“The squeezin’est man in Lincoln County!” snarled “Bud” Ranger to
himself.
He peered downhill between slim oak saplings, through the spaced trunks
of great pines and junipers and mountain ash to the canyon floor. There
the little Ruidoso split a smooth, green level--exactly as if a polished
bowie knife lay across a billiard table.
“The squeezin’est man!” Bud repeated, aloud, with “Old Ben” Lingo’s
still, red face in mind.
Then, in a sudden burst of fury born of every petty irritation, all the
troubles, caused by the brand-new Lingo-Ranger feud, Bud forgot his need
for caution--here on Lingo’s Ranch, hunting unlawfully in the dawning.
He spat out his opinion of Old Ben, of “Red Ike” Ranger, his own father;
of the plain orneriness of the two together.
“Bud!” came “Brother” Ranger’s anxious whisper from behind him. “You
tryin’ to raise the country or somethin’? They could hear you in
Roswell! Anyway, quit talkin’ through your hat. You’re sayin’ a lot
o’ things you don’t mean.
“You’re sore, ’cause this feud has split up the families an’ you can’t
see Sudie May. You know blame’ well Ben Lingo ain’t half so bad as he’s
painted. Ben wants what’s due him an’ a little interest--an’ he gets it!
An’ the reason folks talk against him is because they’re like pa--plumb
jealous of a rich man!”
Bud shrugged his shoulders impatiently, squatting on heels, a slender,
muscular statue, with keen, aggressive brown face outthrust. With Savage
.250-3000 across his knees, ancient gray Stetson pushed back upon his
flaming hair, he stared with narrowed blue eyes up and down the canyon,
alert for sight of Lingo cowhands.
“Nobody in sight. Reckon we can cross over,” he growled finally.
But he made no move to go down the slope. Instead, he stared at the
green canyon bottom, starred with daisies. He knew it all so well!
Upon the trail along the little river, he and Sudie May Lingo had
ridden stirrup to stirrup since they were kids.
There was Deep Hole, below Monument Rock, where many and many a time
they had whipped rainbows from water to frying pan, almost. Sudie
May--there wasn’t a girl in Lincoln County--in all New Mexico--fit to
be mentioned in the same breath with her, to Bud Ranger’s notion. And
now Red Ike, his father, had had to fall out with her father over some
petty money matter. Beaten in a trade, he was furious and had promised
to shoot Ben Lingo on sight.
Behind Bud, Brother waited sympathetically. Before the dawn, they had
come across the hills from the poverty-stricken little Ranger Ranch
against the Mescalero Reservation fence. Crouched on the ridge above
the Ruidoso’s canyon, they had watched Ben Lingo and some Easterner
mounting in the dooryard. Like Bud, Brother had seen Sudie May’s pink
dress flashing past the door and he could guess the bitterness that
filled Bud now.
“Goin’?” he inquired softly.
He moved slightly to ease the cramp in a thigh--and forgot, abruptly, to
sympathize with Bud. For the carpet of pine needles and dry oak leaves
beneath him shot forward. As on a toboggan he slid downhill with his old
Winchester waving. Came a crash from beyond the boulder on Bud’s right.
They had reached the thicket noiselessly, being woodsmen as much as
cow-punchers; the buck springing up was only now alarmed.
Bud’s Savage flicked up. There were two swishing sounds, almost
together, as he pressed trigger twice. The buck staggered, came to
his knees, then somersaulted and went stumbling down the steep
slope--fifty, seventy-five yards, until the carcass was stopped by a
juniper trunk.
Bud grinned boyishly:
“_There’s_ Aunt Sary’s beef for you! Told you! If pa can’t afford to
butcher a steer for her, I can get meat for the kids as long’s I’ve
got a gun. This one shore shoots where you hold it, Brother!”
Brother’s reply was a groan of agony. Bud’s blue eyes came flushing
round again. He had a glimpse of Brother’s head and shoulders. The head
rocked as he stared; Brother’s face showed like a sheet of paper against
the greenery. Bud sprang up with an oath and scrambled downhill.
“Foot----” breathed Brother, between hard-clenched teeth. “Blame’
thing’s jammed--into some rocks! Gosh!” Then he fainted.
Frantically, Bud dived into the thicket and with his big pocketknife
began to hack away the branches about his brother’s feet. The sight
of Brother’s predicament nearly turned Bud’s healthy stomach. For his
left leg--sickeningly twisted--was jammed between two big boulders.
Desperately, he heaved at the massive rocks, but they were fragments of
the mountain, seemingly as immovable as the hills themselves. Gently,
then, he caught hold of Brother’s thigh and tugged. But the only result
was a groan wrung from the prisoner, who returned to consciousness only
to faint again.
Bud studied the crevice into which the leg was jammed like wedge into
axe head. Tentatively he chipped at the edges. It _could_ be cut, but
slowly--all too slowly! He needed a pick or crowbar. But it was ten
miles back to their house and this was enemy country. Ben Lingo’s was
the nearest house and--there in plain sight on the slope below them
was the deer, evidence to damn them.
If the Ranger boys were caught and brought before their father’s enemy,
Justice of the Peace Ben Lingo--well, they would shortly occupy a jail
cell, Bud decided grimly. For himself, he did not care so much, but he
knew that his mother would be heartbroken at the disgrace falling upon
Brother, her baby.
“I’m goin’ to steal me a crowbar out o’ Ben Lingo’s tool house!” Bud
said grimly to himself. “But first--got to get that buck out o’ sight.
Somebody might come up the canyon----”
There was a tiny sound from somewhere up the hill. Bud glared fiercely,
but it was not repeated. After a moment, he lowered the Savage--a
steer, maybe. But still, he wondered. Then he shrugged. No time to go
investigating now.
He moved swiftly downhill to where the buck lay against the tree. He
could butcher it in a thicket and hang it up until there was opportunity
to come back and carry it to their poor relation, his father’s sister
Sary. Bud stuck his knife point into the jugular.
From behind a boulder a gray flannel-clad arm came stealthily. A strong,
brown hand closed upon the Savage and lifted it noiselessly, while Bud
worked away all unaware. Then a lean youngster in Stetson to match Bud’s
own, in overalls jammed hit or miss into high-heeled boots, rose like a
cat. Bud’s ear caught the tiny sound the man made; he whirled, his hand
raking the pine needles where the Savage had been.
“It’s gone,” the other remarked in a conversational drawl. “I figgered
you might make some break like that.”
On his haunches, Bud glared up at the other. He was a stranger, but on
the buttonless vest was a shiny badge--a deputy sheriff. Imperceptibly,
Bud’s wiry muscles tightened. He was like a rattler coiling. But before
he could launch himself at the deputy’s throat, the youngster had made
a twinkling motion; a long, blued Colt appeared in his hand, the muzzle
pointing at Bud’s chest.
“Answer is--don’t try it! For a fella couldn’t miss, this close!”
Bud’s lips curled back in a snarl of impotent fury. He was caught
red-handed--literally, just that, for his hands were covered with
the buck’s blood. He considered flashingly. Here was help. This
fellow could give him a hand to release Brother. But that would mean
that Brother would be a prisoner, too. Yet, if he said nothing of
his brother’s presence, that would leave the boy imprisoned until he
could come back--which might not be at all soon.
“These Maxim silencers are quite some contraptions, now, ain’t they?”
grinned the deputy. He was examining the Savage expertly. “But you
hadn’t ought to go shootin’ deer right over a surveyor’s head, fella.
Bothers him, when he’s busy like I was. Why, that dam’ buck mighty
nigh sat down in my lap. Well--pick her up an’ let’s hightail it.”
“Where to?” But Bud knew well enough that it was to Ben Lingo’s. He
was merely sparring for time, hoping for the chance to come to grips
with this efficient-seeming youngster. Bud felt that he might settle
him.
“Why, down to Lingo’s. He’s the only justice o’ the peace _I_ know of
around here. Would you rather give somebody else your trade?”
Bud stood up, looking vaguely about him. Brother was not in view. If he
could only knock that staring pistol muzzle down and make it a battle of
fist and skill----
The deputy watched quietly, still with his little mocking smile:
“Reckon you won’t!” he said after an instant. “I used to be in the
Texas Rangers, fella, before they cut down the force. I’ve handled
quite a corralful o’ bad hombres an’--none o’ the outfit ever got
away. I don’t aim to have you nominate yourself No. 1. Rattle your
hocks!”