The affair at Cactus Springs had more effect on the life at the Bar-20
than was realized by the foreman. News travels rapidly, and certain
men, whose attributes were not of the sweetest, heard of it and swore
vengeance, for Slim Travennes had many friends, and the result of his
passing began to show itself. Outlaws have as their strongest defense
the fear which they inspire, and little time was lost in making
reprisals, and these caused Buck Peters to ride into Buckskin one bright
October morning and then out the other side of the town. Coming to
himself with a start he looked around shamefacedly and retraced his
course. He was very much troubled, for, as foreman of the Bar-20, he
had many responsibilities, and when things ceased to go aright he was
expected not only to find the cause of the evil, but also the remedy.
That was what he was paid seventy dollars a month for and that was what
he had been endeavoring to do. As yet, however, he had only accomplished
what the meanest cook's assistant had done. He knew the cause of his
present woes to be rustlers (cattle thieves), and that was all.
Riding down the wide, quiet street, he stopped and dismounted before the
ever-open door of a ramshackle, one-story frame building. Tossing the
reins over the flattened ears of his vicious pinto he strode into the
building and leaned easily against the bar, where he drummed with his
fingers and sank into a reverie.
A shining bald pate, bowed over an open box, turned around and
revealed a florid face, set with two small, twinkling blue eyes, as the
proprietor, wiping his hands on his trousers, made his way to Buck's end
of the bar.
“Mornin', Buck. How's things?”
The foreman, lost in his reverie, continued to stare out the door.
“Mornin',” repeated the man behind the bar. “How's things?”
“Oh!” ejaculated the foreman, smiling, “purty cussed.”
“Anything flew?”
“Th' C-80 lost another herd last night.”
His companion swore and placed a bottle at the foreman's elbow, but
the latter shook his head. “Not this mornin'--I'll try one of them vile
cigars, however.”
“Them cigars are th' very best that--” began the proprietor, executing
the order.
“Oh, heck!” exclaimed Buck with weary disgust. “Yu don't have to palaver
none: I shore knows all that by heart.”
“Them cigars--” repeated the proprietor.
“Yas, yas; them cigars--I know all about them cigars. Yu gets them for
twenty dollars a thousand an' hypnotizes us into payin' yu a hundred,”
replied the foreman, biting off the end 'of his weed. Then he stared
moodily and frowned. “I wonder why it is?” He asked. “We punchers like
good stuff an' we pays good prices with good money. What do we get? Why,
cabbage leaves an' leather for our smokin' an' alcohol an' extract for
our drink. Now, up in Kansas City we goes to a sumptious layout, pays
less an' gets bang-up stuff. If yu smelled one of them K. C. cigars yu'd
shore have to ask what it was, an' as for the liquor, why, yu'd think
St. Peter asked yu to have one with him. It's shore wrong somewhere.”
“They have more trade in K. C.,” suggested the proprietor.
“An' help, an' taxes, an' a license, an' rent, an' brass, cut glass,
mahogany an' French mirrors,” countered the foreman.
“They have more trade,” reiterated the man with the cigars.
“Forty men spend thirty dollars apiece with yu every month.” The
proprietor busied himself under the bar. “Yu'll feel better to-morrow.
Anyway, what do yu care, yu won't lose yore job,” he said, emerging.
Buck looked at him and frowned, holding back the words which formed in
anger. What was the use, he thought, when every man judged the world in
his own way.
“Have yu seen any of th' boys?” He asked, smiling again.
“Nary a boy. Who do yu reckon's doin' all this rustlin'?”
“I'm reckonin', not shoutin',” responded the foreman.
The proprietor looked out the window and grinned: “Here comes one of
yourn now.”
The newcomer stopped his horse in a cloud of dust, playfully kicked the
animal in the ribs and entered, dusting the alkali from him with a huge
sombrero. Then he straightened up and sniffed: “What's burnin'?” he
asked, simulating alarm. Then he noticed the cigar between the teeth of
his foreman and grinned: “Gee, but yore a brave man, Buck.”
“Hullo, Hopalong,” said the foreman. “Want a smoke?” Waving his hand
toward the box on the bar.
Mr. Hopalong Cassidy side-stepped and began to roll a cigarette: “Shore,
but I'll burn my own--I know what it is.”
“What was yu doin' to my cayuse afore yu come in?” Asked Buck.
“Nothin',” replied the newcomer. “That was mine what I kicked in th'
corrugations.”
“How is it yore ridin' the calico?” Asked the foreman. “I thought yu was
dead stuck on that piebald.”
“That piebald's a goat; he's beein livin' off my pants lately,”
responded Hopalong. “Every time I looks th' other way he ambles over and
takes a bite at me. Yu just wait 'til this rustler business is roped,
an' branded, an' yu'll see me eddicate that blessed scrapheap into
eatin' grass again.” He swiped Billy's shirt th' other day--took it right
off th' corral wall, where Billy's left it to dry. Then, seeing Buck
raise his eyebrows, he explained: “Shore, he washed it again. That makes
three times since last fall.”
The proprietor laughed and pushed out the ever-ready bottle, but
Hopalong shoved it aside and told the reason: “Ever since I was up to K.
C. I've been spoiled. I'm drinkin' water an' slush.”
“For Pete's sake, has any more of yu fellers been up to K. C.?” queried
the proprietor in alarm.
“Shore: Red an' Billy was up there, too.” responded Hopalong. “Red's got
a few remarks to shout to yu about yore pain-killer. Yu better send for
some decent stuff afore he comes to town,” he warned.
Buck swung away from the bar and looked at his dead cigar. Then he
turned to Hopalong. “What did you find?” He asked.
“Same old story: nice wide trail up to th' Staked Plain--then nothin'.”
“It shore beats me,” soliloquized the foreman. “It shore beats me.”
“Think it was Tamale Jose's old gang?” Asked Hopalong.
“If it was they took th' wrong trail home--that ain't th' way to Mexico.”
Hopalong tossed aside his half-smoked cigarette. “Well, come on home;
what's th' use stewin' over it? It'll come out all O.K. in th' wash.”
Then he laughed: “There won't be no piebald waitin' for it.”
Evading Buck's playful blow he led the way to the door, and soon
they were a cloud of dust on the plain. The proprietor, despairing of
customers under the circumstances, absent-mindedly wiped oil on the bar,
and sought his chair for a nap, grumbling about the way his trade had
fallen off, for there were few customers, and those who did call were
heavy with loss of sleep, and with anxiety, and only paused long enough
to toss off their drink. On the ranges there were occurrences which
tried men's souls.
For several weeks cattle had been disappearing from the ranges and the
losses had long since passed the magnitude of those suffered when Tamale
Jose and his men had crossed the Rio Grande and repeatedly levied heavy
toll on the sleek herds of the Pecos Valley. Tamale Jose had raided once
too often, and prosperity and plenty had followed on the ranches and the
losses had been forgotten until the fall round-ups clearly showed that
rustlers were again at work.
Despite the ingenuity of the ranch owners and the unceasing vigilance
and night rides of the cow-punchers, the losses steadily increased until
there was promised a shortage which would permit no drive to the western
terminals of the railroad that year. For two weeks the banks of the Rio
Grande had been patrolled and sharp-eyed men searched daily for trails
leading southward, for it was not strange to think that the old raiders
were again at work, notwithstanding the fact that they had paid dearly
for their former depredations.
The patrols failed to discover anything out of the ordinary and the
searchers found no trails. Then it was that the owners and foremen of
the four central ranches met in Cowan's saloon and sat closeted together
for all of one hot afternoon.
The conference resulted in riders being dispatched from all the ranches
represented, and one of the couriers, Mr. Red Connors, rode north, his
destination being far-away Montana. All the ranches within a radius of
a hundred miles received letters and blanks and one week later the Pecos
Valley Cattle-Thief Elimination Association was organized and working,
with Buck as Chief Ranger.
One of the outcomes of Buck's appointment was a sudden and marked
immigration into the affected territory. Mr. Connors returned from
Montana with Mr. Frenchy McAllister, the foreman of the Tin-Cup, who was
accompanied by six of his best and most trusted men. Mr. McAllister and
party were followed by Mr. You-bet Somes, foreman of the Two-X-Two of
Arizona, and five of his punchers, and later on the same day Mr. Pie
Willis, accompanied by Mr. Billy Jordan and his two brothers, arrived
from the Panhandle. The O-Bar-O, situated close to the town of Muddy
Wells, increased its payroll by the addition of nine men, each of whom
bore the written recommendation of the foreman of the Bar-20. The C-80,
Double Arrow and the Three Triangle also received heavy reinforcements,
and even Carter, owner of the Barred Horseshoe, far removed from the
zone of the depredations, increased his outfits by half their regular
strength.
Buck believed that if a thing was worth doing at all that it was worth
doing very well, and his acquaintances were numerous and loyal. The
collection of individuals that responded to the call were noteworthy
examples of “gun-play” and their aggregate value was at par with twice
their numbers in cavalry.
Each ranch had one large ranch-house and numerous line-houses scattered
along the boundaries. These latter, while intended as camps for the
outriders, had been erected in the days, none too remote, when Apaches,
Arrapahoes, and even Cheyennes raided southward, and they had been
constructed with the idea of defense paramount. Upon more than one
occasion a solitary line-rider had retreated within their adobe walls
and had successfully resisted all the cunning and ferocity of a score
of paint-bedaubed warriors and, when his outfit had rescued him, emerged
none the worse for his ordeal.
On the Bar-20, Buck placed these houses in condition to withstand seige.
Twin barrels of water stood in opposite corners, provisions were stored
on the hanging shelves and the bunks once again reveled in untidiness.
Spare rifles, in pattern ranging from long-range Sharp's and buffalo
guns to repeating rifles, leaned against the walls, and unbroken boxes
of cartridges were piled above the bunks. Instead of the lonesome
outrider, he placed four men to each house, two of whom were to remain
at home and hold the house while their companions rode side by side on
their multi-mile beat.
There were six of these houses and, instead of returning each night to
the same line-house, the outriders kept on and made the circuit,
thus keeping every one well informed and breaking the monotony. These
measures were expected to cause the rustling operations to cease at
once, but the effect was to shift the losses to the Double Arrow, the
line-houses of which boasted only one puncher each. Unreasonable economy
usually defeats its object.
The Double Arrow was restricted on the north by the Staked Plain, which
in itself was considered a superb defense. The White Sand Hills formed
its eastern boundary and were thought to be second only to the northern
protection. The only reason that could be given for the hitherto
comparative immunity from the attacks of the rustlers was that its
cattle clung to the southern confines where there were numerous springs,
thus making imperative the crossing of its territory to gain the herds.
It was in line-house No. 3, most remote of all, that Johnny Redmond
fought his last fight and was found face down in the half ruined house
with a hole in the back of his head, which proved that one man was
incapable of watching all the loop holes in four walls at once. There
must have been some casualties on the other side, for Johnny was reputed
to be very painstaking in his “gunplay,” and the empty shells which lay
scattered on the floor did not stand for as many ciphers, of that his
foreman was positive.
He was buried the day he was found, and the news of his death ran
quickly from ranch to ranch and made more than one careless puncher
arise and pace the floor in anger. More men came to the Double Arrow and
its sentries were doubled. The depredations continued, however, and
one night a week later Frank Swift reeled into the ranch-house and fell
exhausted across the supper table. Rolling hoof-beats echoed flatly
and died away on the plain, but the men who pursued them returned empty
handed. The wounds of the unfortunate were roughly dressed and in his
delirium he recounted the fight. His companion was found literally shot
to pieces twenty paces from the door. One wall was found blown in, and
this episode, when coupled with the use of dynamite, was more than could
be tolerated.
When Buck had been informed of this he called to him Hopalong Cassidy,
Red Connors and Frenchy McAllister, and the next day the three men rode
north and the contingents of the ranches represented in the Association
were divided into two squads, one of which was to remain at home and
guard the ranches; the other, to sleep fully dressed and armed and never
to stray far from their ranch-houses and horses. These latter would be
called upon to ride swiftly and far when the word came.