AT THE H-P RANCH.
Early the following morning, Nate Dunbar closed and locked the door
of the Star-A ranch house. The saddle horses were in front of the
cabin, all in fine fettle after rest and forage.
The scout’s Bear Paw, the Laramie man’s humorously named Beeswax,
the old trapper’s Hide-rack, the Little Piute’s pinto Navi, Dunbar’s
Buckskin, and the circuit-rider’s roan called George--these were all
in readiness and champing the bit to get away.
An hour’s ride down the Brazos would bring the party within sight of
the extensive ranch buildings belonging to the H-P outfit.
At the place where Phelps had located his ranch headquarters, the
Brazos described a wide bend. Bunk house, chuck shanty, corrals for
the horse herds and owner’s house were all located on the tongue of
land half circled by the river.
From rising ground at a distance of a quarter of a mile the scout and
his party looked down on the H-P headquarters.
Cowboys were going and coming, and at a hitching-pole in front of the
owner’s cabin a number of tethered bronchos could be seen.
“Looks ter me,” remarked old Nomad, shading his eyes with his hand
and staring steadily, “as though Phelps had visitors.”
“He’ll have another visitor, Nick,” laughed the scout, “before he’s
many minutes older.”
“We’re goin’ ter hang out right hyar in ther scrub an’ watch fer
trouble signs,” averred the trapper. “Ef we savvy thet ther baron is
tryin’ ter put ther kybosh on ye, we’re goin’ ter turn loose an’ ride
over ther hull H-P outfit.”
“Well,” cautioned the scout, “don’t you make any move until you’re
mighty sure I want you.”
“Don’t worry about that, pard,” said Wild Bill reassuringly.
“Perhaps,” spoke up the sky pilot, “I could be of help if I went with
you. I am well known at the H-P ranch, and a good many of the cowboys
are personal friends of mine.”
“Are they so friendly toward you, friend Jordan,” asked the scout,
“that they would take your part against Phelps?”
“Why, no. That would be rather too much to expect of them.”
“Then I don’t believe you could be of much help. Anyhow, I would
rather not give Phelps a chance to think that I’m trying to hide
behind a man of your cloth. Stay here with the rest, friend Jordan,
and I’ll go down and see what I can find out.”
“Good luck go with you,” murmured the sky pilot.
The scout’s spurs rattled and Bear Paw galloped clear of the scrub
and down the slope leading to the ranch houses.
A little distance from Phelps’ private quarters the scout passed a
group of cowboys, lounging in the shade of a tree. There were four in
the group, and they were reclining lazily and smoking and gossiping.
Evidently they were visitors.
There were five saddle horses secured to the hitching-pole, and
this left one visitor to be accounted for. Probably, ran the scout’s
thought, the missing visitor was in the cabin with Phelps.
The loafing cattlemen gave the scout keen attention as he loped past.
Even though his name was unknown, yet he was a figure to command
attention anywhere. The magnificent black war horse, without a peer
for looks, mettle and speed, backed by the lithe, athletic form
that swayed in perfect unison with the black’s movements, offered a
picture not easily forgotten.
The cowboys sat up and stared. The scout waved a hand at them in
friendly wise, slowed pace at the hitching-pole and dismounted.
Quickly he buckled his reins about the pole, moved to the open door
of the cabin and, unannounced, stepped inside.
A volley of savage oaths greeted his appearance. Calmly he leaned
against the wall and took the measure of the situation.
He was in a room, a big room, whose floor was littered with catamount
and wolf skins. The furniture, although of the pioneer variety, was
comfortable and somewhat pretentious.
There were three men in the room. The one that commanded most of the
scout’s attention was, to use a colloquial term, “buck-and-gagged;”
that is, he was trussed up in a manner as uncomfortable as it was
effective.
He was sitting on the floor, knees hunched up to his chin and his
hands lashed around his knees. Under his knees and over his arms ran
a piece of stick.
This man, it was clear, was a prisoner. The scout guessed that it was
Dick Perry.
Perry, if that was really the man’s name, was middle-aged, and well
dressed--considering the clothes worn in that part of the country.
He wore a blue shirt and his trousers were tucked into the tops of
knee boots. On the floor beside him lay a broad-brimmed hat. Hope
flickered in his eyes as they rested on the scout--hope, and a wild
appeal.
The other two men in the room were the spectacular persons already
encountered by Wild Bill in the street of Hackamore--the baron in
black and the baron in haciendado regalia.
The barons, the scout saw at a glance, had been indulging rather too
freely in liquor. They had exploded their oaths and leaped from their
chairs, but they were none too steady on their feet.
“What’re you doing here?” demanded the man in the greaser costume.
“I have just happened in for a little call,” answered the scout.
“Then happen out again. This ain’t my day for callers.”
“You seem to have a few, nevertheless.”
The scout went over towards the barons and calmly took a chair.
“Great tornadoes!” cried the man in black. “Who’s boss here, anyway,
Phelps? Have you got the say about things on your own place?”
Phelps felt around himself uncertainly. He might have been groping
for a revolver, but, if he was, he failed to get hold of one.
“Go ’way!” ordered Phelps, glaring. “If you haven’t got any business
here, go ’way. Can’t you see it’s my busy day?”
“It’s my busy day, too,” returned the scout. “This is far from being
a social call. Your name is Phelps?”
“That’s my name.”
“And yours”--the scout leveled a glance at the man in black--“is
Benner?”
“Yes,” answered Benner, “if it means anything to you. But I don’t
want to talk, and I don’t want any stranger butting in here. Phelps
owns this place, and he’s ordered you out. Make yourself scarce.”
“If you don’t make yourself scarce,” declared Benner, “I’ll yell for
some of my cowboys. They’ll handle you rough, but if you don’t go on
my order you’ll bring it on yourself.”
The hands of both barons were now searching unsteadily for firearms.
Fearing that one of them might lay hands on a six-shooter and
accidentally work some havoc with it, the scout took time by the
forelock and developed one of his own weapons.
“I reckon we’d better understand each other right from the start,”
said he. “I came here to talk business, and I’m not going to leave
until the business is settled. The cowboys outside are not going to
interfere with us, and if one of you men lifts his voice to call for
help, there’ll be fireworks--and the celebration will be mine, not
yours. Hold out your hands.”
Both barons sputtered wrathfully.
“No man,” fumed Phelps, “can come into my house and draw a gun on me.
By thunder, I won’t have it!”
“I’m here,” said the scout, “and the gun is drawn. I reckon you’ll
have to have it--or something worse. Hold out your hands! I’m not in
the habit of giving an order like that twice.”
There was that in the scout’s eyes and voice that struck fear to the
hearts of the cattle barons.
They held out their hands--held them out at their sides, on a level
with their shoulders. An idea of a grimly humorous turn flashed
through the scout’s mind.
“Back to back, gentlemen,” said he, fanning the revolver back and
forth so as to command the two impartially.
“Who are you?” demanded Phelps, with an oath.
“I’m a man who’s accustomed to being obeyed. Buffalo Bill is the
name, gentlemen.”
The barons were not so far gone with liquor as not to feel a thrill
at the sound of that name. And there were a few qualms mixed with the
thrills.
“Red Steve was telling me about you!” broke from Benner. “He got to
the ranch before I started for here and----”
“He delivered my message, did he?” asked the scout. “If he did,
you’ll understand that this call of mine this morning is on behalf of
the under dog. You heard what I said?” The scout got up and advanced
toward the barons. “Back to back!”
The two men, their angry eyes on the revolver, placed themselves in
the position required by the scout.
“I’ll go this buck-and-gag game one better,” proceeded the scout.
Shifting his revolver to his left hand, with his right he took a pair
of handcuffs from his pocket. One of the cuffs he snapped around
Phelps’ left wrist, the other around Benner’s right.
“I won’t stand for this!” cried Phelps; “I’ll be hanged if I----”
The muzzle of the scout’s revolver looked Phelps between the eyes,
and his furious protest died on his lips.
“You’ll be hanged quick enough, I reckon,” remarked the scout, “if
the law ever comes into its own on the Brazos. Just now you’ll stand
for whatever I choose to throw your way.”
“And I’ve got four men right outside there,” muttered Benner.
“Phelps has more men outside than you have, Benner,” said the scout,
“and they’re not helping him any more than yours are helping you.”
While he was talking he was snapping the other pair of handcuffs into
place on Phelps’ right wrist and Benner’s left.
When the work was done, the cattle barons were cunningly fastened
back to back, torturingly helpless. A coiled riata swung from a peg
in the wall. The scout put up his revolver, took down the rope and
made ready for a short cast of the loop over the heads and shoulders
of the barons.
He opened the noose wide, for he wanted it to clear the outstretched
arms of the captives. The two men were muttering and writhing,
straining at the handcuffs to each other’s visible discomfort.
The noose left the scout’s hand, hovered over the heads of the two
men and then dropped downward. When the circle of hemp had reached
their knees, the scout jerked it suddenly taut. A low laugh came from
Perry. He, at least, was enjoying this bit of work.
“Take it easy, gentlemen,” laughed Buffalo Bill; “we’re going to talk
business in a minute.”