Speck Steeb’s entrance into Oreana was unceremonious. He drew up at the
door of the Oreana saloon and fairly fell from his saddle.
Buck Rainey, the sheriff, and “Wheezer” Wilson, his deputy, were
crossing the street, and it was to them that Speck blurted his news.
“Git yore breath, boy,” advised the sheriff, taking Speck by the arm.
“C’mon inside and tell it.”
He led Speck inside the Oreana, where he had an interested audience. It
did not take Speck long to give them the details.
“Well, whose horse did yuh ride?” asked Wheezer.
They ran outside and inspected the panting horse.
[Illustration]
“She’s a TJ brand,” declared Wheezer. “Belongs to that feller named
Swede Harrigan,” remarked the livery-stable keeper excitedly. “They took
their horses out early this mornin’.”
“And one of them fellers shot old Eph Wyatt, eh?” Bunty O’Neil seemed
pleased.
“Was the old man dead?” questioned the sheriff.
“Shot through the head,” declared Speck. “Blood was runnin’ all over
him. I took a shot at them two jiggers, and—say, are them the two—one of
’em that busted Bill Wyatt?”
“They’re the little vi’lets,” stated Snipe Lee, who was the only one of
Bill Wyatt’s men in town. “I said to Bill——”
“Write it out and mail it to us,” snapped the sheriff. “Get yore horses,
boys. We’ll find out more about this deal. C’mon, Wheezer. Anybody that
ain’t got guns can get one at my office.”
Speck sat down on the saloon steps and rested his head in his hands,
realizing that he had incriminated those two men who had befriended him.
In the novelty of living at the Diamond W ranch with the old man he had
forgotten these two strange cowboys. He wondered dully if they had
killed Eph Wyatt, and why. Men were mounting at the hitch-racks, and a
few moments later the sheriff and deputy rode out through a narrow alley
and joined the others.
Speck got wearily to his feet and went back to the TJ horse. He would go
along and show them where the thing had happened, and in some way he
might be of assistance to those two strange cowboys. Anyway, he decided
that he would not show them where he had found the horses.
He mounted and rode along with the others, who questioned him closely;
but Speck was close-mouthed now.
“Yuh say yuh took a shot at ’em?” queried Snipe.
“I took a shot at somebody,” qualified Speck. “I never named no names,
did I?”
“But yuh saw ’em both, didn’t yuh?” asked Bunty.
“I seen two men,” stated Speck. “I dunno how they was dressed nor what
they looked like.”
“And that was one of their horses, eh?”
“I never said it was. My gosh, you fellers talk like I had said who
killed Eph Wyatt. I found this horse, thasall.”
“You found two horses,” corrected the sheriff.
“Did I?” Speck grew indignant. “Who found this horse—me or you?”
“All right, kid,” laughed the sheriff. “We ain’t askin’ yuh no more
questions. I reckon this won’t be hard to figure out.”
“Not if yuh can find out why,” said Speck gloomily.
Buck Rainey lifted his head and looked intently at Speck.
“That’s about the most intelligent thing I’ve heard said since the kid
told his story. There’s usually a reason.”
They rode around the point of a hill and down into the big swale, where
they drew rein beside the buckboard. One of the horses was on its feet,
trying to crop all the grass within reach, but there was no sign of the
dead man.
They dismounted and examined the surroundings. Beside the left front
wheel of the buckboard was a puddle of blood, and there were streaks of
blood on the spokes of the wheel.
“That’s danged queer,” observed the sheriff. “Kinda looks like the old
man had e-vaporated.”
They separated and searched both sides of the road, but there was no
sign of the corpse One of the men unharnessed the horse and turned it
loose.
“Mebbe the old man was only hurt, and went home,” suggested one of the
men.
“Ain’t no boot tracks,” objected Wheezer, who had already investigated.
“Of course he might ’a’ cut across the hills.”
“And fought brush all the way?” The sheriff was not in favor of that
theory. “Well, he ain’t here,” he went on. “Ask the kid where he found
that horse.”
But Speck was rather vague. He studied the country seriously.
“I think I was over there,” pointing across the swale. “No, I don’t
think I was either. Them horses were somewhere over by them cottonwoods,
I think. Hanged if I can be sure of anythin’.”
“Kinda got buck-fever, eh?” laughed Snipe.
“Put yourself in his place,” said the sheriff. “He’s just a kid. I’d
probably get rattled, too. Well, I dunno what to do. Suppose we ride
over to the Diamond W?”
“If he got there, he flew,” said Wheezer.
“Flyin’ ain’t hard, if yuh know how,” said the sheriff.
“Well, he didn’t know how, that’s a cinch,” declared Wheezer.
“Didja ever ask him, Wheezer?”
“No-o-o, I never.”
“Then don’t jump at conclusions. Let’s go.”
They mounted and rode to the Diamond W, scanning the country closely for
any sign of the old man. The dusty road would have showed imprints of
boots, if anyone had walked thereon, but there was nothing but the
tracks of four-footed animals and wagon-wheels.
The posse rode in at the Diamond W ranch and lost no time in searching
the place, but to no avail. It did not take them long to convince
themselves that Eph Wyatt had not come home.
“Well, the next thing is to find Sontag and Harrigan,” said the sheriff.
“If that is one of their horses, and if the kid did find it where he
said he did, they ought to know somethin’ about this deal.”
“I’ve just been thinkin’,” said Wheezer. “Don’t the law say that you’ve
got to produce the body before yuh can make out a case of murder against
anybody?”
“It sure does,” agreed the sheriff.
“And if these two fellers did kill him, and was afraid that they’d get
caught—couldn’t they hide the body?” went on the deputy.
The sheriff removed his hat and scratched his head thoughtfully.
“Wheezer, yore head _is_ somethin’ besides a hat-rack. Huh!” he said,
turning to gaze across the miles of brushy hills. “Yore theory is a
dinger, I like the idea fine, but yuh didn’t go far enough with it. I
could hide a dozen corpses out in them hills. We might arrest ’em on
suspicion, feed ’em a week or so and turn ’em loose again.”
So they rode back to Oreana, with Speck trailing behind, and found Sad
and Swede sitting on the sidewalk in front of the Oreana saloon, talking
with two of the sheriff’s men, who had been on the lower ranges looking
for Bar S cattle.
The posse dismounted before the arrival of Speck, who paled slightly at
sight of the two men he had incriminated. Neither Sad nor Swede had paid
any attention to the group of riders, but both got to their feet as
Speck rode up.
Swede grinned at Speck and looked the horse over.
“I was wonderin’ who got my bronc,” he said smiling up at the youngster.
“Pretty good ridin’ horse, ain’t he, Speck?”
“Jist fine,” replied Speck hoarsely. “The stirrups was too long, that’s
all.”
“Uh-huh. You must ’a’ made a hit with Blaze. Ordinarily he don’t care
for everybody.”
“When did yuh lose this horse?” asked the sheriff.
“Today,” Swede smiled widely.
“Where?”
“I dunno,” Swede scratched his head thoughtfully. “Yuh see, we ain’t
familiar with this country, sheriff. Me and Sad was taking a little ride
through the hills, and we hears somebody bangin’ away. Yuh see, we sabe
that the deer season ain’t open yet; so we opines that it might be a
personal matter.
“We’re goin’ along kinda easy-like, tryin’ to see what it means, when a
bullet buzzes past my nose. It shore looks like we’ve horned into
somethin’; so we dismounts, leads the horses into a patch of brush, and
goes on a hunt for the jigger that shot at us.
[Illustration]
“Anyway, we don’t find him. We goes back to the horses and finds one of
’em gone. And whoever took my bronc left a good Winchester rifle in its
place—kinda like a pack-rat would—so we took the rifle, doubled up on
Sad’s bronc and came to town to find the sheriff.”
The posse shuffled its feet and looked at one another, while Speck
heaved a deep sigh of relief.
“That’s a pretty good story,” observed Snipe Lee, Bill Wyatt’s hand.
Swede squinted closely at Snipe, a grin on his lips.
“I thought it was,” he said slowly. “Anyway, it’ll have to do until we
can think of a better one.”
The sheriff chewed at the corner of his mustache and wondered what to do
next. Swede’s story sounded plausible. It tallied with the one Speck had
told.
“Mr. Wyatt, the old man, got shot today,” volunteered Speck.
“The old man who was goin’ to adopt you?” asked Sad.
“Uh-huh!”
“F’r gosh sake! Wasn’t killed, was he, Speck?” Sad’s surprise seemed
genuine.
“We don’t know,” the sheriff answered the question. “If he was, somebody
swiped the corpse.”
“Swiped the corpse!” Sad seemed shocked. “What would anybody swipe a
corpse for, sheriff?”
“Yuh might as well tell ’em all about it,” said Snipe sarcastically.
“They prob’ly know more about it than you do.”
Sad walked up to Snipe, who began to wish he had kept still, and studied
him at close range.
“I don’t reckon I’ve met you,” said Sad easily. “What did yuh say yore
name was?”
“I never said.”
“That’s right. You’re one of the Box 8 boys, ain’tcha?”
“Yeah, I work there.”
“You sabe this range pretty well, don’tcha?”
Snipe licked his lips and squinted at Sad. He wondered what these
questions were leading to. Finally he nodded affirmatively.
“Uh-huh,” Sad grew thoughtful. “You know quite a lot about cattle and
range work, don’tcha?”
“I ort to,” said Snipe. “I’ve been punchin’ cows for——”
“Yo’re what I’d call an observin’ person,” interrupted Sad. “Some folks
think I’m a mind-reader,” Sad shot a glance at Bunty, whose face
reddened quickly. “Mebbe I am—who knows? Anyway, I picked you out for
this test.”
“What in hell do yuh mean?” blurted Snipe nervously.
“In all yore experience on the range—” Sad propounded, the question
seriously. “In all of yore experience, mind yuh; did yuh ever know that
yuh could tell a cattle rustler by the color of his fingernails?”
Almost before Sad had finished his question Snipe Lee jerked up his
right hand and shot a searching glance at his nails. It was a trap which
would catch nearly anyone, whether guilty or innocent—an old joke of the
cattle country. It is likely that every man present caught himself in
the act, except Sad and Swede.
In a flash Snipe Lee realized what he had done, and his hand flashed
down to his gun; too late. Sad was into him, cramping his gun arm,
making it impossible for Snipe to draw the gun from its holster.
“Leggo me, damn yuh!” snarled Snipe. “You can’t pin nothin’ like that
onto me!”
Sad laughed, gave the arm an extra twist, swinging Snipe almost off his
feet, and appropriated Snipe’s six-shooter. Then he shoved Snipe aside
and stepped back, while the luckless Box 8 man rubbed his aching muscles
and cursed witheringly.
“That don’t mean nothin’,” laughed the sheriff. “I looked at my nails,
too.”
“So did I,” confessed Wheezer.
“Some folks can’t take a joke,” laughed Sad. “Our friends over there is
too thin-minded to fool with. Here’s yore gun.” He tossed it to Snipe,
who caught it in his left hand and shoved it into his holster. His right
arm was almost helpless.
“Now,” Sad turned to the sheriff, “yuh mind tellin’ me what this
shootin’ scrape was all about? I may be a mind reader, but I can’t cover
all the territory.”
The sheriff did not mind. In fact, he seemed perfectly willing to tell
all he knew. Sad and Swede listened patiently, nodding now and then, as
though to confirm what Speck had told. The sheriff admitted that the
posse had been looking for them.
“I don’t blame yuh,” said Sad. “It shore looked like we might ’a’ had a
hand in it.”
“Ain’t nothin’ been proved yet,” said Snipe painfully.
“Aw, go look at yore nails!” snapped the sheriff. “You’ve talked almost
too much, Snipe. Go put up the horses, Wheezer. If anybody can prove to
me that old Eph Wyatt has been killed, I’ll look for his body, but I’m
no damned bloodhound.”
The posse took their horses back to the hitch-racks, and the sheriff’s
two cowpunchers drew him aside and imparted the news that they had only
been able to round up fifteen head in the lower ranges.
“Didja put ’em in the Bar S pasture?” asked the sheriff.
The cowboys had.
“That’s all right,” said the sheriff. “Somebody cut the fence and got
away with the three hundred and ten head; so they might as well get the
other fifteen.”
“What do yuh mean?” asked “Slim” Wray, one of the cowboys. He had not
heard about the loss. Art Alberts, the other cowboy, listened with open
mouth, while the sheriff explained.
“Aw, they must ’a’ jist turned ’em loose,” said Slim. “We’ll round ’em
up ag’in, Buck.”
“Go to it, Slim,” said the sheriff. “I hope yo’re right.”
Speck sat down on the sidewalk with Sad and Swede, and the sheriff came
over to him.
“Kid, you don’t have much luck, do yuh?” he said thoughtfully. “I wish I
had a home to take yuh to, but I ain’t. I’ve got an extra cot in my
office, where yuh can sleep—and Oreana won’t see yuh go hungry.”
“That’s all right,” grinned Speck. “I’ll git along. Much obliged for the
cot, sheriff. Mebbe I can help yuh some way, doin’ somethin’ around the
office. I’ve got to find my dog before I do anythin’ much. He sure
rattled his hocks when that shootin’ started, and the last I seen of him
he was runnin’ a sandy on a gopher.”
The sheriff laughed and turned toward his office. “Come on, Speck, and
I’ll show yuh that cot.”
“All right,” said Speck gladly. He started after the sheriff, but ran
back to Sad and Swede.
“I’m sorry I had to steal that horse,” he whispered, “but I’m sure glad
I yanked instead of squeezed.”
He turned and ran after the sheriff, leaving Sad and Swede looking
curiously at each other.
“Glad he yanked instead of squeezin’,” said Swede blankly. “Now, what do
yuh make of that, Sad?”
Sad Sontag laughed softly and looked across the street where Buck Rainey
and Speck were at the sheriff’s office door.
“He must ’a’ meant that rifle, Swede. He flinched on the pull. By golly,
that kid sure is a dinger. Yanked on the trigger and pulled the muzzle
far enough to the right to miss us. He’s got nerve to burn, and by
golly”—Sad stopped and reached for his cigarette makings—“he deserves a
better deal than he’s been gettin’.”
“Uh-huh,” yawned Swede. “I reckon we better eat. Here comes Bill Wyatt
and his man, Friday.”
Wyatt and Abe Snow, a tall, dark complexioned cowboy, rode up to the
Cactus saloon hitch-rack and dismounted. Snipe Lee met them, talking
earnestly, and the three went into the saloon.
“I reckon we better eat,” agreed Sad. “Snipe Lee is tellin’ ’em all
about it, and it won’t be sweet news to Bill’s ears. I hate to fight on
an empty stomach; so we’ll fold the old insides around a flock of food
before trouble starts.”
They walked past the Cactus saloon and up the street to a restaurant,
where they proceeded to sit down facing the door and ordered a big meal.
“Well, our alibi sure got past with the sheriff,” laughed Swede.
“Sure,” Sad laughed joyfully. “You are one of the best liars I ever
heard. I’ll betcha Snipe Lee is still wonderin’ if his nails show that
he’s a rustler.”
“I wonder if he is?” grinned Swede. “He sure took it to heart.”
[Illustration]
Sad grinned thoughtfully and leaned back in his chair to allow the
waiter to place a platter of food before him. The waiter was a
pasty-faced, stoop-shouldered person, with a crooked nose and a missing
front tooth. Sad looked at the platter and up at the waiter.
“Three eggs apiece, waiter?”
“Yeah.” The waiter grinned, exposing the incomplete set of upper teeth.
“Thought yuh might be hungry. It won’t cost yuh any more than two
would.”
“Gosh, this is a reg’lar place to eat,” grinned Sad. “Do yuh size up
yore customers and feed ’em accordin’ly?”
“No-o-o. Them extra eggs are for whippin’ Bunty O’Neil.”
“Oh, yeah!” Sad looked curiously at the waiter. “Kinda like gettin’ a
medal for bravery, eh?”
“I dunno about that. See that crooked nose and that missin’ tooth? Well,
I never thought about kickin’ Bunty’s shins.”
“He got you, did he?”
“He sure did. I was out for fifteen minutes. Never knew what hit me.”
“Bunty’s sure a character,” observed Swede, attacking his ham and eggs.
The waiter spat dryly. “Character, hell; he’s a dirty fighter. Somebody
will kill him some day, and then he’ll wish he’d been square.”
“Most all dead men kinda repent,” nodded Sad. “What do yuh know about
Bill Wyatt?”
The waiter grinned. “You whipped him, too, they tell me. I don’t know
much about him. Bunty butted Bill, and Bill petted him with the barrel
of a gun. They was thick as thieves before that. Bill got Bunty to come
down here and buy out the Oreana. Folks used to say that Bill owned an
interest in the Oreana, but I don’t guess there was any truth in it.
“Bunty poured liquor into poor Jim Steeb and killed him. They tell me
that Bunty’s got Steeb’s notes for a lot of money. Steeb practically
lived there at the Oreana. Bunty got him to drinkin’ absence. Didja ever
see an absence drinker? It shore is awful stuff. Make a man kick his
grandmother.”
“Did Steeb kick his grandmother?” asked Swede seriously.
“I don’t guess he had one.”
“Made it kinda bad,” observed Swede. “Feller ought to kinda check up on
his relation before he starts drinkin’ that stuff.”
“Must be an awful relief to kick the old lady,” said Sad, balancing an
egg on his knife-blade. “I never had one. Still, yuh never have
everythin’ in this life. Can we have some coffee?”
“Yuh sure can. I’ll bring yuh in the whole pot.”
“We’re prominent citizens,” grinned Sad, as the waiter hurried away. “If
somebody kills us, they’ll prob’ly put up a big monument in the middle
of the street for us.”
“Yeah,” reflected Swede seriously, “and they’ll carve on it, ‘All fools
ain’t dead yet, but we got two big ones cinched.’”
While Sad and Swede appeased their hunger, Bill Wyatt and his men, Abe
Snow and Snipe Lee, stood at the Cactus bar and drank liberally. Snipe
had told Bill and Abe all about the affair in no uncertain terms, and
bitterly censured the sheriff for not arresting Sad and Swede for
murder. Of course, Snipe was still smarting from his encounter with Sad
and was inclined to be vindictive.
“He accused me of bein’ a rustler,” complained Snipe. “Yuh know, he
can’t git away with a thing like that, Bill.”
“He got away with it, didn’t he?” demanded Bill. “You talk too much,
Snipe. But where do yuh suppose the old man is?”
Snipe shook his head and felt of his twisted arm muscles.
“I can’t even start to suppose, Bill. Jist like I said, he wasn’t at the
buckboard, nor at the ranch. There was the dead horse and the live one.
Everthin’ was jist like that kid said, except we couldn’t find old Eph.”
“What did the sheriff think?” asked Bill.
“Well, he didn’t know. We had an idea that them two strangers had killed
him, but when we couldn’t find the body, we didn’t know what to think.
Wheezer Wilson figured that they had shot the old man and got scared
that somebody might find it out; so they hid the body.”
“What good would that do?” demanded Bill.
“Yuh got to prove a murder,” said Snipe wisely. “If there ain’t no
corpse yuh can’t prove nothin’. A man ain’t noways dead until he’s
proved dead, and yuh can’t prove nothin’ without yuh can identify the
corpse. If they don’t never find old Eph, the law won’t never figure him
to be dead.”
“But if he don’t never show up, he must be dead,” argued Bill.
“He must be,” agreed Snipe, “but the law don’t look at it like me and
you would. Mebbe old Eph wandered off in the brush and died; mebbe
somebody took the corpse and hid it.”
“But why would they hide it?” Bill poured out a fresh drink and drank it
raw. “I don’t sabe it, Snipe.”
“To protect themselves,” explained Snipe. “Jist like I said, the law
don’t know that anybody got killed yet.”
Slim Wray and Art Alberts, the sheriff’s two cowhands, came in, so the
argument was dropped for a while. Bill invited them to partake of his
hospitality, which they accepted with alacrity, and the talk drifted to
the fact that the Bar S herd was missing.
“Bunty O’Neil is sure fussin’ about that,” declared Slim. “If we can’t
find them cows Bunty won’t get the money that’s comin’ to him. I heard
him say that he’d have them cows or somebody would be darned sorry.”
“He talks big,” grunted Bill Wyatt. “I ain’t got no love for that Sontag
person, but I’m sure glad he piled Bunty.”
“Who are them two fellers, anyway?” asked Abe Snow, squinting through
his glass of liquor at the light. “Look like a couple of cow detectives
to me, if anybody asks yuh.”
“What would they be doin’ over here?” demanded Snipe.
“Yuh know they made yuh look at yore fingernails,” smiled Slim Wray
meaningly. Snipe growled and reached for his glass.
“They ain’t got nothin’ on me.”
“Well, they ain’t been here long,” grinned Slim.
“What about lookin’ at fingernails?” queried Bill.
“Didn’t you hear about it? Sontag asked Snipe if he knew that you could
tell a cattle rustler by lookin’ at his fingernails.”
Bill turned his hand sideways and glanced at his nails while Slim
snorted with laughter.
“There yuh go!” he chuckled. “That’s what Snipe done.”
“That’s a hell of a joke!” growled Bill, glowering at Slim. “All
fingernails are the same color.”
“You looked!” choked Slim.
“You don’t mean to insinuate that I’m a rustler, do yuh?” Bill grew
suddenly belligerent. He shoved away from the bar and glared at Slim.
“Aw, cool off,” advised Slim. “Nobody’s accusin’ yuh, Bill. Yo’re jist
like Snipe. He got mad, too.”
“Well, I’m no rustler, Slim,” declared Bill coldly. “I’ll accept yore
apology, but don’t say anythin’ like that again. I’m honest, I am.”
“Sure, we all know it,” agreed Slim. “Let’s have another drink.”
“I’m hones’, too,” blurbled Snipe, who was looking owlishly at himself
in the back-bar mirror. “Almos’ too honesht.”
“Almost,” said Bill savagely.
It was not often that the Box 8 outfit drank too much liquor, but that
night was one time when they threw all reserve to the winds. Whisky
seemed to have little effect on Bill Wyatt, except to make him more
savage.
But he kept out of the Oreana saloon. Several times he met Sad and Swede
during the evening, but avoided direct contact with them.
[Illustration]
“Look out for Bill Wyatt,” Slim Wray cautioned Sad and Swede.
“What’s achin’ him tonight?” asked Sad.
“Liquor and a bad disposition. Yuh see, old Eph Wyatt was his uncle.”
“Was his uncle?” queried Sad. “Ain’t he still his uncle?”
“Well—sure,” hesitated Slim. “They’re sayin’ that the old man is dead,
yuh know. I suppose Bill is workin’ up a little war medicine for
himself. Of course the sheriff don’t believe yuh had any hand in
shootin’ the old man, but the sheriff ain’t everybody.”
“Much obliged,” grinned Sad. “We’ll look out for Bill. He prob’ly thinks
he owes me somethin’.”
“And he’ll pay yuh, if he gets a safe chance.”
“And he’ll get a receipt,” said Sad meaningly. “Anyway, I’m sure obliged
to yuh, Slim.”
But Bill Wyatt was too wise to start trouble with them. For once in his
life he decided to let discretion be the better part of valor. He got
his men, Snipe and Abe, away from the Cactus bar and walked them up and
down the street. They sobered considerably, and Bill outlined his
scheme.
“They hid the body of the old man, that’s a cinch. Fightin’ ’em won’t
tell us where it’s hid; sabe? They’ve got a room at the Oreana hotel,
and them partitions ain’t very thick. Here’s the scheme. Abe, me and you
will see if we can git the room next to them. They’ll probably talk
enough to let us know a few things. Snipe, you take our horses to the
livery-stable, and you stay there. If they decide to leave town, you
come a-runnin’; sabe? Leave our horses all saddled, so we won’t lose no
time.
“And from now on, we don’t take no more liquor. We’ve got to find out a
few things. You better go to the stable now, Snipe. Me and Abe will get
the room, and find out which room Sontag rented. If we can’t get the
next one without seemin’ to want it, mebbe it’s empty and we can take it
anyway.”
Snipe grumbled profanely, but went to the hitch-rack after the horses.
The stable-keeper showed him which stalls to use, asked Snipe if he
wanted to take off the saddles, accepted the two-bits per head and went
back to his gear-room.
He thought that Snipe went out, which Snipe did not. Later the
stable-keeper went out, shut the big doors and went up to the Oreana
saloon. Snipe stretched out on the grain-bin and went to sleep. He had a
pint of liquor on his hip, which assisted in his departure to the land
of dreams.
Sad and Swede were at the Oreana saloon when the stable-keeper ran into
them and accepted of their hospitality.
“Kinda quiet tonight,” observed Sad.
“Yeah, it is.” The stable-keeper squinted around the room. “It always is
this early. Mebbe it’ll pick up. The Box 8 must figure on makin’ a night
of it, ’cause they’ve stabled their horses. It ain’t often they do that.
Usually leave their broncs at the rack until they’re ready to go home.”
Sad squinted at himself in the back-bar mirror and wondered why Bill
Wyatt and his outfit intended to make a night of it. He drew Swede out
of the Oreana and they made the rounds, looking for Bill and his gang,
who were not in evidence.
“You think they’re layin’ for us?” asked Swede.
“I dunno,” Sad grinned thoughtfully. “Mebbe they are. Let’s look a
little further.”
They went down the street to the hotel and entered the dingy little
office, which was little more than a wide hall, lighted by a hanging
lamp. The rooms were all on the second floor. Behind the little counter
sat the proprietor, tilted back against the wall, reading a year-old
magazine.
“Goin’ to bed early, ain’t yuh?” he asked.
“It is a little early,” agreed Sad.
“Sober, too,” observed the proprietor, and laughed at his own wit. “They
don’t usually go to bed sober on Sat’day night here. Bill Wyatt and Abe
Snow got too much under their belts, and bought a room a while ago. They
sure must ’a’ punished a lot of hooch.”
“Yeah, I reckon they did,” laughed Sad. “They’ll prob’ly snore all night
and keep us awake.”
“By jing, I never thought about that when I put ’em in number five.
That’s right beside you fellers. Say,” he tilted forward and got to his
feet, “I’ll git ’em out of there.”
“No, don’t do that,” said Sad quickly. “They’re likely asleep right now.
Shucks, we don’t mind.”
“Well, if yuh don’t mind. By golly, I never thought about it when I got
’em the room. I’ll change, if yuh say so.”
“No, that’s all right,” assured Sad.
They sauntered outside and crossed to the Cactus hitch-rack, where Sad
appropriated a lariat rope, which he concealed under his coat. Then they
went back to the hotel and climbed up the stairs. Sad cautioned Swede to
let him do the work; so both of them staggered visibly down the hall.
Sad carried a narrow loop of rope in his hands, as he blundered
drunkenly into the door of number five and quickly slipped the loop
around the door-knob.
“Hey!” chuckled Swede drunkenly. “Tha’s the wrong door, Sad. We sleep in
thish room.”
“Tha’s right,” muttered Sad. “Excuse me, everybody.” He staggered across
the hall and against the other door, where he quickly drew the rope
tight and threw several half-hitches around the other doorknob.
“What’s the matter—can’tcha fin’ the key-hole, Swede?”
“Thish is wrong key,” declared Swede. “Too small, I tell yuh. C’mon.”
They went down the hall, reviling the proprietor for giving them the
wrong key, which he had not. In fact, they had no key.
“That was a maguey rope,” chuckled Sad. “Them things ain’t got no
stretch in ’em. Bill Wyatt is smart enough to want to know more, which
ain’t nothin’ against him.”
“Now, what do we pull off next?” asked Swede, chuckling with laughter.
“Find Snipe Lee. I’ve got a hunch.”
And they faded down the dark street toward the livery-stable, while Bill
Wyatt and Abe Snow sat on a bed and waited for them to come back with
the right key.
It was a long, long wait.
Finally Bill Wyatt swore disgustedly and decided to go out and see what
had become of them, but the door would not open. It would slip past the
lock, which proved that it was fastened from the outside, and which
proved that Sad and Swede had out-smarted them.
It was dark outside and the two-story drop was too much for Bill to
risk, because he was not sure just what might be down there for him to
fall into.
“They’ve roped us in,” declared Bill, punctuating his declaration with
oaths. “They wasn’t drunk, Abe.”
But Abe did not care. He had stretched out on the bed again and was
snoring blissfully. Bill pried the door open as far as possible with the
barrel of his gun, cut a notch with his pocket-knife and managed to tie
his knife to the barrel of Abe’s gun strongly enough to enable him to
cut the rope.
Then he left Abe sleeping audibly and went downstairs, where he accosted
the sleepy proprietor.
“Has Sontag and Harrigan come in yet?” he demanded.
“No,” replied the proprietor. “They was in here a couple hours ago, but
ain’t been in since.”
“Came upstairs, didn’t they?”
“Nope. Said they was afraid you’d keep ’em awake snorin’.”
“Oh, yeah!” Bill snorted and went outside.
He made the rounds of the saloons, but could not find Sad and Swede; so
he headed for the livery-stable, where he found the stable-man in the
gear-room, getting ready for bed.
“Hyah, Bill,” greeted the stable-man. “Want yore bronc?”
“No,” said Bill shortly. He thought for several moments. Then, “I’m
kinda lookin’ for Sontag and Harrigan, and I wondered if they went away
tonight.”
The stable-man picked up his lantern and walked out to the stalls.
“Their horses and saddles are gone,” he said. “They must ’a’ rode out
while I was uptown.”
“Uh-huh,” Ed squinted reflectively. “Seen anythin’ of Snipe Lee?”
“Not since he brought yore horses down here.”
“All right.” Bill turned and started for the door.
“Say, do yuh want me to grain yore broncs?”
Bill turned at the door, “Yuh might as well.”
“More work,” grumbled the stable-man, as Bill went out. “I can always
think of somethin’ that’ll make me extra work.”
He walked over to the oat-bin, hung up his lantern and unfastened the
staple which held down the lid. Swinging up the long lid, he leaned over
to scoop up a pail of oats, when Snipe Lee sat up and looked him in the
face.
[Illustration]
The shock was so great that the stableman dropped the lid on Snipe’s
unprotected head and stepped back; while from within came the muffled
voice of Snipe, demanding to know why in hell everybody was pickin’ onto
him.
The stable-man lifted the lid and let Snipe get out. He was still
half-drunk, dazed and inclined to be indignant.
“Well how did yuh get in there, anyway?”
Snipe scratched his head thoughtfully and looked into the oatbin.
“Mus’ ’a’ fell in,” he said thickly. “How in hell does anybody git into
oat-bins, I’d crave to ask yuh?”
“You couldn’t fasten the staple,” argued the stable-man.
“Thasso? Lemme tell yuh, I’m smart.” Snipe rocked on his heels and
goggled owlishly at the lantern.
“But yuh couldn’t do a thing like that,” declared the stable-man. “Yuh
could fall into the bin, but I’m danged if yuh could lock the lid from
the outside.”
“Is thasso? Ha, ha, ha, ha! Is thasso? Well, smarty, couldn’t I lock it
firs’? Anshwer me that. Couldn’t I? I must ’a’ done it thataway. Shay,”
Snipe looked around foolishly, “have you sheen anythin’ of Sontag and
Harrigan?”
[Illustration]
“They left here quite a while ago.”
“Oh, my!” Snipe seemed shocked.
“Bill Wyatt was here a while ago, and he asked for you.”
“Yeah? Huh! Well, I’m mush obliged. S’-long.”
And Snipe went weaving out of the door, while the stableman filled the
bucket with oats and fed the three horses. He flung the bucket against
the wall, picked up his lantern and went back to his bunk, still
wondering how on earth a man could get inside an oatbin and lock himself
in from the outside.
V
The next morning Sheriff Buck Rainey and Wheezer Wilson his assistant
went hunting cows. They went past the Bar S, and were agreeably
surprised to find most of the last fifteen Bar S cattle in the pasture.
They stopped to put up the broken wires, and rode on.
Slim Wray and Art Alberts, the sheriff’s punchers, had gone further
north, looking for the missing herd. The following day the sheriff was
to sell out the Bar S, and he wanted more than fifteen head of cattle.
“Looks like a short chance,” observed Wheezer, as they rode further into
the hills. “We can’t find much except Box 8’s and Diamond W’s. Old Eph
Wyatt must have quite a lot of cows, Buck.”
“Y’betcha.” The sheriff spat reflectively. “I wonder what did happen to
the old man. It don’t seem reasonable to think that Sontag and Harrigan
had anythin’ to do with the shootin’. There ain’t no motive.”
“We don’t know of any,” amended Wheezer.
“My gosh, you’re gettin’ particular. Pretty soon you’ll be doin’ all
your eatin’ with a fork, jist to be correct.”
“Not ’less they make a kind that don’t leak food. There’s Bill Wyatt and
Snipe Lee.”
Wheezer pointed at the opposite hillside, where two riders were coming
toward them. They drew rein and waited for the Box 8 boss and his
puncher to join them.
“Lookin’ for Bar S stock?” asked Bill, after the customary greetings had
been exchanged.
“That’s about all it amounts to,” replied Buck Rainey. “We ain’t found
none yet.”
Bill twisted in his saddle and pointed east. “We seen five or six head
over thataway this mornin’, and there was fifteen or twenty head out
near the Box 8.”
“That ain’t noways three hundred and ten head,” grinned Buck.
Wheezer grinned at Snipe Lee. “What happened to yuh last night, Snipe? I
heard Jimmy Logan, the stable-keeper, talkin’ about findin’ yuh in the
oatbin, with the lid locked.”
Snipe twisted his face disgustedly.
“I must ’a’ been awful drunk. Don’t remember a thing about it. Took our
broncs to the stable, set down on the oatbin, and don’t know a darned
thing what happened after that.”
“And somebody roped two doors together at the hotel,” said Buck.
“McKinney showed me the rope. Slim Wray was pretty drunk when he found
the lariat half-hitched around his door-knob; so he thought it was a
warnin’ that somebody had hung to his door. He slept in the barn with a
six-gun strapped to his wrist.”
“That must ’a’ been after we left,” said Bill dryly. “Got any track of
the old man, Buck?”
“No!” replied the sheriff.
“Uh-huh. I happen to know that Sontag and Harrigan rode out of Oreana
about midnight.”
“How’d yuh know?”
“Jimmy Logan said they did.”
“Thasso?” The sheriff squinted reflectively. “I wonder where they went.
I don’t sabe that pair, Bill.”
“You ain’t got nothin’ on the rest of us, Buck.”
“They’re sure full of fun,” offered Wheezer.
“They’re full of hell!” snorted Bill. “They’ll run against a snag, if
they don’t watch out.”
“They ain’t so young,” observed Wheezer. “’S funny they ain’t run agin’
it before this.”
“This ain’t findin’ us any Bar S stock,” reminded the sheriff. “Want to
ride with us, Bill?”
“Yeah, we might as well.”
And while Bill and Snipe joined forces with the sheriff, Sad Sontag and
Swede Harrigan also rode into the hills, also looking for Bar S stock.
They found one of that brand, which they examined closely, noting that
the iron had been run on the right shoulder.
“Well, that’s one of the three hundred and ten,” observed Sad, as they
moved on. There were numerous Box 8 cattle scattered along the brushy
draws.
“This sale won’t be worth attendin’,” declared Swede. “By golly, I wish
we’d stayed in Sundown.”
“I’m havin’ a good time,” grinned Sad. “You want too much. I wonder what
Bill Wyatt and his bunch had to say? I’ll betcha Snipe Lee didn’t know
what happened to him, Swede.”
“I’ll bet he didn’t. Only thing I hope is that somebody let him out of
the oatbin before he suffocated.”
“Aw, he was all right. That lid was full of cracks. Wyatt was foxy
enough to take that adjoinin’ room, where they’d have a swell chance to
hear us talk, and I’ll betcha he cursed the man who invented a maguey
rope.”
Sad pulled up his horse, as several Box 8 cattle came out of a draw
beyond them and moved into an open swale. He studied them for several
moments, a half-smile on his face, and then took down his rope.
“Whatcha goin’ to do, Sad?” asked Swede.
“Practice a little,” grinned Sad, spurring his horse forward and shaking
out his loop. Swede swore foolishly, but did not follow him.
The cattle broke into a gallop, heading back toward the ravine, but Sad
singled out a rangy, red steer and spurred swiftly in pursuit. The
animal twisted along the edge of the shallow ravine, trying to reach the
cover of a willow thicket, but the loop sailed true, dropped fair over
the horns, and Sad Sontag made his dally around the horn in approved
style.
It was all very well done, except that Sad’s cinch was far too loose for
a roping-stunt, and when the jerk came it yanked the saddle high up over
the horse’s withers, throwing it sideways, and upsetting the
calculations of a well regulated roping horse.
The big steer took a header into the brush, the horse skidded sideways
over the edge of the washout, and Sad went out of the saddle, much after
the manner of a flying-squirrel hunting for a more favorable location.
The action had hardly taken place before Swede spurred past, his own
rope in hand, dismounted almost on the run and proceeded to hog-tie the
steer, which had had the shock of its life. Sad’s horse regained its
feet, kicked a few times, blew the alkali dust from its nostrils and
looked back at Sad, who was sitting against the opposite bank, rubbing
the alkali out of his eyes.
“You rised something, didn’t yuh?” fleered Swede, red of face. “You’ll
never get no sense, Sad Sontag. Ropin’ a steer as big as that one on a
loose cinch! I’ve seen a lot of fools in my time!”
“You hadn’t ort to be vain,” said Sad painfully. “It’s all right for a
feller of yore physique to look in a mirror, but he shouldn’t brag about
it. Didja tie up the little pet?”
“Yeah, I tied it,” Swede spat out some alkali viciously. “If I hadn’t,
that red steer would ’a’ made a pet out of you, cowboy.”
“Thank yuh kindly, Swede.” Sad climbed out, after working his saddle
back into place, and walked over to the wheezing steer. It was lying on
its right side, glaring its hate from a pair of blood-shot eyes.
Sad squatted on his heels and reached for his cigarette papers, while
Swede complained audibly.
“I dunno why yuh done this, Sad. That steer feels the insult awful
strong, and I’m goin’ to ask _you_ to turn it loose. I’m no matador.
I’ll betcha even money that when yuh take the piggin’-string off that
steer, he’ll beat yuh to yore bronc.”
Sad frowned over his cigarette, and sang mournfully, “O-o-o-oh, Susie
Jones was a clingin’ vi-i-i-ine, but her father was a pi-i-i-izen
o-o-oak.”
“Oh, all right,” sighed Swede.
Sad got to his feet and walked over to the steer.
“C’mere, Swede, and help me turn him over.”
“Do yuh think he’s tired, Sad? And after we turn him over, do we have to
set him up for a spell?”
“Don’t strain yourself,” grinned Sad. They completed their turning
process, when something unexpected happened.
“Don’t move, gents!”
It was the voice of Buck Rainey, the sheriff of Oreana. Sad and Swede
whirled quickly to see Buck, Wheezer Wilson, Bill Wyatt and Snipe Lee,
standing just a few feet away, guns in hand.
“Keep yore hands where they are,” warned the sheriff. “Get their guns,
Wheezer.”
Wheezer came forward and emptied their holsters, while the two Sundown
cowboys looked blankly at each other.
“We been watchin’ yuh,” said the sheriff easily. “Yuh see, it ain’t
ethical to hang yore rope on other men’s stock in this range, Sontag.”
“That’s one of my animals, too,” said Wyatt angrily.
“I shore apologize,” said Sad contritely.
“Apologize!” snorted Bill. “I—guess—you—would!”
“Yuh might at least be gentleman enough to accept it.”
“Huh? Say,” Bill Wyatt’s voice shook with anger, “do yuh think yuh can
get away with jist an apology? What kind of a cow-country didja come
from, anyway?”
“Pretty fair,” said Sad seriously. “’Course it ain’t the best in the
state, but we kinda like it up there. Lots of nice folks up thataway,
Wyatt.”
“Yeah, I’ll betcha!”
“Got ’em before they had a chance to heat an iron,” observed Snipe. The
sheriff looked all around and even inspected their saddles. He seemed
disappointed not to find anything which they might have used to misbrand
an animal. He brought Sad’s horse up beside Swede’s, and dropped the
reins.
“I don’t sabe this,” he admitted. “What was you fellers tryin’ to do,
anyway?”
“Jist bein’ playful,” grinned Swede.
“Yeah, I’ll betcha.” The sheriff scratched his chin and studied the
steer. Wheezer squatted on his heels, holding Sad’s gun in one hand, and
Swede’s in the other.
“Well, I reckon I’ll have to take you fellers to town.” The sheriff
motioned to Snipe Lee. “Let the steer go, Snipe. We’ve got enough
witnesses to this, I reckon.”
“Yo’re danged right we have!” grunted Bill Wyatt.
Snipe Lee walked over to the steer and loosened the rope. It was not the
ethical thing to do, and under any other circumstances, it is doubtful
that any of them would have considered turning a range steer loose among
unmounted men.
Wheezer had placed the two six-shooters on his lap, holding them between
his shirt and chaps, as he manufactured a cigarette.
Snipe yanked off the rope and stepped back, slapping the big red animal
across the rump with the coils. The steer heaved to its feet with a deep
bellow of rage, whirled with the agility of a deer and lunged straight
at Buck Rainey and Bill Wyatt, who were standing close together.
The left horn of the animal caught in one side of Buck’s vest, threw him
off his feet and he went headlong into the washout, while Wyatt and
Wheezer collided, each having a different idea of which way to go, and
they went down together.
The steer whirled at the brink of the washout and headed for Snipe Lee,
who was waving his rope and yelling unheard advice to everyone. Sad and
Swede were not merely spectators. Wheezer had forgotten the fact that he
was custodian of the captured artillery, and the guns had barely fallen
in the dust when Sad swept them up, whirled and went into his saddle.
Swede was mounted almost as soon, and while the sheriff’s posse
scrambled for safety and took pot-shots at the infuriated steer, Sad and
Swede rode out of gunshot, turning their tear-streaked faces toward a
place where they might cry out their mirth in safety.
A forty-five bullet finally took all the fight out of the steer, and the
dusty, scratched, bruised and otherwise injured posse managed to get
together for a mutual condemnation meeting. Wheezer had lost a tooth in
his collision with Wyatt, and he seemed inclined to think that Wyatt had
done it with malice aforethought. Snipe Lee had a lump the size of an
egg over his right eye, which pained him greatly.
“Blame yourself for that, Snipe,” wailed Wheezer. “You hit yourself with
that hondo.”
“I did not! The steer hit me!”
“You never was within fifty feet of that steer!”
“What did yuh turn it loose for?” demanded Wyatt.
“He told me to,” pointing at Buck, who was rubbing his shoulder.
“Ain’t you got no sense of your own?” queried Wyatt painfully.
“You ort to listen to nobody but Bill,” declared Wheezer sarcastically.
“He’s yore boss, Snipe—the clumsy danged fool! Yeah, I mean you, Bill!
How didja ever expect to dodge a steer, goin’ the way you was? If it
hadn’t been for you, I’d still have them guns and we’d have our
prisoners.”
“You didn’t have them guns when we met,” declared Wyatt. “Not by a dang
sight, you didn’t! An’ I’m no clumsy danged fool, either.”
“Well, you ain’t an active one, that’s a cinch. No, and by golly, you
ain’t no medium one.”
“Aw-w-w, don’t fight about it,” wailed Buck. “Neither one of yuh are
acrobats, and yo’re both fools. Why didn’t yuh watch the prisoners?”
“Why didn’t you?” countered Wheezer angrily.
“’Cause I was hangin’ to that steer’s horn by my vest, that’s why. It’s
a danged good thing that vests don’t have sleeves.”
[Illustration]
“Well, we might as well go back,” said Wheezer painfully. He put his
right forefinger in his mouth and invited them to inspect the damage
within.
“Aw-w-gle ugl nahk umf foot ’n aw-w-gl,” he told them distinctly.
“Yawgl nawgl woggle,” replied the sheriff seriously.
Wheezer spat painfully. “Think yo’re danged smart, don’tcha?”
“Well, I can talk any language you can. Let’s go home.”
They limped back down the draw to where they had left their horses,
mounted and went back toward Oreana.
“What’ll you do if them fellers come back to Oreana?” asked Bill Wyatt.
“Yuh don’t think they will, do yuh?” asked Buck.
“I said, if they do.”
“Oh, yeah.” The sheriff was inclined to be sarcastic. “Well, if they do,
I don’t know what I’ll do, Bill. And if they don’t, I don’t know either;
so there yuh are. There wasn’t a thing around there that they could use
to blot a brand nor change one.”
“Then why did they throw that steer?” demanded Bill.
“I dunno, do you? If this askin’ questions is some kind of a game, deal
me a hand. You seen as much of it as I did.”
“Why did they turn that steer over, if they wasn’t goin’ to get at the
brand?” remarked Lee.
The sheriff turned in his saddle and glared at Snipe.
“That’ll be about all for this lesson,” he said angrily.
“Well, can’t we discuss the thing?” asked Bill peevishly.
“Shore yuh can. But don’t ask me things. I ain’t got no brains, and I’m
willin’ to admit it. I don’t know the why of anythin’. Go ahead and ask
Snipe a few questions, if yuh must ask somebody.”
“Ask him why he turned that steer loose,” suggested Wheezer.
“Or yuh might go and ask the steer,” said Buck. “He prob’ly heard ’em
say what they was goin’ to do with him.”
The questions ended right there, and the four men said little more to
each other on the way to Oreana. It was rather late in the afternoon
when they arrived. The sheriff and Wheezer went to their office, where
they rubbed their bruises with liniment and used up their supply of
courtplaster.
“This afternoon’s work wasn’t anythin’ to brag about,” said Buck
meaningly. “I don’t reckon that Bill and Snipe will spread the joyous
tidin’s; so we won’t.”
“I read about a sheriff that always got his man,” said Wheezer. “He jist
never made no mistakes. I don’t jist remember who the feller was that
wrote the book.”
“Some feller with considerable imagination,” said Buck.
“Yeah, I sh’d say he did,” agreed Wheezer. “He’d prob’ly been able to
figure out what them two fellers was tryin’ to do with that red steer,
Buck. Nobody had to ask him questions. Shucks, he up and tells ’em right
on the spot.
“I never seen such a feller as this’n was. Deduct things! Whooee! Always
knowed jist what to say, too. As I said before, nobody had to ask him
any questions. I suppose he could ’a’ answered any question without no
trouble. And I s’pose he would, too.”
Buck squinted at Wheezer, who was innocently examining his mouth in the
mirror.
“And nobody asked him any questions, Wheezer?”
“Nossir.”
“Well, I wish I could be elected in his county. If yo’re tryin’ to make
me mad—go ahead, pardner. I know just how much I can stand, and you
don’t.”
“Well,” grinned Wheezer. “I ain’t fool enough to ask yuh when you’ve got
a-plenty.”
A few minutes later there entered young Speck Steeb, carrying Boze, the
pup, in his arms and smiling triumphantly.
“The gol derned pup found me,” he declared.
“Where did he find yuh?” grinned Wheezer.
“In the restaurant garbage can.”
“My gosh!” exploded Buck. “What was you doin’ in the garbage can,
Speck?”
“Well,” grinned Speck, “that’s where I found Boze.”
“Our family is all united,” observed Wheezer. “I reckon we’ll pick fleas
from now on, Buck. What do yuh know, Speck?”
“I know that Bill Wyatt is tellin’ folks that Sontag and Harrigan are
rustlers. He said they was ropin’ his cows, and that they got away from
yuh. Is that right?”
“He’s tellin’ it, is he?” grunted Buck.
“Yeah, and he said that it was time that the cattlemen took the law in
their own hands.”
Buck and Wheezer looked at each other. Wheezer grinned widely, but Buck
was serious. Slim Wray and Art Alberts rode up to the front of the
office and dismounted. They were dusty and tired.
“We put twenty-five head in the Bar S pasture,” said Slim. “And that’s
every darned head we could find. We picked most of ’em up near the
Box 8, and it kinda looks like they might be a little bunch that got
away from that main herd. If that bunch hadn’t been stolen, it’s a cinch
we’d find more, Buck.”
“I s’pose,” nodded Buck. “It ain’t goin’ to be much of a sale, but we’ll
sell what there is.”
“Sontag and Harrigan came down here to buy stock, didn’t they?”
“That kinda remains to be seen, Slim. They probably won’t be at the sale
tomorrow.”
“I’d like to make a bet on that,” said Speck.
Buck laughed at the boy. “You’d like to bet on it, eh? What have yuh got
to bet?”
“Well,” Speck hesitated and shifted his feet. “I ain’t got no money, but
I’ll bet—I’ll bet my dog.”
Buck rubbed his chin thoughtfully for a moment.
“No bet, Speck,” he said. “Yore hunch is too good. Any old time a kid is
willin’ to bet his dog, the odds are all agin’ the other feller.”
Abe Snow had been in town nearly all day, and now he rode back toward
the Box 8 with Bill Wyatt and Snipe Lee, who had imbibed much liquor in
a short space of time. Abe had been left in town to see if he could hear
anything regarding Sontag and Harrison, but it was Wyatt and Lee who had
the information.
They rode in at the Box 8, stabled their horses and went to the
ranch-house. There was no one there, except the Chinese cook, whose
cognomen was One Bum Lung. He was cooking supper when Bill went into the
kitchen to see how long it would be before eating time.
[Illustration]
“Two men come heah today,” stated One Bum Lung. “I no sabe ’em. One loan
ho’se, one bay ho’se.”
“Yeah?” Bill scowled thoughtfully. “One roan horse and one bay horse,
eh? What did they want?”
“No talk. I seeum on collal fence. Long time set on fence.”
“Long time set on fence, eh? Where did they set on the fence?”
“Longside li’l chute, where bland put on. You sabe place?”
“Uh-huh.” Bill whirled and went back into the living-room, where Snipe
and Abe were arguing over the ownership of an old magazine.
“Sontag and Harrigan were here today,” said Bill. “Lung says they sat on
the corral fence beside the brandin’-chute.”
“The hell they did!” snorted Snipe. “What for?”
“How would I know?” retorted Bill.
“That don’t look so good,” said Abe seriously. “The sooner we run them
jiggers out of the country the better it’ll be for us.”
“And that’s no danged lie,” agreed Bill heartily. “If they show up at
that sale tomorrow, there’ll be somethin’ doin’. You fellers keep sober
and keep yore eyes open, sabe?”
“Yeah, we’ll do that, too,” agreed Snipe. “I reckon Bunty will be at the
sale, eh?”
Bill laughed shortly. “Yeah, he’ll be there. I threw a spoke into his
machine, but he don’t dare yelp. Keep yore eye on Bunty, too. This
Sontag and Harrigan think they’re smart, buttin’ into things that don’t
concern ’em.”
“Started over that damn dog!” snapped Abe. “If we hadn’t tied a can on
the kid’s dog, these two wouldn’t never mixed into it. If it hadn’t been
for the dog, you and Sontag wouldn’t ’a’ had a fight. And then the old
man wanted to adopt the kid, ’cause the kid didn’t like you.”
“Glub pile!” called One Bum Lung, and they filed into the kitchen.