AT LIGE BENNER’S RANCH.
Lige Benner had his private quarters in a big adobe house. The
house capped a “rise” of ground, and from its windows Benner could
look below and see the big bunk house, the huge “chuck shanty,” the
blacksmith shop, the tool sheds, the wagon shelters and one of his
horse corrals. In point of size the various buildings formed a small
village, inhabited by at least fifty men.
The lord of the village lived on the low hill, kept ceaseless
vigilance over his men and ruled them with an iron hand.
It was currently reported that a love affair, in early life, had
ended disastrously for Benner and had soured his disposition.
Where he came from, when he settled on the Brazos, no one knew. He
had been so long in his present location, however, that his original
hailing place had long since ceased to be a matter of any interest.
Steers bearing his brand--the Circle-B--were numbered by thousands,
and ranged over many square miles of country.
At this particular time the cattle business was enjoying
unprecedented prosperity, and wealth flowed in on Benner far and
away beyond his powers of spending. This very fact seemed to render
him irritable. He pictured to himself the delights which money could
buy in Galveston, San Antonio, New Orleans and New York, and fretted
because he dared not leave his ranch to go to places where his money
could bring him a larger return of enjoyment. He hadn’t a foreman
whom he could trust. A younger brother, a hunchback, lived with him,
but even this brother had little of his confidence. Jerry, as the
hunchback was called, was all well enough as an aide, but if Benner
had absented himself for any great length of time from the ranch,
Jerry would surely have manipulated affairs to his own profit.
Jerry was a schemer. Shrewd as a fox, he was as sly as a serpent,
brutal and utterly unscrupulous. His nature seemed to have been
warped into ugly channels when his body was broken.
Benner had given Jerry a home, and Jerry repaid his brother by
giving him advice. The advice, although not always honest, never
failed to redound to Lige Benner’s benefit. So, while he had come to
trust to Jerry’s shrewdness in counsel, he came also to distrust his
principles--principles which Benner occasionally appropriated to his
own use.
During the forenoon of the day that had witnessed the call of Sim
Pierce at the Star-A ranch, Lige Benner and his hunchback brother
were in the big living room of the adobe house.
Jerry’s crippled body was almost lost in the depths of an easy-chair.
He was smoking a home-made cigarette and watching Lige with two
brilliant, ferret-like eyes. Lige Benner, deeply wrought up over
something, was pacing up and down the room.
“What’s the use of fretting?” asked Jerry in his thin, high-pitched,
querulous voice. “Do as I tell you, Lige, and you’ll get even with
that outfit up the river.”
“I can’t get the girl, can I?” fumed Lige, halting and whirling on
the crooked form in the chair.
“You can get something better, Lige,” answered the hunchback, his
eyes glimmering, “and that’s revenge for having lost the girl.”
“Revenge on who?”
“On Dunbar, on Perry--perhaps on Buffalo Bill and his pards.”
“Without making trouble for myself?”
It was not so much the coward that spoke, as the man of secret ways
and dark.
“Yes, Lige, and without making trouble for yourself,” said Jerry.
“I’ve thought it all out. That’s why I sent one of the men to watch
the Star-A ranch, and it’s why I sent Red Steve to Hackamore after
Abraham Isaacs.”
“What in the fiend’s name are you intending to do with Abraham
Isaacs? How’ll he help me get revenge on Perry, and Dunbar, and
Buffalo Bill?”
“Wait till Red Steve gets here with Isaacs.”
A cackling laugh came from Jerry. He had a way of laughing which was
by sound alone, for not a muscle of his cadaverous face moved. It was
more the laugh of a hyena than of a human being.
“What you’ve got up your sleeve is too many for me, Jerry,” growled
Lige, “but if you can pull off the game as you say, I’ll give you
five thousand in gold. D’you hear? Five thousand in yellow boys if
you make trouble for Perry and Dunbar without making any for me.”
A greedy sparkle appeared and disappeared in the hunchback’s eyes.
“I’ll get that money, Lige,” said he, “and you can bank on it.”
Lige whirled and stared at him.
“You’re an artful little devil,” he grunted, “and I shouldn’t wonder
if you made good.”
“I run to headwork, Lige,” piped Jerry, highly pleased with the
left-handed compliment. “I’m a cripple, and can’t ever do anything
worth while with my body--but it’s the mind that rules! It’s the
brain that accomplishes things! If I can’t work myself I can make
others work for me. If----”
A man, covered with the dust of the trail, appeared in the open
outside door.
“Come in, Hamp!” cried Jerry, breaking off his words the moment his
eyes had fallen on the man. “You’re just from the Star-A ranch?”
Hamp pushed into the room and stood staring grimly from Lige to
Jerry, snapping at his leg with his quirt.
“That’s whar I’m from,” he answered.
“You watched the place, Hamp?” queried the hunchback eagerly.
“Shore I did, all last night an’ half the forenoon. When somethin’
happened I thort ye wanted ter know. I come right hyer with it.”
“No one saw you watching the place, Hamp?”
“Nary a soul.”
“Who’s there?”
“Buffler Bill an’ pards, Mr. an’ Mrs. Dunbar, an’ Perry.”
Lige Benner scowled at mention of Mrs. Dunbar.
“They’re there now, Hamp?” went on Jerry.
“Naw, not now. When I left only Buffler Bill, Wild Bill, the gal an’
Perry was thar. The Dutchman, the ole juniper of a trapper an’ the
little Injun had left fer a call on Dinkelmann. When Dunbar pulled
out, I pulled out, too.”
The fact that Dunbar had “pulled out” aroused considerable interest
in Lige and Jerry.
“Why did Dunbar leave, and where did he go, Hamp?” demanded Jerry.
“Dunbar pulled out fer Hackamore ter be gone two or three days. He’s
gone arter cowboys ter help run the ranch, arter supplies, an’”--here
a snarling laugh came from Hamp’s bearded lips--“ter git a diming
ring fer his wife.”
The hunchback slapped his clawlike hands.
“I’d reckoned on taking the first fall out of Perry,” said he, “but
events are shaping up so Dunbar is to get it. That’s all, Hamp.”
“Hit the bunk house,” said Lige; “no range work for you, Hamp, till
to-morrow. Keep mum about what you’ve done, too. There’s twenty pesos
in gold for you, if I learn you haven’t said a word about the work
you’ve done.”
Hamp mumbled something under his breath, turned and shuffled out.
“We’re getting along in fine shape, Lige,” crowed the hunchback. “It
won’t be long till you get part of your revenge now. We’ll take care
of Dunbar first.”
“I want to get Perry, too,” snapped Lige; “don’t forget that while
your brain’s at work.”
“It’ll be easy to get Perry--but Dunbar first, Dunbar first.”
“And what about Buffalo Bill?”
“He’ll come harder, and it’ll take more scheming, Lige. We’ll save
Buffalo Bill for the last. Oh, this is fine--finer than I expected.
So Dunbar has gone to Hackamore to buy a diamond ring for Mrs.
Dunbar, hey?”
Jerry went off into one of his mirthless cackles again.
“It couldn’t have happened better, Lige,” he declared, “honest it
couldn’t.”
“Stop your confounded sputtering and tell me what you’re going to
make happen? What are you keeping me in the dark for?”
“I’m keeping you in the dark, Lige, until I can make sure of Isaacs.”
“Isaacs is going to help?”
“Yes, Lige, if I can get him to. Have you got any influence with
Abraham Isaacs?”
“I’ve bought stuff from him.”
“Then buy some more stuff from him, Lige! Buy as much as you can, but
don’t take the stuff or pay him the money until he’ll promise to help
us.”
“Ole Abe Isaacs would sell his soul if he saw a chance for profit. I
can make a deal with him, but what in blazes can that old Jew do for
us?”
“I’ll tell you later, Lige, when----”
“Oh, be hanged to you.”
Lige Benner whirled away and stepped into the open door. As he did
so, a cowboy hurried up from the foot of the hill.
“Feller down there wants a job, Benner,” grinned the cowboy.
“I’ve got all the men I want.”
“He’s a hoss thief, I reckon,” went on the cowboy, “an’----”
“If you’re sure of that,” cut in Benner sharply, “send the fellow to
Hackamore with a couple of the men.”
“But if he is a hoss thief, then he’s been liftin’ some o’ the cattle
belongin’ ter Buffler Bill’s pards an’----”
“Been stealing horses belonging to Buffalo Bill’s pards?” demanded
Benner. “Send the man up here and tell him to bring the horse.”
“That’s right, Lige,” said Jerry. “It’ll pay to look into this.”
Lige and Jerry Benner stood in the door of the adobe house as the
stranger came up the hill.
“He looks like a bad egg,” muttered Lige.
“That’s right, Lige,” said Jerry, “he does. I reckon either of us is
competent to tell a bad egg from a good one.”
Lige didn’t like the tone of his brother’s voice, and turned on him
sharply. Jerry didn’t take his eyes from the figure advancing up the
slope, but the weird laugh came through his motionless lips.
Before the brothers had a chance to talk any further, the stranger
came to a halt at the door. His horse was a “rangy” animal and
undoubtedly possessed both speed and bottom; and the trappings,
although showing signs of hard usage, were of the best.
The ragged and tattered man in the saddle did not harmonize with his
equipment. Any one could see, with half an eye, that something was
wrong.
“Who are you?” demanded Lige Benner roughly.
The man on the horse pulled down the brim of his ragged old hat, drew
the back of a dirty hand across his lips and answered:
“Gringo Pete Billings is the handle I tote, amigo. Don’t go fer ter
think I’m as tough as what I look, kase I ain’t.”
“You couldn’t be, gringo,” spoke up Jerry, with a cackle.
Gringo Pete pulled himself together and stared at the big-headed,
short-bodied, long-armed form at Lige Benner’s side.
“Say, I’m convarsin’ with Lige Benner. Aire you him? Which of ye is
him, huh?”
“I’m Lige Benner,” said the rancher.
“Then kindly request Leetle Sawed-off ter hold his yaup. I want him
ter cork, I do. I don’t jest savvy what he says, but someways his
tork grinds on me er heap.”
“Never mind what you like, or don’t like,” returned Lige Benner
sharply. “Tell us what you want here?”
“I want er job, that’s what.”
“Where are you from?”
“Ever’whar. Thar ain’t no settled place whar I hail from.”
“What sort of a job do you want?”
“Ain’t pertic’ler. Anythin’ I kin git.”
“What can you do?”
“Whatever anybody wants me ter do. I ain’t pertic’ler about that,
nuther.”
“What ails your eye?”
“Had er argyment with er greaser. The eye’ll be all right in er
month, but the greaser’ll be laid up fer a y’ar, anyways. Oh, I’m
some persimmons on the wrassle! Ain’t no three greasers kin git the
best o’ me when I’m feelin’ right.”
“What have you been doing lately?”
Gringo Pete ran his one uncovered eye thoughtfully over Lige Benner,
then lifted it thoughtfully to the blue sky.
“Say,” he answered finally, “you got ter have my pussonal hist’ry?
Kase if ye hev, I reckon I’ll look fer a job some’rs else.”
He picked up the reins as though he would ride on.
“Wait, Gringo!” chirped Jerry. “Lige, stop him. He’ll be useful to
us.”
“I was going to stop him, anyway,” returned Lige Benner, getting
around in front of Gringo’s horse. “Don’t be in a rush,” he added.
“You’ve got a horse here that don’t belong to you.”
“Waal,” returned Gringo, “does it belong ter you?”
“No.”
“Then what reason ye got ter find fault, huh?”
“No reason at all. I’d like to know, though, where you stole the
animal, and how.”
“I didn’t steal it--jest borried it.”
“Well, where did you ‘borrow’ the horse?”
“Back at the Star-A ranch. Walked inter the c’ral big as life, put on
the gear an’ rode off. That’s all thar was to it. When I git through
with the critter, I’m goin’ ter take it back.”
“You must be a pretty slick thief if you could steal a horse
belonging to one of Buffalo Bill’s pards, and make a safe getaway.”
A fierce look crossed the dirty face of Gringo Pete.
“I don’t mind tellin’ ye,” he scowled, “that the reason I took the
animile is bekase it belonged ter one o’ that ole rawhide’s pards.
Some day, ye kin bet yer bottom dollar, I’m goin’ ter git Buffler
Bill’s skelp!”
These remarks caused both Lige and Jerry to take renewed interest in
their unsavory visitor.
“What have you got against Buffalo Bill?” asked Lige, with a
significant look at Jerry.
“What hev I got ag’in him?” shouted Gringo, “me?” He stood up in the
stirrups and shook his fist up the river. “Wasn’t it him as trimmed
me fer all I was wuth? Wasn’t it that thar long-haired, meddlin’
coyote that busted up my bizness an’ took ev’ry dollar I got in the
world? An’ ain’t I follered him all the way from Arizony ter Texas
jest ter play even?”
“How did he trim you?” demanded Lige Benner, more and more interested.
Gringo Pete suddenly collapsed into his saddle.
“I’m torkin’ more’n what I ort,” he mumbled. “I belonged ter a gang
this hyar long-haired trouble-chaser put out o’ bizness. That’s all
I’m tellin’. I want a job hyar bekase Buffler Bill is on the Brazos,
an’ I want ter be nigh him. When he leaves--if he ever does--I’ll
leave, too. I’ll foller him ter Ballyhack but what I’ll land on him
afore I’m done. Now, do yer torkin’. Am I ter stay hyer, er am I ter
ride on?”
“Stay here, Gringo,” piped Jerry.
“Get down,” added Lige. “I’ll have one of my men take care of your
horse. I reckon we can give you a job.”
Gringo Pete got down and Lige Benner yelled for one of his men to
come up from below.
“Don’t ye go ter puttin’ that hoss in yer wrangler’s herd,” protested
Peter, “an’ don’t go gittin’ my gear mixed up with yer punchers’
equipment. S’posin’ some’un from ther Star-A blowed in hyer huntin’
that ’ar hoss?”
“I’ll have the animal picketed down there among those trees,” said
Lige, pointing to a little grove at the foot of the slope and on the
river bank. “Your ridin’ traps will be left with the animal. If any
one comes here from the Star-A looking for the horse, it’s a safe
gamble the brute won’t be found. Make your mind easy about that,
Gringo. Go into the house.”
Gringo Pete turned and followed Jerry into the living room. Lige
lingered in front to give orders to the man who had come for the
horse. When Lige got into the house, Gringo was comfortably seated in
a rocking-chair, smoking a black cigar which Jerry had given him.
“Lige,” said Jerry, fixing his glittering eyes on his brother, “I’ve
got a place for Gringo in my department.”
That was the first time Lige Benner had learned that Jerry had a
“department” at the ranch.
“All right,” said Lige, “make your own deal with him.”
“I’m going to have him work with Red Steve, Lige.”
Red Steve was always called on for the murderous, underhand work
that could not be safely entrusted to any one else. To yoke Gringo
with Red Steve meant that the stranger was to be given labor of the
“strong-arm” variety without delay.
“Have it your way, Jerry,” answered Lige.
“I’d like ter fix it so’st I kin have a leetle time o’ my own, now
and then,” put in Gringo. “’Casionally I’d like ter take a pasear up
the Brazos, keepin’ track o’ Buffler Bill.”
“You’ll have plenty of time for that, Gringo,” said Jerry, with
another of his weird laughs. “I’ll----”
A man appeared in the door--a red-haired, evil-looking Texan.
“I’m back,” the newcomer bawled, “an’ I’ve got Abraham Isaacs along.”
“Dry up, Steve!” called Lige angrily. “Can’t you see we’re not alone
here?”
Lige turned to Jerry. The hunchback was already on his feet and
opening a door leading into a rear room.
“In here with you, Gringo,” said Jerry. “When I’m ready to talk with
you again I’ll let you know.”
“What am I ter do in thar?” queried Gringo Pete, moving toward the
open door.
“You’re to stay in that room till you’re called, Gringo,” replied the
hunchback.
Gringo Pete passed through the door. It was closed behind him, and he
heard a bolt shoot into place.
“By gorry!” thought Gringo Pete, otherwise Wild Bill, “suppose
they’ve cottoned to the fact that I’m a fake. And suppose they have
shoved the bolt on me, not because they want to have a private talk
with this Isaacs, but because they are making me a prisoner on
general principles? Well, we’ll see,” he finished grimly. “That talk
I put up seemed to sink pretty deep.”
He looked around him. His slouching manner had dropped from him as if
by magic, and he had instantly become the alert, energetic Laramie
man, ready for any turn of the wheel of fate.
He was in a small room--a room with a single window opening in the
direction of the river. Crossing to the window he looked out.
The cowboy called by Lige Benner was moving down the hill and toward
the small grove with Beeswax. What concerned Wild Bill most, however,
was the figure of the red-haired Texan, leaning against the wall of
the house, close to the window, and evidently on guard.
“They sent Red Steve there to make sure I didn’t try to get away,”
muttered Wild Bill. “Oh, I’m going to like this job, I know I am. It
has all the exciting trimmings that capture my nimble fancy.”
There was a table and a bed in the room. In one corner, also, there
was a stone fireplace, built in the Mexican style. The stone chimney
ran up along the end of the partition that separated the chamber from
the living room. Recalling the “lay” of the living room, Wild Bill
remembered that there was a fireplace in that department, and in the
corner. The two angles formed by the partition and the adobe wall of
the house, gave opportunity for two Mexican fireplaces from the one
chimney--a fireplace in each room.
With a stealthy, reassuring glance through the window at the lounging
form of Red Steve, Wild Bill crossed to the narrow fireplace, crawled
into it and stood upright.
Voices reached his ears from the living room, and every spoken word
was clear and distinct.