DEHORNED
Miranda Bailey had offered to come in for Westlake with her car, but the
train went early and he had refused. Molly drove him in the buckboard,
his grips stowed behind, and Sandy saw them go with the old light back
in his eyes. He gave Westlake a grip of the hand that made him wince.
"Bring her out to the Three Star sometime," he told him. "Mind if I tell
Sam and Mormon, Westlake? They'll sure be tickled."
"I'd like them to know. And we'll come, when we can. Maybe we'll find
you coupled by that time, Sandy. All three of you. And I hope we'll find
Molly here."
"I hope so." Sandy fancied the last sentence more than casual.
"You can rely upon my information being correct," were Westlake's last
words, spoken aside before he climbed into the buckboard and Molly
flirted the reins over the backs of the team shooting off at top speed.
Sandy's mood had changed. He was in high fettle as he watched them go.
The rider who was breaking horses for the Three Star surrendered his job
that morning to the "old man."
Molly came back a little before noon, her eyes wide with excitement.
"Mr. Keith's in town," she said. "With Donald and his secretary, Mr.
Blake. He asked me if Mr. Westlake had been here and he seemed annoyed
when I told him I had just seen him off on the train. They all came from
Casey Town in the big car. Has there been any trouble between Mr. Keith
and Mr. Westlake?"
"The South American offer is a better chance than Casey Town," answered
Sandy. "Mr. Keith may have been annoyed about that. His boy's along, you
say? Is he comin' oveh to the ranch?"
"Yes. He wanted to come with me, to drive me out in the car, but I had
the buckboard and I'd rather drive horses any day. So he'll be out a
little later to take up your invitation. Mr. Keith has some business in
Hereford. He and Mr. Blake will stay on their private car. He told me to
tell you he would be out to-morrow to see you. Oh, here's a telegram for
you."
"Thanks." Sandy tucked the envelope in his pocket. "Hop out, Molly, an'
I'll put up the team."
"I'll help you. I haven't forgotten how to unhitch." Her nimble fingers
worked as fast as Sandy's with buckles, coiling traces and looping
reins. She led the team off to the drinking trough and fed each an
apple, with Sandy looking at her, registering the picture that made such
strong appeal.
"Goin' to take Donald Keith out fo' a real ride on a real hawss?" he
asked her.
"Yes. To-morrow. He's keen to go. You'll come. And Sam and Kate?"
"I've got a hunch I'm goin' to be busy ter-morrer. Keith's comin', fo'
one thing."
"I forgot. I wish you could come." The passing shadow on her face was
sunshine to Sandy. Molly went into the house and he opened the telegram.
It was from Brandon, as he expected.
Thanks. Coming immediately. Was starting anyway. That trap
worked. May need horses for eight. Will you arrange?
BRANDON.
"It sure looks like a busy day ter-morrer," Sandy said half aloud.
"Keith and Brandon--which means roundin' up Jim Plimsoll. Sam don't get
to any picnic, either. He'll have to 'tend to the hawsses."
The Keith touring car arrived in mid-afternoon with young Keith at the
wheel, the chauffeur beside him, grips in the tonneau. Donald Keith
jumped out, affable, a little inclined to condescension at first toward
everything connected with the ranch, including Kate Nicholson. The
imperturbable driver left with the car. Young Keith's snobbery wore off
as he inspected the corrals and the stock with eager interest and the
riders with a certain measure of awe, which he transferred to Sandy on
learning that he had broken two colts that morning.
"If they're broken, I must be all apart," he said, watching them plunge
wildly about the corral at the sight of visitors. "I'd hate to try to
ride one of them in Central Park. If I could stick on I'd be pinched for
endangering the public. Wish I could have seen you bu'st them."
"There'll be mo' of it befo' you leave," said Sandy. His mood of the
morning held. His generosity of feeling toward Keith's boy did not
lessen when he saw how much the elder of the two Molly appeared. The
youngster was spoiled, probably selfish, but he was distinctly likable.
"Know what time yore father expects to be out?" Sandy asked him, later.
"He didn't say. He's got some business to attend to. Some time in the
forenoon, I imagine. I know he's figuring on getting back to Casey Town
to-night. Molly, you haven't taken me out to see your father's grave.
Won't you? You promised to." Sandy liked the lad for that. But it did
not ameliorate his attitude toward the visit of Keith Senior.
That worthy arrived after lunch had been cleared the next day. Kate
Nicholson busied herself to wait deferentially upon him and his
secretary, the fox-faced Blake. Keith was brisk and brusk, breathing
prosperity.
"I was detained in Hereford, Bourke," he said. "I haven't much time for
anything but a flying visit. I promised Mrs. Keith I'd come over the
first opportunity, and I wanted to see you. Donald's out with Molly, you
say. I'll leave him with you on your invitation and pick him up when we
go back east. That will be in about a week. Sooner than I expected. I'd
like to spare a day to look over the ranch. I've heard fine things about
it."
"Thanks," drawled Sandy laconically. "Glad to have a talk with you. Sam,
Mr. Blake might like to see the hawsses gentled that came up this
mo'nin'."
Keith raised his eyebrows but said nothing. Leaving Blake, Sandy led
Keith to his office, rolled a cigarette, offered a chair to his visitor
and smoked, waiting for the latter to open the talk.
"There are some papers for you to examine, as Molly's guardian," said
Keith. "But Blake has them."
"We'll take them up later. Anythin' else?"
Keith looked sharply at Sandy's face. There was a certain grimness to it
that reminded the promoter of the first time he had seen it. His own
changed to a mask, expressionless, save for his eyes, holding suspicion
that changed to aggressiveness. But the latter did not show in his voice
which was smooth and ingratiating.
"Nothing of great importance. I hear Westlake has been over here,
Bourke. We had a misunderstanding. Sorry to lose him, since you
recommended him."
"He figgers he has a better job," answered Sandy.
"I'm glad he thinks so. He is young and lacks experience. His opinion
clashed with that of my engineer-in-charge, an expert of high standing.
Westlake was hot-headed and would not brook being overruled. There is no
doubt but that he was mistaken. He is a valuable man, under a superior,
but he is intolerant."
"He didn't strike me that way," said Sandy. "Me, I set a good deal on
his opinion."
"I didn't imagine you knew much about mining, Bourke." Keith looked at
his watch. "I'll really have to be going as soon as you have looked over
those papers. Hadn't we better call Blake?"
Sandy looked out of the window. He saw Miranda Bailey's flivver halting
by the big car, Mormon walking toward her, and wondered what had brought
her over. So far he had not got the opening he wanted, unless he took up
defense of Westlake more forcibly to introduce the matter. He was
inclined to suggest a trip for himself to Casey Town to inspect the mine
in company with Keith that night, but the coming of Brandon hampered
him. He wanted to be on hand for that. Then he saw Mormon leave Miranda
and come toward the office, bowling along at top speed.
"Excuse me a minute, Keith," he said. "My partner wants to see me."
Keith's face wore a scowl as Sandy stepped outside. His conscience was
not entirely clear and he did not like the general atmosphere of the
office. He scented antagonism in this rancher who called him Keith
without the prefix. It was all right for him to omit it, but.... He took
out a cigar, bit off the end savagely and lit it.
"Mirandy wants to see you," panted Mormon. "She's found out somethin'
about Keith that sure shows his play. He's been discardin'!"
The Keith chauffeur had wandered off to the corrals where Sam was
showing Blake around. Miranda handed Sandy a long envelope.
"Hen Collins had an accident last night," she said. "Blew a tire on the
bridge by our place an' smashed through the railin'. Bu'sted a rib or
two an' was knocked out. We took him in. I'm sorry for Hen but it sure
was a lucky accident. You see, Keith told him to keep quiet but Hen was
grateful to Ed fo' takin' him in an' puttin' him to bed an' sendin' fo'
the doctor. Don't open that envellup, that Keith weasel might be
lookin'. I reckon you'll want to spring it on him sudden."
"Sure," said Sandy. "Spring what?"
"I'm flustered," admitted Miranda. "I usually talk straight. Now I'll
start to the beginnin'. When Keith arrived on this trip he held quite a
reception in his private car. Ed was there with the rest. He invited
them up fo' cigars. Talked big about Casey Town an' gen'ally patted
himself on the back. Said it was too bad all the stock of the Molly
wasn't held in locally, but of co'se the pore promoter had to have
somethin' fo' his money. He was real affable. Ben Creel asked him if he
didn't want to sell some of his Molly stock an' they all laffed.
"This time, when he come back yesterday, he brings up the subject ag'in.
He, an' that secretary of his who looks like a coyote. I don't know how
many he saw or jest what he said, but this is what he told Hen. After
he'd got Hen to lead up to it, mind you. That Casey Town was boomin' big
an' that his own holdin's was nettin' him a heap. That he liked Hen
fine an' had picked him out as a representative citizen. With a lot mo'
slush, the upshot of which was that he lets him have a hundred shares of
the Molly Mine at par. Hen was to say nothin' about it because, says
Keith, if it got out he was sellin' stock, it would send down the price
of the shares an' hurt Casey Town in general, Hereford some, an' you-all
at the Three Star in partickler. I reckon he was plausible enough. Hen
was sure tickled. He w'udn't have said a word about it on'y Ed picks
these shares up out of the bed of the crick an' give them to Hen afteh
he'd been fixed up.
"Ed went nosin' around Hereford this mo'nin'. He got eight men--their
names is inside the envelope--Creel one of 'em--to admit they'd bought
some shares. Mighty glad they was to have 'em. Ed didn't tell 'em
anything different, but he come scootin' home at noon an' I borrowed
Hen's certificut, seein' he was asleep. An' here it is."
"Mirandy," said Sandy, "I'll let Mormon tell you what we all think of
you. You've sure dealt me an ace. Mormon, help Sam ride herd on the
secretary. I'll be callin' you in after a bit. You'll stay, Mirandy?"
"I'll go visit with Kate Nicholson. I'm beginnin' to like her real well.
Molly away?"
Sandy left Mormon to tell her and returned to the office. Keith eyed the
envelope.
"Blake coming?" he asked.
"Not yet. When do we get another dividend from the Molly, Keith?"
Keith laughed.
"You're as bad as all the others," he said. "Sell a man stock, give him
a dividend and he's like a girl eating candy. You had one just fourteen
weeks ago."
Sandy nodded.
"I was askin' you about the _next_," he said, his voice still drawling
but with a finer edge to it.
"Needing some ready money?"
"How about the dividend?"
"Why, that depends upon the output." Keith's voice purred but his eyes
had narrowed. He watched Sandy like a card player who begins to think
his opponent superior to first impressions. "The output has been big.
The Molly has been a bonanza, so far. I do not think it wise always to
pay dividends according to the immediate production, however. It is
better, as a rule, to average it, generally to develop the mine as a
whole rather than work the first rich veins."
"That why you boarded up the stopes?"
Keith's face grew dark. The veins twitched at his temples.
"Look here, Bourke," he blustered. "You've been listening to some fool
talk from that cub, Westlake. I know my business. You've got some stock
in the mine, twenty-five per cent. I've put money and brains into it and
I've got forty-nine per cent. Molly...."
"If you _had_ fo'ty-nine per cent. I wouldn't be worryin' so much."
"What the devil do you mean?"
"I took you fo' a betteh gambler than to git mad," said Sandy. "I'll
jest ask you a question on behalf of myse'f an' partners' twenty-five
per cent., an' Molly's twenty-six, me bein' her guardian. Plump an'
plain, is the Molly pinched out?"
Keith hesitated, struggled to control himself.
"Save me a trip over to Casey Town, mebbe," Sandy added.
"I got mad just now, Bourke, because of the interference of a man I
fired for lack of common sense, experience and recognition of his
superiors. Westlake is a hot-head and I suppose he has some idea of
trying to get even with me by belittling me in your eyes and running
down my management. I think I have shown my interests allied with yours.
Mrs. Keith and I."
"She don't come into this. You didn't answer my question, Keith. How
about it?"
"It's a damned falsehood."
"Then why are you sellin' your stock?"
The words came like bullets as Sandy whipped the certificate out of the
envelope and slapped it smartly on the desk. Keith whitened, flushed
again, recovered himself.
"If I was not friendly to you, Bourke, I should take that as a direct
insult. I can understand that you believe in Westlake and take stock in
what he told you. But he is a discharged employee. He has every
reason...."
Sandy held up his hand.
"He's a friend of mine," he said. "Keith, I may not know the minin'
game--as you play it. In some ways it's gamblin', like playin' poker.
I've played that a heap. I can tell pritty well when a man's bluffin'.
Mebbe you're losin' some of yore nerve lately. You show it in yore face.
Yore eyes flickered when you said it was a 'damned falsehood.' I don't
hanker to insult a man but--I don't believe you. An' here's this stock
you sold. I've got the names of more you sold it to. Why?"
"A man in my position," said Keith slowly, "swings many big deals and
sometimes he is pushed for ready money."
"I reckon that's the reason," said Sandy dryly. "Well, you've got to git
it some other way. You've got to buy these stocks back, Keith. I control
the big end of the stock in the Molly. If I have to go to the bother of
gittin' an expert of my own, an' goin' to Casey Town to look back of
those stopes, you're goin' to be sorry fo' it."
"I have a right to sell my stock."
"You ain't goin' to exercise that right, Keith. You may make a business
sellin' chances to folks who like to buy 'em, but you can't sell
Herefo'd folks paper when they think they're buyin' gold. I won't bunco
my neighbors an' I ain't goin' to 'low you to do it with any proposition
I'm interested in. You'll give me the money you got fo' the shares with
a list of the men you sold 'em to an' I'll tell 'em the Molly is pinched
out--as it is."
"You must be crazy, man! They wouldn't believe you. If you went round
with a statement like that you'd lose every cent of your own and your
ward's. You have no right...."
"Trouble is with you, you don't know the meanin' of that last word,"
said Sandy. "Right is jest what I aim to do. We'll put it up to Molly
an' you'll see where she stands. We don't do business out west the way
you do. We don't rob our friends or even try an' run a razoo on
strangehs. I reckon the folks'll believe me. If they don't I'll give 'em
stock of ours, share fo' share, to convince 'em until it's known the
Molly has flivvered."
"You'll ruin the whole camp."
"Not to my mind. They'll git out what gold's left The Molly'll shut
down. I'll git you to give me a statement 'long with the money an' the
list fo' me to check up, sayin' you've jest had news the vein has
petered out sudden--like it has. That's lettin' you down easy. They'll
think you an honorable man 'stead of a bunco-steerer. I'm doin' this
'count of the fact you folks have looked out fo' Molly. An' I'm tellin'
you, Keith, that, if Herefo'd folks knew you'd deliberately sold them
rotten stock, you an' yore private car might suffer consid'rable damage
befo' you got away. Out west folks still git riled over trick plays an'
holdouts, hawss-stealin' an' otheh deals that ain't square. I'd sure
advise you to come across."
Keith looked into the face of Sandy and, briefly, into his eyes, hard as
steel. He made one more attempt.
"Let's talk common sense, Bourke. You're quixotic. The Molly is
capitalized for a quarter of a million dollars. The stock can be sold at
par if it's done quietly. I can dispose of it for you. There is no
certainty that the mine will not produce richly when we strike through
the second level of porphyry. There are plenty of people willing to buy
shares on that chance after the showing already made. I tried to say
just now that you have no right to throw away your ward's money, and you
are a fool to throw away your own. People buy stock as a gamble."
"No sense in you talkin' any mo' that way, Keith. Mebbe you sell paper
to folks who gamble on it, an' on what you tell 'em about the chances,
makin' yore story gold-colored. Folks may like to git somethin' fo' nex'
to nothin', but I won't sell 'em nothin' fo' somethin', neitheh will my
partners, neitheh will Molly Casey. She's a western gel. Above all, I
won't gold-brick my friends. I know the mine is petered out. You won't
call my play about havin' an expert examine it, which same is no bluff.
I believe in Westlake's report. We've had our share of the gold in it
an', we won't sell the dirt. No mo' w'ud Pat Casey, lyin' out there by
the spring, if he was alive."
"Suppose I refuse?" asked Keith, his square face obstinate. "I've done
nothing outside the law."
"To hell with that kind of law! We make laws of our own out here once in
a while. Justice is what we look fo', not law. We aim to trail straight.
I reckon you'll come through. Fo' one thing I expect to have yore boy
visit with us till you do."
The promoter's face twisted uglily and he lost control of himself.
"Kidnapping? A western method of justice. Not the first time you've been
mixed up in it either, from what I hear. You don't dare...."
Keith stopped abruptly. Sandy had not moved, but his eyes, from
resembling orbs of chilled steel, seemed suddenly to throw off the blaze
and heat of the molten metal.
"Fo' a promoter yo're a mighty pore judge of men," he said. "I'm warnin'
you not to ride any further along that trail. Yore son can stay here, or
we can tell the Herefo'd folk what you've tried to hand to them. Yo're
apt to look like a buzzard that's fallen into a tar barrel after they
git through with you, Keith. Trouble with you is that you've been
bullin' the market an' havin' it yore own way too long. Now you see a
b'ar on the horizon, you don't like the view.
"When we bring up stock fo' shipment we sometimes have trouble with the
longhorns. We've got a dehornin' machine fo' them. That's yore trubble,
so fur as this locality is concerned. You need dehornin'. I can find out
who you sold stock to easy enough, but I don't care to waste the time.
An' if I do there'll be more publicity about it than you'd care fo'.
Might even git back to New Yo'k. I'm givin' you the easy end of it,
Keith, 'count of Molly. You an' me can ride into town in yore car an'
clean this all up befo' the bank closes. We'll leave the money with
Creel of the Herefo'd National. Then you can come back an' git yore
boy."
"I don't remember the names. Blake took the record of them," said Keith
sullenly.
"Then we'll have him in."
Sandy went to the door and hailed Sam and Mormon. They came to the
office escorting Blake, whose fox-face moved from side to side with
furtive eyes as if he smelled a trap.
"We want the list of the folks you unloaded Molly stock to," said Sandy.
Blake looked at his employer who sat glowering at his cigar end, licked
his lips and said nothing.
"Speak up," said Sandy.
"There's a fine patch of prickly pear handy," suggested Sam. "Fine fo'
restorin' the voice. Last time we chucked a tenderfoot in there they had
to peel the shirt off of him in strips." He took the secretary by one
elbow, Mormon by the other, both grinning behind his back as he shook
with a sudden palsy in the belief that they meant their threat.
"Tell him, you damned fool!" grunted Keith.
"The stubs are in the car at Hereford depot," said Blake. "In the safe."
"Money there too? I suppose you cashed the checks?"
"I deposited them to my own account," said Keith. "Come on, let's get
this over with since you are determined to throw away your own and your
partners' good money, to say nothing of the girl's. She could bring suit
against you, Bourke, with a good chance of winning."
He glanced hopefully at Mormon and Sam. They kept on grinning.
"Round up that chauffeur, Sam, will you?" asked. Sandy. "Tell him we're
startin' fo' Herefo'd right off. You an' me can go over those accounts
of Molly's same time we attend to the other business, Keith."
They went outside, Blake looking anxious and a trifle bewildered, Keith
throwing away his cigar and lighting a new one, his face sullen with the
rage he dammed. Kate Nicholson and Miranda Bailey were on the
ranch-house veranda.
"Could I ask you to mail these letters, Mr. Keith? Two of Molly's and
one of my own." Kate Nicholson advanced toward him, the letters in hand.
With a spurt of fury Keith snatched at the letters and threw them on the
ground.
"To hell with you!" he shouted, his face empurpled. "You're fired!" All
of his polish stripped from him like peeling veneer, he appeared merely
a coarse bully.
Sam came up the veranda in two jumps and a final leap that left him with
his hands entwined in Keith's coat collar. He whirled that astounded
person half around and slammed him up against the wall of the
ranch-house, rumpled, gasping, with trembling hands that lifted before
the menace of Sam's gun.
"I oughter shoot the tongue out of you befo' I put a slug through yore
head," said Sam, standing in front of the promoter, tense as a jaguar
couched for a spring, his eyes glittering, his voice packed with venom.
"You git down on yo' knees, you ring-tailed skunk, an' apologize to
this lady. Crook yo' knees, you stinkin' polecat, an' crawl. I'll make
you lick her shoes. Down with you or I'll send you straight to
judgment!"
"No, Sam, Mr. Manning--it isn't necessary," protested Kate Nicholson.
"Please...."
Sam looked at her cold-eyed.
"This is my party," he said. "It'll do him good. I'll let him off
lickin' yo' shoes, he might spile the leather. But he'll git them
letters he chucked away, git 'em on all-fours, like the sneakin',
slinkin', double-crossin' coyote he is. Crook yo' knees first an'
apologize! I'll learn you a lesson right here an' now. You stay right
where you are, Kate. Let him come to you."
Sam fired a shot and the promoter jumped galvanically as the bullet tore
through the planking of the ranch-house between his trembling knees.
"I regret, Miss Nicholson," he commenced huskily, "that I let my temper
get the better of me. I was greatly upset. In the matter of your
services I was--er--doubtless hasty. It can be arranged."
He shrank at the tap of Sam's gun on his shoulder, wilting to his knees.
"She w'udn't work fo' you fo' the time it takes a rabbit to dodge a
rattler," said Sam. "She never did work fo' you. It was Molly's money
paid her. Kate's goin' to stay right here as long as she chooses an'
I...."
Catching Kate Nicholson's gaze, the admiring look of a woman who has
never before been championed, conscious of the fact that he had blurted
out her Christian name and disclosed the secret of that touch of
intimacy between them, Sam grew crimson through his tan. Kate
Nicholson's face was rosy; both were embarrassed.
"Thank you, Mr. Manning," she said. "Please let him get up, and put away
your pistol."
"Git up," said Sam, "an' go pick up them letters."
Keith, humiliated before his secretary and his chauffeur, the latter
gazing wooden-faced but making no attempt at interference, gathered up
the envelopes and presented them, with a bow, to the governess. He had
recovered partial poise and his face was pale as wax, his eyes evil.
"I'll mail them, Miss Nicholson," said Sandy. "Let's go." He took Sam
aside as the car swung round and up to the porch. "I'm obliged to you,
Sam," he said. "It was sure comin' to him an' I've been havin' hard work
to keep my hands off him. I've a notion he'll trail better now. If
Brandon arrives befo' we git back, look out fo' him. Mormon'll help you
entertain."
"Seguro," replied Sam. "Look at Keith. He looks like a rattler with his
fangs pulled. I'll bet he c'ud spit bilin' vitriol right now."
"His cud ain't jest what he most fancies, this minute," said Sandy
dryly. "Sorter bitter to chew an' hard to swaller. Sammy," Sandy's voice
changed to affection, his eyes twinkled, "I didn't sabe you an' Miss
Nicholson was so well acquainted."
Sam looked his partner in the eyes and used almost the same words for
which he had just tamed Keith. But he said them with a smile.
"You go plumb to hell!"
* * * * *
Creel, president of the Hereford National Bank, a banker keen at a
bargain, shot out his underlip when Keith, with Sandy in attendance,
tendered him the money for all shares of the Molly Mine sold in
Hereford, including his own.
"You say the mine has petered out?" he asked Keith, with palpable
suspicion. Keith glanced swiftly at Sandy sitting across the table from
him in the little directors' room back of the bank proper. Sandy sat
sphinx-like. As if by accident, his hands were on his hips, the fingers
resting on his gun butts. Keith did not actually fear gunplay, but he
was not sure of what Sandy might do. Sam's bullet, that had undoubtedly
been sped in grim earnest, had unnerved him. Sandy Bourke held the
winning hand.
"That is the news from my superintendent," said Keith. "I wish I could
doubt it. Under the circumstances, consulting with Mr. Bourke, who
represents the majority stock, we concluded there was no other action
for us to take but to recall the shares although the money had actually
passed. Naturally, in the refunding, which I leave entirely to you, it
would be wiser not to precipitate a general panic and to treat the
matter with all possible secrecy."
"Humph!" Keith's suavity did not appear entirely to smooth down Creel's
chagrin at losing what he had considered a good thing. He smelt a mouse
somewhere. "There are only two reasons for repurchasing such stock," he
said crisply. "The course you take is rarely honorable and suggests
great credit. The second reason would be a strike of rich ore rather
than a failure."
"I will guarantee the failure, Creel," said Sandy. "If, at any time, a
strike is made in the Molly, I shall be glad to transfer to you
personally the same amount of shares from my own holdin's. I'll put that
in writin', if you prefer it."
"No," said Creel, "it ain't necessary." He glumly made the retransfer.
Sandy viseed Keith's accounts and took Keith's check for the balance,
placing it to a personal account for Molly. The check was on the
Hereford Bank and it practically exhausted Keith's local resources.
As they left the bank a cowboy rode up on a flea-bitten roan that was
lathered with sweat, sadly roweled and leg-weary. Astride of it was
Wyatt, riding automatically his eyes wide-opened, red-rimmed, owlish
with lack of sleep and overmuch bad liquor. Afoot he could hardly have
navigated, in the saddle he seemed comparatively sober. He spurred over
to the big machine as Sandy and Keith got in to return to the ranch,
sweeping his sombrero low in an ironical bow.
"Evenin', gents," he greeted them, his voice husky, inclined to
hiccough. "This here is one hell of a town, Bourke! They've took away my
guns an' told me to be good, they're sellin' doughnuts an' buttermilk
down to Regan's old joint, popcorn an' sody-water over to Pap
Gleason's! Me, I tote my own licker an' they don't take that off 'n my
hip. You don't want a good man out to the Three Star, Bourke?"
"I never saw a real good man the shape you're in, Wyatt. Sober up an'
I'll talk to you."
Wyatt leaned from the saddle and held on to the side of the machine with
one hand, his alcohol-varnished eyes boring into Sandy's with the fixity
of drink-madness.
"Why in hell would I sober up?" he demanded. "Plimsoll, the lousy swine,
he stole my gal, God blast him! He drove me off'n the Waterline, him an'
the ones that hang with him. I'd like to see him hang. I'd like to see
the eyes stickin' out of his head an' his tongue stickin' out of his
lyin' jaws! I'm gettin' even with Jim Plimsoll fo' what he done to me."
Wyatt's eyes suddenly ran over with tears of self-pity. "Blast him to
hell!" he cried. "Watch my smoke!" He withdrew his hand and galloped up
the street as Keith's car started.
The powerful engine made nothing of the few miles between Hereford and
the Three Star and it was only mid-afternoon when they arrived. Molly
and Donald Keith were still absent, there was no sign of Brandon. Sandy
fancied that any wait would not be especially congenial to Keith, but
the promoter was firm in his determination to take away his son from the
ranch. While his resentment could find no outlet, it was plain that he
and his were through with any one connected with the Three Star brand.
Acting without any thought of this, save as it simmered subconsciously,
Sandy rejoiced that Molly would now stay. He intended to give her open
choice--there was money enough left, aside from the capital used on the
Three Star, to send her back east for a completion of education. Or to
pay Miss Nicholson for remaining as educator. He surmised that Sam would
persuade Kate Nicholson to stay in any event. Molly, returned, appeared
so much the woman, that the question of further schooling seemed
superfluous to Sandy. He felt that it would to her, especially after he
had told her all that had occurred since morning. That she would approve
he had no doubt. Molly was true blue as her eyes. Altogether, Sandy
considered the petering out of the Molly Mine far from being a disaster.
And, if Molly stayed west--for keeps--?
* * * * *
Keith stayed in his car, smoking, ignoring the very existence of the
ranch and its people. The afternoon wore on with the sun dropping
gradually toward the last quarter of the day's march. At four o'clock
one of the Three Star riders came in at a gallop, carrying double.
Behind him, clinging tight, was Donald Keith, woebegone, almost
exhausted, his trim riding clothes snagged and soiled, his shining
puttees scuffed and scratched. He staggered as he slid out of the saddle
and clung to the cantle, head sunk on arms until Sandy took him by the
arm. Keith sprang from his car and came over. Sam and Mormon hurried up.
"What's this?" demanded Keith angrily, suspicion rife in his voice.
"I picked him up three mile' back, hoofin' it. He was headin' fo' Bitter
Flats but he wanted the ranch," said the cowboy to Sandy, ignoring
Keith. "We burned wind an' leather comin' in, seein' Jim Plimsoll an'
some of his gang have made off with Miss Molly!"
"Where'd this happen?" demanded Sandy. "Sam, go git Pronto fo' me an'
saddle up."
"That's the hell of it," said the rider. "The pore damn fool don't know.
Plumb loco! Scared to death. Been wanderin' round sence afore noon."
Donald Keith sagged suddenly and Sandy picked the lad up in his arms.
Weariness and fright, thirst, the changed altitude, had overtoiled his
endurance. Sandy strode with him to the car and laid him on the
cushions.
"Git some water," he ordered Keith. "We've got no licker on the ranch.
Here's one of the times Prohibition an' me don't hitch."
Keith bent, opened a shallow drawer beneath the seat and produced a
silver flask. He unscrewed the top and poured some liquor into it. It
was Scotch whisky of a pre-war vintage. The aroma of the stuff dissolved
in the rare air, vaguely scenting it. The nose of the wooden-faced
chauffeur wrinkled. Sandy raised the boy's head and lifted the whisky to
his pallid lips, gray as his face where the flesh matched the powdery
alkali that covered it.
"Pinch his nose," he said to Keith. "He's breathin' regular. Stroke his
throat soon as I git the stuff back of his teeth. So. Now then."
The cordial trickled down and Donald's eyes opened. Almost immediately
color came back into his cheeks and lips and he tried to sit up. Sandy
helped him.
"Now, sonny," he said. "Tell us about it. How'd this happen an' where?
An' when, if you can place that?"
Donald nodded.
"Just a second," he whispered and closed his eyes. They were bright when
he raised the lids again.
"Whisky got me going," he said. "I'd have given a whole lot for that
flask two or three hours ago, Dad."
"Never mind the whisky, where did you leave Molly?" demanded Sandy.
"I don't know just where. I wasn't noticing just which way we rode. She
did the leading. I don't know how I ever got back."
"Didn't she tell you where you were makin' fo'?"
"She didn't name it. It was a little lake in some canyon where Molly said
there used to be beavers."
"Beaver Dam Canyon," said Sandy exultantly. "You left here 'bout seven.
How fast did you trail?"
"We walked the horses most of the time. It was all up-hill. And I looked
at my watch a little before it happened. It was a quarter of eleven.
Molly said we'd be there by noon."
"Where were you then? What kind of a place? Near water?"
"We'd just crossed a stream."
"Willer Crick, runs out of Beaver Dam Lake. You c'udn't foller that up,
'count of the falls. Now, jest what happened?"
"We saw some men ahead of us. Molly wondered who they could be. Then
they disappeared. We were riding in a pass and two of them showed again,
coming out of the trees ahead of us. One of them, on a big black horse,
held up his hand."
"Jim Plimsoll!"
"Yes. Molly recognized him and she spoke to him to get out of the trail.
It was brush and cactus either side of us and we'd have had to crowd in.
Grit was trailing us. Plimsoll wouldn't move. I heard more horses back
of us and I turned to look. Two more men were coming up behind. They had
rifles. So did the man with Plimsoll. He had a pistol under his vest. We
couldn't go back very well and I could see from the way Plimsoll grinned
that he was going to be nasty. Molly spurred Blaze on and cut at
Plimsoll with her quirt. He grabbed her hand with his left. Grit sprang
up at him and he got out his gun from the shoulder sling and shot him."
"Shot the dawg? Hit him?"
"Yes, in the leg. He fired at him again, but Grit got into the brush."
"Jest what were you doin' all the time?" Sandy knew the lad was a
tenderfoot, knew he would have been small use on such an occasion, but
the thought of Grit rising to the rescue, falling back shot, brought the
taunt.
"The two men behind told me to throw up my hands," said young Keith, his
face reddening. "What could I do?"
"Nothin', son. You c'udn't have done a thing. Go on."
"Plimsoll twisted Molly's wrist so that the quirt fell to the ground.
The man who was with him tossed his rope over her and they twisted it
round her arms. I had the muzzle of a rifle poked into my ribs. They
made me get off my horse. And they made me walk back along the trail.
They fired bullets each side of me and laughed at me when I dodged. They
told me if I looked back they'd shoot my damned head off." Donald's eyes
were filled with tears of self-pity and the remembrance of his helpless
rage. "They kept firing at me until I'd passed the stream. I hid in the
willows, but I couldn't see anything. I couldn't even see the men who
had been firing at me.
"I didn't know what to do. I couldn't rescue Molly without a horse. I
only had a revolver against their rifles and I'm not much of a shot. I
tried to get back here but it was hard to find the way. I knew it was
east but the sun was high and I wasn't sure which way the shadows lay. I
was all in when your man found me."
"All right, my son. Keith, I'm goin' to borrow that flask of yores.
Might need it."
He jumped from the car, flask in hand, and ran to the ranch-house. Kate
Nicholson met him as he entered. "Has anything happened to Molly?" she
gasped.
"That's what I'm goin' to find out," Sandy answered. "Mormon, git me my
cartridge belt an' some extry shells fo' my rifle."
"I got to go git me my hawss," demurred Mormon who had followed him in.
"Becos' I'm goin' on this trail."
"You can come erlong with Sam when the Brandon outfit shows. Or, if they
don't show, you can bring erlong our own boys soon's they come in. But
I'm hittin' this alone."
As he spoke he rummaged in a drawer and brought out the first-aid kit he
always kept handy.
"You ain't takin' Sam?" asked Mormon, returning with the cartridge belt,
Sandy's rifle and a box of shells. "I know you're goin' to ride hard an'
fast, Sandy, but you got to go slow after you git tryin' to cut sign.
Plimsoll's likely taken her over to the Waterline range country. They
got a place over there somewhere they call the Hideout. It's where they
hide their hawsses when they want 'em out of sight an' I reckon it's
hard to find. I c'ud keep within' sight of you till you start cuttin'
sign, Sandy, an' then catch up."
"Sam ain't comin'," said Sandy, filling his rifle magazine and breech,
stowing away extra clips. "I'm goin' in alone. Mo'n one 'ud be likely to
spoil sign, Mormon, mo'n one is likely to advertise we're comin'.
They're liable to leave a lookout. Know we'll miss Molly some time.
Figgered young Keith might git back some time. Plimsoll's clearin' out
of the country an' I'm trailin' him clean through hell if I have to. Ef
he's harmed Molly I'll stake him out with a green hide wrapped round him
an' his eyelids sliced off. I'll sit in the shade an' watch him frizzle
an' yell when the hide shrinks in the sun. This is my private play,
Mormon. You an' Sam can back it up, but I'm handlin' the cards. I'll
leave sign plain fo' you to foller from Willer Crick. They must have
crossed at the ford below the big bend."
He left the room and they saw him covering the ground in a wolf trot to
where Sam, astride his own favorite mount, held Pronto ready saddled.
They saw Sam's protest, Sandy's vigorous overruling of it, and then
Sandy was up-saddle and away at a brisk lope with Sam gazing after him
disconsolately. Keith's car was turning for the trip to Hereford,
spurning the dust of the Three Star Ranch forever--and not lamented.
"Ain't it jest plumb hell--beggin' yore pardon, marm--but that's what it
is--plain hell!" cried Mormon. Tears of mortification were in his eyes,
his voice was high-pitched and his chagrin was so much like that of an
overgrown child that Kate Nicholson felt constrained to laugh despite
the seriousness of the situation. "Me, I been punchin' cows, ridin' a
hawss fo' a livin' fo' nigh thirty years," said Mormon. "I ain't what
you'd call sooperannuated yit, if I am bald. I'm healthy as a woodchuck.
But I'm so goldarned, hunky-chunky, hawg-fat I can't ride a hawss no
mo'--not faster 'n a walk or further than two mile', fo' fear of
breakin' his back. So I git left home to sit in a damn rockin' chair!
Hell and damnation!"
"You're going to follow him, aren't you?"
"That was jest Sandy's way of lettin' me down easy. Sam'll go, but I'll
stay to home. I'm goin' to give away my guns an' learn milkin'. Sandy's
got about three hours of daylight. He'll go 'cross lots on the hawss,
fur as he reckons the sign shows safe, an' no man can read sign better'n
Sandy. Then he'll play snake an' he can beat an Indian at takin' cover.
He'll drift over open country 'thout bein' spotted an', up there in the
range, they'll never see, smell or hear him till he's on top of 'em an'
his guns are doin' the talkin'. You ought to see him in action. I've
done it. I've been in action with him, me an' Sam. Now all I'm good fo'
is a close quarters ra'r an' tumble. He w'udn't take Sam erlong fo' fear
of hurtin' my feelin's though even Sam 'ud be some handicap to Sandy on
this trip of scoutin'.
"Sam can't take cover extra good, though he shoots middlin'. Sandy, he
shoots like lightnin' fast an' straight."
"But there are four against him, at least."
"Fo' what?" asked Mormon with a look of scorn. "Plimsoll an' three of
his cronies. Mebbe one or two mo' chucked in fo' good measure. What of
it? Yeller, all of 'em, yeller as the belly of a Gila River pizen
lizard. On'y way the odds 'ud be even w'ud be fo' them to git the drop
on Sandy an' it can't be done. He's got his fightin' face on an' that
means hands an' heart an' eyes an' brain an' every inch of him lined up
to win. Sandy fights with his head an' he's got the heart to back it.
Hell's bells, marm, beggin' yo' pardon ag'in, I ain't worryin' none
erbout Sandy! I ain't seen him lose out yet. I'm cussin' about
_me_--warmin' an armchair an' waddlin' round like a fall hawg."
Mormon slammed his hat on the floor and jumped on it and Miss Nicholson
fled, a little reassured by Mormon's eulogy, anxious to talk it over
with Sam.
Sandy, his eyes like the mica flakes that show in gray granite, his
humorous mouth a stern line, little bunches of muscles at the junction
of his jaws, held the pinto to a steady lope that ate up the ground,
drifting straight and fast across country for the opening in the mesa
that he had marked as the short-cut to the spot described by Donald
Keith. Through gray sage and ferny mesquite Pronto moved, elastic of
every sinew, springy of pastern, without fret or fuss though he had not
been ridden for two days. Even as the man fitted the saddle,
counterbalanced every supple movement of his steed, so Sandy's will
dominated that of Pronto, making his mood his master's, telling him the
occasion was one for best efforts with no place for wasted energy.
"We're goin' to cross a hard country, li'l' hawss," said Sandy. "But I
figger we can make it. Got to make it, Pronto. An' we're sure goin' to.
Doin' it fo' her."
Every now and then he talked his thoughts aloud, as the lonely rider
will and, if the pinto could not understand, he listened with pricked
ears.
"Grit must have been hurt pritty bad, I'm afraid. Still he might have
trailed her 'stead of comin' back. Sun's gettin' to'ards the no'th."
He glanced at the luminary, slowly descending. "But the moon's up
already an' she's full." He looked to where a wan plate of battered
silver hung in the east. "We got some luck on our side, Pronto, after
all.
"Wonder who the three were with Plimsoll? They've gone to the Hideout
an' we got to find it, li'l' hawss. Some job, I reckon. But Plimsoll's
goin' to be mighty sorry fo' himse'f befo' long."
As they neared the foot-hills of the range he lapsed to silence. He was
taking chances, crossing country this fashion. He knew it fairly well,
and he guessed at what lay behind the visible contours from the
experience of years. Deep barrancas might crop up in their path, massed
thickets of cactus that had to be ridden around for loss of time. The
mesa, looking like a solid block of rock at a distance, was, he knew
well, broken into tortuous ravines and canyons, eroded into wild thrusts
of the mother rock, its central part eaten away by time and weather.
Part of the Three Star range, shared by two ranches, ran over the
southern part of the mesa and it was close to its boundary fence that
Sandy was heading. Then came the range of Plimsoll's Waterline, a rough
country, unknown to Sandy, with scant food for many cattle, but sweet
grass enough for a horse herd and containing pockets where the
slicktails sometimes came.
Sandy struck the first rise. He was now a crucible filled with glowing
white fury. Thoughts of what Plimsoll might achieve in insult and injury
to Molly could not be kept out of his mind and they but added fuel. It
was not Sandy Bourke of the Three Bar, riding his favorite pinto, but a
desperate man on a horse infected with the same grim determination, a
man with a face that, despite the fiery heat within, blazing from his
eyes, would have chilled the blood of any meeting him.
He did not spare Pronto nor did Pronto attempt to spare himself, going
at the task set before him with all the superb coordination of muscle
and tendon and bone that he possessed. They slid down the sides of
ravines that were almost as steep as a wall, the pinto squatting on its
tail; they climbed the opposing banks with the surety of a mountain
goat, a rush, a scramble of well-placed hooves, a play of fetlocks;
then, with a heave of spreading ribs and hammer-strokes of a gallant
heart under Sandy's lean thighs, they were over the top and away, with
Sandy's eyes searching the land for the shortest, most practical way.
The place it had taken Molly and young Keith nearly three hours to reach
in leisurely fashion, Sandy gained in one, splashing through the
shallows of Willow Creek at the ford below the big bend and giving
Pronto the chance to cool his fetlocks and rinse out his mouth in the
cold water.
Ahead lay the chimney ravine that led around into Beaver Dam Lake, in
which Molly and the boy had been attacked. Sandy viewed the chaparral,
the trees that covered the lesser slopes, the stark cliffs above. Part
of this lay in the Waterline territory. The chances that Plimsoll had
left some one on guard were not to be slighted. But he rode on down the
narrow trail. Once in a while he broke a branch and left it swinging as
a guide to Sam when he should follow with the riders from the ranch.
They would be coming in now and in a few minutes would start on
remounts. Perhaps Brandon had come? Sandy wasted little time on surmise.
The tracks of Molly's Blaze and the horse Donald had been riding were
plain as print to Sandy. He even noticed the slot of Grit's pads here
and there in softer soil. He had picked them up at the coming-out place
of the ford. Two more sets of hoofs came out of the chaparral and from
there on the sign was badly broken. But Sandy knew the story and the
interpretation was sufficient.
The shadows were getting longer, half the eastern side of the ravine was
in shadow that steadily crept down as if to obliterate the telltale
imprints. The moon was slowly brightening. Sandy's eyes, burning
steadily, were untroubled by doubt.
The place of the struggle was plain. The brush was trampled. To one side
of the trail there was a clot of blood, almost black, with flies buzzing
attention to it. It must have come from Grit. He caught sight of another
fleck of it on some leaves where Grit had raced into the brush out of
the way of the crippling fire.
"I'll score one fo' you, Grit, while I'm about it," muttered Sandy as he
dismounted and carefully surveyed the sign. He even picked up Donald's
returning shoemarks. Six horses had gone on, one led.
Sandy swung up the heavy stirrups and tied them above the saddle seat.
He stripped the reins from the bridle and pulled down Pronto's wise
head.
"Hit the back-trail fo' home, li'l' hawss," he said. "If I need me a
mount to git back I'll borrow one. I got to go belly-trailin' pritty
soon."
He gave the pinto a cautious slap on the flank and Pronto started off
down the trail. So far Sandy believed he had not been seen. If he had, a
rifle-shot would have been the first warning. With the experience of a
man who has seen shooting before, he had chanced a miss, knowing the
odds on his side. It was twenty to one Plimsoll and his men had hurried
off to the Hideout.
A buzzard hung in the early evening sky, circling high and then suddenly
dropping in a swoop.
"Looks like Grit's cashed in," thought Sandy. "That bird was a late
comer, at that."
But it was not Grit.
The ravine curved, forked. One way led to Beaver Dam Lake, the other
rifted deep through rocky outcrop, leading to the Waterline Range. The
boundary fence crossed it. Two posts had been broken out, the wire
flattened. Through the gap led the sign that Sandy followed. He carried
his rifle with him and he moved cautiously but swiftly through the half
light, for the cleft was in shadow. The walls lowered, the incline
ended, became a decline, leading down. The clouds were assembling for
sunset overhead, the moon just topped the eastern cliffs, beginning to
send out a measure of reflected light. A beam struck a little cylinder,
the emptied shell of a thirty-thirty rifle. There was another close by.
And scanty soil was marked with more hoofs. Sandy halted, wondering the
key to the puzzle. Did it mean a quarrel between Plimsoll's men?
Altogether he figured there had been a dozen horses over the ground. It
was only a swift guess but he knew it close to the mark. Had Plimsoll
been joined or attacked? And...?
His practised eyes, roving here and there, saw still more cartridge
shells. Walking cat-footed, he made no sound but suddenly three buzzards
rose on heavy wings and he went swiftly to where they had been
squatting. A dead man lay up against the cliff, a saddle blanket thrown
over his face. This had held off the carrion birds. The body was limp
and still warm, it had been a corpse only a short time. Sandy took off
the blanket.
It was Wyatt! Wyatt, whom he had seen not much more than four hours
before, riding on the main street in Hereford, threatening vengeance on
Plimsoll. A bullet had made a small hole in his skull by the right
temple and crashed out through the back of his head in a bloody gap!