RIMOR’S PLACE
In response to this call, Nick Looker soon appeared astride a horse
and leading another. Mr. Manley hurried forward.
“Where’s Gus?” he asked.
“Comin’, boss. He’s bringin’ two more broncs.”
“Yell to him to hurry up. We’ve delayed too much as it is.”
Nick Looker turned in his saddle and let out a shout.
“Gus! Bring them ponies here, fast!” Another puncher came riding up.
He led two horses, fully saddled. Suddenly, from behind the house,
came the sound of an excited voice.
“Hey, wait a minute! Hey, boss! Wait!”
“It’s Pop,” Teddy said. “Knew he’d show up before long.”
A cowboy was running toward them. His wide hat was held in his hand,
disclosing a head almost without hair. His face was lined with
wrinkles. He wore a blue denim shirt. Wide trousers flapped
grotesquely about a pair of bowed legs. As he ran he waved both
arms, windmill fashion.
“Wait a second, boss!” he called again. “I just heard about it!
Snakes! The fust time the old X Bar X brand has been stolen! Me, I’m
comin’ with you, ain’t I, boss? Ain’t I?” He reached Mr. Manley,
breathing hard.
“Yes, Pop, you can come,” Mr. Manley answered. “Wondered how long
you’d be reachin’ here. Git your pinto an’ come on.”
Pop Burns clapped his hat on his head, and made for the corral, to
return in a moment upon his horse.
“All right, men!” he exclaimed. “After ’em! Snakes! No rustler kin
steal any X Bar X brand an’ get away with it!”
Mr. Manley turned from the old wrangler to Roy.
“Son,” he said slowly, “get your rifle. Bring Teddy’s out, too.
Hurry up!”
The boy ran up the steps and into the building. Mr. Manley handed
his own gun to Teddy.
“Hold this,” he ordered. “I’m going to say good-bye to your mother.”
He made for the side of the house where Mrs. Manley and Belle Ada
were waiting in the garden. When he returned his face wore a grim
look. The time for action had come.
Roy had brought the rifles, and he, Mr. Manley, and Teddy vaulted
into the saddle. The others, Pop, Nick, and Gus Tripp, were already
mounted.
The news of the theft had gone the rounds of the ranch like
wildfire. Every puncher on the place, except those riding herd, were
watching from the top rail of the corral fence. Even Sing Lung, the
cook, deserted his kitchen and came to the door of the mess-house,
carrying in his hand a huge spoon.
Mr. Manley gave a yell. Spurs raked the sides of the steeds. There
was the sound of hoofs on the hard earth. The six horses swung into
action. Down toward the road swept the riders. Past the corral, the
punchers astride the top rail yelling encouragement. Past the
mess-house, Sing Lung waving his spoon wildly and shouting Chinese
in a fluent stream. Out of the yard and into the road leading to
Eagles. A cloud of dust arose. The chase was on.
“Take it easy for a while, boys,” Mr. Manley advised, as he pulled
his horse down to a slower pace. “There’s some things I want to tell
you. First of all, I want to say this. I see you all have got rifles
along. Well, don’t do any promiscuous shootin’. We want to get those
hosses back, but we don’t want any more trouble than we can help.
Savvy?”
“We get you, boss,” Gus Tripp drawled. “No fireworks! Just clean up
this job, hey?”
“Right!” Mr. Manley tugged at one end of his mustache. “Now there’s
something else. I reckon you all don’t know much about this
rustlin’. Here’s how it happened.”
He told, as briefly as possible, how the horses had been stolen.
“When I talked to the punchers down by the railroad corral, I got an
idea,” he continued. “You remember Gilly Froud, don’t you?” Short
nods came in answer. “Well, Froud had a scar on the left side of his
face. So did one of the men who stole our broncs, accordin’ to the
fellers I talked to. That mean anything?” he questioned.
“Sure does, boss!” Pop Burns exclaimed excitedly. “Proves what I
been thinkin’ all along. This Froud is a rustler! I knowed that as
soon as I saw him tryin’ to carve out an X Bar X from a hunk of wood
one day down by the river. Came upon him sudden like, an’ he tried
to hide the wood on me. But I seen it. Seen the X Bar X brand, too.”
“Did, hey?” Mr. Manley asked in an interested tone. “You never told
me that. But let it go. We know who to look for now. Golly, she’s
sure some dusty!”
“I’ll tell a maverick!” Roy murmured, wiping his brow.
The excitement of the first dash had somewhat worn off, and they
rode along now with a show of quiet determination.
Mr. Manley and Roy were in the lead. Their horses took on that long,
easy gait that carries a cowboy comfortably over thirty miles of
prairie in a day. No one knew just how long this chase would last.
Gus Tripp urged his mount closer to Mr. Manley’s.
“Say, boss,” he drawled, “I suppose you heard about the 8 X 8 bein’
visited?”
“A little, Gus,” Mr. Manley answered. “Man on the train told me. Do
they know who the rustlers were?”
“Well, they got kind of an idee. There’s been other ranches missin’
stock in just the same way that the 8 X 8 lost theirs. They say the
same gang does all the jobs.”
“They do, hey?” Mr. Manley considered. “I wonder--” He started, then
stopped. Whatever was in his mind he kept to himself.
“Dad, are you figuring on stopping at Eagles?” Teddy called. “Maybe
we can find out something more from one or two of the men there.”
“Don’t think so, son,” his father answered. “There’s a certain crowd
that hangs out in Eagles that I don’t particularly hanker for. I
guess you know who I mean.”
“There’s one bird I’d like to see again,” Teddy remarked slowly.
“The puncher who was outside Rimor’s. He needs a lesson in
politeness.”
Mr. Manley nodded.
“We may meet him again. Seemed to me he knew more than he wanted to
tell. Still, he might have been just plain ugly. You can’t accuse a
man of bein’ a rustler because he won’t answer questions.”
“Did some buckaroo answer you short?” Pop wanted to know, pushing
his hat farther back on his head. “Who was it?”
“Don’t know,” Teddy replied. “He was leaning against Rimor’s Place
when the broncs were stolen. He must have seen them, sure! When we
asked him about them, he-- Well, never mind what he did. But he
didn’t tell us.”
“Have on a checkered shirt?” Pop asked. “An’ no vest?”
“Yes,” Teddy replied in a surprised tone. “How’d you know, Pop?”
“I seen him,” was the brief answer. “He’s been stayin’ at Rimor’s.
Friend of Gilly Froud’s.”
“He is?” Roy exclaimed excitedly. “Hear that, Dad?”
“I heard,” Mr. Manley said briefly. “I had an idea I’d seen him
before. He rode out to the X Bar X one day and asked for Froud. When
I told him Froud was ridin’ cattle, he cut back for town. Yes, I
remember, now.”
As they rode along, each man kept a sharp lookout for anything that
might indicate which way the rustlers had gone. There was not much
chance of finding a clue until they reached Eagles, yet they could
not afford to let any trace, no matter how slight, slip by
unnoticed.
They saw no sign of the thieves, however, and when the six riders
swung into Eagles, Mr. Manley had a determined look on his face. He
had been talking to Roy and Teddy about the puncher in the checkered
shirt. Deciding to locate the man if he could and to find out just
how much the puncher knew of the taking of the horses, Mr. Manley
stopped in front of Rimor’s.
“Goin’ in, boss?” Nick asked, a surprised look on his face. The boss
was not the type of man to frequent a place like Rimor’s. All the
men on the X Bar X knew he never took a drop of liquor.
“Yes, I’m goin’ in, Nick,” Mr. Manley answered, his face set in
stern lines. “There’s a bucker in here that I want to talk to. I
guess you all know who I mean.”
Nick nodded. Mr. Manley had told them of the cowboy in the checkered
shirt.
“Want any company, boss?” Gus Tripp drawled. “Just say the word, an’
we’ll come a-runnin’!”
“No, thanks,” the cattle owner replied. “Teddy, hang on to this
rifle for me. Don’t want to look like a stick-up artist when I go in
the door. Roy, just grab this bronc’s rein, will you?”
Mr. Manley slid from the saddle.
“Sure you don’t want me to come with you, Dad?” Teddy asked, a bit
wistfully.
“I know what you’re thinkin’ of,” his father answered, as he looked
up at his son. “But you’d better stay out here until I get what I
want. If I need help, you’ll know it!” he added meaningly.
He walked toward Rimor’s, and, pushing open the door, entered.
“Hope dad doesn’t get into any trouble,” Roy said, a frown upon his
face. “I’ve heard of some funny things that happened in Rimor’s.”
“Now don’t you go worryin’ about your dad,” Pop Burns advised,
squinting his eyes at the door through which Mr. Manley had
disappeared. “He can take care of himself. There’s plenty in this
town that ’ud like to see the boss in trouble, ’cause he wouldn’t
agree to loadin’ them cattle scales at the corral over there. They
wanted to put lead weights on the bottom of the scale so the Durhams
would weigh ’bout half again what they really did. Your dad wouldn’t
have nothin’ to do with the scheme.” Pop removed his hat and
thwacked it in a dust-raising gesture across his leg. “But snakes! I
never did see the buckaroo that could catch your dad sleepin’. He’s
safe enough.”
Still the veteran puncher stared intently at the door of Rimor’s. He
knew of the “hombre in the checkered shirt.” He knew him for a
“bad-actin’ bucker.”
Nick and Gus were conversing in low tones as they sat on their
restless horses. Teddy rode up and down in front of Rimer’s Place.
Roy was bending over his broncho’s back, raising his left stirrup a
trifle. It was hard to get used to another horse, after owning Star.
Pop Burns sat quietly in the saddle, facing the restaurant. A close
observer could have seen that his revolver was loose in its holster,
and the rifle he had removed from its case on the saddle was held
lightly in his hands, ready for action.
Suddenly, from within the restaurant, came a cry of alarm. A
moment’s silence, and another cry of alarm rent the quiet air.
Like a flash Pop Burns slipped from his saddle.
“Come on, boys!” he yelled, making a dash for the door. “Inside!
Fast! We gotta help the boss!”