It was the following morning at Eph Wyatt’s ranch-house that Speck
Steeb, the freckle-faced boy, leaned against the doorway and rubbed a
sore jaw. Sitting on the edge of the step was old Eph Wyatt, busily
engaged in cleaning a Winchester rifle; while the dog, Boze, chased a
rooster across the yard, his mouth filled with feathers.
The old man stuffed cartridges into the loading gate, levered a shell
into the chamber of the rifle and handed it to Speck, who took it
gingerly and squatted down on the step.
“Pull a little finer, son,” advised the old man. “Them last two shots
went six inches high.”
Speck cuddled the stock against his shoulder, resting the heavy barrel
between his knees. The old man’s eyes squinted closely at Speck’s
trigger finger, which tightened slowly, surely; and the big caliber
rifle shook Speck from head to heels.
From down back of the stable, a tin can flipped off a corral post and
went spinning into the brush. Speck blinked painfully, but a grin
wreathed his lips, when he noted that the can was not on the post.
“Pretty good!” chuckled the old man. “Pretty good!”
“Pretty good, hell!” snorted Speck indignantly. “That’s perfect.”
“Yeah, I’ll betcha it is,” agreed the old man. “Any old time a little
kid can hit a tin can at a hundred yards with a 45-90, it’s jist a
little better than perfect. How’s the shoulder?”
“Jist’ like a blamed boil. Geemighty, I never knowed a rifle could kick
thataway.”
“And yuh squeezed the trigger, too,” applauded the old man. “Yuh knowed
it was goin’ to kick, but yuh had the nerve to pull slow. Speck, me and
you are goin’ to git along, y’betcha. Well, that ends the first lesson.”
The old man put the gun in the house and came back to the porch.
“We’re goin’ to town,” he decided. “We’ll hook onto a lawyer feller and
have him fix up the papers—if yuh don’t mind, Speck.”
Speck rubbed his shoulder reflectively.
“Yuh mean the papers that make me your son?”
“Yeah.”
Speck squinted up at the old man thoughtfully.
“Why are yuh doin’ this, Mr. Wyatt? I ain’t nothin’ to you.”
“Why?” The old man looked out across the hills, shading his eyes from
the sun. “Well, mebbe it’s ’cause I kinda like yuh, son. I’m gittin’
old, I s’pose. And livin’ alone don’t make yuh stay young. I ain’t got
no livin’ relation, except Bill Wyatt, and,” he hesitated for a moment
before he looked down at Speck, “I’ve allus been quite a hand for
relatives.”
“And that’s all the reasons yuh got, Mr. Wyatt?”
“Well, that’s all I care to speak about.”
“Uh-huh.” Speck bobbed his head wisely. “Well, I can stand it, if you
can.” He got to his feet and held out his hand. “Shake, pardner.”
They shook hands gravely. It was a solemn pact between two old men; two
of the fightenest sons-of-guns in the Oreana country.
They went to the stable, harnessed the mismated horses to the old
buckboard and drove up to the house, where the old man got the rifle and
leaned it against the seat between them.
As they drove away the old man looked back at the house and said,
“Speck, I reckon we’ll have to fix up the old place a little now. I’ve
kinda let her drift for the last few years ’cause there wasn’t no object
in havin’ it handled right. I’ve got a right smart of cows in them
hills. It ain’t took much for my keep. When I needed money I’d sell a
handful of critters.
“This here Diamond W has got the best water-holes in this country, and
it shore could be made into a fine ranch. The old house needs fixin’ a
lot, and the barn’s swaybacked. Some day a wind will come along and blow
the corral away, I s’pose. But we’ll fix her all up now.”
The old man chuckled and slapped Speck on the back.
“By golly, son, we’ll show ’em, eh?”
“Danged right,” nodded Speck.
[Illustration]
They drove down through a brushy swale and around the point of a ridge,
where a long line of cottonwoods angled up through a narrow canyon. The
road was rutty and the horses were traveling at a slow walk, when the
larger of the two beasts lurched sideways and went down in a tangle.
Almost at the same moment the report of a rifle broke the stillness. The
other horse reared wildly, swung over the body of its mate and fell back
against the buckboard, squealing and kicking. The shock of it all caused
Speck to stand up, clinging to the back of the seat, and the next moment
he was picked up by the old man and hurled bodily into a clump of brush
beside the road.
And while Speck was still in the air the old man grasped the rifle and
started to jump, but a bullet shocked him heavily and he went down
sideways, falling just outside the wheels. Boze had jumped from the rear
of the buckboard and scuttled into the brush, as though he knew what was
taking place.
Speck landed in the brush head-first, but managed to extricate himself
quickly and crawl back to the old man, whose hair and beard were already
dyed with crimson. Speck’s eyes were wide with fright, but his jaw was
clenched tightly, as he clawed the rifle from between the wheels and
ducked back into the brush.
“Gosh a’mighty!” he panted. “Bushwhacked, by jing!”
He remained quiet long enough to calm his breathing. One horse was dead,
the other down in a tangle of harness, unable to get up. Speck rubbed
his nose and considered his predicament. From where he squatted he was
unable to see anything of the surrounding country, so he crawled back
through the brush until he could get on higher ground.
He felt reasonably sure that the shooter had been hidden in that line of
cottonwoods, and that they, or he, would try and get a close view of the
buckboard to see just what they had accomplished.
Working further up the side of the swale, he found a good spot to wait.
It gave him a fairly good view of the surrounding country, although he
could not see the buckboard. He could see Boze far down the road,
hunting for gophers.
Suddenly he saw two riders emerge from a thicket on the right-hand side
of the cottonwoods. They were going cautiously, and it seemed to Speck
that they were intent on seeing what was down the road. The brush was
horse-high; so he was unable to identify their horses.
They were about three hundred yards away, when Speck raised the sights
on his rifle and rested it across a limb. It did not occur to him that
he was about to shoot at a human being. They were the ones who had shot
his benefactor, and he was going to repay them in kind. He flinched from
the pressure of the rifle butt against his sore shoulder, but he gritted
his teeth and muttered, “Squeeze, dang yuh—don’t yank!”
The big rifle crashed the silence and the black powder fumes drifted
back into Speck’s wide open mouth. He coughed slightly and dropped
lower, his lips grimacing disgustedly.
“Yuh yanked!” he said aloud in self accusation. “Yuh darned fool, yuh
yanked. Why didn’t yuh squeeze? Yanked, and jerked the sight plumb off
to the right.”
He could not see the two riders now, but he felt sure that the smoke
from his shot had disclosed his hiding place; so he began crawling
further up the canyon, going toward where he had seen the two riders.
Speck was wise enough to feel that they would not expect him to come
toward them. He gained the cottonwoods and waited. There was not a
sound, except the rustling of the trees. Far up the canyon a magpie
squawked, sounding almost human.
Speck ducked low and followed the trees, stopping every few yards to
listen. Then he left the cottonwoods and made his way around through the
brush. He, too, wanted to get a view of what might be down at the
buckboard.
Suddenly he stopped short, his mouth open in amazement. He had found the
two horses. They had been left in a choke-cherry thicket, almost in the
same spot where they had been when Speck shot at the riders. He spoke
softly to the horses, worked his way past them, but was unable to get a
glimpse of the road.
“Ding dang such luck!” he grumbled. “Feller never knows what will happen
next in this Western country.” He had heard his father use that
expression many times, and it seemed applicable to his present
predicament.
“Well,” he decided philosophically, “the least I can do is to git help.”
He went back to the horses, selected the smaller of the two, a
blaze-faced roan, and managed to get into the saddle, but lost his rifle
in the attempt. Cautiously he worked the horse back through the brush,
swung along the side of the hill for about a quarter of a mile before
turning back toward the road.
He managed to get his feet hooked in above the stirrups, which gave him
a secure seat in the saddle, and in this manner, with his rusty hair
standing almost on end and his skinny elbows beating a tattoo on his
ribs, he headed swiftly toward Oreana.
Meanwhile down at the buckboard stood Sad and Swede, looking down at old
Eph Wyatt, propped against a wheel. The old man’s face and beard were
well streaked with gore, which he mopped away with Sad’s handkerchief.
“Think it’s deep enough to amount to anythin’?” asked Swede.
“Don’t hurt much,” said the old man. “I feel kinda numb, that’s all. By
gosh, that shore was a close call, gents. It bumped me so darned hard I
never even knowed when it hit.”
“Where do yuh reckon the kid went?” queried Sad.
“I dunno. I throwed him into the brush after the team went down.”
“Prob’ly high-tailed it for parts unknown,” laughed Swede.
“Not that kid.” The old man spoke with conviction. “Speck ain’t the
runnin’ kind. And he took the rifle. Say, I don’t think I’m hurt much.”
He got to his feet and clung to the wheel. “Kinda dizzy and m’ head
aches a little. Gittin’ too old to stand many tunks on the head like
that.”
“Got any idea who shot yuh?” asked Sad.
“Nope.”
“Uh-huh,” Sad nodded seriously. “We can start by eliminatin’ yore
friends. Who hates yuh the worst?”
“The worst?” Old Eph squinted painfully. “Well, I dunno. Yuh see, I
ain’t got no friends; so yuh don’t need to eliminate anybody. I wish I
knowed where that kid went. If anybody hurts him I’ll shore make ’em run
fast and jump high.”
“You’ve got two good little assistants, old timer,” grinned Sad. “We
kinda like Speck, too. Do yuh want to find out who shot yuh?”
“Do I?” The old man laughed wearily. “Yo’re danged right I do.”
“All right,” grinned Sad. “Mebbe we can find out, if we work real fast.
Swede, you go and collect the horses.”
And while Swede went after the horses Sad untangled the uninjured horse
and helped it to its feet. But he did not unhitch it from the buckboard.
In a few minutes Swede came back, riding Sad’s bay horse, and carrying
Eph Wyatt’s rifle.
“My bronc was gone,” he told them, “and they left this here rifle in its
place.”
Sad grinned and rubbed his nose violently.
“Looks like the work of a pack-rat, Swede. They always trade somethin’.”
He turned to the old man. “Speck’s all right. He just out-smarted us,
thasall, and swiped a horse. We’ve got to hurry before Oreana descends
upon us in a gob, and we’ve only got one piece of rollin’ stock; so you
get aboard, old timer.”
“Shucks, I can walk,” protested the old man.
“Yo’re supposed to be dead,” grinned Sad. “And the dead don’t walk.
Climb on.”