Lightning Operates His Plan
Lightning had reached the summit of a “saddle” between two considerable
hills. The hills themselves were wood-clad, but the “saddle” between
them was grass-grown and open, and a wide view of the valley of Whale
River spread out before him.
The old man had reined in his horse, and sat meditatively munching
his tobacco as he searched for the thing he expected to find. He was
looking for McFardell’s newly-enclosed pasture somewhere there down on
the river bank. He found it quickly. Yes, it was there, away to the
east about a mile. And beyond that, just above the tree-tops, he beheld
the drift of smoke which indicated his clearing.
Lightning had left the farm and struck out as the crow flies. That was
the way of the man. He had avoided all trails, lest chance should bring
about an encounter with Molly in search of the lost cows. Just now she
was the last person he desired to meet. And the way he had chosen of
reaching McFardell’s homestead seemed to be the best possible in the
circumstances.
His satisfaction was considerable. It was now only a question of
the best point at which to cross the river itself. He knew Whale
River as he knew most of the region of the foothills. It was quite
as treacherous as were the mountain rivers generally. But there were
two fords. One was directly opposite McFardell’s homestead, and the
other----
A mounted figure had suddenly appeared on the far side of the valley.
It had just left the ex-policeman’s homestead, and was moving
straight for the river ford he had been contemplating. In a moment the
cattleman’s easy confidence was shattered, and replaced by a spasm of
agitation. He had recognised the rider. He had recognised the sorrel
and white of the pinto mare. It was Molly.
Lightning was badly shocked. But he remained where he was. There was no
fear that Molly would discover him. She was at least a mile away, and
her way lay over a trail that crossed the river and pressed straight on
up the slope and out of the valley.
So he watched the girl till she entered the bush that lined the river,
and the while sat nursing his feelings in furious silence. Once out of
view, he knew she would not reappear. He would need to give her time to
get away. That was all.
He calculated the time carefully. Not for a moment did he permit his
feelings to jeopardise his plans. Storm was raging behind his shining
eyes, but it had no effect on his purpose. At last he stabbed the
rowels of his spurs into his horse’s sides and moved on down towards
the river.
* * * * *
When Lightning was disturbed he was like the threat of an active
volcano, and just as liable to break out into violence. On the other
hand, he had unique powers of dissimulation when his passions were
sufficiently under control. In his crude way he was as cunning as an
old dog fox.
It was like that now as he sat on the box outside McFardell’s doorway.
It was the same box which had so recently supported the more delicate
burden of Molly. A bland smiling amiability had apparently replaced his
recent furious mood.
McFardell was again occupying the up-turned bucket, from which he
had gazed so hotly upon the appealing figure of Molly. He had made no
attempt, in the interim between the coming and going of his visitors,
to proceed with his promised chorework. For all his antipathy to the
man he had even found excuse in Lightning’s visit.
The old man’s announcement on arrival had been carefully considered,
and the manner of it had possessed a calculated sarcasm.
“We’re out after ‘strays,’” he declared, with a laugh. “Molly’s out one
way, an’ I’m out another. Our cows is missin’. Molly guesses they’re
‘stray.’ Guess you ain’t picked up a bunch around this valley?”
McFardell shook his head, while he searched the other’s grinning face.
“Not a sign,” he said.
Meanwhile Lightning had dismounted and loosened the cinchas of his
saddle, which was his way of forcing the other to offer hospitality.
“Have you eaten?” McFardell inquired without enthusiasm.
“Surely.” Lightning lied deliberately. He had no desire to eat under
this man’s roof. “But I’ll sit awhile,” he added quickly. “You see,
I ain’t on any party visit, an’ I ain’t guessin’ to locate them cows
around this valley. I’ve come right along to yarn some.”
McFardell turned and led the way across to his hut.
“Then we don’t need to waste time,” he said coldly.
Now they had settled down for their talk, with the drift of smoke from
the fire doing its best to counter the onslaught of newly-hatched
mosquitoes, and dispel the hordes of sticky cattle flies.
Lightning was talking expansively. He was talking with all the graphic
elaboration he was capable of. He was striving to create an atmosphere
of friendliness between them, which neither had the least genuine
desire for. McFardell saw through the other’s manner instantly, and
wondered. But he listened the more intently in consequence.
“You see, boy,” the old man grated, in his harsh way, “them cows is
no more strayed than you an’ me. I’m dead wise to the things goin’ on
around these hills, an’ you bein’ a police boy that was, I guessed I
need to hand you the stuff I got in my head. Molly, gal, jest don’t
know a thing. An’, anyway, she’d hate to think ther’ was cattle thieves
around. But there is. By gee! Ther’ surely is. An’ they’re at work
right here around us.”
McFardell removed his pipe from his heavy mouth.
“I see,” he observed. And his manner had swiftly fallen back to that
acquired in his police days. “What’s lying behind this, Lightning?” he
demanded sharply.
“Guess you haven’t ridden ten miles just to hand me--with my two
cows--warning. Well?”
The suddenness of his challenge suited Lightning’s more direct methods,
and, as a result, the questioner improved several places in his
estimation.
“It’s easy,” he said at once, chewing vigorously. “Dan Quinlan, up
there above us in the hills, has run a hundred an’ fifty yearlings
last year into Hartspool an’ Calford. Well, you can’t grow a hundred
an’ fifty yearlings out of ten mean cows that must have quit milking
when you couldn’t raise a crop of chin-whisker. Not in the same year,
anyway. Say, he runs a registered brand, too. ‘Lazy K.’”
McFardell glanced out over his clearing. His machinery held his gaze.
“I’ve heard about his shipments in Hartspool,” he said meditatively.
“You’d need to be deaf if you ain’t.”
“Yes. What then?”
McFardell’s eyes were levelled on the other’s, with a searching
half-smile. Lightning sustained the regard with superlative blandness.
“It’s police work,” he said meaningly.
“I’m no longer a policeman. I’m a farmer--like you.”
“You quit ’em--yes.”
“I was--‘fired.’”
“That don’t cut any ice. You know the play.”
McFardell shook his head, and Lightning saw the ominous snapping of his
eyes.
“Why should I help out police work?” he said. “Guess I haven’t a thing
to lose through cattle thieves.” He laughed. “Why, my stock wouldn’t
mean a thing to the craziest bunch of rustlers ever rode the prairie.
Anyway, I don’t see where Dan Quinlan’s duffing his yearlings.”
“Yet he’s passed in a hundred an’ fifty in one year an’ registered a
brand. Say”--Lightning’s eyes were just a shade anxious--“a boy don’t
need to register a brand if he ain’t keepin’ right to the business.
Maybe this year he’ll pass in more. Wher’ do they come from? I’d say
they don’t grow on the hill-tops, an’ you surely can’t fish ’em in the
criks.”
“No.”
McFardell smoked on thoughtfully for some moments. Lightning’s rough
argument was not without its effect upon a mind that had been carefully
police trained. But there was something else puzzling. Was the
cattleman genuine in his anxiety in coming to discuss the situation
with him?
“Maybe it’s as you say, Lightning,” he said after awhile. “I’ve heard
all this before in Hartspool. At least, I’ve heard them talking. But I
don’t fancy jumping in to worry out things for other folk. Why should
I? I got all the work, an’ more than I need, right here. No. It’s
police work, and I’m not yearning to help the Police.” Suddenly his
eyes lit with a feeling that swept him along with it. “No, by God, I
owe the Police nothing. Not a thing. You know there’s things a man
can never forget. You’re a cattleman. You gave your whole life up
to--cattle. I was a policeman, and gave my whole life up to the job.
Guess I’d sooner do police work than anything I know. If I may say so,
I’m dead cut out for it. I did it for years, and made good all along
the line. I’d a name for good work, and saw Easy Street coming my way
as a result. I allow I wanted nothing better. Then came bad luck--plumb
bad luck and nothing else. No fault of mine. Just luck. In a moment
discipline got busy. I---- Psha! It don’t matter. Here I am--‘fired.’
And with a ‘bobtail’ discharge. I’m sore on the Police, boy. I wouldn’t
do a thing to help their work, unless--unless----”
“You could get back to ’em with--a clean slate.”
Lightning was smiling fiercely, and his whiskered jaws broke into
renewed activity upon his tobacco. He took full credit to himself for
the channel into which he believed he had headed their talk.
“That’s how I’d feel,” he said insinuatingly. “Say, it’s sort of
hittin’ the other fellow a boost plumb in the neck. But I’d say it
would be mighty elegant settin’ the Police Commissioner squealin’.” He
laughed, and watched a smile dawn in McFardell’s eyes. “It would be a
real swell play to be able to roll in to Calford with a stacked deck
of cyards in your pocket. ‘See right here, Commish, I ken lay my hands
right on a bunch of hoss thieves, and pass ’em down to penitentiary. Do
you need ’em? Well, play the game. Set me right back where I was, and
wipe out the darn thing you got against me. I’d say that’s a play that
looks a’mighty good to me. Gee, it would be elegant!’”
The old man’s glee was consummate acting, and its very crudity carried
conviction. McFardell was completely deceived, and the thought took
hold of him against his better judgment. It was helped tremendously by
the long winter, most of which he had passed in Hartspool, and the
knowledge of the growing depletion of his finances, and the laborious
prospects which the coming summer opened up. But he shook his head at
the man who was tempting him.
“It’s surely all you say, but I can’t see putting it over,” he said a
little reluctantly.
“Not if you passed ’em the rustlers, an’ a right story to send ’em to
penitentiary?”
“Oh, yes, that way.”
McFardell knocked out his pipe, and put it away deliberately. The hint
was obvious, and Lightning was ready enough to accept it. He stood up,
and his lean figure towered over the other, who had risen from his
bucket.
“Wal,” he said, “mebbe it ain’t worth the worry. I guess you got
an elegant valley of sweet grass around you, an’ a swell outfit of
machinery to trim this place into a right farm. It’s tough work, but
good. You ought to be showin’ yourself a wage after the first five
years. It ain’t a deal of time when a boy’s young. Then you’re your own
boss, an’ if you fancy a time, why, you ken jest take it, an’ to hell
with work. An’ your machinery ain’t a worry so long as the season hands
you a right crop. If it don’t them boys’ll hit your trail good. Still,
you got a good patch of ploughing. Maybe you’ll get another fifty acres
broke this year. Gee, us mossbacks ain’t never through,” he finished up
with a laugh.
He moved away towards his horse feeding hay beside the corral, and
McFardell accompanied him.
“Guess I’ll get along,” he went on. “I jest felt I had to get around.
Dan Quinlan’s turned rustler, an’ by the looks of things our bum stock
don’t come amiss to him, I’d say you’ll need to keep an eye for your
team. There it is. The folks are talkin’ P’lice in Hartspool, and if
they get around I can’t help the notion it’s goin’ to be dead easy for
’em.”
They reached the corral, and McFardell thoughtfully watched the old
prairie man tighten up the cinchas of his saddle. Then, as the lean
figure leapt into the saddle, he nodded a casual farewell.
“Dan Quinlan’s quite a piece up in the hills south of you?” he inquired.
Lightning’s interest quickened.
“Twenty-fi’ south-west,” he said.
McFardell nodded.
“Maybe I’ll get a look around that way when I’m through seeding.”
“Mebbe it’ll pay you--feelin’ the way you do.”
Lightning picked up his reins, and his horse raised its head. Then he
nodded at the dark-faced man he disliked even more intensely than any
cattle rustlers.
“So long,” he grated, and swung his horse about.
“So long.”
McFardell watched the queer figure as it rode out of his clearing. Then
he went back to his fire, and the work of sorting his machinery was no
longer considered. Instead, he sat pondering the thing which Lightning
had just put into his head. So the afternoon passed, and he prepared
his supper. Then he hurriedly attended his horses and cows, and, when
the barest necessities had been seen to, he returned again to his
shanty.
Before he turned into his blankets that night, which remained just
as he had arisen from them that morning, his brain was seething with
the new idea. There was a chance, as Lightning had suggested. There
was hope. And the moment he admitted it the prospect grew to the
proportions of certainty.
Yes. He would certainly look into this thing up at Quinlan’s, and
then--and then--God, how he hated the prospect of breaking another
fifty acres!