Author of “Flames of the Storm,”
“The Ranch of the Tombstones,” etc.
The first faint flush of dawn was creeping over the Mission River
hills, as the Overland train drew to a stop at the little town of
Moon Flats. It was only a moment’s pause, but in that length of time
a man had dropped off the rods of the baggage-car, crept between the
trucks and walked slowly down the main street.
The town was deserted at this time in the morning, and the man seemed
to study the dimly outlined, false-fronted buildings as if he had been
there before.
Moon Flats was a cow town--nothing more nor less. It was a
shipping-point for the Mission River ranges, which also made it an
outfitting point. Like the majority of the old cow towns it had one
street, narrow wooden sidewalks, the tops of which were never securely
nailed down, long hitch-racks and a pavement of deep, yellow dust in
the Summer and a quagmire of mud and slush in the Winter.
As the light grew stronger it illuminated the faded and battered signs
of the Moon Flats Gambling House, Buck Franey’s Place, Bill Eagle’s
General Merchandise, Jakie Dick’s Élite Café and Restaurant, Trail End
Gambling House, Mission River Stage-Office and General Post-Office.
The stronger light also illuminated the features of the man who studied
them--a young face, although deeply lined and with a slight pallor, as
if from sickness.
His eyes were dark, and his black hair showed slightly silvered at the
temple, as if lightly brushed with a white powder. His nose was slightly
hooked, and his lips seemed molded into a thin line above a strong chin.
He was slightly above the average in height, but just a trifle stooped.
His garb was nondescript, dirty and greasy from travel. As he studied
the signs a half-smile passed across his face and he sat down on the
sidewalk in front of the Moon Flats Gambling House. By turning a pocket
inside out, he managed to collect enough tobacco to roll a thin cigaret,
which burned with the unmistakable odor of lint, but the man did not
seem to mind.
Across the street, in the two-story, ramshackle Cattlemen’s Hotel, an
alarm-clock started its tin-panny whirr, and in a moment a man’s voice
was raised in sleepy profanity. The man on the sidewalk smiled.
There was silence for a few minutes, and again the clock shattered
the silence. A moment later the cheap curtains were flung aside, an
arm described an outward arc and the faithful despoiler of slumber
splintered on the sidewalk.
This time the man on the sidewalk laughed softly. It was all so
human--and he was unused to human things. And as if the splintering of
the clock was a signal, Moon Flats began to wake up. From behind the
Élite Café came the sounds of some one splitting kindling, and over at
the livery stable the sliding doors creaked as the stable man came out
and looked around. Doors slammed in the hotel.
A sleepy-eyed, uncombed cowboy came around a corner from a corral,
leading two horses which he watered at the livery stable watering
trough. He paid no attention to the man on the sidewalk as he went
past, but on his return trip he stared hard and rubbed his ear with a
rope end, as if wondering or thinking. The man on the sidewalk spat
dryly.
The door behind him opened and a man came out, carrying two wooden
buckets, while another lounged in the doorway, holding a broom in
both hands. They were swampers, getting ready to clean out the place.
The man with the buckets crossed to the pump beside the stable, where
he filled the buckets, accompanied by much creaking protest from the
old pump.
In a few minutes the two cowboys came out of the hotel, yawned widely
and started across the street, arguing.
“I never done no such a ---- thing!” declared one of them. “All I done
was wind it.”
“Whatcha want to wind it fer?” queried the other. “It wasn’t your clock,
Newt. My gosh! What did you care ’f it run down? Wakin’ us up at five
o’clock! I s’pose you thought it was scientific, didn’t yuh? Knowed that
clocks would wind up; so yuh wanted to do the right thing by it, eh?”
“Tha’s it, Monte,” agreed the other. “Let her go at that, can’t cha?
You’d holler if yuh was goin’ to be sent to the----”
He stopped abruptly as he looked at the man on the sidewalk and squinted
sharply, as if not believing his own eyes.
The man on the sidewalk looked them over coldly--a half-amused
expression about his thin lips.
“Shell Romaine!” blurted the one called Newt.
“Yeah,” nodded the man on the sidewalk. “Shelby Romaine.”
“Well, I’m ----!”
Newt Bowie rubbed his chin and looked at Monte Barnes, who was pursing
his lips as if trying to whistle, though no sound came forth.
“Moon Flats ain’t changed much in a year,” observed Romaine dryly.
“No-o-o, she ain’t--for sure,” agreed Newt, looking around as if
considering the unprogressiveness of Moon Flats. “She ain’t growed
much, Shell.”
“When didja come back?” queried Monte.
“Just before yore alarm went off.”
“Oh, that ---- thing!”
Monte glanced back at the hotel.
“Newt, the danged fool, went and ----”
“Aw, let up on the poor old clock,” interrupted Newt. “Anybody’d think
you’d been abused, cowboy. You ain’t seen a sunrise f’r so long that you
don’t know it ever comes up.”
Newt and Monte sat down on the steps and relaxed. It was not difficult
for either of them to relax, and their shoulder-blades were calloused
from half-reclining against corral posts or tree-trunks.
“Goin’ t’ be here f’r a while, Shell?” asked Newt.
“Mebbe.”
“Uh-huh.”
Newt wanted information, but did not feel like asking pointblank for it.
* * * * *
Slightly over a year before, Shelby Romaine had been sent to the
penitentiary for five years. Two men had held up the Mission County
Bank at Sula, stolen thirty thousand dollars and shot the cashier.
The cashier was crippled for life.
Jim Searles, a cowboy, who was an eyewitness of the robbers’ getaway,
swore that he recognized one of them as being Shell Romaine. The
Romaines, father and son, were of rather bad reputation, and it was
not difficult to secure a conviction.
Old “Rim-Fire” Romaine, the father, battled mightily for his son. He
was an old, lean-faced, white-mustached range man; quick-tempered,
bitter of tongue, and reputed to be fast with a gun. The defense was
weak, but there still remained--circumstantial evidence.
Shell Romaine refused to tell where the money was hidden, nor would he
implicate any one else. The prosecution was also weak, but the jury
brought in a verdict of guilty, and the judge sentenced Shelby Romaine
to serve five years in Deer Park prison.
Old Rim-Fire Romaine cursed the judge and jury bitterly, and only
through the intervention of the defense attorney was Rim-Fire
prevented from filling the courtroom with powder smoke. Old Rim-Fire
had gone back to his little ranch-house, fairly sizzling with anger,
while Shelby, linked to Undersheriff “Splinter” See, had gone to
prison.
Many folk were of the opinion that Shell Romaine should have received a
heavier sentence, but the State was satisfied. He was reputed to be a
hard-riding, wild sort of a ----, who respected no one; and the Mission
range-folks breathed easier after he was gone.
But now he was back, looking like a tramp; a little leaner, slightly
more white about the temples, but still keen of eye. The prison pallor
still showed in his face, but a few days of sun would wipe that away.
“Seen anythin’ of my old dad?”
Shell’s voice was low.
“Yeah, I seen him the other day,” replied Newt. “Same old feller. Know
yo’re out, Shell?”
“No. Is he still runnin’ the ranch?”
“Yeah.”