SENTENCED
Everybody at the Bar T ranch house was laboring under suppressed
excitement. It was now the middle of June when the yearly round-up should
be under way, yet, owing to the invasion of the sheep and the recent
rustler troubles, the cowboys had not been free to undertake this task.
On other ranches this spring work was well advanced, and the fact that the
Bar T had not yet begun was a source of constant worry to Bissell and
Stelton. The former, when he had sent out his call for other cowmen of the
region, had encountered great difficulty in getting his neighbors to give
up their time to the disposal of Bud Larkin's case.
At last, however, ten owners, impatient at the summons and anxious to
return as quickly as possible to their work, had ridden in, some of them
alone and others with a cowboy taken from the round-up.
Since the Bar T ranch house was incapable of accommodating them all, the
punchers had been ousted from their bunk-house and the structure given
over to the visitors.
The sudden disappearance of the Chinese cook had added to Bissell's
troubles and shamed the hospitality of his home. This situation had been
relieved temporarily by the labors of Mrs. Bissell and Juliet until an
incompetent cowboy had been pressed into service at an exorbitant figure.
Therefore it was with short temper and less patience that Bissell began
what might be called the trial of Larkin. The meeting-place of the men was
under a big cottonwood that stood by the bank of the little stream curving
past the Bar T.
As each man arrived from his home ranch he was made acquainted with the
situation as it stood, and one afternoon Larkin was brought out from his
room to appear before the tribunal. The owners were determined to end the
matter that day, mete out punishment, and ride back to their own ranches
in the morning.
It was a circle of stern-faced, solemn men that Larkin faced under the
cottonwood tree, and as he looked at one after another, his heart sank,
for there appeared very little of the quality of mercy in any of them.
Knowing as he did the urgency that was drawing them home again, he feared
that the swiftness of judgment would be tempered with very little reason.
Bissell as head of the organization occupied a chair, while at each side
of him five men lounged on the grass, their guns within easy reach. Larkin
was assigned to a seat facing them all, and, looking them over, recognized
one or two. There was Billy Speaker, of the Circle-Arrow, whom he had once
met, and Red Tarken, of the M Square, unmistakable both because of his
size and his flaming hair.
"Now, Larkin," began Bissell, "these men know what you've been tryin' to
do to my range--"
"Do they know what you did to my sheep?" interrupted Bud crisply.
Bissell's face reddened at this thrust, for, deep down, he knew that the
stampede was an utterly despicable trick, and he was not over-anxious to
have it paraded before his neighbors, some of whom had ridden far at his
request.
"Shut yore mouth," he snarled, "an' don't yuh open it except to answer
questions."
"Oh, no, yuh can't do that, Bissell," and blond Billy Speaker shook his
head. "Yuh got to give 'im a chance to defend himself. Now we're here we
want to get all the facts. What did yuh do to his sheep, Beef? I never
heard."
"I run a few of 'em into the Little River, if yore any happier knowin',"
snapped Bissell, glowering on Speaker.
Larkin grinned.
"Two thousand of 'em," he volunteered. There was no comment.
"These gents know," went on Bissell, after a short pause, "that yuh were
two days with them rustlers and that yuh can tell who they are if yuh
will. Now will yuh tell us how you got in with 'em in the first place?"
Bud began at the time of the crossing of the Big Horn and with much detail
described how he had outwitted the Bar T punchers with the hundred sheep
under Pedro, while the rest of the flock went placidly north. His manner
of address was good, he talked straightforwardly, and with conviction and,
best of all, had a broad sense of humor that vastly amused these cowmen.
Sympathetic though they were with Bissell's cause, Larkin's story of how a
despised sheepman had outwitted the cattle-king brought grins and
chuckles.
"I allow yuh better steer clear o' them sheep, Bissell," suggested one man
drolly. "First thing yuh know this feller'll tell yuh he's bought the Bar
T away from yuh without yore knowin' it. Better look up yore land grant
to-night."
By this time Bissell had become a caldron of seething rage. His hand
actually itched to grab his gun and teach Larkin a lesson. But his
position as chairman of the gathering prevented this, although he knew
that plains gossip was being made with every word spoken. Among the cowmen
about him were some whose ill success or smaller ranches had made them
jealous, and, in his mind, he could see them retailing with much relish
what a fool Larkin had made of him. He knew he would meet with reminders
of this trial during the rest of his life.
However, he stuck to his guns.
"Now what we want to know, young feller, is this: the names an'
descriptions of them rustlers."
"I will give them to you gladly and will supply men to help run them down
at my own expense if you will let the rest of my sheep come north on your
range. Not only that, but I will not ask any damages for the animals you
have already killed. Now, men," Larkin added, turning to the others and
with a determined ring in his voice, "I want peace. This fighting is
cutting our own throats and we are losing money by the hour.
"The range is free, as all of you know; there is a law against fencing it,
and that means that no grangers can settle here and make it pay--the
animals would eat all their unfenced farm truck. I have a ranch in Montana
with about three thousand sheep on it. I tried to buy more there, but
couldn't.
"Therefore, I had to come down south and 'walk' them north. Now I don't
like to fight anybody, chiefly because it costs too much; but in a case
like this, when I find a dog in the manger"--he looked directly at
Bissell--"I make it a principle to kick that dog out of the manger and use
it.
"I am just as much of an American as any of you, and Americans never had a
habit of letting other people walk all over them. Now you men can do
anything with me you want--I can't prevent you. But I can warn you that if
I am judged in any way it will be the worst job the cowmen of Wyoming ever
did.
"Understand, this isn't a threat, it's just a statement. Because I refuse
to turn in and help that man, who has done his best to ruin me, he wants
me to suffer the same penalty as a criminal. Now I leave it to you. Has he
much of a case?"
Bud, who had risen in the fervor of his speech, sat down and looked at his
hearers. Never in his life had he pleaded for anything, but in this moment
necessity had made him eloquent. He had hardly taken his seat when Mike
Stelton strolled over and sat down on the grass.
For a few minutes there was silence as the men, slow of thought, revolved
what Larkin had said. Bissell, ill-concealing his impatience, awaited
their comments anxiously. At last Billy Speaker remarked:
"I can't see your bellyache at all, Bissell. It seems to me you've acted
pretty ornery."
"I have, eh?" roared Beef, stung by this cool opinion. "Would yuh let
sheep go up yore range? Tell me that, would yuh?"
"I allow I might manage," was the contemptuous retort. "They're close
feeders on the march, an' don't spread out noways far."
Bissell choked with fury, but subsided when another man spoke.
"I figure we're missin' the point, fellers," he said. "This here
association of our'n was made for the purpose of doin' just what Bissell
has been tryin' to do--that is, keep the range clear for the cows. We
don't care what it is that threatens, whether it's sheep, or wolves, or
rustlers, or prairie fires. This association is supposed to pertect the
cows.
"Now I 'low that Mr. Larkin has had his troubles right enough, but that's
his fault. You warned him in time. I'm plumb regretful he's lost his
sheep, but that don't let him out of tellin' us where them rustlers are.
It's a pretty mean cuss that'll cost us thousands of dollars a year just
for spite or because he can't drive a hard bargain.
"Up on my place I've lost a hundred calves already, but I'd be mighty glad
to lose a hundred more if I could see the dirty dogs that stole 'em
kickin' from a tree-limb. An' I'm in favor of a tree-limb for anybody who
won't tell."
"Yore shore gettin' some long-winded, Luby," remarked a tall man who
smoked a pipe, "an' likewise yore angry passions has run away with yore
sense. Yuh can't string a man up because he won't talk; 'cause if yuh do
we'll sick the deputy sheriff on yuh an' mebbe you'll go to jail."
The speaker rolled a droll, twinkling eye at Bissell and the whole
gathering burst into a great guffaw at his expense. This was all the more
effective since Bissell had decorated the outside of his vest with the
nickel-plated star of his authority.
At this sally he nearly had apoplexy and bawled out for a drink, which
somebody accommodatingly supplied from a flask, although such things were
rarely carried.
When the merriment had subsided a fourth man volunteered the opinion that,
although there was nothing that could force Bud to tell what he knew,
still, such a defiance of their organization should not go unpunished. The
fact that the cowmen were opposed to the entrance of sheep into the
territory was enough excuse, he thought, to make an example of Bud Larkin
and thus keep other ambitious sheepmen away from the range in this
section.
One after another of the men gave their opinions and finally lined up in
two camps, the first resolved on punishing Larkin in some manner, and the
second in favor of letting him go with a warning that he must take the
consequences if he ever attempted to walk any more sheep over the Bar T
range or any other range of the association.
As has been said, the right of justice and fair-dealing was the very
backbone of the cattle-raising industry, and owners depended almost
entirely upon other men's recognition of it to insure them any profits in
the fall.
For this reason six of the eleven men were in favor of letting Larkin go.
The matter rested with the majority vote and was about to be put to the
final ballot when Mike Stelton got on his feet and asked if he might put a
few questions.
Bissell, only too eager for any delay or interruption that might change
the sentiment of the majority, granted the request.
Stelton's dark face was illumined for a moment with a crafty smile, and
then he said:
"Yuh know a man by the name of Smithy Caldwell, don't yuh?"
"Yes," said Bud, cautiously, not seeing quite where the question might
lead.
"He was in that stampede with yuh, wasn't he?"
"Yes."
"He was one of the party sent out to string yuh up, wasn't he?"
This time there was a long hesitation as Bud tried vainly to catch the
drift of the other's interrogation.
"Yes," he answered slowly at last.
"Well, then, he must have been one of the rustlers," cried Stelton in a
triumphant voice, turning to the rest of the men, who were listening
intently.
"All right, I admit it," remarked Larkin coolly. "I don't see where that
is taking you."
"Just keep yore shirt on an' yuh will in a minute," retorted Stelton.
"Now just one or two more questions.
"Do you remember the first night Caldwell came to the Bar T ranch?"
Larkin did not answer. A premonition that he was in the toils of this man
concerning that dark thing in his past life smote him with a chill of
terror. He remembered wondering that very night whether or not Stelton had
been listening to his talk with Caldwell. Then the recollection suddenly
came to him that, even though he had heard, the foreman could not expose
the thing that was back of it all. Once more he regained his equilibrium.
"Yes, I remember that night," he said calmly.
"All right!" snapped Stelton, his words like pistol-shots. "Then yuh
remember that Smithy Caldwell got five hundred dollars from yuh after a
talk by the corral, don't you?"
"Yes," replied Larkin, in immense relief that Stelton had not mentioned
the blackmail.
"Well, then, gents," cried the foreman with the air of a lawyer making a
great point, "yuh have the admission from Larkin that he gave money
secretly to one of the rustlers. If that ain't connivance and ackchul
support I'm a longhorn heifer."
He sat down on the grass triumphantly.
It seemed to Bud Larkin as though some gigantic club had descended on the
top of his head and numbed all his senses. Careful as he had been, this
wily devil had led him into a labyrinthic maze of questions, the end of
which was a concealed precipice. And, like one of his own sheep, he had
leaped over it at the leader's call!
He looked at the faces of his judges. They were all dark now and
perplexed. Even Billy Speaker seemed convinced. Bud admitted to himself
that his only chance was to refute Stelton's damaging inference. But how?
The cowmen were beginning to talk in low tones among themselves and there
was not much time. Suddenly an idea came. With a difficult effort he
controlled his nervous trepidation.
"Men," he said, "Stelton did not pursue his questions far enough."
"What d'yuh mean by that?" asked Bissell, glaring at him savagely.
"I mean that he did not ask me what Caldwell actually did with the money I
gave him. He made you believe that Smithy used it for the rustlers with my
consent. That is a blamed lie!"
"What did he do with it?" cried Billy Speaker.
"Ask Stelton," shouted Bud, suddenly leaping out of his chair and
pointing an accusing finger at the foreman. "He seems to know so much
about everything, ask him!"
The foreman, dazed by the unexpected attack, turned a surprised and
harrowed countenance toward the men as he scrambled to his feet. He cast
quick, fearful glances in Larkin's direction, as though attempting to
discover how much of certain matters that young man actually knew.
"Ask him!" repeated Bud emphatically. "There's a fine man to listen to,
coming here with a larkum story that he can't follow up."
"Come on, Stelton, loosen yore jaw," suggested Billy Speaker. "What did
this here Caldwell do with the money?"
Stelton, his face black with a cloud of rage and disappointment, glared
from one to another of the men, who were eagerly awaiting his replies.
Larkin, watching him closely, saw again those quick, furtive flicks of the
eye in his direction, and the belief grew upon him that Stelton was
suspicious and afraid of something as yet undreamed of by the rest. Larkin
determined to remember the fact.
"I don't know what he done with the money," growled the foreman at last,
admitting his defeat.
"Why did you give Caldwell five hundred in the first place, Larkin?" asked
Bissell suddenly.
"That is a matter between himself and me only," answered Bud freezingly,
while at the same time he sat in fear and trembling that Stelton would
leap before the cowmen at this new cue and retail all the conversation of
that night at the corral.
But for some reason the foreman let the opportunity pass and Bud wondered
to himself what this sudden silence might mean.
He knew perfectly well that no gentle motive was responsible for the
fellow's attitude, and wrote the occurrence down on the tablets of his
memory for further consideration at a later date.
After this there was little left to be done. Stelton's testimony had
failed in its chief purpose, to compass the death of Larkin, but it had
not left him clear of the mark of suspicion and he himself had little idea
of absolute acquittal. Under the guard of his sharpshooting cow-puncher he
was led back to his room in the ranch house to await the final judgment.
In an hour it was delivered to him, and in all the history of the range
wars between the sheep and cattle men there is recorded no stranger
sentence. In a land where men were either guilty or innocent, and,
therefore, dead or alive, it stands alone.
It was decided by the cowmen that, as a warning and example to other sheep
owners, Bud Larkin should be tied to a tree and quirted, the maximum of
the punishment being set at thirty blows and the sentence to be carried
out at dawn.