“On the level, Miss Lancaster,” Jess Bledsoe was saying as they jogged
along the Buffalo Forks road, “Otis Carr is a mighty fine chap. All the
boys hereabouts like him. A little retiring, sometimes, and mighty
awkward all the time. But he’s pretty level-headed, except once in a
while when he lets his temper get away with him. And he knows the
cattle business from hoof to ears, and range to stockyards.”
Mariel smiled. “Margaret worships her big brother,” she volunteered.
“She used to show me his letters while we were at school together. From
what she told me about him, I rather expected to find him a sort of
superman. He isn’t at all as I pictured him.”
Jess glanced at her curiously. “You aren’t disappointed, are you?” he
asked with just a trace of jealousy in his query.
“Indeed I’m not,” Mariel replied, looking away. “He isn’t a superman by
any means. He’s very human.” And then, as an afterthought, she added:
“And modest!”
Jess looked at her a trifle suspiciously. “You know,” he said, “there’s
grown to be quite a friendly rivalry between Otis and me.” Mariel shot
a doubtful and inquiring glance at him. “Each of us wants to be the
first to catch the rustlers who have been getting into our stock,” he
went on; and Mariel breathed a sigh of relief.
“We both believe the Radley boys over in Jackson’s Hole are the ones
responsible for all this rustling, but so far, we haven’t been able to
prove a thing. If the boys ever catch them at it--well, it’s going to
be pretty tough on the Radley brothers.”
“But isn’t cattle--er--rustling just plain stealing?”
“Some say it’s worse than that, Miss Mariel.”
“Well, then, why don’t the police, or whoever enforces the laws, arrest
these people and bring them to trial?”
Jess laughed good-naturedly.
“Well, there’s several reasons for that. The penalty provided by the
law isn’t stiff enough to worry the rustlers much. So the cattle men
sort of figure that they can attend to the situation without bothering
the Sheriff about it. And they can, usually-- if they’re smart enough.
But it seems that none of us hereabouts is quite smart enough to catch
them in the act. They do say that sooner or later they all get caught.
But as long as these rustlers don’t overplay their hand, they may
continue to get by almost indefinitely.
“They say that a good many of the ranches in this country were built up
by the--er--foresight of their owners in keeping a keen eye on
mavericks, and in not being too particular as to what stock they placed
their brands on.
“Now, maybe these rustlers are just following their example. Maybe they
intend to build up a herd the way the others have done, and then quit
rustling and operate--er--legitimately.
“In the second place, the Sheriff can’t go out and arrest Soggy Radley
or his brother just because Otis Carr or I or anyone else happens to
entertain a suspicion that they’re cattle rustlers. Remember, such a
charge would have to be tried before a jury, and so the Sheriff would
have to have something more than suspicion before he made an arrest.
And maybe the jury would include one or two cow-men who hadn’t been so
particular themselves in slapping their brands on stray stock. So, even
if you’ve got pretty conclusive evidence, that doesn’t necessarily mean
a conviction.
“No, the boys figure on handling the situation themselves, and I guess
it’s just as well. Sooner or later Otis or I or some one else is going
to get something on these Radley boys. And then they’ll decide to drift
along through the Tetons to Idaho or somewhere where the climate’s more
agreeable. If they don’t--well, they’ll get what Ed Gunn the outlaw
got, when he shot this finger off. They hanged him afterward.”
* * * * *
Mariel, puzzled, shook her head.
“I don’t know that I quite get your point of view out here,” she told
Jess soberly. “At home when anything like this happens, we go to the
proper authorities, and they do something about it. Here you seem to
take things into your own hands, without regard for authorities--that
is, if you don’t actually oppose the authorities, as in the case of the
forest rangers.”
Jess turned in his saddle and peered at her searchingly.
“Did Otis tell you about our trouble with the ranger here?”
“That picturesque old cowboy, Mr. Sample, told me about some
bloodthirsty plot which was being concocted to frighten the ranger into
leaving this region. I think it’s a cowardly thing to do!”
“Old Simp?” Jess laughed. “He shoots off his mouth just to hear himself
talk. I wouldn’t believe everything he says, Miss Mariel.”
“Then it isn’t true?”
“Well--” Jess hesitated. Without answering her question, he asked: “Did
old Simp mention--er--anyone in particular?”
“I think he spoke of their drawing lots to choose one of their number
to deliver the threat to the ranger. But I believe he said the man
refused to be a party to the outrageous proceeding.”
“Did he mention any names?”
“No, I think not. Why? Do you know the man?”
Jess grunted. “Now, Miss Mariel, you’re asking me to tell you something
I shouldn’t.”
Mariel lifted her eyebrows. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Bledsoe. I have no
desire to pry into any of your secrets.... Look at those black clouds.
Don’t you think we’d better turn back to the far--ranch, I mean?”
Jess was worried, and showed it.
“You wouldn’t want me to turn talebearer, would you, Miss Mariel?” he
asked her.
“Not at all,” Mariel replied coolly, reining in her horse. “Don’t you
think it’s going to rain?”
Jess laid a gloved hand on her bridle.
“Now, Miss Mariel, I didn’t mean to offend you,” he pleaded. “Can’t you
see the position you put me in?”
Mariel turned her back on him--perhaps that he might not see the smile
playing about her lips.
“But you admit there was such a conspiracy?”
“If you want to call it that--yes.”
“And Mr. Sample wasn’t stuffing me, then?”
“In the main he was right, I suppose. But old Simp does love to paint
things in lurid colors.”
“And you don’t think it’s going to rain?”
Jess scanned the black clouds which now obscured the Tetons.
“These mountain showers don’t last very long. We can find shelter under
some of these overhanging rocks.”
“I think I prefer to start back to the ranch. Isn’t this thing rolled
up behind my saddle a raincoat?”
“It’s a slicker, Miss Mariel. If you really want to turn back, you’d
better put it on before we start.”
* * * * *
At a glance from her he leaned over, untied the thongs which held the
slicker, and without dismounting, held it while she thrust her arms in
the sleeves.
Mariel, unaccustomed to the foibles of Western horses, drew the yellow
oilskin forward with a widespread flourish. Instantly Dynamite, old but
temperamental, leaped forward and bolted. Ears laid back, his body
close to the ground, he started down the Buffalo Forks road, bent on
outrunning the flapping slicker which had frightened him.
His first leap had almost dislodged Mariel from the saddle. She did not
scream, but a startled cry of alarm burst from her lips as Dynamite
bolted.
She had let the reins drop as she had raised her arms to don the
slicker. Now she clutched at the pommel, and clung to it with every
ounce of her strength.
Instantly Jess had dug his spurs into his white-stockinged chestnut. He
was but two lengths behind old Dynamite, and the chestnut was a far
fleeter animal.
Jess might have overtaken Dynamite, and forced him to stop by crowding
him into the embankment on the far side of the road. Or he might have
grasped the bolting horse’s bridle, causing him to slow down gradually.
But Jess was nothing if not dramatic. He spurred the chestnut forward
until he was racing neck-and-neck with Dynamite. He leaned over and
grasped Mariel about the waist. He threw his weight back and dragged
her from the saddle, meanwhile reining in the chestnut, which came
jerkily to a halt.
Jess lowered the girl to the ground. He leaped from the saddle, and an
instant later was supporting her with an arm about her waist.
For a moment Mariel clung to him, gasping. Slowly the color returned to
her face. Presently she moved away from him uncertainly. He made as if
to follow her, but was fended off by an outstretched arm.
“Oh!” she panted, speaking for the first time. “That was splendid of
you, Mr. Bledsoe! Why, I might have been killed!”
“It was nothing,” Jess assured her with every appearance of modesty.
“I’m glad I could be of service--Mariel.”
It was the first time he had addressed her by her first name. She
affected to take no notice of it.
“I don’t know how I can ever repay you,” she protested. “If it hadn’t
been for--”
“Forget it!” Jess interrupted magnanimously. “If you feel faint--” He
stepped forward again.
“Oh, I’m all right now,” she assured him with a little laugh. “Look at
Dynamite. He’s cropping the grass as if he’d never in the world thought
of running away.”
Jess knew better than to attempt to press his advantage too far. He
stalked forward with jingling spurs and grasped the bridle of Dynamite,
who had come to a halt a score of yards away.
“I--I guess we’d better start back. It’s starting to rain,” she
faltered, plainly a bit afraid of her mount, who eyed her innocently
when Jess led him back.
“Don’t let him see you’re scared of him,” Jess advised, cupping his
hands to help her into the saddle. “Just keep that slicker from
flapping, and he wont try it again.”
The pounding of hoofs became audible down the road. Both turned, and
presently a horseman rounded a turn in the road at a full gallop. He
drew in as he came abreast them. It was Spider Ponsonby, a lanky member
of the Footstool outfit.
“Heard the news?” he called. And then, without waiting for a reply:
“Ranger Joe Fyffe was murdered last night. And the Sheriff’s got Otis
Carr under arrest!”