“Then you will marry me, Jess?”
“I said, ‘I think so,’ Clell,” she repeated wearily. “I really don’t
know what dad will have to say about it.”
Danert laughed softly:
“I’ll fix that all up, Jess. When will we be married?”
“Some time,” enigmatically, “I----”
She stopped and listened. From the ranch-house floated the musical
dinner-call, as the cook beat a tattoo on a suspended triangle of steel.
“Some time is hardly definite,” reminded Danert sourly.
“Nothing is definite in this world.” Jess smiled sadly at him as she
released her hand and gathered up her reins. “Let us go to the ranch
or we’ll be late for dinner, Clell.”
“My heart is bothering me more than my stomach,” replied Danert, “but I
bow to your wishes--forever.”
“Well,” replied Jess, “I suppose you are not the first man who has said
that before marriage, and very likely it is not the first time you have
said that to a girl, Clell.”
She laughed at him and spurred down the slope.
Bart Farley, the foreman of the ranch, met them as they rode in past
the corrals, and walked beside Jess’ horse to the house. Farley was
a grizzled cowboy, who lived only for the interests of the Cross L
and Jess Marshall. He did not speak to Danert, who gave Farley only
a glance. When they dismounted Farley led Jess’ horse away, leaving
Danert’s horse to its owner.
Danert looked after Farley, but said nothing as he tied his animal to
a ring at the corner of the porch. Cross L Marshall had come on to
the porch as they came up the steps, and he put his arm around Jess’
shoulders.
Marshall was of the old type of cow-men. He was between fifty and sixty
years of age, tough and wiry as a steel cable, his features as harsh as
if chipped from flint. He had fought his way through the early gold
rushes, battled the Indians and outlaws and was now enjoying the fruits
of his labors in peace.
He nodded to Danert and kissed Jess. Danert had been a frequent visitor
to the Cross L, and frequent visitors always made themselves at home.
“Better get yoreself ready for chuck, Jess,” smiled Marshall, and as she
turned into the house Danert spoke--
“Marshall, I want to talk to you for a minute or two.”
“Yeah?” Marshall looked at him curiously. “Well, I reckon I’ll
listen--at least.”
Danert twisted his gloves for a moment and slapped himself on the knee.
“Marshall, I want to marry Jess.”
Marshall’s mouth twisted to say “Oh!” but no sound came. He squinted at
Danert for a moment, and then--
“Well, that ain’t nothin’ against yuh, is it?”
Danert looked up quickly.
“And she wants to marry me.”
Marshall glanced back at the door and seemed to let this statement
percolate through his mind for a while.
“Say she does? When?”
“She would not say.”
“Oh!” shortly; Marshall rubbed his chin. “Well, yuh likely ain’t got
nothin’ to worry about then, Danert. Plenty of time to worry about it
when she sets a date.”
“Then you do not object?”
“Yeah,” drawled Marshall seriously. “But Jess is twenty-five years old,
and I don’t reckon it’s any of my ---- business. Yuh must remember--I
ain’t marryin’ yuh, Danert.”
Danert laughed.
“I never know when you are joking, Marshall.”
“No-o-o?” Marshall squinted his eyes and looked across the hills
thoughtfully. “That’s what a hoss-thief said once--and he was fool
enough to take a chance.”
Danert looked quickly at Marshall, but the old man was still gazing at
the rolling hills. Finally he turned as if having dismissed the subject
and said--
“Reckon we better eat before the grub gets cold.”
There was little conversation at the table. Marshall was silently
thoughtful. Farley and the two cowboys, Jim Horne and Bert Hart, ate
with the family, but were strangely silent. Farley glanced often
toward Danert, but Danert confined himself to Jess and her wants.
After the meal Farley and Marshall drifted out to the porch, where they
lighted their pipes and settled down against the porch posts. It was an
after-supper ceremonial with them.
“Jess goin’ to marry him?” asked Farley, jerking his head back toward
the living-room.
Marshall drew slowly on his pipe for a while and glanced sidewise at
Farley.
“He says she is, Bart.”
“What does she say?”
“I dunno.” Marshall shook his head slowly. “Wommen is queer cattle. Her
mother married me.”
“I don’t like him,” declared Farley savagely.
“You ain’t marryin’ him, are yuh? I don’t like him; but--that ain’t none
of my business.”
“I always thought,” mused Farley slowly, “that she was kinda waitin’
and----”
“Now I reckon that ain’t none of our business either, Bart. Jess
wouldn’t never marry a--a----”
“Mebbe not,” interrupted Farley, “but ‘Peace’ Parker, even if he was a
cow-thief, is a ---- sight better than Clell Danert.”
Marshall nodded slowly:
“Lord knows yo’re right, at that. But he’s a-wearin’ stripes, Bart; and
no woman would marry----”
Marshall spat angrily and resumed his smoking.
Peace River Parker had been Farley’s bunkie and a favorite with Cross L
Marshall. He was engaged to marry Jess Marshall. Then came rumors of the
misbranding of cattle. The men of Chinook Valley investigated, and guilt
pointed toward Peace Parker.
The bulk of the evidence was furnished by Jefferson Crane, who owned the
Five Dot brand; although other outfits suffered from the misbranding.
Chinook Valley did not take it to law--not then. They brought their
proofs to Peace Parker, and he could not disprove them. Chinook Valley
did not cry to high Heaven for punishment; but rode away, back to their
homes.
Peace knew that they were giving him a chance to prove his
innocence--which he could not prove. The work had been cleverly done.
In a cold rage Peace rode to the Five Dot ranch-house, where he met
Jefferson Crane and two of his cowboys. There was no arbitration, no
argument. When Peace rode away, Crane and his two cowboys were
temporary cripples, and Peace was drilled with bullets in several
places. He rode straight to Tarp City and gave himself up.
* * * * *
Jim Horne sauntered out on the porch and sat down with them. Horne was a
long, lean cowboy, with a melancholy cast of countenance.
“Heard tell that Jeff Crane done sold out down on Sandy,” he
volunteered. “Heard it in Tarp City yestiday.”
“Likely had to sell,” grunted Farley. “Wonder where he’ll head for now.”
“Not for Chinook,” stated Marshall. Farley grinned and shook his head.
“No, I reckon Crane’s had enough of Chinook. He likely got too crooked
for the Fossilshell and they made him sell out. Wonder somebody don’t
kill him.”
“Shippin’ a lot of sheep from Sun Prairie now,” drawled Horne.
“Train-load went out yestiday, and there’s about twenty thousand held
at the loadin’ corrals. They tells me that cars are scarce. The feed’s
all gone in Sun Prairie and they’ve got to move.”
“---- good thing,” grunted Farley. “I can smell ’em for fifty miles.”
Jess and Danert came out on the porch, and Danert untied his horse.
“I’ll be back in a day or two,” he stated as he swung into the saddle.
“I’ve got to make a trip into the Fossilshell to buy a few car-loads of
feeders. Good night.”
He turned his horse, smiled up at Jess and rode down toward the main
road. Jess watched him for a moment and went back into the house.
“He used to work fer Crane, didn’t he?” asked Horne.
Farley nodded.
Horne got to his feet and stretched.
“I wonder why he quit workin’ fer Crane.”
“Took a job buyin’ cattle,” grunted Marshall.
“He ain’t bought none in Chinook, has he?” asked Farley. “Why don’t he
buy them few cars of feeders from us instead of goin’ ’way down on the
Fossilshell?”
“He’s a purty son-of-a-gun, anyway,” grinned Horne. “I feel like takin’
off m’ hat every time I meet him.”
“Sh-h-h!” cautioned Marshall. “Jess is goin’ to marry him.”
Horne opened his mouth, held it open for a moment and closed it slowly.
“Oh, m’ ----! M’ ----! That’s the first teetotal e-clipse I ever seen.”
Marshall got slowly to his feet and went into the house. He wanted to
argue in favor of his daughter’s choice, but he felt as did Farley and
Horne. He had nothing personal against Danert, except that he did not
like him.
Danert had come into that country three years previously and had worked
as a cowboy for several of the outfits in Chinook and Fossilshell. He
worked for Jefferson Crane on Sandy Fork, after Crane and his outfit
had been run out of Chinook Valley. Now Danert was buying cattle, so he
said, for a Chicago packing-house. He was a good spender, a plunging
gambler; and the cowboys of the Fossilshell said he was almost too fast
with a six-shooter.
Jess was sitting in the living-room, half-curled up in a big
rocking-chair as her father came in, and did not look up at him. He
studied her for a moment.
“Jess,” he said softly, “yo’re old enough to know what yuh want to do;
but yore old dad would kinda like to know if yuh really wants to marry
Clell Danert.”
“I don’t know, Dad.” Jess did not look at him as she shook her head.
“When I am with him, I do.”
“And when yuh ain’t, yuh don’t, eh? Kinda like seein’ a purty flower on
the ground, I reckon. When it’s there yuh want it; but if it ain’t there
yuh never give it a thought.”
“Something like that, Dad.”
Marshall nodded and crossed the room, where he parted the curtains and
peered off across the hills. Suddenly he turned.
“Jess, I been thinkin’ a lot lately about Peace Parker.”
Jess did not reply and he continued:
“His time’s about up. Wonder where he’ll go. ----, I’d give a lot to see
his homely old face again. Didn’t he have the dangdest biggest mouth yuh
ever seen? And when he smiled----”
Jess Marshall got to her feet without a word and looked at him. He
squirmed under her gaze and started to speak, but she stopped him with
a weary gesture.
“Dad, don’t talk about him--please. He--he wasn’t--homely.”
She turned away and left the room. Cross L Marshall grinned softly and
slapped himself on the thigh.
“Branded a thief, a gun-fighter, and homely as ----,” he muttered to
himself. “Five years in the penitentiary and we helped send him there.
Jess ain’t mentioned his name in all these years; but she ain’t forgot
him. He ain’t like a ---- purty flower--Peace Parker ain’t.”
Cross L Marshall eased himself into a soft chair and took out his old
pipe, chuckling to himself--
“Clell Danert, yore cake is goin’ to be a lot of gobby dough, or I don’t
know women--our kind of women.”
* * * * *
Tarp City was a metropolis of at least a thousand population, huddled
away in a nook of the foot-hills; a metropolis of false-fronted
buildings, unpainted and weather-beaten. It was a supply center for
Fossilshell, Chinook Valley and Sun Prairie, which made it of vast
importance to the world.
To Tarp City came the cow-men, the sheep-men, the prospector.
Freighters’ wagons creaked up and down the dusty street. From the big
loading corrals at the edge of town came the bawling of cattle, the
rattle of stock trains. At times there came dust-gray, bleating bands
of sheep from Sun Prairie to fill the stock trains.
At night Tarp City celebrated. Of saloons there were many, and gambling
was wide open, with the sky for a limit. The Poncho saloon and gambling
house was the main attraction. It was a place where wine, women and
coarse song might be found, seen and heard; where high-heeled boots and
spurs were not barred from the dance floor.
At the outskirts of the town, facing the rear of a huddle of small
saloons and restaurants, stood a warped-appearing shanty. This was the
temporary home of Jefferson Crane. The interior was as unattractive as
the exterior; but Jefferson Crane had little taste in home decoration.
Just now he sat at a rough table, figuring on a torn piece of paper with
the stub of a lead pencil. Three bunks were built into the rear of the
shanty, and on one of them a man was sleeping, snoring deeply. This was
Pete Perez, a half-breed Mexican and Indian.
Tilted against the wall on a backless chair sat Gus Sinks, a hard-faced
type of cowboy, half asleep, an unlighted cigaret glued to his underlip.
Crane was a peculiar type of cow-man. He was below medium height, thin
of feature and hawk-eyed. A scraggly blond mustache, frayed at the ends
from much chewing, draped over a crooked mouth, and surmounting his
narrow head was a faded, nondescript hat, which at one time had been a
derby. Seasons of heat and cold had obliterated its color until it was
neutral in shade as well as shape.
Crane was narrow of soul and very close with his money. He asked much
and told little, but demanded detailed obedience from all who worked for
him. He was deadly with a gun and had the reputation of always shooting
at an unlooked-for moment.
Came a knock at the door. Crane dropped the pencil and his right hand
reached inside his unbuttoned vest, where a Colt automatic pistol
reposed in a shoulder-holster.
Sinks tilted forward in his chair, wide awake, one hand hanging loosely
beside the holstered gun on his hip. At Crane’s call the door opened
and Clell Danert stepped inside, followed by Rance Wylie, a tall, rangy
cowboy, who tossed his hat into a corner and sat down on the floor with
his back against the wall.
“Well?” said Danert, eying Crane closely.
“Got ’em,” stated Crane. “Twenty thousand head.”
“Wool and bones, eh?”
“Well, they ain’t fit for market,” admitted Crane, “but yuh got to
figure we got ’em cheap. They’ll stand another drive.”
Danert drew a box up to the table and sat down. Crane shoved the sheet
of paper across to him, and he studied the mass of figures for a while.
“That’s what you paid for them, Crane?”
“I paid half of it down--cash. They was ---- willin’ to take it. Sun
Prairie is sheeped out, and them twenty thousand head of sheep wouldn’t
pay for shipping. Where would they go? No, they was glad to sell at my
price, Danert. We’ll make money.”
“Looks like it, Crane,” Danert nodded, and then he leaned across the
table. “We’ll make money if we can put the sheep into that valley.
There is always an ‘if.’”
Crane removed his hat and rubbed his head slowly.
“I’ll put ’em in there, Danert. Here’s the scheme.”
Crane talked rapidly and softly, while Danert watched him closely. When
Crane finished, Danert half-smiled and nodded.
“Sounds good; but who will take the first bunch through the pass?”
“Not me,” interrupted Sinks. “I wouldn’t go into Chinook with a woolen
shirt on my back.”
Crane grinned and shook his head.
“Don’t worry, Gus--” and then to Danert--“I told Jim Holman to pick up
a sheepherder for me. Lot of drifters pass through Fossilshell, and he
can pick one for me. I told him to promise a hundred a month, and that
much money will bring one a-whoopin’.”
“He won’t live to collect anythin’----” This from Wylie, with a short
laugh.
“I told Jim to pay him a month in advance,” explained Crane. “I reckon
we can afford to bet a hundred dollars on this deal.”
Danert smiled slowly:
“I guess we can, Crane. But there’s one thing we must do, and that is to
see that this shepherd don’t talk. Close-herd him all the time. One word
in the wrong place and the scheme is busted.”
“By ----, I’ll see to that!” snapped Crane. “I’ve got every cent I own
tied up in this deal, Danert. Chinook Valley run me out, ---- em! They
shook a rope in front of me!” Crane got to his feet and struck the
table-top a resounding whack.
“I’m goin’ to make Chinook pay ---- big for that deal! I’m goin’ to
sheep out their tight little hole in the hills, do yuh hear me? That’s
goin’ to be Crane’s Valley after I get through with it. Crane’s goin’
to be the big man in there.”
Perez sat up on the bunk and glared around.
“W’y you yell? I’m ride all de way from Fossilshell and I’m sleep.”
“Perez packed my note to Holman,” said Crane.
“Why not let Perez drive the first bunch in?” suggested Danert.
Perez stared at Danert. As his meaning grew clear, his hand slid to
the pistol on the blanket beside him. Perez knew what would happen to
the first man over that pass with sheep, and he was going to defend
his position.
Danert laughed easily and shook his head.
“No, we can’t use any of our own men, Perez. I was joking.”
Perez’s white teeth flashed in a grin.
“_Bueno!_ It ees no job for friends, eh? We send de stranger. Ha, ha,
ha.”
“That’s right,” agreed Danert, and then to Crane--
“When do the sheep arrive here?”
“In the morning. We’ll have to let people think we can’t get any cars.
Maybe we’ll have to hold ’em a few days. We’ll pass the word that the
sheep belong to Jim Holman. Jud Evers will be in charge of them.
Whatever happens, don’t let anyone know I’m in on this deal, Danert.
Holman will send this herder to you; _sabe?_ I don’t want any one to
suspect me.”
Danert squinted at the table-top. This move did not exactly fit into his
plans; but he could not buck Crane and his men. Danert intended to marry
Jess Marshall; but he knew that this sheep move would kill all chances,
unless he was able to cover up his end of the deal.
“You watch for our man,” ordered Crane. “I dunno when Holman will find
the right one, but I hope it will be soon. Them sheep won’t stand much
delay.”
“One outfeet try to go into Fossilshell range,” volunteered Perez. “One
herder die, two t’ousand sheep go to feed de buzzard. Cowboy act fas’.”
“Likely lookin’ for ’em to cross the line,” observed Sinks.
Crane nodded quickly.
“Sure they was lookin’ for ’em. Chinook won’t be lookin’ for us. We’ll
fill the place with wool, fight ’em to a finish and make the law decide.
Sheep have the same right as cattle, according to law; but you’ve got to
have part possession. All we want is an even break in court and the
sheep will get it all, because the cattle can’t live on the same range.”
“You was over in Chinook yesterday, wasn’t you, Danert?” asked Wylie.
Danert nodded.
“Yes, I was in there. Had supper at the Cross L.”
“Yuh was in there two days before that, too,” said Crane slowly.
“Suppose I was--what about it?” queried Danert.
“Buyin’ cattle?” laughed Wylie.
Danert smiled and shook his head.
“No. I was just looking around.”
“Didja find her?” Sinks asked.
Danert turned and his eyes narrowed as he looked at Sinks, but Sinks
only smiled. Danert looked quickly at Crane.
“More of your spying, eh?”
“If yuh want to put it thataway, Danert.”
“By----, I’ll have no man following me!”
Danert’s face was white with rage, but Crane’s face was an impassive
mask as he replied softly--
“Then you keep away from the Cross L ranch.”
Danert stared at Crane for a moment in wonder--then remembered. Crane
had tried to make love to Jess Marshall. It was ridiculous even to
think of Jess Marshall and Crane in the same breath; but Crane was a
human being, in spite of his crooked nature; and human beings are all
capable of love or hate.
Jess had ignored his love, and Crane, like the dog in the manger, was
going to see that no one else won her love. Danert was angry at Crane
for spying on him, but was wise enough to conceal it now.
“I don’t want anybody dogging my tracks, Crane. I’m as deep in this as
you are and I don’t see why you can’t trust me.”
Crane was looking down at the floor as Danert finished. He glanced at
Danert, but did not reply. Finally he got to his feet.
“You know what I want yuh to do, Danert. Keep an eye out for the man
Holman will send in. Thassall, I reckon.”
Danert got up and went out of the door. He resented the domineering
voice of Jefferson Crane, and cursed softly to himself as he went
back to the street. So he had been followed and spied upon, had he?
Jeff Crane did not trust him. The lack of trust did not hurt Danert’s
feelings. As far as that was concerned, he did not trust anybody; so
why should he be trusted?
Danert looked up and down the street, wondering if Crane would trust
him, now that he--Danert--knew he was shadowed. Finally he turned and
went into a restaurant and sat down at a table. A waitress, a pretty
little thing, came from the kitchen and went straight to him.
“Clell, is it true that you are going to marry that Marshall girl?”
Danert frowned. It was rather embarrassing, as he was engaged to marry
this pretty waitress, Dora Frazer. He shook his head and smiled up at
her.
“Not a thing to it, Dora.”
She bit her lip and looked away.
“Why do they say it, Clell--if there is nothing to it?”
Danert squirmed in his chair. He liked Dora, and he knew that she could
cause him a lot of trouble if she wanted to. A woman of her type likes
to be confided in, and Danert rapidly sketched his plans regarding
Chinook Valley and the Marshall family.
“I’m the inside man,” he explained. “This love affair is only a blind,
don’t you see. It gives me a fine chance to know just what is going on.”
“Is it fair to the Marshall girl?” she asked after a moment’s thought.
Danert looked away. There was no accounting for a woman’s mind. Here
he had gone to the trouble of explaining his reasons for his seeming
unfaithfulness, thinking that Dora would be satisfied; but now she
sympathized with the other girl.
“Well, perhaps not,” he agreed, “but I am not going in to see her again;
so it doesn’t matter.”
Dora took his order and went to the kitchen, while Danert smiled to
himself. He had no intention of marrying Dora. He did intend to marry
Jess Marshall; but it was a long trip to the Cross L ranch, and Danert
craved amusement.
* * * * *
“Willing to do anything, eh?”
Peace River Parker nodded slowly, his blue eyes looking past the man
who had questioned him--looking out across the sage-covered hills.
The questioner was a middle-aged, businesslike man, whom Peace had
accosted in hopes that the man might know of some outfit in need of
a man.
“I ain’t particular,” said Peace softly. “I’m plumb broke.”
“Mind herding sheep?”
Peace smiled and pursed his lips.
“No, I don’t reckon so--if the sheep don’t.”
“I’ve got a job,” the man half smiled. “Friend of mine asked me to get
him a man who--who could take care of himself.”
“I reckon I can, but I ain’t been carin’ for myself much durin’ the
past five years.” Peace smiled grimly and held out his open hands,
palms up. “Eight-pound sledgehammer and no limit to the rocks. I’ve
worried a heap of rocks in the last five years. Warden said I was the
king-pin rock-buster of the zebra university.”
The man studied him closely, and did not wonder that Peace had come
unbroken from the prison grind. Peace was six feet three inches tall,
with long sloping shoulders, long arms and a massive head. Peace was
homely. His nose was thin and sensitive, his chin jutted belligerently,
and the lines of his face appeared as if carved deeply in bronze. His
mouth was abnormally wide and full of large white teeth. His eyes were
set in a mass of tiny wrinkles, which cross-hatched each other and
faded out over his high cheek-bones.
“I think you are the man for the job,” stated the man. “Hundred a month
and grub.”
“Hundred a month?” Peace rubbed his chin and squinted wonderingly at
the man. “Things has kinda changed in five years, ain’t they? When I
left----”
“I know,” quickly. “Punchers got forty a month and sheepherders thirty.
Will you take the job and how soon can you go to work?”
“I’ll take the job, and go to work right now. I want--” Peace turned
and stared out across the hills--“I want to get out there,
pardner--into--them--hills.”
Peace turned again slowly and looked at the man.
“You don’t know what I mean. Mebbe yuh think yuh do, pardner; but yuh
don’t. You ain’t never been penned up for five years, where you can’t
see no hills, no birds--nothin’ but plain men all around yuh--men who
ain’t got nothin’ on their minds but a certain date. Yuh can’t talk
to them.
“Get herded out in the mornin’ like animals, bust rock, march back
and hear the lock click shut. Every time it clicks yuh say, ‘That’s
one click off.’ Then yuh set there and figure out how many more times
it’s goin’ to click behind yuh. The first time I was locked in I says
to myself:
“‘That’s got to click for eighteen hundred and twenty-five night-locks
before you see them hills again.’ Pardner, can yuh imagine what that
means? No, yuh can’t. They said I was a good prisoner--if that’s any
satisfaction. When do I start work?”
“Come over to my office and I’ll give you the details.”
They crossed the street and went into an office, on the window of which
was the firm name, “Holman & Keller, Investments and Insurance.”
An oldish man was writing in a ledger and merely glanced at them as they
came in.
“I’ll give you a month’s salary in advance,” said Peace’s companion, as
he sat down at his desk.
He wrote rapidly for a minute, sealed the note in an envelop and handed
it to Peace, together with several bills.
“You take the stage right away to Tarp City, where you will find a man
by the name of Clell Danert. Give him this note and he will arrange the
rest of it for you. He will furnish you with a Winchester and six-gun.
If you lose the note, tell him that Holman sent you.”
Peace nodded.
“Much obliged, pardner. Mebbe I’ll make a good shepherd.” He nodded to
the oldish man, who was staring at him, and held out his hand to Holman.
“So-long. If yuh ever want to ask about me--my name’s Parker.”
Peace walked out of the office and hurried down the street, where the
stage was loading in front of the post-office.
The oldish man stared out of the window for a moment and then crossed
over to Holman, who was writing in a note-book.
“Know who that is, Holman?”
“Said his name was Parker,” looking up at his partner’s curious tone.
“Parker--yes. That’s Peace River Parker.”
“Peace River--oh, the gunman, who----”
“And you sent him to Tarp City. My----, that’s his home country,
Holman!”
Holman started to his feet, but from down the street came the rattle of
wheels as the stage started on its journey to Tarp City. Holman sank in
his chair and picked up his pipe.
“Well, what if it is, Keller? Has he any love for Chinook Valley?”
“Perhaps not, but it is a very sure thing that he has no love for
Crane.”
“No, that’s all true, but Crane isn’t going to show in this. Crane
wanted me to find a man who was willing to take a chance--a cat’s-paw,
Keller. The man who takes the job will never enjoy his hundred a
month.”
Keller stared out of the open doorway and turned back to his desk.
“I never did like Crane; but we’re handling his business and I suppose
we’ve got to help him out at times. Perhaps Parker will take the job
and see it through. He’s got the nerve of the ----, but--Holman, wasn’t
there something about him being engaged to marry a girl in Chinook
Valley?”
“Marshall’s daughter,” grunted Holman. “She’s going to marry Danert.”
Keller ran a hand through his thin hair and turned back to his work.
“Going to marry a girl is like putting off until tomorrow what you can
do today. I’ll believe it when the knot is tied.”
“It is all settled, I believe.”
“If it isn’t, it will be,” smiled Keller.
* * * * *
Five years had made little difference in the Fossilshell country, as
far as Peace Parker was able to see. Progress had not touched the
cattle country in the 90’s to any great extent. Peace had known few
people in Fossilshell, and he saw no familiar faces as he wended his
way to the stage office, where he paid his passage to Tarp City,
forty miles away.
Peace smiled grimly to himself as he perched up on the stage seat. He
had never intended going back to Tarp City. In fact, he had decided,
before leaving prison, to go North. He had dreamed of Alaska, Northern
British Columbia, but at times he pondered deeply over the purple
sage-covered hills of the Fossilshell; of the hazy, lazy range of the
Chinook, where the moon silvered the impassable ranges on either side.
In his dreams he had seen the shadowy figures of riders, heard the
muffled footfalls of horses, the creak of saddle-leather, as they faded
out over the silvered road through Poncho Pass. He could see Tarp City,
where hard-bitted men brought great herds to the terminus of the branch
railroad; where they shook off the dust of the range and made merry in
their own way.
But there was a harsh note in these dreams, a note which caused Peace
to scowl in his sleep. A man’s face--grinning. This man had the eyes
of a hawk, a scraggly blond mustache, which draped a crooked mouth,
and surmounting this grinning face was a faded, green derby hat.
The memory of this face came to Peace, as the prison gate clanged
behind him, and he stood in the middle of the dusty road which led
to town. It was late Spring. Overhead a belated flock of wild brant,
a glittering V in the sky, gabbled as they headed for the northern
lakes. Peace watched them, fascinated. They were going his way. Were
they? He turned and looked south. It was Spring, and he was free. He
shook his head slowly and headed for the town. Plenty of time to go
North. The Fossilshell and the valley of the Chinook were calling.
Now he was going blindly into the country which knew him for a thief and
a gunman, going back to face honest men, after they had banished him for
the good of society.
* * * * *
The driver was a surly individual, crabbed from much jolting over
rough roads. Beside him he carried a small box full of rocks, one of
which he ever and anon threw at his lead team, punctuating each throw
with profanity.
“Yo’re liable to make a bad throw and hurt one of them broncs,”
remonstrated Peace, after they had traveled into the hills.
The driver gave Peace a malevolent look, but did not reply. Peace
filled his lungs with sage-laden air and bared his head to the breeze.
The stage split through a herd of beef cattle, and the cowboys yelped
and waved their hats at the driver of the stage.
Peace itched for a chance to swing into a saddle again, wanted to talk
about it, but the driver’s sour visage precluded all chances for a
pleasant conversation. Finally Peace asked--
“What do they pay punchers around here?”
“Forty a month!” grunted the driver without turning his head.
“Oh, yeah. Same old price all over the West, I reckon. What do they pay
sheepherders?”
“Sheepherders?” The driver spat disgustedly. “I dunno. Ain’t none.
Over in the Sun Prairie country they pay ’em thirty a month. That’s
the nearest sheep country. Lookin’ for that kind of a job?”
Peace did not answer. He wondered why Holman was paying him a hundred
dollars a month--sixty more than the cowboys were paid and seventy
more than the sheepherders were getting. What was the idea? Peace knew
the Sun Prairie country and had no desire to go into that sheep-ridden
land.
He remembered the time he had ridden the length of the prairie--sixty
miles of sheep odors, where frowsy sheepherders bleated like sheep.
The buttes were as bare of foliage as a dirt road. In fact the whole
country was a barren waste, for sheep leave nothing in their wake.
What their teeth do not devour their sharp hoofs destroy. There were
dead-lines to this land of dust and sheep, and Peace smiled as he
remembered the cowboy patrol, which watched that no woolie might pass
into the cow-land. Suddenly he remembered that he had hired out to
herd sheep. He had accepted a month’s pay in advance. Well, he could
stand it for a month.
His musings were broken when the stage gave a violent lurch. One of
the lead team floundered into its mate, shaking its head madly. The
driver cursed wickedly and threw another rock. He struck one of the
leaders just behind the ear with a sharp chunk of granite as the
animal was striving desperately to keep its feet.
The driver wrapped the slack lines around his hands, braced his heels,
and threw the four horses rearing backward. Before he could slacken
his grip he felt the lines torn from his grasp. An instant later he
was jerked to his feet and thrown bodily off the stage seat and down
the embankment of the grade, where he lodged in the embrace of a wild
rose-bush.
He wiped the dust out of his eyes and looked back up the grade, where
Peace River was leaning over the side of the stage seat, looking down
at him.
The driver tore his way loose from the briers and drew his gun, mouthing
curses. Peace’s right hand flipped downward and a hunk of granite
crashed into the driver’s elbow, paralyzing his gun hand temporarily.
Then Peace kicked off the brake, chirped to the nervous team and rattled
around a curve, while the driver clawed his way to the road, spouting
curses and raving.
Peace River knew the stage route--knew every inch of the road. It was
good to be alive and free and to hold a set of lines again. A coyote
crossed the road ahead of the team, and Peace yelled a greeting at it.
Jack-rabbits flashed away into the sage, followed by a mighty whoop of
joy. He was like a kid out of school. Ordinarily a quiet man, he whooped
and sang with joy of it all, and the four horses needed no stinging lash
to make them cover the road.
The fact that he had knocked the driver off the seat and taken charge
of the stage did not worry Peace. The driver would have a twelve-mile
walk back to Fossilshell; but Peace considered this small punishment
for hitting a horse in the head with a rock.
He scanned the sage-covered hills, where drifting herds picked at the
new covering of bunch-grass; the deep-rutted hill trails, where for
years the cattle had come down to drink from the Fossilshell.
The past five years were wiped out in a day. Nothing had changed.
Barbed-wire had not yet arrived in the country, and the homes of the
nester were few and far between. The white alkali dust eddied up from
the horses’ hoofs, a blinding, choking mist; but Peace drank deep of
it all. Even alkali dust tasted good to his tongue.
It was late that evening when he drove into Tarp City. It was the same
old town. He drove the team up to the stage office and looked down at
the crowd who congregated to wait for their mail; but there were no
familiar faces.
No one questioned him, and he decided that the Fossilshell stage-line
was in the habit of changing drivers often. Two men began unloading.
Peace lifted the mailsack from between his feet and tossed it to a man
near the doorway.
“Where’s the stable?” asked Peace, and one of the bystanders pointed
out the stage-stable. Peace climbed back to the seat, swung the four
horses in a wide arc, drove into the open stable doors and helped the
hostler unhitch.
“First time this team ever came in on the jump,” observed the hostler,
slapping one of the horses on the rump. “Not a hair laid on ’em and
fifteen minutes ahead of time.”
“I never hurried a-tall,” grinned Peace.
“There’s drivers and drivers,” stated the hostler. “Some fellers has
to heave the rawhide all the way, which plumb ruins good hawses; other
fellers are drivers. Lots of difference between a driver and a herder.
Goin’ to be with us for a while?”
Peace shook his head.
“No, I don’t reckon so. Where can I find a feller named Clell Danert?”
The hostler squinted at Peace.
“Danert? Oh, yeah. Well, sir, I dunno where you’ll find him, but most
likely in a poker game. Friend of yours?”
“No-o-o, I can’t say he is, ’cause I don’t know him.”
“Then he ain’t,” replied the hostler enigmatically. “You ain’t his kind,
I’m bettin’. Know Tarp City very well?”
“Mebbe not.”
The hostler walked to the door with Peace and pointed out the possible
places where Danert might be found.
“If yuh find him,” stated the hostler, “you’ll likely see that he’s in a
poker game, settin’ in a chair which is against the wall.”
Peace smiled.
“Scared?”
“Per-tick-ler,” corrected the hostler. “Ever’ once in a while yuh find
one like that. Hope yuh find him. I’ve heard folks say that Clell
Danert’s handsome. If yore eyes treat yuh thataway, pardner, look for
beauty.”
Peace thanked him and wended his way to the nearest saloon. Oil lamps
were already shedding their yellow glow through the windows, and Tarp
City’s night life was ready to crawl out and start where it left off
the night before.
Peace looked at the games in the first saloon, but did not see any one
answering Danert’s description. Remembering that he had not eaten any
supper he crossed the street to a restaurant. The place was partly
filled with diners, and Peace took a seat near the rear of the room.
“Five years makes a lot of changes in faces,” mused Peace. “None of the
old gang around here. Mebbe they’re changed so much I don’t know ’em.”
Dora Frazer came to take his order and Peace caught her looking intently
at him. When she came back with his order he looked up and smiled at
her. For a moment she stared at him, and then, with a slight intake of
breath--
“I--I thought you was homely!”
The frank innocence of the remark both amused and pleased Peace and he
laughed boyishly.
“Ma’am, I don’t reckon yuh made a mistake the first time.”
“I was just thinking of the difference when you smiled.”
“That’s my mouth,” said Peace seriously. “Ain’t it awful for a human
bein’ to have his face gashed up thataway?”
They were both laughing, when the door opened and Clell Danert came in.
He looked at Peace and Dora and then came toward them. Dora turned and
looked at Danert, and Peace knew she was afraid.
Peace had never seen Danert in his life, but he instinctively disliked
him. The white silk shirt, tailored broadcloth suit, fancy boots and
the large Southwest type of Stetson did not please Peace Parker, who
mentally classed him as a tin-horn gambler.
Danert’s cold glance swept from the girl to Peace, accusingly. Peace got
slowly to his feet, feeling that trouble was imminent. The girl stepped
back and looked appealingly at Danert, who was watching Peace closely.
Peace’s eyes never wavered from Danert’s face.
Part of a stamped-leather belt and ornate buckle showed at Danert’s
waistline, and a slight bulge low on his hip told Peace that this man
was wearing a holstered gun.
Peace was unarmed and he knew that his only chance was at close
quarters. Their glances clashed as Peace got to his feet. The man was
evidently not sure whether Peace was anticipating trouble or whether
he had finished his meal.
A noise at the door caused them both to look that way. A man had come in
and was looking over the diners. Peace knew at a glance that it was the
stage-driver whom he had thrown off the Fossilshell stage that morning.
The man’s glance swept the diners; then he saw Peace. There was nothing
cautious nor delicate in the man’s actions when he sighted the man who
had set him afoot. With a bellow of rage he whipped out a gun and strode
down among the tables, heading for Peace Parker.
Peace flung himself into Danert, tripping him and tearing his coat away
from his hip, and as the astonished Danert plunged to the floor, Peace
sprang away from the frightened waitress, with a pearl-handled Colt
pistol in his hand. Diners upset their chairs getting out of the danger
zone, and there was a general stampede to the sides of the restaurant.
A bullet ripped through Peace’s shirt, burning its way between his
upper arm and side, but he did not flinch nor waver the muzzle of the
fire-belching gun which was held tense at his right hip.
Another bullet burned its way across his thigh, but the cursing
stage-driver was falling as he fired and his last shot powder-burned
the floor.
Peace leaned forward and watched him, but the man did not move. The
crowd merely stared at Peace. The handsome stranger got slowly to his
feet and Peace handed him the gun.
“I owe yuh for six cartridges,” said Peace calmly.
Danert took the gun, looked from Peace to the driver and shook his head.
“You’re welcome, stranger.”
Then he turned and faced the crowd, which was moving in closer to the
fallen man.
“You saw how this was done, didn’t you? Can’t make nothing out of it
except self-defense.”
A grizzled man stepped out of the crowd and Peace saw the flash of a
star on the lapel of his vest. He nodded and said:
“I seen it. I dunno why it was done, but the big stranger only done
what he had to do. I seen him take yore gun, Clell; which cinches the
fact that he wasn’t lookin’ for trouble.” Then he turned to Peace--
“There won’t be no investigation, stranger.”
“Much obliged,” nodded Peace and turned.
“Yore name Clell Danert?”
“Yes.”
Peace handed him the letter from Holman, and Danert read it slowly. He
squinted at Peace for a moment and put the letter inside his coat.
Men were removing the wounded driver, and a man in a white apron was
busily cleaning up the stains of conflict. The place buzzed with
conversation and nervous laughter. Tarp City was used to scenes of
violence.
“No use trying to eat in here,” said Danert. “Let’s go down the street
where nobody will bother us.”