THE SHERIFF OF SUN-DOG
W. C. Tuttle
Author of “Sun-Dog Trails,” “Law Rustlers,” etc.
It was a hot day in Marlin City, the county seat of Sun-Dog County. It
had often been said that there was only one tree between Marlin City
and the Arctic Circle to break the north winds of Winter, and that the
aforementioned tree was too far north to afford Marlin City any shade
during the Summer.
At the hitch-rack, in front of the Dollar Down saloon and gambling
hall, stood a forlorn looking saddle-horse, head down, as though
seeking the shade of its own body. A long lean dog of nondescript
breed slouched along the hot board sidewalk, hunting a shady spot.
From Le Blanc’s blacksmith shop came the odors of burning hoof, as
the muscular French-Canadian swore at the stifling heat and tried to
fit a hot shoe to the hoof of a half-broke bronco.
Inside the sheriff’s office sat “Brick” Davidson, the new sheriff, and
his deputy “Silent” Slade. The former sheriff, “Bunty” Blair, had
appointed Brick as his deputy, and had resigned in Brick’s favor. Bunty
was glad to resign. Sun-Dog was no place for a weak-kneed sheriff, such
as Bunty Blair. There was nothing weak about Brick Davidson. His
flaming thatch of bright, brick-colored hair, a thin freckled nose, and
an indomitable view of right and wrong, bade fair to make changes in
cowland. Sun-Dog County did not elect Brick Davidson, although they had
a chance at the last election. Sun-Dog followed the lines of least
resistance and elected Bunty Blair.
In fact, Brick had received the whole sum of seven votes--including his
own. Lafe Freeman, owner of the Nine Bar Nine outfit, of which Brick had
been foreman, stated that Brick knew too much to get elected sheriff.
Bunty’s resignation and Brick’s appointment had been ratified by a
majority of the board of county commissioners. Bill Voorhies, owner of
the Lazy H outfit, and the acknowledged leader of the commissioners,
was not in favor of Brick’s appointment, but the board had acted in the
absence of Voorhies and he could do nothing less than agree.
Voorhies was a ponderous sort of person, loud of mouth, slow of action,
and desiring power above all things. In the past three months he had
shipped a great number of beef cattle, and was entertaining a buyer at
the time Brick was appointed. He bossed the county commissioners and
bragged of the fact. Voorhies might have become a big politician and a
power in the State, but----
Through sound reasoning Brick had cleared Scott Martin and his adopted
daughter, Jean, of all complicity in the robbery of the Whippoorwill
stage, and had succeeded in bringing retribution where retribution was
due. Two men had paid the penalty with their lives, while the third,
Zell Mohr, had been given a life sentence, but in trying to escape from
the train on the way to the penitentiary had been instantly killed.
Incidentally, Brick had won the thousand dollar reward. It had been a
big day in Marlin City, but after the smoke of battle cleared away,
Marlin City and Sun-Dog County settled down to the humdrum existence of
cow country and small cow town. It was all in a day’s work. Few men
gave Brick credit for doing anything out of the ordinary. He was just
Brick Davidson, cowpuncher; rather fast with a gun, and ready of wit.
Brick lived to grin.
He had an overdeveloped sense of humor, which, at times, grated on the
sensibilities of slower thinkers. When it was announced that Brick had
been appointed sheriff to succeed Bunty Blair, many of the graybeards
shook their heads. Sun-Dog County needed a wiser, cooler head. Brick’s
hair was too red. He’d last quick. Brick heard some of the mumblings,
and confided to Silent Slade.
“They’re scared of me, Silent, don’t yuh know it?”
“Well,” Silent had replied, “well, hadn’t they ought to, Brick?”
* * * * *
Silent’s reply was very matter of fact. Silent did not try to be funny.
He worshiped Brick, and trailed him around like a great dog--a dog six
feet six inches tall, built in proportion, with a long crooked nose and
a big humorous mouth. His hands were big and ungainly, but they lost
their clumsiness when called upon to reach for the big, black-handled
Colt .44 which swung from their owner’s hip. In that respect they were
very capable. Just now, Silent was perusing some old reward notices,
while Brick spelled out a typewritten letter which Silent had brought
from the post-office.
Brick’s mouth drew down at the corners and his blue eyes twinkled as he
looked up from the letter and glanced at Silent.
“Goin’ to be ---- rised and a chunk placed under its corners around
here,” announced Brick.
Silent looked up quickly. He had been bemoaning the lack of action just
a few minutes before.
“For gosh sakes, Brick, whatcha mean?” he demanded anxiously.
“Letter from the cattle association.”
Brick snapped his finger against the sheet of paper and glanced up at
the ceiling, puffing vainly at an unlit cigaret.
“Oh!” said Silent, relaxing back in his chair. “What’s eatin’ ’em now?”
“’Member me writing ’em about makin’ a maverick law?”
“Heard yuh say yuh was goin’ to, Brick, but didn’t pay no ’tention at
the time. What was it?”
“Billy Slavin, the secretary, and me are friends. Me and him punched
cows down on the Little Missouri six years ago. Silent, did yuh ever
stop to think what mavericks mean to a cow-man?”
Silent half-nodded and waited for Brick to continue.
“Them danged unbranded animals are to blame for half the cattle
stealin’ in this country, Silent. Mebbe she’s a even break, you’ll say.
It ain’t. I know some honest cow-men which this maverick stuff hurts. I
spoke to Billy about it. He took it up. This here letter--” Brick
opened it up again and held it up for Silent’s inspection--“this letter
says that from now on all mavericks are to be held, subject to disposal
by the association. The cattlemen own and run the association, Silent;
and these mavericks belong to the cattlemen. What is fairer than to let
’em dispose of these critters and use the money in the interests of the
cattlemen? I kinda like it myself.”
Silent bit his lip reflectively and nodded slowly.
“There will be ---- rised, Brick, y’betcha, and I sure hope that your
carcass and mine won’t be used to bolster up none of the corners.”
A maverick is an unbranded animal, usually a calf, which had been
born in a secluded part of the range, or accidentally overlooked by
the cowboys. This calf, weaned away from its mother, after which no
brand may claim ownership, becomes a prey to the first cattleman who
can burn on a brand. Hundreds of mavericks were branded every year
on the ranges; many cowboys acquiring a herd in this manner.
Brick Davidson knew that this practise was all wrong, as it gave a
dishonest cattleman an edge over an honest one, and also was an
inducement for a dishonest cowpuncher to overlook his employer’s young
stock until such a time as he could “maverick” a few for himself and
get a start. Sun-Dog County was not without its rustling troubles.
Brick knew that he had work cut out for him--if he upheld his oath of
office. Brick knew every inch of the Sun-Dog ranges, knew the cattle
business from “dally to hondo” as Lafe Freeman had said, and under
ordinary circumstances would be an ideal peace officer for the county,
but Sun-Dog did not seem to want Brick Davidson’s protection--as was
witnessed by seven votes including Brick’s own vote. Brick got up from
his desk, put the paper inside his vest, and picked up his hat.
“Yuh ain’t goin’ out in the heat, are yuh?” asked Silent.
Brick nodded.
“Yeah. I’ve got to pass around the bad news.”
“What’s the hurry?”
“This here office is runnin’ today--not _mañana_,” smiled Brick. “You
stay here and don’t let anybody bust the jail. If any outlaws come along
with a price on their heads, jew ’em down, Silent. Get ’em as cheap----”
“Aw-w-w,----!” grunted Silent. “Lemme go along.”
“And shut up the office?” Brick appeared very indignant. “’Member
them old Pinkerton books we had at the ranch? ’Member they had a eye
painted on the cover, and the words ‘We Never Sleep’? Do yuh? That’s
us, _sabe_?”
“All right, all right,” grunted Silent. “While you’re gone I’ll paint a
eye on the door.”
“Make it a mouth,” grinned Brick. “And above it put, ‘We Never Shut
Up.’”
* * * * *
Old Jeff Seldon owned the Star Dot, horse and cattle outfit, and also
owned a grudge against humanity. Although only about fifty-five years
of age, he looked seventy-five. He was below average height. His skin
was like yellow parchment, his nose hooked; his mouth so thin-lipped
that he appeared to have only a slit, inside of which were a motley
collection of misfit teeth and ancient gold fillings. His eyes were
deep-set and savage, as they peered out past the thin, high bridge of
his nose--peered out with disfavor upon every one and every thing.
Jeff Seldon had come from Dakota, and bought out the Star Dot outfit a
year before, bringing his five cowboys with him. It is doubtful whether
Seldon could have hired a cowboy in Sun-Dog County, for Seldon’s
reputation was known.
He had practically been driven from Dakota for an unpardonable offence.
In cowland a cowboy is welcome at any cow-man’s table. His bunk-house
is always big enough to sleep one more. It was merely range etiquette.
If the owner was not at home, the visitor was welcome to enter the
premises, cook his meals and occupy the beds.
Two cowboys, tired, hungry, stopped at Jeff Seldon’s ranch. They stabled
their horses, and started for the ranch-house, when Seldon met them.
“The town is just fourteen miles down that road,” stated Seldon. “I am
not runnin’ a hotel.”
“Much obliged,” said one of the cowboys, and they traveled on.
From that day on, Seldon was a man apart from the range-folk. His stock
was never picked up in a round-up. No man spoke to him. His cows never
brought in calves, and the range country ate beef that did not bear the
diner’s brand. Seldon had plenty of money, and stood the loss as long
as possible, but eventually sold out and traveled north.
If Seldon was crabbed before this mistake, he was a hundred times more
soured on the world afterward.
He mixed little with Sun-Dog folks. He was a bachelor. His five men,
Pete Kane, the foreman, Frank Fellows, “Bun” Partner, Jim Malone and
Hal Breamer, were hard riders, hard drinkers, and close mouthed, even
in their cups. The Star Dot ranch-house was seven miles from Marlin
City, and adjoined the Weeping Tree range.
The ownership of the Weeping Tree had never been settled. Zell Mohr had
owned it, but Zell was dead. Before his arrest and conviction he had
given Scott Martin the right to occupy the old Weeping Tree ranch-house
and to use the land. Zell had sold his Silverton property, but no one
knew of any disposition having been made of the Weeping Tree.
Brick rode straight for the Star Dot ranch. There was no reason for
passing the order to the Star Dot outfit first, but it happened that
the Star Dot was so located that Brick could easily return past the
Weeping Tree ranch in time for supper. Brick was a biscuit fiend, and
he knew that Jean Martin was the best biscuit builder in the world.
Therefore Brick hummed a little range song and totally ignored the
heat. Some day he was going to get up nerve enough to ask Jean to
marry him--some day, maybe tomorrow. Brick was a lot like a Mexican,
in that respect. Tomorrow looked like the very best day to speak to
her about it--always tomorrow.
Pete Kane and Jimmy Malone were just coming out of the ranch-house door
as Brick rode up. Kane was undeniably handsome of face and there was a
wild, free grace to his figure, a dash and swing that denoted plenty of
animal vigor. His tiny brown mustache was waxed to needle points, and
his insolent brown eyes stared at Brick in mock terror.
“Well, if it ain’t the policeman!” he exclaimed.
Jimmy Malone, a short, stocky cowboy, square of features, stared at
Brick, and a frown centered above his eyes. Jimmy Malone did not like
officers of the law. Brick ignored Kane’s sarcasm, although he felt
it keenly. It was not like Brick to ignore a gibe, but Brick was
representing the law now.
“Jeff Seldon to home?” he asked.
“He is!” snapped a voice and Brick glanced at the door, where Seldon was
standing, half dressed and with a boot in his hand. “Whatcha want?”
* * * * *
Seldon was plainly hostile to Brick, but Brick merely grinned at him.
Seldon stepped out to the edge of the porch, one sock half-on and
flopping from his foot.
“Can’tcha talk?” he rasped. “Whatcha want here, Davidson?”
“Just passin’ out word that the cattle association is goin’ to take
charge of all mavericks from now on.”
Seldon stared at him and then at Kane. Kane sneered. Brick’s statement
was perhaps an insinuation that the Star Dot dealt strongly in
mavericked stock, but Brick did not mean it to sound as such.
“I’m startin’ out to pass the word,” continued Brick. “Got a letter----”
“Hol’ on! Hol’ on!” Seldon fairly exploded with wrath, and took two
steps down from the porch. “You accusin’ me of maverickin’?”
“Hold on you’self!” snapped Brick. “Nobody’s accusin’ you of anythin’.”
“Whatcha talkin’ thataway to me fer?” Seldon’s voice rasped and broke in
righteous indignation.
“I ain’t accusin’ anybody,” soothed Brick. “The cattle association is
goin’ to take charge of all unbranded stock from now on, and I----”
“---- the association!” roared Seldon. “I don’t belong to no
association. I hope that the sheep run ’em out of the range!”
“Don’t yelp,” laughed Brick. “Talk natural, Seldon.”
“I’ll talk as I ---- please! No penny-ante sheriff can come out
here----”
“Whoa, Blaze!” gritted Brick. “Don’t get personal, Seldon. I don’t care
if you don’t belong to the association. I’ve been ordered to protect
their interests, and I reckon I’ll foller out them orders.”
“You’d make a good protector for a calf,” observed Kane, and Malone
laughed outright.
“Yuh may find that out,” agreed Brick easily.
“Protect ----!” roared Seldon. “They wouldn’t elect yuh sheriff, but yuh
run a blazer on Bunty Blair and----”
“I wouldn’t talk thataway if I was you,” interrupted Brick. “I ain’t
never done you no harm, Seldon. I’m out here to pass out an order that
was given to me.”
“Who made that order?” demanded Seldon. “Tell me that, will yuh?”
“The association made it, Seldon; but I suggested it, if yuh must know.”
“The ---- you did!” Seldon’s parchment-like face seemed to wrinkle with
wrath and he groped for words.
“You--you think you’re a little ---- on wheels, don’tcha? Mebbe yuh
think that Sun-Dog is goin’ to put yuh on a pedestal and worship yuh,
but you’ve got the wrong hunch, lemme tell yuh that. I’ll run my ranch
to suit myself, and I don’t want no ---- sheriff ridin’ up to my door
and tellin’ me that I can’t do this and I can’t do that. _Sabe?_”
“Bust a blood-vessel, if yuh don’t watch out,” observed Brick. “I knowed
a feller like you, Seldon. He had a nasty tongue, too. Got mad at a dog
one day and fell dead kickin’ at it. You better be careful.”
Seldon leaned back against a porch-post, quivering with anger, unable to
find words for a fitting reply.
“If you’re all through--vamoose!” said Kane, jerking his thumb toward
the road. “Next time yuh come here bring a warrant; otherwise--not. We
don’t ask no favors of the sheriff’s office, and we ain’t interested in
the cattle association.”
* * * * *
Brick dropped the right hand off the horn of his saddle and leaned back,
but made no move to go.
“Whatcha stayin’ around here for?” Seldon seemed to get his breath back.
“I’m the sheriff,” said Brick slowly. “I came out here to deliver an
order. I’ve done my duty, as far as the sheriff end of it is concerned.
You know what I told you concernin’ mavericks. That goes as she lays--
And now,” Brick slid a few inches sidewise in his saddle, “now I’m just
plain Brick Davidson, and I want one of your crowin’ roosters to start
herdin’ me away from here.”
“Whatcha mean by that?” asked Kane.
“I’m through bein’ joshed, Kane.”
“I own this here ranch,” stated Seldon, rather inanely.
“Ownership unquestioned,” said Brick; “but that don’t give yuh no
license to act like yuh did. I may be a penny-ante sheriff, but my
game is too big for you or your punchers to set into.”
For a space of ten seconds Brick’s eyes bored into Kane’s.
Brick felt that Malone would be slow to draw, and Seldon was apparently
unarmed. Kane had all the ear-marks of a gun-fighter, and wore his gun
handy. Then Kane’s eyes fell. Brick shifted his gaze to Seldon.
“I hope you’ll see your way clear to abide by that maverick proposition,
Seldon. I’m passin’ the word to every cattleman in this county. I reckon
that the association men are in the majority.”
“You’re hopin’ quite a lot for a young feller.” Seldon was trying to
keep his voice cool. “I was runnin’ cows when you was ridin’ a
stick-horse, Davidson, and if you think for a minute that I’m payin’
any attention to such a ---- fool order, you’re crazy as ----! You
better resign and get a job herdin’ sheep.”
“When I can’t enforce the law--I will.”
Brick turned his horse and rode slowly away, taking a chance that few
men would take under the circumstances.
“You better put in your application!” Seldon’s voice was a mirthful
squeak, but Brick did not turn his head. From behind him came the
laughter of the three men, but Brick could not trust himself to turn
his head.
“You’re sheriff, Brick,” he told himself. “You’re paid to enforce the
law--not to smoke up folks. Hang onto yourself, you danged fool! Nice
thing for a sheriff to throw lead at cheap cow-comedians.”
Brick shook his head and rode to a high point in the road before he
allowed himself to look back at the Star Dot. He shook his head, glanced
at the star on the lapel of his vest.
“---- such a job!” he exclaimed aloud. “Cripples a feller all up.”
At the forks of the road, where the road led up to Weeping Tree ranch,
a buckboard and two restive horses pulled up, the driver waiting for
Brick to arrive. At first glance the driver appeared to be a man, but
a closer view proved her to be a big, raw-boned woman, middle aged,
her face tanned to a deep bronze. Her hair was done up under a floppy
sombrero and a well-worn duster covered her calico dress. She grinned
at Brick, and jerked back on the lines, as the restive broncs surged
forward.
“Howdy, Brickie,” she called.
“’Lo, Mrs. Wesson. How’s everything?”
“She was fine when I left.” Mrs. Wesson, wife of the general
store-keeper at Marlin City, threw back her head and laughed heartily.
Mrs. Wesson was rough of speech and jest, but her heart was pure gold.
She loved Brick Davidson like a mother and deviled him at every
opportunity. Brick reddened, and grinned down at her.
“Just breakin’ them horses?” he asked.
Mrs. Wesson glanced at the team and then up at Brick.
“Brick Davidson, you ain’t interested in broncs, are yuh? I’ve been
drivin’ them coyote baits for a year and you sets there and asks me
if I’m breakin’ ’em. You sure observes things, cowboy.”
“Oh, yeah,” murmured Brick, “I knowed ’em when yuh used to curry ’em,
but they’re so shaggy and ragged lookin’----”
“Hol’ on! Cale Wesson curried ’em this mornin’.”
“Went out to,” corrected Brick, “and then went to sleep on the stable
doorstep.”
Mrs. Wesson chuckled. Her husband had often told her that she could talk
the handle off a pump, and she and Brick were due for an argument every
time they met. Suddenly she sobered and looked up at Brick.
“Brick, why don’t yuh go to Weepin’ Tree once in a while? You ain’t been
there for a week.”
“Been busy.”
“Yeah? Know Pete Kane? Do yuh? He ain’t busy. Giddap!”
* * * * *
The team sprang forward, and the buckboard whirled off down the road in
a cloud of dust. Brick sat there and watched her fade off down the road.
What did she mean? Pete Kane wasn’t busy? Was Pete Kane visiting the
Weeping Tree ranch? Brick wrinkled his nose and wiped the perspiration
off his face. Suddenly it struck Brick that he had no right to say where
Pete Kane should or should not go. He wondered if Mrs. Wesson meant to
warn him. He knew nothing about Pete Kane--nothing against him. He was
not friendly to Brick, but Brick reasoned that that fact did not make
him any less a man. There was nothing narrow about Brick’s philosophy of
life.
He did not hate his enemies, neither did he turn the other cheek. He
tried to hate Jeff Seldon, but the effort was a failure.
“Poor little devil,” said Brick aloud; “his soul must ’a’ been made of
green stuff, and his ma left him out in the sun and he got warped.”
Mrs. Wesson was out of sight before Brick came out of reverie. Then he
touched his horse with his spurs and went on toward Marlin City. Brick
had decided to go to Weeping Tree--tomorrow.
But Brick did not go to Weeping Tree on the following day. News of the
maverick situation had percolated considerable in twenty-four hours,
and Marlin City’s hitch-rack held more than their usual quota of
saddle-horses. The association men were in the majority, but few of
them openly applauded the idea. It was a time-honored custom--wrong,
no doubt--but the old cow-men were satisfied with the old order of
things.
Brick was busy explaining his idea of it. Bunty Blair had acquired
the Dollar Down saloon and gambling house, which was doing a thriving
business on this day. Practically all of the nearest ranches were
represented by either the foreman or owner. Neither Jeff Seldon nor
Pete Kane was in evidence; but Breamer and Partner were there, saying
nothing, but, as Brick observed, listening considerable. They left
early in the forenoon.
“She’s all right,” said “Bunch” Thornton, owner of the AD brand--one of
the old-timers. “She’s all right, Brick, but I’d say she’s cuttin’ out
quite a lot for one sheriff to handle. Sure as ---- she’s goin’ to raise
discussions.”
“It ain’t a law,” argued Bill Voorhies. “’Pears to me that she’s just a
request. Mebbe they’re right, though. Maverickin’ sure does leave one
big inducement for a feller to go crooked.”
“I ain’t sayin’ a word,” grinned Lafe Freeman, “but I’ve been wonderin’
why Bill Voorhies’ cows all have twins and my cows never bring in a
calf.”
Bill Voorhies joined in the general laugh which followed, and every one
faced the bar and took a drink on Bill. Scott Martin had taken no part
in the conversation, standing apart from the rest. After the drink the
party slowly broke up, without any one offering to back the sheriff or
the association.
Scott Martin had taken no part in the conversation, owing to the fact
that an ear affliction had caused partial deafness, and he was aware of
the fact that men must shout to make him hear. He followed the rest of
the men outside, got on his horse and rode away toward the ranch.
Brick and Silent stood in the doorway of their office and watched the
men ride away.
“Didn’t see nothin’ of Seldon’s gang,” observed Silent.
“Couple of his punchers were over in the saloon,” replied Brick.
Brick had told Silent of his run-in with Seldon and Kane the day before,
and Silent had bewailed the fact that Brick didn’t cripple the both of
them.
“You look out for them,” advised Silent. “Seldon’s a danged old
centipede. Remind me of an old buzzard, with that yaller skin drawed
tight across his sharp old face and that wrinkled neck. Betcha forty
dollars his blood only circ’lates as high as his collarbone.”
Brick laughed and they went into the office.
“Lot of fellers,” observed Brick, “ain’t got sense enough to protect
themselves. You’d think they’d all be strong for this new order,
wouldn’t yuh?”
“I dunno.” Silent wrinkled his long nose over the manufacture of a
cigaret. “I reckon they all mavericks a little. Did yuh ever buy a
watermelon, Brick? Didja ever notice that it ain’t sweet and juicy
like the ones yuh stole when yuh was a kid? I reckon that cow-men
never grow up--not thataway.”
“It ain’t right,” argued Brick.
Silent squinted at Brick’s serious expression.
“It ain’t,” agreed Silent. “Far as I’m concerned I don’t give a
whoop-galoo how much they steal from each other, but this is your
play, Brick, and I’m backin’ yuh from my belt both ways. If you say
she’s wrong--she sure as ---- is wrong, as far as I’m concerned.”
“Much obliged, Silent,” said Brick absently.
“No, yuh ain’t,” grinned Silent, “’cause yuh never heard what I said.”
“I think I’ll ride out to the Weeping Tree,” said Brick, paying no
attention to Silent’s statement.
“You ain’t seen Scott Martin for almost an hour,” grinned Silent. “He’ll
wonder if you’re mad at him--or somethin’.”
* * * * *
Brick picked up his hat and walked out the rear door. At the rear of
the office stood the small stable. Brick saddled his horse and swung
into the street. He noticed that Lafe Freeman’s team and buckboard
were still at the hitch-rack, along with three saddle-horses.
Brick rode a single-footer, which ate up distance, and Brick, deep in
thought, suddenly realized that he had swung off the main road and was
within two miles of the Weeping Tree. He looped his reins around the
horn of the saddle and gave a little attention to the manufacture of a
cigaret. Suddenly his horse checked its stride and threw up its head.
Brick instinctively reached for his reins and glanced up. Coming up out
of the ravine, traveling towards the road was Scott Martin’s bay horse,
still saddled and with reins dragging. Brick spurred ahead and crowded
the horse against a sharp bank, where he got hold of the reins.
Brick’s first thought was that perhaps the horse had thrown Scott, but
the horse was too well broken and gentle to throw an average rider.
Perhaps Scott had cut across the hills and the horse had fallen with
him. Brick rode down the ravine, leading the bay. The horse showed no
signs of having fallen. Brick rode down the twisting ravine for
perhaps an eighth of a mile, when he suddenly heard the bawling of a
calf. He swung his horse through the thick mesquite and came out into
a small valley. Just beyond him a tiny trickle of smoke, like a blue
thread faded into the soft breeze. That fire could only mean one
thing--somebody was branding in the open range.
Brick started to get off his horse, when out of the brush came a big
spotted cow. There was no question but what that cow was angry. She
emitted a blood-curdling bawl and came straight at Brick, who dropped
the reins of the bay horse and spurred into the open. He whirled his
horse around, untying his rope.
The cow seemed undecided whether to chase the loose horse or the one
with the rider. Brick swung his loop and rode slowly in a circle. The
cow, instead of rushing at Brick, whirled suddenly and started across
the little valley on a lope. Brick spurred in behind her, belaboring
her with the heavy metal hondo on his lariat. With a bellow of alarm
the cow turned and went down the ravine, seemingly anxious to get
away.
Brick drew up and turned his horse. Within twenty feet of him smoldered
the tiny fire, and not over ten feet from the fire lay a calf, hog-tied.
It was a young calf--too young to brand.
Brick swung down from his saddle and walked over to the calf.
“No wonder the old lady went on the prod,” he muttered. “Some son of a
gun couldn’t wait for it to get weaned?”
Suddenly Brick’s eyes centered on an object just beyond the fire and
almost concealed from his view behind a mesquite tangle. Brick’s hand
flashed to his gun, and he walked slowly forward, the butt of his Colt
resting against his thigh.
It was a man, lying on his face, with arms outspread. Brick did not
have to turn him over to know it was Scott Martin. After the first
shock, Brick’s eyes swept the surrounding country. A hundred yards
away, outlined against the sky stood the spotted cow, watching for
her baby, but the cow was the only living thing in sight.
Brick knelt beside Scott Martin, drew down one of the outflung arms
and gently turned him over on his back. Martin was not dead. His eyes
were open and staring, and his heart-beats were jerky, but he was
still alive. Brick knew it was no use to examine the wound. Brick knew
nothing about surgery, except to try and stop the flow of blood, but
Scott Martin was not bleeding badly. There was a spot of blood between
his shoulders, but no sign of a wound in the front of his shirt.
* * * * *
Brick got to his feet. He did not know exactly what to do. Suddenly he
saw a rider, cutting the hill, far across the ravine. Brick waved his
hat and yelled, but the rider was too far away. Then Brick pointed his
pistol at the sky and six shots echoed across the hills. The horse
stopped. Brick waved his hat. The man swung his horse around and rode
straight toward Brick, who walked a little farther up on the hill and
waited.
The man was Lynn Barnhardt, of the Lazy H. He was traveling cautiously
up out of the ravine, when Brick called to him and he came on a gallop.
Brick walked back to where Martin lay.
“Howdy, Brick,” said Barnhardt, and then his eyes dropped to the man
lying at Brick’s feet. His glance swept to the trussed calf and the
smoldering fire and then back to Brick.
“Picks ’em young, don’t he?” Barnhardt’s voice was serious.
“Somebody shot him,” said Brick.
Barnhardt looked curiously at Brick and then down at Martin.
“Yeah, it looks kinda that way. Dead?”
“No. See anybody in the hills today, Lynn?”
Barnhardt shook his head.
“How yuh goin’ to get him to town?”
“Have to get a rig, I reckon. Will yuh stay here and--kinda watch him,
while I get a rig and a doctor, Lynn?”
“Sure--go ahead. Whose calf is that, Brick?”
“It never got branded,” replied Brick; “but its ma wears a Nine Bar
Nine.”
“Oh!” grunted Lynn. “Lafe Freeman’s, eh? Go ahead, Brick.”
Brick rode furiously back to Marlin City. Lafe Freeman’s team and
buckboard was still at the hitch-rack; so Brick went straight into
the Dollar Down. He found a poker game in progress, and Lafe Freeman
was sitting behind a large stack of chips.
“Scott Martin has been shot,” stated Brick. “Can I borrow your rig,
Lafe?”
“Shot?” exclaimed Bunch Thornton, starting out of his chair. “Scott
Martin?”
“In the back,” replied Brick. “Where’s Doc Meyers?--anybody know?”
“He’s over in the restaurant,” said Le Blanc. “I see her go in dere jus’
now. I’m go to her--me.”
Le Blanc lumbered out of the doorway and across the street, while Lafe
Freeman bow-legged his way to the hitch-rack.
Bunch Thornton bought a bottle of whisky from Bunty, shoved it into his
pocket and ran for his horse. Bunch believed that nothing was as good as
whisky in case of lead poisoning.
Doc Meyers came out of the restaurant door, urged by Le Blanc, who was
talking more French than English, much to Doc Meyers’ mystification.
Lafe yelled at the little doctor to come a-running, and the cavalcade
dashed out of town, Lafe and the doctor riding a bouncing buckboard
drawn by two running broncs, while ahead rode Brick and Bunch Thornton.
Brick and Bunch left the road near the ravine, but Lafe Freeman asked no
questions. He had often sworn that he could drive a buckboard anywhere a
man could ride a horse, and he almost proved it.
The doctor held on with both hands and prayed for the journey to end,
while Lafe whooped at the broncos and drove them down into the ravine
and out on the other side. The doctor fell off the seat a hundred
yards from where Barnhardt was speaking to Brick, but Lafe drew up
with a flourish and jumped out.
* * * * *
Doc Meyers lost no time in idle speculation. His examination was rapid,
and no one spoke during the time he opened the back of Martin’s shirt
and disclosed the bullet hole. The bullet had struck between the spine
and the shoulder blade, on the right side. Meyers bandaged the wound and
then motioned for them to put him in the buckboard.
“Is he hurt bad?” asked Brick softly.
“Yah. Bullet is in him yet. Likely one of them .41’s. That flat end on
the bullet kinda stops it. Looks like it paralyzed him. Maybe--we’ll
have to wait and see. Might be hard to recover the lead.”
Doc Meyers used no extra words. Mrs. Wesson had said that a diagnosis by
Doc Meyers sounded like a telegram prepaid by a stingy man.
“Goin’ to take him home, ain’t we?” asked Lafe.
Brick nodded.
“Yeah, I reckon it’s best, Lafe.”
Bunch Thornton released the calf, and headed it down the ravine. Brick
rode on the rear of the buckboard, helping the doctor hold Martin in an
easy position, while Lynn Barnhardt led Brick’s horse.
Jean Martin was standing in the doorway when they swung into the
quadrangle of the old Weeping Tree ranch-house. She gazed at them,
wide-eyed and then ran out to the buckboard. Jean Martin was a tall,
capable looking girl, with serious brown eyes and a tumbled mass of
brown hair, which never seemed to stay “put” as she expressed it.
Jean was barely past eighteen. Scott Martin had married her mother,
a widow, when Jean was barely ten years of age, and less than a year
later her mother had been killed by a misdirected bullet. Her love
for her foster-father was as strong as it would have been for her
own father. Although her name was not Martin, she had adopted her
step-father’s name, and was known to every one as Scott Martin’s
daughter.
Lafe Freeman tried to break it gently to her, but Jean only needed
to be told the nature of the wound. Brick tried to tell her how he
found her father, but she ran past him into the house to fix a bed.
Brick helped Barnhardt carry him into the house, and then the men
stood around silently and watched Doc Meyers prepare to try to find
the bullet.
Jean’s face was gray with the horror of it all, but she did not break
down nor whimper. Jean was built of stern stuff, and the men watched
her with a mixture of pity and admiration. Suddenly a figure darkened
the door and they turned to see Mrs. Wesson dressed in her slouch hat
and worn duster. She went straight to Jean and put her arm around the
girl’s waist.
“Honey, I came just as quick as I heard.”
Jean smiled wanly, and looked back at the doctor.
“---- that maverick law!” muttered Bunch Thornton.
Brick raised his eyes and stared at him. For the first time it came to
Brick that folks would think he had done it. He had found the tied
calf, the branding fire. Doc Meyers had spoken of the wound being made
by a .41 caliber bullet. Brick carried a .41. He remembered the queer
look that Barnhardt had given him.
Brick switched his gaze to Jean, and found her looking straight at him,
a look full of sorrow. Then she turned away.
Brick’s soul cried out against these suspicions, but his lips tightened.
It was damnable for any one to think he had done this, but how could he
prove his innocence? Right now, his pistol was filled with empty .41
cartridges and the gun was foul with burned powder.
Brick glanced at Lafe Freeman. Lafe’s lips were shut tight, but his
glance seemed to be a warning.
“They all think I done it,” thought Brick. His eyes swept the group near
the bed, and he turned and walked outside to his horse, where he mounted
and rode swiftly away. His mind was reaching out for a possible proof
that he did not shoot Martin, but there was nothing.
He rode swiftly to where he had intercepted Martin’s horse, and
dismounted. In the dust of the road he found a footprint, partly
obliterated by a wagon wheel. He searched up and down the road. Then
he found another track, like the track of a monster bird. He studied
this.
“Five toed bird!” he grunted. “Five toed ----! That’s the print of a
man’s hand!”
Just the one print. Beyond it was a mark where something had been
dragged through the dust. On the yellowed grass, near the edge of the
road he found a spatter of blood. It was almost dried in the sun, but
was undeniably fresh blood.
Brick ranged like a hunting dog. Suddenly he found another track--the
track of a horse. He examined it closely. The horse had crossed the
road, headed toward the ravine. Across the road was the ruins of an
old log and dobie cabin, almost concealed by brush.
Between the road and the ruin he found two more prints from the same
horse. Brick went back to his horse. There was nothing unusual about
finding the tracks of a shod horse, but Brick had never known a horse
to be shod in this manner. The tracks showed that the toe-calks had
been left entirely off the shoes, but the heel-calks were very
pronounced.
* * * * *
Bunty Blair hailed him from the saloon porch, as he came into town,
asking of news from Martin. Bunty looked queerly at Brick, as Brick was
unable to tell him anything further than that the doctor was probing for
the bullet.
Brick found “Harp” Harris humped up in the doorway of the office,
solemn of face and dejected of figure, trying to coax a tune from
his jew’s-harp. Nature had violated a precedent when she fashioned
Harp Harris. In physique, he was a perfect line from his bat-ears to
his ankles. An artist or sculptor might have used Harp for the model
of “The Lost Chord,” as he distorted his long, sad face over the
efforts of breathing a tune into the most humble of instruments.
Harp was foreman of the Nine Bar Nine outfit, and entirely capable,
which spoke well of his lack of artistic temperament.
He squinted up at Brick, but continued to “hung-g-g-g, hong-g” for
several seconds. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and
got to his feet. The office door was shut.
“Where’s Silent?” asked Brick.
Harp jerked his head toward the doorway. “Somebody kicked the door shut,
when I started to play.”
The door opened and Silent looked out. “Martin dead?” he asked quickly.
“No.” Brick shook his head. “Hurt bad, though. Doc thinks he was shot
with a .41. Who shoots a .41, Silent?”
“You do,” Silent grinned, but sobered up as Brick nodded.
“Gee cripes, Brick, I didn’t mean----”
“Looks kinda like I done it,” admitted Brick bitterly.
“He had it comin’ then,” stated Harp. “Some folks do take goshawful
chances in this here earthly sphere. Got time to look at somethin’ I
brought in?”
Brick opened his mouth to question Harp, but he of the slabsides was
already walking away.
“Foller him,” advised Silent. “I’ll sneak along behind. If I can ever
get him far enough away from town I’m goin’ to massacree him. The danged
porkypine’s settin’ on the doorstep for an hour, hongin’ ---- out of
‘After the Ball’.”
“Shucks,” drawled Harp. “You don’t know ‘Marchin’ Through Georgie’ from
‘Take Back Your Gold,’ you don’t.”
“I heard yuh play ’em,” grunted Silent, “but that wasn’t all yuh
played.”
“I never played either of them,” grinned Harp.
Silent rumbled threats of violence, as they followed Harp to a little
corral, which had been built out from Cale Wesson’s barn. In the corral
stood a red cow, while at her flank, huddling for protection, stood a
spotted calf.
The cow bore the brand of the Lazy H, while the little calf had been
branded with a crude Weeping Tree. Brick studied the two brands
silently.
“I picked ’em up when I was comin’ to town,” stated Harp.
“It ain’t none of my business, but I sure do hate to see folks slappin’
a hot, runnin’-iron on a poor li’l calf thataway. Been done a couple of
days ago, I reckon.”
“Bill Voorhies seen it?” asked Brick.
“No. He’ll be sore, I bet.”
“You heard about Scott Martin, didn’t yuh, Harp?”
“Only what Silent told me; and me and you both know Silent too well
to----”
Ordinarily, Brick would have enjoyed the word battles between Silent and
Harp, and would have been willing to explain it to Harp, but just now he
seemed tired of it all, and wordless. He was not even interested in this
new evidence against Martin.
Brick turned and walked back toward the street. Silent and Harp passed a
look of mutual understanding, and followed him to the street, just as
Lafe Freeman drove in with his buckboard, followed by Bunch Thornton and
Lynn Barnhardt. Thornton and Barnhardt went into the saloon, but Freeman
came over to Brick.
“Doc found the bullet,” said Lafe.
“Forty-one?” asked Brick, and Lafe nodded.
“Wasn’t hardly battered none. Doc’s afraid it went so close to the spine
that it might paralyze him. Martin ain’t conscious yet.”
Harp and Silent went slowly across the street to the saloon, and Brick
watched them go inside before he turned to Lafe.
“Lafe, I never shot Scott Martin.”
Lafe drew out a plug of tobacco and set his teeth into the edge of it.
“Zasso?” He rolled the tobacco into his cheek and squinted at Brick.
“Did you think I did, Lafe?”
“----!” Lafe spat contemptuously. “In the back?” Lafe shook his head,
and added, “But I ain’t everybody, Brick.”
Brick nodded his head. Lafe had said “everybody,” which included Jean
Martin. Silent and Harp had asked no questions. If Brick had shot Scott
Martin, according to their ideas, Scott Martin deserved the shot. Brick
turned to Lafe.
“Want to show yuh somethin’, Lafe.”
They walked back to the little corral, where Lafe looked at the brands.
The old cattleman shook his head.
“Was Scott Martin loco, Brick?”
“No.”
* * * * *
They walked back to the street, where Lafe turned and put his hand on
Brick’s shoulder.
“Brick, I know you didn’t shoot Scott Martin. I could swear it
by ---- and high-water, but--ain’t you got no alibi a-tall?”
“Martin would know who shot him, Lafe?”
“Not unless he’s got eyes in the back of his head, which he ain’t.”
“Go and find ’em, son. I told Doc Meyers to get hold of Doc Winchell,
down at Silverton. Mebbe the two of ’em can fix him up.”
Lafe went back to his buckboard and drove out of town, while Brick went
back to the office and sat down to think calmly.
Was Scott Martin branding that calf when he was shot? If he wasn’t,
what was he doing that far off the road? Did he maverick that Lazy H
calf, which Harp brought in? Would any man--any sane man, brand a
sucking-calf, whose ownership was unquestioned? Who had reasons for
killing Martin?
The questions seethed through Brick’s mind, but he could grasp no
solutions to any of them. He wrote out the questions, but was unable
to think calmly, because the thought, “Everybody thinks you shot him,”
kept hammering his brain. He stared at the ages-old reward notices,
with which most of the walls had been papered, but his thoughts were
far from the “Wanted” ones, whose faces stared down at him.
Silent came in softly and threw his hat on the table.
“Jeff Seldon’s up in the Dollar Down, faunchin’ to beat ----,” he
announced.
“What’s eatin’ him?” asked Brick absently.
“Says he found two of his Hereford calves branded with the Weepin’ Tree.
He says they was mavericks, which he was intendin’ to slap brands onto
right away. Seems that Frank Fellows found ’em up near the head of Piney
creek. Frank brings ’em in and throws ’em into a bunch near the Star
Dot, and today they finds ’em both mavericked.
“Seldon’s the only one around here that owns any Herefords. He rides
into town, mad as ----, and opines he’s goin’ out to the Weepin’ Tree
and jump on Martin all spraddled out. Bunty tells him what happened to
Scott Martin, and now Seldon’s sore at you. He was goin’ to claw Martin
to a fare-thee-well, and then he gets sore at you for--for----”
“For shootin’ Martin,” prompted Brick.
“He didn’t just say that, Brick. He said this country was tryin’ to
reform too ---- fast.”
“Well,” drawled Brick, “well, maybe he’s right, at that.”
Silent nodded over the manufacture of a cigaret, while Brick watched him
closely.
“Did you know I shot Scott Martin?” asked Brick.
Silent scratched a match and squinted at Brick through the smoke of his
cigaret.
“Uh-huh. Sure, I knowed it, Brick.” Silent pinched out the glowing match
and grinned at Brick. “Now that we’ve both lied--what next?”
“Prove it?” queried Silent, when Brick did not answer.
“No.” Brick shook his head. “Provin’ that I didn’t do it is goin’ to
take time. I reckon it’s up to us to prove who did do it, Silent.”
Silent walked to the door and looked up the street.
“Here comes your friend Seldon,” he remarked.
Seldon lost no time in idle gossip. He brushed past Silent and walked
over to Brick.
“Well, yore maverick law kinda started somethin’, didn’t it?” Seldon’s
tone of voice was like pouring vinegar into a raw sore. Brick leaned on
the edge of his desk and tried to control his temper. He knew there was
no use in arguing with Seldon.
“I’ll fight m’ own battles,” declared Seldon. “If Scott Martin wants
to steal all my cattle it’s none of your business, _sabe_? I’ll
settle with the thief in my own way.” Still Brick made no move; made
no attempt to reply. This emboldened Seldon. His overbearing temper
had found a target, and his little round eyes snapped. “I’ve handled
a lot of rustlers,” said Seldon, and made no attempt to lower his
voice, “I sure have, but I never shot one in the----”
He had meant to say “back.” Brick’s right hand shot out and the fingers
gripped into Seldon’s collar, cutting off the final word. Seldon clawed
for his gun, but Brick’s other arm circled his body, tearing his hand
away from the pistol butt and dropping the gun to the floor.
Brick picked Seldon up in his arms, carried him to the door, with Seldon
screaming curses and kicking vainly at Brick’s shins. Brick grinned at
Silent and started across the street. Seldon’s screams had attracted the
attention of Marlin City, and Brick and his burden had spectators as
they crossed the street to the Frenchman Le Blanc’s blacksmith shop.
* * * * *
Le Blanc looked up from his work-bench as Brick came in. Several men
crowded in behind them, stopping at the doorway of the shop.
Seldon’s conversation was incomprehensible, but the profanity was very
clear and emphatic. Brick carried him straight to Le Blanc’s slack-tub,
a half-barrel tub filled with very dirty water, in which the blacksmith
cooled hot metal. It was not a large tub, but Seldon was not a large
man. The immersion followed, while the audience stood in silent
enjoyment.
Five times did Brick immerse Seldon--immerse every bit of him, except
his feet, and the fifth time Seldon spat out the dirty water without
profanity. The water was very dirty, and the bottom of the tub was an
inch deep with iron flakes, filings and such sediment as a blacksmith
shop is heir to, and which did not serve to increase Seldon’s personal
appearance.
But Seldon did not curse any more. He was very meek as he sat on the
floor beside the tub and tried to sneeze the water out of his nose.
“Ba gar, she’s jus’ lak’ dip in hot iron!” grunted Le Blanc. “Get her
hot lak’ ---- and den dip queek and she’s mebbe spoil de temper. Ho,
ho, ho!”
Seldon shot Le Blanc a malevolent glance, but did not speak. He reminded
Brick of a rattler, pinned down and exhausted from striking at nothing.
Seldon got slowly to his feet and tottered out of the shop, a dripping
scarecrow. Without a word he went straight to the hitch-rack, where the
horses snorted their indignation of such an apparition, mounted his
horse and rode out of town.
“Me--I’m glad for dat,” grinned Le Blanc. “I’m no la’k dat sonn of a
gonn.”
“First bath he’s had since the Custer battle,” grinned Harp. “It sure
does change a man.”
No one asked Brick why he had ducked Seldon in the dirty water. It was
none of their business, and men in the cattle country are prone to mind
their own business; that is, if they desire peace and comfort. The
audience drifted back to their own business, leaving Brick and Le Blanc
standing in the doorway of the shop.
“You’ve shod a lot of horses, ain’t yuh, Le Blanc?” asked Brick.
“You bet,” nodded Le Blanc. “Shoe plenty cayuse. I’m wan good
horseshoe--me.”
The Frenchman swelled with self admiration. He had boasted of his
methods of building a proper horseshoe a thousand times, especially
when his belt was tightened around several drinks of straight gin,
his favorite liquor.
“What’s the idea of leavin’ the toe-calk off a shoe?”
Le Blanc wiped his mustache with a dirty hand.
“Leave de toe-calk h’off, Breek? Um-m-m--who do dat?”
“I dunno; I just wondered why anybody would.”
Le Blanc considered it a while.
“Sometame de cayuse she’s cut herself wit’ toe-calk, Breek. When she’s
lope her hin’ feet--” Le Blanc nodded violently. “I shoe cayuse lak’ dat
one time.”
“Whose cayuse?”
“Four years ago, Breek. I’m de blacksmit’ in Nort’ Dakota. One
blacksmit’ she’s shoe dis cayuse and de cayuse she’s cut her front
legs. De man she’s come to me and I tak’ off dem shoe. De man she’s
say to me for leave off de toe-calk. I’m remembair dees pony. She’s
jus’ broke. She’s keek ---- out of me.”
“Did it cure her of interferin’?” asked Brick.
“I never see no more. I’m t’ink she’s cure. Le Blanc wan good
horse-shoe.”
“Who shoes their own horses around here?”
“Who try to shoe?” queried Le Blanc, meaningly. “Well, de Nine Bar Nine,
de Lazy H, de--mos’ h’everybody, Breek, dey try to shoe cayuse.”
“The Star Dot?” asked Brick.
“Seldon nevair buy de horse-shoe from Le Blanc. Mebbe she’s buy from
Wesson.”
Brick nodded and walked back to the office. There did not seem to be a
thing to work on. Everything led into a blind corner.
* * * * *