PASO CABRAS
They did not make butter on the Three Star.
Since the arrival of Molly an unwilling and refractory cow had been
brought in from the range and half forced, half coaxed to give the fresh
milk that Mormon insisted the girl needed. Until then evaporated milk
had suited all hands. But butter--to go with hot cakes and
sage-honey--was an imperative need for the riders. Riders demanded the
best quality in the "found" part of their wages and the three partners
supplied it. The butter came over weekly from the Bailey ranch to be
kept under the spring cover for cooling. Usually the gangling young Ed
Bailey brought it over in the crotchety flivver. When Sandy saw the
sparsely fleshed figure of Miranda Bailey seated by the driver he winced
in spirit. This second visitation looked like mere curiosity and gossip
and offset the opinion he had begun to form of the spinster--that she
was sound underneath her angularities and mannerisms.
It was twilight. The three partners and Molly were on the ranch-house
porch after supper, and there was no escape. Sam slid his harmonica into
his pocket silently and Mormon groaned aloud as the rattlebang car
chugged up and was braked, shaking all over until the engine was shut
off. Ed Bailey crossed his legs and rolled his cigarette. No one at the
Three Star had ever seen him alight from the car, Mormon insisted he ate
and slept in it. Miranda nodded at the three partners, who rose as she
came up the steps.
"You sure need some new clothes, child," she said to Molly. "You got to
have 'em. I heard you was shot," she went on to Sam. "That sling ain't
right. You should have it fixed so yore wrist is higher'n yore elbow.
Who's tendin' it?"
"It's healin' fine," said Sam. "I'm pure-blooded an' my flesh allus
heals quick."
Miranda sniffed.
"I reckon prohibition helps some," she retorted. "Now then, I come on
business. Sandy Bourke, you ain't any of you the legal guardian of that
child, air you?"
"Nothin' illegal in what we're doin', I reckon."
"I didn't ask you that. You-all ain't got papers?"
With the question she wriggled her eyebrows, shifted her glance and
generally twisted her features in what Sandy interpreted plainly enough
as a suggestion that Molly should be eliminated from the talk. He did
not agree with the spinster. It was Molly's prime affair and he knew
that she would resent being treated too childishly in regard to her own
concerns. Sandy had gentled too many high-spirited fillies and colts not
to have found out that methods that apply to well-bred quadrupeds are
generally coefficient with humans. He shook his head slightly at Miss
Bailey's signaling.
"Jest what's the idea?" he asked. "Some one figgerin' on makin' her stay
at the Three Star unpleasant? Fur as jest gossip is concerned, it don't
have any weight with none of us an' there ain't no sense in mentionin'
it."
"'Pears you ain't givin' me over an' above credit for sense," said
Miranda, a bit grimly. "This ain't gossip. Ef you're bound the gel is to
sit in with her elders I'll go right ahead. I got a lot of chores to do
yet, deliverin' butter, an' the car's actin' up uncertain. Here 'tis. I
got it direct from my brother who's heard the talk that's goin' round.
You've run foul of Jim Plimsoll--or he foul of you, which is more
likely. Plimsoll an' Eke Jordan, the sheriff, are like two peas in a
pod. The sheriff's got the inside of local politicks, so fur. When we
wimmen git to votin' this fall things is goin' to be different. Right
now, he's in. He an' the courts of this county are all striped the same
way. Reg'lar zebras. Penitentiary pattern 'ud match their skins. Mebbe
some of 'em ought to be wearin' it.
"Now for the meat of the nut. They're figgerin' on gettin' control of
the gel away from you-all. They'll use argymints for the general public
that she's too young to be keepin' house for three unmarried men,
leastwise three men who ain't livin' with their wives." She looked
pointedly at Mormon. "They'll rouse up opinion enough for a change.
They'd like to app'int a guardian of their own kidney. Mebbe we can
block that if one of us comes out an' offers to take her. I'd be glad
to, for one, an' do the right thing by her."
Molly walked over to Sandy's chair and stood behind it, her eyes
widening, her breath beginning to come quickly.
"There's some talk about her father's claims over to Dynamite lookin'
up. Party of easterners over that way lately, nosin' around to find out
owners, lookin' up assessment work an' so on. Talk of a boom. I reckon
Plimsoll's twigged that. Lawyer Feeder, who run for state senator an'
whose record's none too dainty, is in cahoots with Jordan an' Plimsoll.
Ed heard they figger on goin' before Judge Vanniman, one of their crowd,
to get an order of court. She's a minor. They can git her away from you.
If we crowd them too hard for them to app'int one of their own ring--an'
they're figgerin' on Plimsoll, he claimin' to be her father's
partner--they'll likely have her put in some institution. An' it's goin'
to be done right sudden. I w'udn't wonder, from all I hear, but what
they're over here ter-morrer with a court order. An' you can't fight the
courts 's long as they're in authority, the way you fought Jim
Plimsoll."
Molly stepped out, eyes flashing, fists clenched, talking passionately.
"I won't go with 'em. I'll run away. They can't take me. Jim Plimsoll is
a damned liar. You won't let 'em take me?" She turned to Sandy, her arms
stretched in appeal.
"No, Molly, I won't. Will we, boys?"
"You can bet everything you got an' ever hope to own we won't," said
Sam.
"That goes for me," echoed Mormon, but he scratched his fringe of hair
in some perplexity.
"Talk don't beat an order of the court," said Miranda Bailey. "Mebbe I
seem sort of vinegary to you, child, but I'm not a bad sort. My brother
Ed has got somethin' to say in this community an' I'm likely to control
a few votes this fall myself. I figger if you came home with me to-day
we c'ud manage to git you placed with us. There's been tattle about you
stoppin' here. You're fifteen--an'...."
"Some folks is jest plumb rotten," flared Molly. "I'm no kid. I ... _oh,
if_ Dad was alive!"
Sandy stood up and slid an arm about her shaking shoulders. She wheeled
and buried her head on his shoulder, sobbing.
"We're powerful obliged to you, Miss Bailey, for what you told us," said
Sandy. "I'm right sure you'd give Molly a fine home, but we got other
plans an' we aim to carry 'em out. Plimsoll's a skunk an' I'll block his
game about the mines ef they amount to anything. Molly's goin' east for
her eddication. She's got plenty money to git the best that's goin' an'
she's goin' to have it."
"Then you better git her 'cross the county line before many hours are
over." Miranda Bailey recognized something better than mere decision in
Sandy's voice, she was not the leading suffragist of the county for
lack of brains. But there was true regret in her voice as she went on.
"I'm sorry she don't cotton to the idee of comin' over to our place. A
woman needs a woman's company." At the diplomatic concession to her
maturity Molly gave the spinster a mollified glance. Miss Bailey climbed
into the machine.
"You aim on takin' her out of the county to the railroad ter-morrer?"
she asked. "What school is she goin' to?"
"We ain't settled all the details," said Sandy. "But we'll do that all
right. We'll git ready soon's we can. Meantime, we'll keep our eyes
peeled ter-morrer against any order from Hereford."
"Want to use this car? I'll bring it over early. Ed can drive it."
The gangling youth for the first time showed an intelligent interest in
anything outside of his cigarette.
"Fo' time's sake, aunt," he said, "'twouldn't be no manner of good if it
come down to a runnin' chase. Nearest depot's fifty mile' across the
county line. Racin' this car ag'in' the sheriff's 'ud be like matchin' a
flea ag'in' a grasshopper. Dern it, she's balked ag'in." He wrestled
with the crank, conquered it and the machine shivered like a hunting dog
while his aunt adjusted spark and gas. She nodded to him to start and
they moved off, Miranda waving a farewell as she called out, "Good
luck!"
"Some sport!" announced Sam. "That's the kind of woman you sh'ud have
married, Mormon."
Molly, excited now, demanded audience.
"When do we start?" she asked eagerly. "Will you wait till they come out
from Hereford?"
"I got to think out things a bit, Molly," said Sandy. "I figger we'll
git a start on 'em, ef you can git ready. In the mornin'."
"I haven't got much to take."
"We'll buy you an outfit."
"Horseback?"
Sandy looked at her with puckered eyes.
"Can't tell you what I ain't sure of myse'f," he drawled. "One thing is
sure, you got to tuhn in an' git a good rest. Ef we slide out it won't
be all a pleasure trip. I reckon Plimsoll means business. An' he's sure
got the county machinery behind him right now."
"I can take Grit?"
"W'udn't want to leave us somethin' to remember you by?" asked Sandy.
"Somethin' to help make sure you'll come back?"
"I'd allus come back, to visit Dad," she said. "But Grit...? I don't
want to leave Grit."
"It 'ud be a hard trip fo' him this way, Molly. I ain't sure about the
regulations at them schools. I reckon the best way w'ud be fo' you to
make arrangements fo' him to come on afteh you git there."
Molly regarded Sandy soberly, her fingers twining through the dog's
mane.
"You'd be good to him--same as you air to me? Oh, I'm jest plumb mean to
ask you that. I know you w'ud. He's goin' to be jest as lonesome as me
for a bit, ain't you, Grit? He allus slep' with me, cuddlin' up,
an'----" She gulped, straightened.
"Good night," she said. "Come, Grit."
The three men sat silent for a moment or two after she left.
"She's sure a stem-winder," said Mormon presently. "How you goin' to fix
to git her away, Sandy? Plimsoll'll be hotter'n a bug on a hot griddle."
"I got a plan warmin' up," said Sandy. "Nearest to the county line is
west through the Cabezas Range. Only two gaps, Paso Cabras, an' the
Bolsa."
"But the Bolsa...." started Sam.
Sandy checked him.
"I know. Listen! I aim to git to the railroad an' then me an' Molly'll
make for New Mexico."
"Huh!"
"You guessed it, Mormon. For the Pecos River an' Boville an' the Redding
Ranch. I reckon Barbara Redding'll handle the thing. She'll git Molly
her outfit an' she'll know all about the right schools."
Mormon brought his hand down on Sam's thigh with a sounding whack.
"Dern me, ef he ain't the wise ol' son of a gun," he cried delightedly.
"Sure!"
"It's the thing," assented Sam, rubbing himself, "but you don't have to
break my laig over it. Sandy, you sure use yo' brains."
Barbara Redding, once Barbara Barton of the celebrated Curly O, was a
bright star in the mutual firmament of the Three Star partners. They had
all worked together on the Curly O in the old days. Sandy had been
foreman there. Once he had rescued Barbara Barton from horse rustlers
with a grudge against her father and once again he had rendered her even
greater service when members of the same crowd kidnapped her
two-year-old son whom Barbara Redding had brought on a visit to his
grandfather. Sandy had trailed alone and brought in the "li'l' son of a
gun," as he styled the youngster. There was little that Barbara Redding
and her husband, wealthy rancher, would not do for Sandy.
"I've got an itch to give Plimsoll an' his pals a run fo' their money,"
went on Sandy. "An' here's the way I figger to do it, in the rough. See
what you all think of it."
Subdued guffaws rose from the porch in through the open window of the
room where Molly Casey lay wide awake, the dog beside her. Presently she
heard the martial strains of Sam's harmonica, cuddled under his big
mustache, played one-handed. He was playing an air that he had dedicated
to Sandy. Vaguely it comforted her.
"They're _good_," she said to Grit. "An' they've figgered out something
or they w'udn't be actin' thataway. You an' me got to be game."
Sandy smoked his cigarette and Mormon lolled in his chair, while Sam
breathed out his melody into the night that was very still and very
quiet, with the great white stars burning rayless. The tune swelled
triumphantly.
Behold El Capitan,
Notice his misanthropic stare,
Look at his independent air;
And match him if you can,
He is the champion beyond compare.
It was a tribute to the strategy of Sandy Bourke, the D'Artagnan of the
Three Musketeers of the Range, whereof Mormon was surely Porthos, if Sam
was hard to recognize as Aramis. "One for all and all for one" was their
motto, and neither Mormon nor Sam doubted for an instant that Sandy
would win. Sandy, smoking cigarette after cigarette, was not so sure but
equally complacent.
Next morning, breakfast over before the sun was well above the peaks,
while desert birds were still rising, twittering shrill welcome to the
dawn, Sandy went about humming snatches of cowboy songs just above his
breath as he oversaw the arrangements for the exodus that was to be; not
so much a flight, as a deliberately calculated laying of a trail for the
pursuit. So might an old dog fox, sure of his speed and wisdom, trot
leisurely across a field in full sight of the pack. Sandy had no
intention of waiting until the lawhounds arrived, he needed a start
against the handicap of high-powered cars. He was in high humor as the
buckboard was greased, a team of buckskins given a special feed and a
rub-down, and various articles gathered for transportation. Among these
were a spool of barbed wire and a dozen fence posts.
"I'm a rollickin', rovin' son of a gun
Of a roamin' gambolier;"
sang Sandy, lights dancing in his gray eyes. Sandy was not old--a little
short of thirty--but he was generally mature, suggesting deliberation of
mind if not of action. This morning youth was his, rollicking,
devil-may-care youth that showed in his walk, the set of his shoulders,
his smile.
His spirit was infectious. Four riders, jumping to his orders, tossed
badinage among one another like a ball. Mormon and Sam, seated on the
top rail of the corral fence, openly admired their partner.
"Like old times, Mormon?" suggested Sam.
"Sure is. I reckon we'll have some fun 'fore the day's out. Sandy can
cert'nly scheme out the scenarios."
"The what?"
"The scenarios," repeated Mormon loftily. "I got that out of a moving
pitcher magazine down to Hereford. It's the word fo' the plot of the
story. Sabe?"
"Huh! I reckon them movin' pitcher shooters 'ud have to move some to git
all that's movin' this trip. Got yore gun oiled up, Mormon? Here's
Molly."
Molly came out on the porch carrying a small grip packed with her few
belongings, Grit beside her. Sandy nodded to her, busy giving
instructions to two riders. Mormon and Sam waved and she went over to
them, swinging up to the rail beside them.
"Jim," said Sandy, "I want you should ride out to'ards Hereford an' hide
out atop of Bald Butte. You don't need to stay there any later than
noon. Take a flash-glass with you. If any of the sheriff's crowd comes
erlong, any one who looks like he might be servin' papers, sabe, you
flash in a message. Make it a five-flash fo' anything suspicious, a
three-flash fo' any one shackin' this way, even if you figger they're
plumb harmless."
"Seguro, Miguel." With the slang phrase, Jim, an upstanding young chap,
despite his horse-bowed legs, walked over to the bunk-house for
flash-mirror and gun, came back to his already caught-up and saddled
horse, turned stirrup and set foot in it, caught hold of mane and horn,
beat the quick swirl of his pony sidewise with the fling of leg over
cantle and went streaming off for the Bald Butte in a cloud of dust.
Sandy called to Buck Perches, oldest of his riders, whose exposed skin
matched the leather of his saddle.
"Buck, ef any visitors arrives while we're gone, you entertain 'em same
as I w'ud. I w'udn't be surprised but what Jim Plimsoll 'ud be moseyin'
erlong, with Sheriff Jordan an' mebbe one or two mo'. Mo' the merrier.
They'll be lookin' fo' me an' Miss Molly with some readin' matter that's
got a seal to the bottom of it. We won't be to home. You'll be the only
one to home 'cept Pedro an' Joe. They've got their instructions to know
nothin'. They ain't supposed to know nothin'. You--you've stayed to the
ranch to do some fixin' of yore saddle. Started, but come back when yore
cinch bu'sted. Sabe? All the rest of the riders is on the range 'tendin'
business. When they left, an' when you left with 'em, me an' Mormon an'
Sam, with Miss Molly, was all here. So you supposed. Don't let 'em think
yo're planted to feed 'em info'mation."
Buck nodded, solemn as an image, his dark eyes twinkling a little.
"I'm real pleasant to the sheriff an' sort of indifferent to this here
Plimsoll person?" he suggested.
"Let 'em size up the thing fo' themselves. They'll find Pronto in the
corral, also Sam's roan, which they know is our usual mounts. If they
don't sabe the buckboard's gone, which they probably will, knowin' this
outfit fairly well, an' the sheriff not bein' a dumbhead; lead up to it.
Then you might horn it out of Pedro that he thinks we started erbout ten
o'clock an' leave it to them to foller trail. It'll be plain enough.
We'll take care of the rest. Up to you, Buck, to act natcherul."
"I'll sure do that. I sabe the play."
"Then we'll light out soon's we're packed. Mormon, git the grub an'
water aboard. Sam, help me with the rest of the truck. Got yore war-bag,
Molly?"
"I haven't said good-by to Dad, or Grit," she said.
Sandy nodded. "Reckon you'd like to do that alone. Suppose you take Grit
with you to the spring an' then leave him up in yore room."
"He knows I'm goin'. I told him last night, but he knew it 'thout that."
Molly spoke in a monotone. She was pale and her eyes showed lack of
sleep but she had fought the thing out with herself and she was going
to be game. She gave Sandy her grip and walked off toward the
cottonwoods. Grit nosed along in her shadow, his muzzle touching her
skirt.
It was a big load for the buckboard with Mormon and Sam in the back seat
crowded by the piled-up baggage, with Sandy driving and Molly beside
him, flushed a little with growing excitement. But the buckskins were
sinewed with whalebone and used to desert work. They surged forward at
the word, tightening the tugs in an eager leap and settled down to a
fast trot, out across the prairie. The riders, with the exception of
Buck, and Jim, who was already close to the butte, which was midway
between the ranch and Hereford, loped off, two and two, to their work,
not to return until sun-down.
It was still cool, the dust rose about them in eddies as they crossed
the slowly descending slope of the sink that presently mounted again
toward the far-off range. There was no apparent road, but Sandy chose a
compass course between the sage for the first few miles, then skirted
the mesquite. Sam leaned forward once when the buckskins had been pulled
down to a walk and spoke to Molly.
"See that notch in the range?" he asked, "oveh to the no'th, where the
shadder's blue. That's Paso Cabras, the Pass of the Goats. Some says
it's named 'cause the cliffs is fair lousy with goats, some 'cause on'y
a goat can make the climb. County line's five mile' out on the plain
beyond the pass. Railroad two mo', at Caroca."
"Are we goin' through the pass?" she asked Sandy.
"Well, I'll tell you this much, Molly. If we sh'ud decide to go that way
an' strike the pass afore the sheriff catches up with us, he'll have to
foller afoot or go clean round the mesa. The Goat's Pass ain't no place
fo' an automobeel, nor an airyplane neither. Don't believe there's a
level spot wider'n five foot or bigger than that much square."
Either Mormon or Sam sat always with neck twisted, watching for a
flash-signal from the butte that stood up clearly in the crystal
atmosphere, sometimes distorted, changing hue from chocolate to indigo,
never seeming to get any farther away, just as the mesa range never
seemed to get any closer. Sometimes Molly relieved them as lookout, but
hour after hour passed without sign.
Close to noon they reached a watering hole, with water none too cool or
sweet, but still welcome. There the buckskins were unhitched, rubbed
down and, after they had cooled off, given water and grain. Save for
sweat marks, they showed little sign of the grueling trip through the
soft dirt. A strip of lava, half a mile of ancient flow, lay between
them and the long up-slope of the desert to the mesa. As they ate lunch
in the shadow of some barrel cactus, Sandy suddenly gave a grunt of
satisfaction, pointing with outstretched forefinger to the butte. Five
flashes had flickered up. They were repeated. Jim had signaled a
suspicious party on their way to Three Star. The sheriff was out with
his papers.
"We got five hours' staht," said Sandy. "Made close to thirty mile'.
They've got thirty-five to make. Take 'em mo'n two hours, countin'
questions with Buck. Good enough. See anything of the boys, Sam? They
ought to be showin' up. I told 'em noon."
"On time," announced Sam. The two riders who had last talked with Sandy
rode out of a straggling thicket of cactus and skirted the lava flow.
Each led a spare horse, unsaddled.