BUCK LAYS PLANS
Templeton Buck did not particularly enjoy his call at the Circle Bar,
nor did he find its occupants very slow in their reception. He did
not see any one, in fact, nor did the dozen riders behind him. The
buildings were dark and apparently deserted, until the blast of a
shotgun ripped the night and Jake Harper’s voice accosted the
arrivals boomingly.
The ominous darkness, the more ominous silence, held the Running Dog
men bunched up and nervous. Harper’s words made them more nervous,
when it became evident that Jake had witnessed the shooting on the
road and was perfectly willing to testify to the fact. Buck made up
his mind to go home and went.
With him went Pincher Brady, alias Murphy, and the dozen riders.
Murphy displayed no great grief for his defunct relative, but he was
savagely disposed toward one Jack Robinson.
Once at the rangy, rather unkempt buildings which served the Running
Dog as headquarters, Buck called Murphy into consultation. He also
summoned the newly promoted foreman, one “Sandy” Davitt, a sour
individual marred by a cast in one eye.
“We’ve made a mess of things since this morning, y’ understand,” Buck
said glumly. “Murphy failed in town, and this here Robinson gent ran
into a heap of luck headfirst. He’s a flash gunman from somewhere,
and Harper has put him in the bunk house.”
“Old Jake has got his back up sudden,” observed Sandy Davitt with a
sneer. “Hope you ain’t lost any nerve lately, Buck? He sure handed
you a mouthful to-night.”
Buck swore under his breath. His thin, raw-boned features were
etched with red.
“He pays for that,” he responded. “You hear me tell it! They’s two
things to be done ’fore Murphy can foreclose on that mortgage.
First, the greaser Cervantes has got to be ’tended to. Next, Jake
Harper.”
“Jake ain’t what you’d exactly call a social favrite,” said Davitt
dryly. “Same time, Buck, he’s considerable well known as an old boy
and crippled up some. Public opinion ain’t goin’ to favor his sudden
demise, none whatever.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” grunted Buck. “You and Slim and Doggy take
some grub about to-morrow afternoon, and lay up the trail a ways.
Jake will be ridin’ over to the Lazy S to-morrow night or next
morning. You boys rope him, fetch him over here, and we’ll let him
cool off a spell while we run that outfit of hisn off the range,
savvy?”
“That’s good as she lays, Buck.” Sandy Davitt looked relieved. “I
thought you was goin’ to remark that I might go wrastle with
Cervantes, which same I ain’t got no longin’ for. Me, I got a wide
sense of my limitations. Any gent what undertakes the greaser in
sober earnest has got to be born real lucky, and I wasn’t.”
“Who’d you suggest?” asked Buck, a lurking devil in his eye.
“You,” said the foreman, grinning sourly. “Looks a whole lot like
whoever wants the work done had ought to be able to handle some part
of it his ownself, don’t it?”
Buck was lounging in his chair as this veiled insinuation was
uttered. Like a streak of light, he was up and in the air. Powerful
as Sandy Davitt obviously was, he was taken by the throat and laid
back across the table, gasping and strangled. Holding the man’s lean
throttle in one hand, Buck glared down at him.
“Some stuck up over sudden promotion, ain’t you, Sandy?” inquired
Buck’s voice. “Feelin’ your oats a heap, eh? That’s twice you got
sassy--ain’t goin’ to be no third time, Sandy. Or is they?”
“N-no,” gasped the half-choked man. Murphy looked on the scene with
interest, his red features quite calm, a cigar between nis teeth.
“Lemme up, Buck!”
Buck released his hold suddenly, and stepped back, smiling nastily.
“Sure. Git up, boy, and beat it. You can tell the others that
Cervantes is my meat--quick meat, likewise. You and Slim and Doggy
light out of here to-morrow, and if you miss bringin’ in Jake Harper,
I’ll skin the three of you one-handed! Git!”
Sandy Davitt departed hurriedly.
“I see,” observed Murphy, shifting the cigar in his mouth, “I see you
ain’t backward when it comes to action, Buck. What’s the program?”
“You ride over to the Lazy S in the morning,” Buck ordered, who was
indeed suddenly displaying a new and alert manner. “Pull the
mortgage stuff on Estella, polite but firm, savvy? I know about
where Cervantes will be. When I’m done with him I’ll drop along to
the house and fire you off the premises. Now set still till I get a
drink.”
Buck departed. Murphy glanced after him, then lighted his cigar
thoughtfully.
“Humph!” he growled. “I’ve heard biggity talk ’fore this, Mister
Buck! If I knows you, which I’d ought to, you ain’t ridin’ up to
that greaser and pullin’ no gun on him--no, sir! If you git him,
it’ll be ’cause he ain’t armed, maybe. Well, let her ride! All I
want is to git another chance at that smart Aleck, Robinson, who
recognized me for Pincher Brady, cuss him! He’s run up a big day’s
score, and I aim to pay him. By Godfrey, I’d come close to givin’
him an even break, I would!”
With this admirable sentiment, Mr. Murphy inspected his right hand,
whose back was crossed by a big piece of sticking-plaster. He was
not really injured--the bullet had only scraped his hand slightly.
His black scowl was perhaps induced by memory of the fate which had
overtaken Matt Brady that same day.
Buck was uneasy, and remained uneasy. He had gone to great lengths
to stage his final play for the Shumway girl and ranch, and saw
himself verging on disaster. It was all due to that fool Robinson.
He had met Murphy and had drawn him into Mike’s place for conference.
He had taken the snoring stranger for granted--and the stranger had
wakened in sudden nightmare, according to the story told by Mike and
by Murphy. What did it mean? Had Robinson overheard much of the
talk? How had he chanced to recognize Murphy as Pincher Brady?--
The fellow had not gone to Laredo at all, but to Jake Harper’s. That
was suspicious. Where had Robinson come from? The south, beyond a
doubt; but Buck was unable to discover anything about the man. Being
thus uneasy, Buck issued stringent orders to his men, and regarded
Robinson’s fate as settled.
Upon the following morning, Mr. Murphy mounted and rode away from the
Running Dog by his lonely. A little later Buck and two of his riders
departed in company. Later still Sandy Davitt, Slim, and Doggy rode
away together. The day was clear, brilliant, fairly warm.
Buck and his two men did not follow the road, but made their way by
easy stages to the rolling and wooded section of the Running Dog
which adjoined the fine water springs on the Shumway ranch. They
knew about what they would find there; it had been the same story day
after day since Matt Brady had undertaken to fence in the Shumway
water.
Every morning Miguel Cervantes rode over that way and spent an hour
cutting fence. If any of the Running Dog men showed up, Cervantes
would smile and take all that was said and would allow himself to be
ordered away. If they did not show up, he would finish cutting the
fence and then depart. Later, Matt Brady would repair the fence.
By this mute and inglorious scheme of tactics, Cervantes caused the
Running Dog some irritation, avoided a row, and registered protest
against high-handed work. It gained very little, but it was at least
a protest. It was about all Cervantes had to do on the place, since
the remnant of the Lazy S stock was safely rebranded and herded with
the Running Dog cattle.
Upon this particular morning, Miguel Cervantes was busily cutting
wires while his pony cropped the lush grass about the springs, when
he observed a single horseman approaching from the hills. At the
same time his pony lifted its head and whinnied--in another direction
where nothing appeared. Cervantes was puzzled, but, centering his
gaze on the rider, he recognized the figure of Jack Robinson. He
ceased work, lolled against a fence post, and began to roll a
cigarette. He looked up with a flashing smile as Robinson drew rein.
“_Buenos dias!_” cried the rider gayly. “How goes it this morning,
Miguel?”
“Well, señor. I am glad to see you again.”
“The gladness is all mine,” said Robinson cheerfully. “If you knew
how close I came not to seeing you again you’d get me. How is the
señorita?”
“Frying doughnuts.” Cervantes chuckled. His keen eyes darted over
the other’s figure. “You slept out last night, yes?”
“C’rect, sure’s my name’s Jack Robinson! Look rumpled, do I? Oh,
I’ve been taking a squint at the country, Mig. Need any help here?”
The other shrugged. “No, thanks. It would be better if you rode on
to the ranch.”
Robinson gathered up his reins. “Then, _hasta la vista_! See you at
dinner time.”
Cervantes gestured assent, and watched the slender figure go riding
off. Once more his pony lifted its head, cocking its ears toward
another quarter. Cervantes glanced at the hills, saw nothing, and
returned to his labor.
The figure of Robinson rode out of sight. For a space Cervantes
worked on, rolling up the wire with painstaking care. For the third
time his pony looked up, and flung a whinny of greeting into the
sunlight. Cervantes halted, straightened up, and surveyed the empty
landscape with one hand over his eyes to shield them from the sun.
As he stood thus, motionless, a tiny puff of white spat out from a
hillside to his right; a second puff became visible to his left. Two
rolling reports followed. Cervantes, dropping his shielding hand,
stood for an instant and then quietly fell on his face.
Jack Robinson meantime rode up to the old adobe house beneath wide
cottonwoods that view the Shumway domain from its rounded knoll, and
dismounted. The house had been built Mexican style, even to the
flat, stone-rolled adobe roof; it was cool and restful, with its
vines and flowers.
Since no one came forth to greet him, Robinson unsaddled, took his
horse to the corral to one side, and then tramped around the house to
the rear. He turned the corner and paused.
Before him portly Señora Cervantes was pinning clothes to a line,
while from the near-by doorway of the kitchen issued a voice that
made Robinson turn a trifle red.
“I do hope he’ll come soon!” was saying Estella Shumway. “I don’t
see why he went on to Harper’s, when he must have known we were dying
to see him. Well, that’s the last of the batch; I’d better bring
them outside to cool.”
The señora turned, beheld Robinson, and stood with open mouth. He
made a gesture of silence, and stepped forward to the doorway. In
this, a moment later, appeared a young lady who held a great platter
of new-sugared doughnuts in both arms. As she came out, Robinson
stepped forward and took the platter from her.
Something happened swiftly.
“Oh!” cried the girl, surprise and indignation in her voice. Her
freed hand slapped Robinson’s cheek smartly; then she stared at him
with widening eyes and flushed cheeks. “Oh!” Her voice was suddenly
different, vibrant with eager welcome. “Oh, it’s you! My goodness,
is that the way you show up?”
Holding the platter, Robinson surveyed her with twinkling eyes.
“That’s sure the way to show up, isn’t it?” he drawled. “I was
afraid you might not give me the right kind of welcome, so I took it.
Sort of forgot what I look like, since you and Jake were down in
Pecos County last fall, haven’t you? Who’d you think was kissing
you, anyway?”
The girl’s cheeks reddened again, then she broke into a glad laugh.
“If I’d known it was you,” she cried, “why----”
Hastily Robinson set down the doughnuts and turned to the
doorway--but Estella had changed her position and now stood outside,
laughing at him.
“Too late!” she exclaimed, and then held out her hand. “Goodness,
but I’m glad to see you. I knew from what Miguel said that----”
“You see, Stella,” broke in Robinson, “there was a lot o’ trouble
down below. The sheriff had been killed and Sam Fisher was filling
out the job; he’ll prob’ly be elected anyhow. So Sam being sheriff,
he couldn’t get away, and sent me up instead.”
Estella frowned sharply at him for a moment, studying his face. She
was brown-haired, hazel-eyed, healthily brown of cheek and arm.
Robinson returned her gaze innocently.
“I always did admire the way those tendrils of brown hair sort of
break loose and curl down around your ears,” he said, cocking his
head to one side and surveying her with critical stare. “Yes, ma’am,
I always did, sure’s my name’s Jack Robinson! I met Miguel back
yonder, where he’s powerful busy with some wire, and he allowed you
would be glad to see me----”
“You met Miguel this morning?” repeated the girl.
“Yes. Stopped for a chat, then came on. I’ve been doing
considerable running around since yesterday.”
Señora Cervantes came up, and Robinson was introduced. Then,
grabbing doughnuts in each, hand, Robinson followed Stella around to
the wide veranda and with a sigh of relaxation settled down in a
comfortable chair at her side.
“Sam was right worried over not hearing from you,” he observed.
“Not hearing?” Estella regarded him with wide eyes. “Why, I wrote
only two weeks ago--wrote a long letter and begged him to come up at
once if he could! He knew all about the mortgage, and had promised
to try and sell the ranch if he could----”
Robinson’s eyes narrowed. “Who posted that letter for you?”
“I gave it to Mr. Buck to mail, as he was going to town.”
“Oh! Well, I guess it got lost in the shuffle somewhere,” said
Robinson. “Anyhow, Sam hasn’t heard from you in a month. Anyhow, he
sold the ranch.”
“Sold it! Sold this ranch?” The girl stiffened. “For how much?
Who to?”
Robinson shook his head. “I dunno, ma’am. Sam, he made me promise
not to say a word about it until he could get up here his ownself.”
“Oh!” A trace of anger flamed in the girl’s eyes. “I’d like to
shake you----”
“I’d sure like to have you,” Robinson said with a grin. “Go ahead,
ma’am!”
Instead, Stella settled back in her chair and regarded him narrowly.
“What kind of a game are you playing, anyway?” she demanded.
“None whatever. Me, I’m a innercent pilgrim, a stranger, plumb
peaceable,” and his grin was more exasperating than ever. “As I
remember it, Sam Fisher sold an option on the place, and the feller
was coming up to look it over. He had your power of attorney to
sell, but seemed like you had to consent to the deal.”
“I had!” repeated the astonished girl. “Why, nothing of the sort! I
wrote Sam that he had full power----”
“Sure, sure, but this was different. Seems like this feller wanted
you to go with the ranch,” averred Robinson innocently.
Stella looked at him a moment, then sprang to her feet. “What do you
mean? How dare you! Oh, I wish I knew when you were serious! Who
bought the place? Tell me!”
“Feller name of Robinson--Jack Robinson. Got any objections?”
They looked at each other for half a minute, a slow tide of color
sweeping over the face of the girl. As she was about to speak, there
came an interruption:
“Hello the house! Anybody home?”
Both turned. There, sitting upon his borrowed horse, was Mr. Murphy,
whose approach had been unobserved. Robinson hastily dropped out of
sight, concluding that he had been unseen.
“Oh, Lord!” he murmured. “Stella, bring in this gent quick; I’m
going to slaughter him. Friend of mine, sure. Bring him in and give
him a doughnut.”
“Good morning,” said the girl, somewhat perplexed at the whole
affair. “Weren’t you looking for me?”
“Lookin’ for Miss Shumway, if you’re her,” returned Murphy. He
dismounted and came forward toward the veranda. “My name’s Murphy,
ma’am. I done bought a mortgage over to Laredo City las’ week,
coverin’ this place, and, bein’, in the vicinity, thought I’d drop in
and ask about it comin’ due the first of the month.”
The girl’s face whitened a trifle. “The--mortgage?” she stammered.
“Why--why, I thought the bank held it----”
“Yes’m.” Murphy took a paper from his pocket as he mounted the
steps. “But I done bought her in. Maybe you’d like to look over
this----”
He broke off suddenly, for his eyes had fallen upon Robinson. The
latter grinned at him cheerfully.
“Step right up, Mr. Murphy; step right up. We’re a whole lot glad to
see you. Try a doughnut? Finest you ever seen, I’ll bet.”
Murphy looked paralyzed, and in this case looks did not lie.