"YOU WON'T GET ME AGAIN"
One day late in the fall, Ward was riding the hills off to the north
and west of his claim, looking at the condition of the range there and
keeping an eye out for Y6 cattle. He had bought another dozen head of
mixed stock, over toward Hardup, and they were not yet past the point
of straying off their new range. So, having keen eyes and the
incentive to use them, he paid attention to stock tracks in the soft
places, and he saw everything within the sweep of his vision; and,
since the day was clear and fine, his range of vision, when he reached
a high point, extended to the Three Buttes away out in the desert.
By sheer accident he rode up to the canyon where the little corral lay
hidden at the end, and looked down. And since he rode up at an angle
different from the one Billy Louise had taken, the corral was directly
beneath him--so directly, in fact, that half of it was hidden from
sight. He saw that there were cattle within it, however, and two men
at work there. And by chance he lifted his eyes and saw the nose of a
horse beyond a jutting ledge sixty yards or so away, and the crown of a
hat showing just above the ledge; a lookout, he judged instantly, and
pulled Rattler behind the rock he had been at some pains to ride around.
Ward was a cowpuncher. He knew the tricks of the trade so well that he
did not wonder what was going on down there. He knew. He was tempted
to do as Billy Louise had done--ride on and pass up knowledge which
might be disagreeable; for Ward was not one to spy upon his fellows,
and the man whom he would betray into the hands of a sheriff must be
guilty of a most heinous crime. That was his code: To let every fellow
have a chance to work out his own salvation or damnation as he might
choose. I don't suppose there was anything he hated worse than an
informer.
He got behind the rock, since he had no great desire to be shot, and he
discovered that his view of the corral was much plainer than from where
he had first seen it. He looked behind him for an easy retreat to the
skyline, and then before he turned to ride away, he glanced down again
curiously.
A man walked out into the center of the corral and stood there in the
revealing sunlight. Ward's eyes bored like gimlets through the space
that divided them. Instinctively his hand went to the gun on his hip.
It was a long pistol shot, and he was afraid he might miss; for Ward
was not a wizard with a gun, much as I should like to misrepresent him
as a dead shot. He was human, just like yourself. He could shoot
pretty well, a great deal better than lots of men who do more boasting
than he ever did, but he frequently missed. He measured the distance
with his mind while the man stood there talking to someone unseen. To
look at Ward's face, you would have sworn that the man was doomed; but
something held Ward's finger from crooking on the trigger; the man had
his back turned squarely toward the gun. Ward waited. The man did not
move. He waited another minute, and then he opened his lips to shout.
And when his lips parted for the call that would bring the fellow
facing him, Ward's tricky brain snapped before his eyes the face of
Billy Louise.
He lowered the gun. He could not shoot when he knew that the bullet
would split a gulf between himself and the girl--a gulf that would
separate him forever from that future where stood his air castles.
Billy Louise had talked to him very seriously one day about this very
possibility. She had made him see that shooting this man would be the
worst thing he could possibly do.
He let down the hammer with his thumb, slid the gun back into his
holster, and dismounted, with a glance toward the place where the
lookout was stationed. He was sure he had not been seen, and so he
crouched behind a splinter of rock and watched. He had no plan, but
his instinct impelled him to closely watch Buck Olney.
Another man came into view, down there in the corral. He also stood
plainly revealed, and Ward gave a little snort of contemptuous surprise
when he recognized him. After that he studied the situation with
scowling brows. This other man either upset his conclusions or
complicated his manner of dealing with Buck Olney. Ward would not have
hesitated one second about putting the sheriff on the trail of Buck,
but if the second man were implicated, he could not betray one without
betraying the other. And if the business down there in the corral were
lawful, then he must think of some other means. At any rate, the thing
to do now was to make sure.
The two in the corral came out and closed the gate behind them, and the
first man kicked apart the embers of a small fire and afterward busied
himself with the ground--either looking for tracks or covering them Up.
They came a little way along the side of the bluff, mounted, and rode
up toward where the lookout waited. And one of them rode a dark bay,
and was slim and tall, and wore a gray hat.
Ward glanced at Rattler standing half asleep with reins dropped to the
ground. He reached out, took the reins, and led the horse farther down
under the shelter of the ledge. Rattler pricked up his ears at the
sound of those other riders, but he did not show enough interest to
nicker a greeting; he was always a self-centered beast and was content
to go his way alone, like his master.
Ward stood up, where he could see the rim of the bluff over the ledge
of lava rock. He might get a closer view and see who was the look out,
and he might be seen; for that contingency he kept his fingers close to
his gun. He heard their scrambling progress. Now and then one of the
horses sent a little rock bounding down into the canyon, whereat the
cattle on the corral moved restlessly around the small inclosure.
They came closer, after they had gained the top. Ward, leaning against
the dull-gray rock before him, heard the murmur of their voices. Once
he caught the unmistakable tones of the man he would like to kill.
"I'll keep cases and git him." Plotting against some poor devil, as
usual, Ward thought, and wondered if the man knew he lived in this part
of the country; if he did, it might easily be--
"I'll keep cases some myself, you damned reptile," he muttered under
his breath. "You won't get me again, if that's what you've got in
mind."
They went on, and presently Ward was looking at their backs as they
rode over the ridge. He stood for some time staring after them with
what Billy Louise called his gimlet look. He was breathing shortly
from the pressure he had put upon his self-control, and he was
thinking--thinking.
The silence came creeping in on the heels of the faint, interrupted
sound of their voices. Ward took a long breath, discovered that he was
gripping his gun as though his life depended on hanging to it, and
rubbed his numbed fingers absently. After a minute or so, he mounted
and rode down to the corral.
Five dry cows and two steers snorted at his approach and crowded
against the farther rails. Ward gave Rattler a touch of the spurs,
rode close to the fence, and stood in his stirrups while he studied the
bunch.
"Hell!" he said, when the inspection was over, and dropped back into
the saddle while he gazed unseeingly at the canyon wall. It was a very
real hell that his mind saw; a hell made by men, wherein other men must
dwell in torment because of their sins or the sins of their fellows.
Seabeck's brand was a big V, a bad brand to own, since it favors
revision at the hands of the unscrupulous. These cattle were Seabeck
cattle, and their brand had been altered. For the right slant of the V
had been extended a little and curled into a 6, so that in time the
brand would stand casual inspection as a Y6 monogram--Ward's own brand.
The work was crude--purposefully crude. The V bad not been reburned
enough to make it look fresh, and the newly seared 6 had been added
with a malevolent pressure that would make it stand out a fresh brand
for a long time--in case of a delay in the proceedings, as Ward knew
perfectly well.
So he sat there and looked over the fence and saw himself a convicted
"rustler." There was the evidence, all ready to damn him utterly
before a jury. They would be turned loose on the range near his claim,
and they would be found before the scabs had haired over. It was a
good time for rustling; round-ups were over for the winter, and the
weather would confine range-riding to absolute necessity.
Of course, the work was coarse--so coarse as to reflect against his
intelligence; but when brands are worked over and the culprit has been
caught, the law is not too careful to give the prisoner credit for
brains.
Ward stared at the altered brands and wondered what he had best do. He
bethought him that perhaps it would be as well to put a little scenery
between himself and that particular locality, and he started back up
the hill. Once he pulled up as if he would go back, but he thought
better of it. It was out of the question to turn those cattle loose.
He could not kill them and dispose of the bodies--not when there were
seven of them. He might go down and blotch the brands so that they
would not read anything at all. He had thought of that before and
decided against it. That would put those three on their guard and
would probably not benefit him in the long run. They could work the
brands on other cattle.
He hunched forward in the saddle and let Rattler choose his own trail
up the hill. Though he did not know it, trouble had caught Billy
Louise in that same place, and had sent her forward with drooping
shoulders and a mind so absorbed that she gave no attention to her
horse; but that is merely a trifling coincidence. The thing he had to
decide was far more complicated than Billy Louise's problem.
Should he go straight to Seabeck and tell him what he had found out?
He did not know Seabeck, except as he had met him once or twice on the
trail and exchanged trivial greetings and a few words about the
weather. Besides, Seabeck would very soon find out--
There it stood at his shoulder, grinning at him malevolently--his past.
It tied his hands. Buck Olney he could deal with single-handed; for
Olney had the fear of him that is born of a guilty conscience. He
could send Buck "over the road" whenever he chose to tell some things
he knew; he could do it without any compunctions, too. Buck Olney, the
stock inspector, deserved no mercy at Ward's hands; and would get none,
if ever they met where Ward would have a chance at him.
Olney he could deal with, alone. But with the evidence of those
rebranded cattle, and the testimony of two men, together with the
damning testimony of his past! Ward lifted his head and stared heavily
at the pine slope before him. He could not go to Seabeck and tell him
anything. In the black hour of that ride, he could not think of
anything that he could do that would save him.
And then quite suddenly, in his desperation, he decided upon something.
He laughed hardly, turned Rattler back from the homeward trail, and
returned to the corral in the canyon. "They started this game, and
they've put it up to me," he told himself grimly, "and they needn't
squeal if they burn their own fingers."
He hurried, for he had some work ahead of him, and the sun was sliding
past the noon mark already. He reached the corral and went about what
he had to do as if he were working for wages and wanted to give good
measure.
First, he rebuilt the little fire just outside the corral where the
cattle could not trample it, but where one might thrust a branding iron
into its midst from between the rails. When it was going properly, he
searched certain likely hiding-places and found an iron still warm from
previous service. He thrust it in to heat, led Rattler into the
corral, and closed the gate securely behind him. Then he mounted, took
down his rope and widened the loop, while his angry eyes singled out
the animal he wanted first.
Ward was not an adept with a "running iron"; he was honest, whatever
men might say of him. But he knew how to tie down an animal, and he
sacrificed part of his lariat to get the short rope he needed to tie
their feet together. He worked fast--no telling what minute someone
might come and catch him--and he did his work well, far better and
neater than had his predecessors.
When he left that corral, he smiled. Before he had ridden very far up
the bluff, he stopped, looked down at the long-suffering cattle, and
smiled again sardonically. One could read their brands easily from
where he sat on his horse. They were not blotched; they were very
distinct. But they were not Y6s within that corral. There were other
brands which might be made of a Y6 monogram, by the judicious addition
of a mark here and a mark there.
"There, damn yuh: chew on that awhile!" he apostrophized the absent
three. He turned away and rode back once more toward home.
Rattler turned naturally into the trail which ran up the creek to the
ranch, but Ward immediately turned him out of it. "We aren't going to
overlook any bets, old-timer," he said grimly and crossed the creek at
a point where it was too rocky to leave any hoof-prints behind them.
He rode up the lower point of the ridge beyond and followed the crest
of it on the side away from the valley. When he reached a point nearly
opposite his cabin, he dismounted, unbuckled his spurs, and slipped
their chains over the saddle-horn. Then he went forward afoot to
reconnoitre. He was careful to avoid rock or gravelly patches and to
walk always on the soft grass which muffled his steps.
In this wise he made his way to the top of the ridge, where he could
look down upon the cabin and stable and corrals and see also the creek
trail for a good quarter of a mile. The little valley lay quiet. His
team fed undisturbed by the creek not far from the corral, which
reassured Ward more than anything. Still, he waited until he had made
reasonably sure that the bluff held no watcher concealed before he went
back to where Rattler waited patiently.
"I guess they didn't plan to stir things up till they got those
critters planted where they wanted them," he mused, while he rode down
the bluff to his cabin. "But when they visit that bunch of stock
again, I reckon things will begin to tighten!"
He was wary of exposing himself too much to view from the bluff while
he did his chores that night, and he kept Rattler in the stable. Also,
he slept very little, and before daybreak he was up and away. He had a
rolled army blanket tied behind the saddle, a sack of grub and a
frying-pan and a bucket for coffee. But he did not go any farther than
the wolf-den, and he spent a couple of hours removing as well as he
could any suspicious traces of having dug anything more than wolf pups
from the bank on the ledge.