Skeeter Smith went to Pinnacle City alone that evening. When he tied
his horse at the saloon hitch-rack, he saw a light in Ed McLean’s
office. The lawyer was working on some papers as the tall, lean
cowpoke came in. The fat lawyer shoved the papers aside and leaned
back in his chair, wondering what caused the newcomer at the Lazy H
to come into his office. Skeeter said “Howdy” and sat down.
“What can I do for you, sir?” asked McLean, reaching for his pipe on the
desk-top.
“I thought yuh might like to know that Jim Meade rode into the hills
today and some rustlers shot the horse from under him. The kid had to
walk home, and he’s pretty sick of his job.”
“Job?” queried the lawyer. “He is not working for the Lazy H.”
“Well,” drawled Skeeter, “we’ll call it a deal, instead, eh?”
McLean puffed violently at his empty pipe, his eyes watching the lean
face opposite him.
“Deal?” queried McLean quietly.
“Yeah--deal.” Skeeter leaned forward, lowering his voice.
“I want in on this deal, McLean,” he said.
McLean stared at Skeeter, but encountered only a pair of level, gray
eyes. He swallowed painfully and looked at his pipe.
“I don’t understand what you mean,” he protested.
“No?” Skeeter smiled slowly. “What would you say if I told yuh that I
know Jim Meade?”
“I’d say you lied--unless you mean the Jim Meade at the Lazy H. He’s the
only Jim Meade in this deal.”
Skeeter shook his head. “Yo’re wrong, my friend. I know the real Jim
Meade, the only one.”
“That is a lie--and I know it’s a lie!” snapped McLean.
“Clint Haverty told yuh that Jim Meade was dead, didn’t he? Jim Meade
was supposed to have been killed seven years ago in a mine explosion
in Colorado.”
“Clint Haverty said he was!” snapped McLean. “What are you driving at,
Smith?”
“Clint Haverty’s idea of willin’ a ranch to a dead man.”
Ed McLean realized that he had fallen into his own trap. He looked
slit-eyed at the tall cowboy and said harshly:
“What’s your price, Smith?”
“What does the kid get?” asked Skeeter.
“Half--I suppose.”
“All right--I’ll take half of your half, McLean.”
“By what right?” snapped McLean hotly. “Why, you--”
“Think it over,” advised Skeeter calmly. “I can ruin yore deal, McLean.
And don’t try any funny stuff.”
“What do you mean, Smith?”
“Well,” grinned Skeeter, “you might shoot yourself and ruin the whole
deal. I’d like to make some big money.”
Skeeter got up and walked out, closing the door quietly behind him. Ed
McLean went to the doorway. In the lights from the Antelope Saloon he
saw Skeeter Smith ride away from the hitch-rack, heading back to the
Lazy H. McLean sat down at his desk, his expression very grim.
“I don’t dare tell Bailey,” he said to himself. “He’d get so frightened
he’d leave. Half of my half, eh? Why, the poor fool, who does he think I
am, anyway? If anybody thinks he can stop me from making this deal--let
him try.”
He put on his hat, put out the light, locked the front door and went
out the rear entrance to his small stable. McLean kept a buggy horse
in the stable, but that horse was also a very good saddler.
* * * * *
Aching in every joint, and reeking of horse-liniment, Jim Bailey sat on
the ranch-house porch, his swollen feet encased in a pair of Tellurium’s
old slippers. Cactus Spears, the deputy sheriff, and Tellurium, the
cook, sat on the steps, discussing Jim’s adventure with the rustlers.
Cactus said complainingly:
“If you could only remember what color them horses was. They didn’t
happen to be pink, did they?”
“Pink?” queried Jim Bailey. “They might have been.”
“Pink!” snorted Tellurium. “Why not green?”
“Not this time of year,” said Cactus. “Most of ’em are ripe now. No, I
don’t think you’d find a green one, Tellurium.”
“No, it’s a little late, I reckon,” nodded the cook soberly.
“The boys are watchin’ the buzzards today?” asked Cactus.
Tellurium nodded. “That’s the only way they’ll ever find the saddle and
bridle, Cactus. Jim ain’t got no idea where he met his Waterloo.”
Cactus grinned. “You must have went awful fast, Jim,” he remarked.
“I have no recollection of speed nor effort,” replied Jim seriously.
“One moment I was there by the horse, being shot at, and the next moment
I was yards away from there, hiding under a bush with a snake.”
“Yea-a-ah,” drawled Tellurium, scratching his chin, “I’ll betcha the
snake took one look at him and said, ‘No use strikin’ at him, ’cause
he’s too blamed fast.’”
After a short pause Tellurium said:
“He’s shore hard on the rollin’ stock of this here ranch. Poor Ol’
Peter the Hermit is all stove up, and Blondy has done gone. I dunno
what _caballo_ we’ll issue to him next.”
“If _caballo_ means horse--banish the thought,” said Jim, rubbing the
cramped calf of one leg.
Mary came from the main room of the house and joined them.
“We’re wonderin’ what horse to give Jim next,” said Cactus.
“I think he got off very lucky,” said Mary. “Two men shooting at him,
getting lost in the hills and all that. It was quite an experience.”
“It shore was,” agreed Cactus, getting to his feet. “I’ll have to go
back to town and tell Mace Adams that Jim didn’t stop to look at the
colors of the horses. See yuh later, folks.”
The boys came in from work that evening, but had not found the dead
horse. Tellurium wanted to go to town after supper. He asked Archibald
to go along, but Archibald had a poker date at the bunk-house; so
Tellurium asked Jim Bailey to go along. Skeeter Smith and Tex Parker
went in ahead of them. Jim had to wear the old slippers, but most of
the pains had left him.
Tellurium and Jim rode in the ranch buckboard. Tellurium had a grocery
order, and left Jim to his own devices. In front of the hotel a little
later Jim met Ed McLean. The lawyer looked disgruntled over something,
and his eyes showed the need of sleep. He looked Jim over critically.
“You’re a fine looking heir to the Lazy H.”
Jim Bailey looked back grimly at the fat lawyer.
“You don’t need to be sarcastic, McLean. I darn near got killed
yesterday.”
“Yes, I heard about it. You keep out of the hills.”
His tone made Jim Bailey angry. He flared up.
“Don’t try to order me around,” he said. “I’ve told you that before.
I’ve got a mighty good notion to throw the whole deal back at you, and
leave this country.”
“Oh, you have, have you? Listen to me, Bailey.” McLean came in closer,
lowering his voice. “You’re not leaving here.”
“I’m not, eh? Who will stop me?”
“I will--and mighty quick!”
Jim Bailey took aim. Never in his life had he hit a man, but now he hit
Ed McLean smack on the nose with every ounce of muscle at his command.
It dropped the lawyer squarely on the broad seat of his pants. Then, in
a half-hysterical move, Bailey reached down, grasped one of McLean’s
ears, yanked his head sideways and yelled into the upturned ear:
“You and who else, McLean?”
* * * * *
If McLean knew, he did not answer.
Jim Bailey stepped back and looked around. Skeeter Smith had emerged
from the hotel doorway, and was looking at him, a queer grin on his
face.
“That was a funny thing to do, wasn’t it?” Jim asked.
“It looked funny to me,” replied Skeeter.
Ed McLean got slowly to his feet, one hand clutching at his bleeding
nose. He did not say anything--just went across the street to his
office. Several people had seen what happened, and they looked
curiously at Jim Bailey. Tellurium was loading some boxes into the
buckboard in front of the general store.
“I guess Tellurium is ready to go back to the ranch,” Jim said.
“Yeah, he’s loadin’ up,” agreed Skeeter, and watched Jim Bailey walk up
the sidewalk.
“You and who else?” parroted Skeeter Smith to himself. “I wonder what
McLean said to him?”
Jim Bailey and Tellurium rode back to the ranch.
“What’s itchin’ yuh, Kid?” the cook asked. “You ain’t talkin’ none.”
“I knocked a man down on the street,” replied Jim.
Tellurium said, “Whoa!” and slowed the team down to a walk.
“You knocked a man down?” he asked incredulously.
“I struck him right on the nose. You see, I never hit a man before.”
“Yuh mean yuh intended to hit him?”
“Oh, absolutely.”
“Hm-m-m-m! Who was he?”
“Ed McLean, the lawyer.”
“McLean, the--you ain’t jokin’ with Ol’ Tellurium, are yuh?”
“No, I’m not joking, Tellurium. I knocked him down.”
“Well, man, howdy!” exclaimed the cook. “Son, yo’re improvin’. Yessir,
Arizona is makin’ a man out of yuh. Well, well!”
“Was it terrible?” asked Jim quickly.
“In a way--yeah, it shore was.”
“In a way? In what way?” asked Jim.
“I didn’t git a chance to see it done. I’d have loved it.”
Jim Bailey drew a deep breath. “You don’t like McLean?”
“Well, I never sent him any love and kisses, son.”
The boys in the bunk-house didn’t believe Tellurium until Skeeter Smith
came back and told them the same story. There was so much speculation
over the reasons for it that the poker game broke up. Dell Howard said
soberly:
“It kinda sounds like he might have some Haverty blood in him, at that.
Clint Haverty would poke yuh in the nose as quick as he’d look at yuh.
Well, it won’t hurt the looks of McLean’s nose, anyway. It might perk
him up a little bit.”
“The funny thing about it,” remarked Skeeter, “was the fact that after
he knocked McLean down, he grabbed one of McLean’s ears, yanked his head
sideways and yelled in his ear, ‘You and who else?’”
“Maybe,” remarked Tex Parker, “we’ve underestimated the boy.”
“He’s been after me to git him a six-gun,” said Tellurium.
“Hold him off,” said Dell Howard. “We all want to live until after the
ranch changes hands.”