Bunty O’Neil of the Oreana saloon was not what you would call a lovable
character. He was of medium height, thick of neck and broad of shoulder.
His face was blocky, expressionless, swarthy; a hard-headed individual,
whose bunting practice in a fight had given him his nickname. He would
grasp an opponent with his huge hands, yank him forward and butt him
with his head. Only in rare cases did Bunty fail to put his opponent
_hors de combat_. It was an unlooked for move, except where Bunty’s
system was well known.
Bunty had once worked it successfully on Bill Wyatt. Bill had wakened up
about fifteen minutes later and found that both of his eyes were of a
purple tint and did not admit much light. He had waited for the swelling
to go down, had walked up behind Bunty in the Oreana saloon and crowned
him with the barrel of a six-shooter.
Bunty had had six stitches taken in his scalp, and had sent word to Bill
Wyatt to keep out of the Oreana. Bill did. This had happened six months
prior to Sad and Swede’s coming to Oreana, but Bill had never been in
the place since. Yet Bill had known Bunty in the northern part of the
state, and it was Bill who had induced Bunty to come to Oreana and buy
out the Oreana saloon and gambling house.
Just now Bunty and the sheriff were standing on the porch of the saloon,
talking seriously. It was the day after Sad and Swede had come to
Oreana.
“You say they brought in three hundred and ten head?” asked Bunty. The
sheriff nodded.
“Yeah. They’re in the old pasture at the Bar S. The boys have gone down
into the lower ranges now, but they won’t be able to round up everythin’
for a couple days. There’s enough feed in the pasture for a few days.”
“That’s good.” Bunty smiled contentedly. “Three hundred and ten head,
eh? Mebbe I’ll get my money after all, Buck.”
“I reckon yuh will, Bunty. For gosh sake, how much money did Jim Steeb
owe yuh, anyway?”
Bunty grinned widely and shook his head.
[Illustration]
“Jim plunged quite a lot, Buck. His whisky bill ain’t more than a few
hundred, but his faro and poker playin’ sure cost money. I reckon the
notes he gave me will come close to ten thousand.”
The sheriff whistled his amazement.
“As much as that, Bunty? Huh! Yuh know,” the sheriff squinted
thoughtfully. “Yuh know, it seems too darned bad Jim went through all
that money and didn’t leave a darned thing for the kid. Old Eph Wyatt is
goin’ to adopt him, I think.”
“Old Eph?” Bunty laughed. “Goin’ to adopt him, eh? Well, well!”
Just then Sad and Swede came out of the hotel and sauntered toward the
general store.
“They tell me that one of them fellers took a fall out of Bill Wyatt,”
said Bunty thoughtfully.
“The skinny one. They’re down here to buy some stock at the sale. The
skinny one’s name is Sontag and the other is Harrigan. Seem like a salty
pair of fellers. Sontag tells me that they own a ranch in the Sundown
country.”
“Well, all I care about it is to get my money out of the deal, Buck.”
They went into the saloon, as Sad and Swede crossed the street,
following them inside. The sheriff greeted them warmly and introduced
them to Bunty as the owner of the Oreana. There was little activity in
the place and the day was warm.
“You interested in the Bar S sale?” asked Bunty.
Sad nodded. “Kinda. We’re lookin’ for some stock, and thought this might
be a chance to buy some reasonable. Course we don’t want a lot of
runts.”
“We might take a ride out to the Bar S this evenin’,” suggested the
sheriff. “The boys threw three hundred and ten head into the pasture
last night, and it might help yuh some to look ’em over.”
“We’d sure appreciate the chance,” agreed Sad.
* * * * *
They spent the rest of the day, loafing in the shade, and did not start
for the Bar S until late in the afternoon. It was five miles to the
ranch, located northeast of Oreana. The ranch buildings were badly in
need of repair, but it was easy to see that at one time the Bar S had
been considerable of a ranch.
There was no one at the place, and the sheriff explained that there had
been no one in charge since the death of Steeb. They rode out past the
corrals and on to a knoll that furnished a view of the Bar S pasture,
which contained about a hundred acres.
But there were no cattle in sight. The sheriff gnawed his mustache and
squinted around wonderingly.
“’S funny,” he muttered. “They were here last night.”
“Are yuh sure this is the place?” asked Swede.
“Am I sure? I’m jist as sure as anythin’,” replied the sheriff and
spurred his horse off the knoll.
They rode to the lower end of the pasture, and it did not take them long
to find where the barb-wires had been cut, and about a hundred feet of
them ripped off the posts.
“They knowed how to do it,” observed Sad. “They cut the wires, bunched
the ends, tied ’em to a rope and jist rode ’em loose.”
“And let the whole herd drift,” observed the sheriff. “Well, that’s jist
plumb meanness, I’d say.”
Sad looked at the sheriff and grinned softly.
“Sheriff, do you think that they just turned them cows loose?”
“Eh?” The sheriff’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Yuh don’t think that
anybody would try to rustle a herd like that, do yuh?”
“Why not?”
“Well, I dunno. Yuh can’t git away with that many. Anybody would be a
fool to try and steal a herd like that.”
“All right,” Sad grinned widely and turned his horse. “You know the
morals of this country better than we do.”
They rode back to Oreana and stabled their horses. The sheriff was very
thoughtful during the ride, but could hardly bring himself to believe
that anyone would try and steal three hundred and ten head of cattle in
one herd.
“I think that someone is jist doin’ it to be mean,” he declared.
“And I think they’re doin’ it for profit,” laughed Sad.
It did not take the sheriff long to impart the story to Bunty O’Neil,
who swore under his breath and questioned them closely. The sheriff told
Bunty what he thought about it, but Bunty did not agree.
“They’ve had about twenty-four hours start,” observed Bunty. “And yuh
can move a big herd a long ways in that length of time. It’s so dry in
the hills that yuh couldn’t trail a herd; so the best yuh can do is to
trust to luck.”
“It kinda looks like we might as well go home,” observed Swede. “No use
of us stayin’ here, if there ain’t no cows for sale.”
Bunty’s eyes grew hard as he leaned on the bar and toyed with his glass.
The sheriff cleared his throat and sent his glass spinning down the bar.
“Bunty has got a lot of notes against the Bar S,” he explained. “And if
there ain’t no cows—Bunty loses.”
“That’s the how of it, eh?” said Sad.
“Yeah, that’s the how of it,” said Bunty angrily. “And I’ll get them
cows—or get somethin’.”
“You’ve got sort of an idea who took ’em, ain’t yuh?” asked Sad.
“How would I?” snapped Bunty.
“I dunno how yuh would—I’m no mindreader,” and Sad walked away from the
bar and grew interested in a poker game.
Bunty looked after him, an angry glint in his eyes, but said nothing
until Swede walked away.
“What did he mean, Buck?” he then asked.
The sheriff shook his head. “I dunno. I hope the boys show up tomorrow,
but I’m scared they won’t. We’ve got to try and find them missin’
cattle, that’s a cinch. I don’t believe yet that anybody had the nerve
to try and steal a herd that big.”
The sheriff left the saloon, but Bunty remained at the bar, drinking his
own liquor. It was not often that Bunty drank heavily. Liquor made him
quarrelsome. Several patrons steered clear of the bar and had their
drinks served at a table, when they realized that Bunty was on a spree.
Bunty leaned across the bar and motioned the bartender closer.
“What did that skinny puncher mean?” he demanded.
“The skinny one? I dunno what he said, Bunty. Personally, I think he’s
crazy. The damn fool fell off the bar yesterday, tryin’ to hit a
horsefly with his hat. And they said that there was whisky in the drinks
we served here. What are they—e-vangelists?”
Bunty grunted an oath and reached for the bottle. Sad and Swede were
coming toward the bar, heading for the door. Bunty stepped in front of
Sad and motioned them to stop and drink with him.
“Yuh ain’t in no hurry, are yuh?” he growled.
“Not a bit,” grinned Sad.
“I’m glad yuh ain’t—’cause you’d stop anyway.”
Sad glanced keenly at Bunty. He realized that the other was angry over
something, and that he might be a hard man to handle.
“I’m not buyin’ yuh any drinks,” Bunty informed them harshly. “I only
buy drinks for my friends.”
“Then have a drink on me,” grinned Sad.
“No, I won’t do that, either.” Bunty moved in closer to Sad.
“I want to know what wuh mean by that remark a while ago—about yuh not
bein’ a mind reader.”
“Oh!” Sad squinted thoughtfully. “Well, I’m not, Bunty. I’ll leave it to
Swede if I am.”
“You’ll leave nothin’ to nobody! C’mere!”
Bunty grasped Sad by the shoulders, sinking his powerful fingers deeply
into the flesh. It was the prelude to crashing the top of his head into
Sad’s face—and Sad realized it.
[Illustration]
But Bunty did not work fast enough. With a sudden shift of his feet, Sad
kicked Bunty in the shins so hard that the hotelman forgot everything
except the excruciating pain. His hands jerked loose and he reached for
his shins just in time to get Sad’s fist square in his nose, with the
full swinging weight of the wiry cowpuncher behind it.
The blow straightened Bunty back onto his heels, and before he could
catch his balance Sad was into him, smashing with both hands to the
head, and Bunty went reeling across the room to crash into the back of a
poker player’s chair and go flat on his back.
At least a dozen men had seen the whole affair. They had expected Bunty
to butt the face almost off this thin cowpuncher and end the fight to
suit himself. But they had reckoned without Sad Sontag, who now was
standing against the bar, blowing on his sore knuckles and grinning
widely.
There was little commotion. A couple of men picked Bunty up and
half-dragged him to the rear of the room, where they could wash him off,
the poker player adjusted his chair and the games went on.
Sad and Swede went back to the hotel, where Sad procured some hot water
in which to bathe his swollen right hand. Swede became pessimistic.
“Aw, let’s go home,” he argued dismally. “You’ve whipped both of their
best fighters. This here town kinda palls upon me, Sad, and I’d crave to
ride home.”
“I’ve had a pretty fair time,” said Sad seriously, examining his
knuckles. “I s’pose Bunty was aimin’ to butt me in the face, wasn’t he?”
“That’s his style,” agreed Swede wearily. “There ain’t no cows to be
bought; so we might as well start home t’morrow.”
“It’s a funny thing about them stolen cows,” observed Sad, as he
stretched out on the bed and began rolling a cigarette. “I’ll betcha
anythin’ that Bunty knows who stole ’em. Somebody knows that Bunty has
notes against the Bar S; so they crimped his chances to collect by
stealin’ the whole danged herd.
“There’s somebody who hates Bunty quite a lot, Swede. It ain’t no little
job to steal three hundred head of cattle. Mebbe they just done it to
aggravate the sheriff, or Bunty.”
“Then yuh think they’ll have enough stock for us to wait for the sale?”
“Yuh never can tell.” Sad blew smoke rings at the dingy ceiling. “I’ve
got a hunch that they won’t. Tomorrow we’ll find out more about it, and
if it don’t look more promisin’ we’ll rattle our hocks out of Oreana.
I’ve had all the fightin’ I want, y’betcha.”
“We might ride out past old Eph Wyatt’s place,” suggester Swede. “I’m
kinda curious to know how the old man and the kid are comin’ along.”
“Yeah, we’ll do that, Swede. I’m curious about that kid myself. Somehow
I’ve got a hunch that the kid ain’t had a square deal.”
“Just how do yuh mean, Sad?”
“Aw, just kinda mind readin’, I reckon.”