forward on to
his knees with a scream and stretched out, its legs stiff. His rider
scrambled clear and shot Johnson through the fleshy part of his right
forearm before he could pull again.
The boss had drawn his six-shooter and was coming on. He coolly changed
the weapon to his left hand and threw down on him at twenty yards.
It had often been asserted in Badger that the sheriff could not miss at
any distance under two hundred feet. This was scarcely an exaggeration.
He had pulled only once when Bass held up empty hands in token of
surrender. His gun lay on the ground and two fingers of his right hand
were gone.
"I reckon I ought to have killed you, Mordecai," said Lafe, "but I
couldn't forget that me and you had slept under the same blankets. Do
you remember that roundup on the Lazy L? What'd you do this for?"
"I knew you'd think I did it," was all Bass said, and he began to make a
ligature out of his handkerchief.
"Well, get up here in front and come along. We've got twenty-one miles
ahead of us. Let's go."
"I know what you want me for," Bass said, "but you're wrong, Lafe. I
didn't do it."
"How do you know it was done, then?" said Lafe. "Only three of us knew
when I left the ranch. That was five minutes after we done found him."
His prisoner did not explain, but climbed obediently into the saddle in
front of Johnson. Riding thus balanced, the horse could carry both, but
it was punishing work, and not until eleven hours later did they make
the county town. Lafe turned his prisoner over to the sheriff and saw
him safely in jail under lock and key. As he was leaving, he said:
"Here's your knife."
"Where did you find it?"
"Where you threw it."
"I done lost it at the dance," said Bass.
On this Johnson placed the knife in the sheriff's keeping, to be used as
Exhibit A. When his arm had been dressed, he returned to the Anvil
headquarters.
All the guests had departed and, though Mrs. Horne was prostrated and
the cowman much perturbed, the cowboys of the outfit had started on
their roundup. A trifle like a murder must not interfere with business.
When he had driven Hetty and the boy home, Lafe joined the chuckwagon at
the camp on Bull Creek and took charge of operations.
After supper on the first night Johnson took part in a game of pitch. It
was not his habit to play with his men, as being subversive of
discipline, but he was worried and needed distraction. Baptismo, the
half-breed, was in the game. He was working through the roundup as
strayman for the Gourd. Although Lafe lost, the play excited him to
cheeriness and he began to drone, as he riffled the cards--
Oh, bury me not on the lone prairee,
Where the wild ki-yotes will howl o'er me--
"What's the matter, Baptismo?" he asked suddenly.
"Nothing's the matter. Go on and deal," said the strayman. He smiled at
Lafe, but his hands were unsteady. The boss played wretchedly and lost
more than he could afford.
"Whatever are you thinking about, Lafe?" exclaimed his partner, in
exasperation. "I swear I never done saw a raw beginner overbid his hand
worse'n you done."
"I'm right sorry. I was studying over something."
On the round next morning the boss made it a point to ride with
Baptismo. The outfit was dispersed in a wide semi-circle covering an
area five miles in diameter, and moved slowly forward within sight of
one another, converging upon a cuplike valley. In this manner they drove
ahead of them all the cattle within the limits of their sweep. Usually
the half-breed was sent with the first bunch dispersed, for he was a
capable hand, but instead of posting Baptismo this morning as he did the
others, Lafe kept him at his side. Side by side they trotted slowly
through the sage-brush, with the cattle careering in front, pausing
often to look back at them. Several times Lafe raised his voice merrily.
"Oh, bury me not on the lone prairee," he sang.
The half-breed glanced at him obliquely and remarked: "You seem right
fond of that song, Mr. Johnson."
"Yes? Did I sing that before? I hadn't noticed it," the boss answered,
and went on with the verse.
All through the day Johnson kept close to Baptismo. It was quite evident
that the half-breed had difficulty holding himself in check under this
close espionage, but the only emotion he betrayed was a quickened
alertness. And all through the day Lafe sang or hummed the ballad of
"The Dying Cowboy."
On the next afternoon, as they were picking their way through a tangle
of ocatilla among the foothills, Johnson burst into full-throated
song--
Oh, bury me not on the lone prairee,
Where the wild ki-yotes will howl o'er me--
Where the rattlesnakes hiss and the wind blows free--
"For the love of God!" said Baptismo. "Stop that song!"