A MAN ALL BAD
Jack Purdy had turned horse-thief. And because chance had thrown him in
with one of the strongest gangs of horse-thieves that ever operated the
range, he had prospered.
A year and a week had elapsed since the countryside turned out to help
Wolf River celebrate the opening of her bank. At that celebration the
Texan had openly insulted him before the eyes of all cow-land. And,
before the eyes of all cow-land he, a reputed gunman, hesitated with his
hand on his gun, and every man and woman who waited in breathless
expectancy for him to shoot, knew that he was afraid to shoot--knew that
he was a coward. Only the pilgrim's girl did not know. She thought he
had done a brave thing to ignore the insult, and that night she rode
with him, and upon the rim of the bench, as they paused to look down
upon the twinkling lights of the little town Purdy committed the
unpardonable sin of the cattle country. He attacked her--dragged her
from her horse. And then the pilgrim came. Purdy heard the sound of the
furious hoof-beats, and grinned evilly as he watched the man dismount
clumsily when he came upon the two horses grazing with empty saddles.
When the pilgrim was almost upon him he flung the girl to the ground and
drew his gun. There was a blinding flash--and Purdy knew no more until,
hours afterward Sheriff Sam Moore and two of three sworn deputies were
loading his "corpse" into a spring wagon. Then he sat up suddenly and
Sam Moore and his deputies fled gibbering into the dark, while Purdy
drove the team back to Wolf River. Swaggering into the dance hall, he
found that the news of his demise at the hand of the pilgrim had
preceded him--found, also, a marked lack of enthusiasm over his escape
from death. Some countenances registered open disappointment, and the
men whom he invited to drink, evinced a sudden absence of thirst. He
sought to dance, but the women who occupied the chairs along the walls
invented excuses, reasonable or preposterous according to the fertility
of their imagination. So Purdy, a sullen rage in his heart, returned to
the bar and drank alone. As he called for the third drink, the bartender
eyed him truculently: "Just spread a little change, Purdy. Yer owin' fer
two, now."
The sullen rage flared into swift anger and the cowpuncher's hand
dropped to his gun: "What the hell's loose with you? What's the matter
with everyone here? Ain't I good fer the drinks?"
The bartender stared straight into the blazing eyes: "You ain't good fer
nothin' in Wolf River. After Tex showin' you up this afternoon but
'special what happened later. Folks knows what you tried to pull off up
there on the bench. Reports was that the pilgrim had bumped you off but
you don't notice no crêpe hangin' around nowheres, do you? An' when you
turn up alive an' kickin' you don't notice 'em gittin' out no brass band
about it, do you? An' I'm givin' you a tip--if I was you I'd right now
be kickin' up a cloud of white dust a hell of a ways from Wolf River.
Jest cast yer eyes around an' you'll see that there's a bunch of live
ones missin'. Well, they're goin' to come driftin' back in a little, an'
it's dollars to buffalo chips that when they do they'll start in an
finish up the job the pilgrim botched."
Purdy's face went suddenly pale in the lamplight. The hand dropped limp
from the gun-butt, and as he glanced swiftly about the room he moistened
his lips with his tongue. There was a distinct whine in his voice as he
forced his eyes to meet the other's steady gaze: "I didn't do nothin'.
They--they can't do it."
"Can't do it--hell! A tree's a tree, ain't it? An' a rope's a rope?"
Purdy swayed heavily against the bar: "Give me a drink?" he begged,
"jest one--I'm broke."
Without a word the other poured a full glass of liquor and pushed it
toward him. Purdy reached for it, and part of the contents slopped upon
his trembling fingers before the glass left the bar. Seizing it with
both hands, he drained it at a gulp, and hurriedly made his way the
length of the hall. In the doorway he paused and swept the room with a
glance of malignant hate: "To hell with you!" he cried, shrilly, "to
hell with you all!" And staggering down the steps, mounted the first
horse he came to and fled wildly into the dark. All night he rode, with
rage in his heart toward all men, a rage that found vent in wild raving
and cursing and gradually fixed itself into a sullen hate--a smouldering
savage hatred that included all mankind and womankind, but centred with
abysmal brutishness upon the Texan, the pilgrim, the pilgrim's girl, and
strangely enough, upon the bartender who had warned him to flee.
At daylight he entered the cabin of a nester who had not yet returned
from the celebration, and according to the custom of the country cooked
himself a meal and ate it. Then, in defiance of the custom of the
country, he proceeded to make up a pack of provisions, helping himself
liberally from the limited store. And not only provisions he took, but
cooking utensils as well, and a pair of heavy blankets from the bed. He
found savage satisfaction in scattering things about the room, in
wantonly destroying provisions he could not use, and leaving the place
in the wildest confusion. The owner, he recollected, was one of those
who had refused to drink with him in the dance hall. The insane rage
flared out anew. He even thought of burning the shack, but feared that
the smoke would betray him before he could get away. "Won't drink with
me, eh?" he muttered, and ground his heel into the face of a cheap
photograph of a smiling baby girl. He had stopped overnight in this
cabin once and heard the story of how the little two-year-old had
toddled out and been bitten by a rattlesnake, and of the little grave
beneath the tree in front of the house. He laughed, harshly: "Too good
to drink with me!" and deliberately spat tobacco upon the faded little
red shoe that had stood beside the picture. Then he secured his pack
behind the cantle of his saddle, mounted, and rode away, leaving the
dishes unwashed and the door wide open.
It was broad daylight when Purdy left the cabin, and he suddenly
realized that he was riding a stolen horse. He had ridden the horse hard
and it was becoming tired. Also he realized that he was packing the loot
from the cabin. He cursed himself for a fool, for well he knew what
would happen if he were caught--now. He should have been careful to
leave no trail, and should at this moment be "holed up" in some coulee
or patch of timber to wait for darkness. But he dared not camp within
miles of the violated cabin. He was approaching the Bear Paws, and
swinging sharply to the west, decided to skirt the mountains and strike
into the foothills where there are no nesters and no trails. He must
push on. The bad lands were only thirty miles away and if his horse held
out he should reach them in the early afternoon. He breathed easier. The
nester would not reach his cabin till evening.
There was a telephone at the TU and the TU lay between him and the bad
lands. He must either swing in close to the mountains, or take a chance
on the open bench. He chose the mountains, and toward noon passed a
solitary sheepherder seated on the crest of a conical butte with his
band of freshly sheared sheep spread out below him like an irregular
patch of snow. The man motioned him in, but Purdy slipped swiftly into a
coulee and came out a mile below. Later, a lone rider cut his trail, and
from the shelter of a cottonwood thicket, Purdy watched him pass. He
wanted to talk with him. Maybe he had a bottle and Purdy needed a drink.
The man was idly twirling the end of his rope and singing a song as he
rode. He seemed care-free, even gay. The song that he sang was a popular
one on the cattle range, grossly obscene, having to do with the love
intrigues of one "Big Foot Sal."
Purdy felt suddenly very much alone. Here was one of his kind with whom
he would like to pass the time of day--smoke with him and if
circumstances permitted, drink with him, and swap the gossip of the
range. Instead, he must skulk in the thicket like a coyote until the man
passed. A great wave of self-pity swept over him. He, Jack Purdy, was an
outcast. Men would not drink with him nor would women dance with him.
Even at this moment men were riding the range in search of him, and if
they caught him--he shuddered, cold beads of sweat collected upon his
forehead, involuntarily his fingers caressed his throat, and he loosened
the collar of his shirt. Every man's hand was against him. His anger
blazed forth in a volley of horrible curses, and he shook his gloved
fist at the back of the disappearing rider. He rode on. "Damn 'em all!"
he muttered, the sullen hatred settling itself once more upon him. "Wait
till I get to the bad lands, an' then--" Purdy had no definite plan
further than reaching the bad lands. His outfit had worked the range to
the northward of Milk River, and he knew little of the bad lands except
that they furnished a haven of refuge to men who were "on the run." He
was "on the run," therefore he must reach the bad lands.
It was late in the afternoon when he rode unhesitatingly into the
treeless, grassless waste of dry mud and mica studded lava rock, giving
no heed to the fact that water holes were few and far between and known
only to the initiated. Darkness found him following down a dry coulee
into which high-walled, narrow mud cracks led in a labyrinth of black
passages. His horse's head was drooping and the animal could not be
forced off a slow walk. No spear of grass was visible and the rock floor
of the coulee was baked and dry. Purdy's lips were parched, and his
tongue made an audible rasping sound when he drew it across the roof of
his mouth. The dark-walled coulee was almost pitch black, and he
shivered in the night chill. His horse's shod feet, ringing loudly upon
the rock floor, shattered a tomb-like silence. It seemed to Purdy that
the sound could be heard for miles and he shuddered, glanced furtively
about him, and pulled up to listen for sounds of pursuit. He spurred his
horse viciously and the animal walked slowly on. He glanced upward. The
walls of the coulee were steep and high, and far above him, little stars
twinkled. Suddenly his heart ceased to beat. He felt weak and flabby and
there was a strange chill at the pit of his stomach. He could have sworn
that a face looked down at him from the clean-cut rim of the coulee. The
next moment it was gone. He proceeded a quarter of a mile, again looked
upward, and again he saw the face. His nerveless fingers closed about
the butt of his gun and drew it from its holster, but his hand shook so
that he thrust back the gun in disgust. They were after him. It was the
posse, or perhaps the nester whose cabin he had plundered--and he hoped
it was the posse. But, why didn't they shoot? Why didn't they come down
and get him, instead of hanging along the edge of the coulee like
buzzards, waiting for him to die of thirst. Twice more within the next
half-hour he saw the face, and each time it disappeared.
Something seemed to snap inside his head and he spurred his horse in a
perfect frenzy of rage. "Damn you!" he shrilled, and his voice rang
hollow and thin, "damn you, come and get me! Shoot me! String me up!
But, for Christ's sake, give me a drink! I stole the horse to make a
getaway. I gutted the nester's cabin! An' if it hadn't be'n for the
pilgrim, I'd--" A man stood directly in front of him--two men. They were
very close and one of them held a gun. Purdy could see the starlight
gleam faintly upon the barrel.
"Put 'em up!" The words were not loudly spoken, but somehow they seemed
deadly in earnest. Purdy's hands raised shakily:
"Damn you!" he screamed, "damn you all! Damn the world!"
"Coverin' quite a bit of territory, young feller. Better save up yer
cussin' till you know yer hurt. Take his bridle reins, Bill, an' we'll
be gittin' to camp." The other caught up the reins and once more the
coulee rang to the measured tread of hoofs.
"Give me a drink," mumbled Purdy, thickly. "Water--whisky----"
"We've got 'em both. Jest hold on about five minutes an' we'll fix you
out."
"An' then string me up," the words came with difficulty and the man in
front laughed shortly.
"Well, mebbe not. I'm guessin' young feller, mebbe you've lit luckier'n
what you think."
They turned abruptly into a side coulee, and a few moments later the
spokesman ordered Purdy to dismount. He staggered weakly, and the man
supported him while the other took the horse and disappeared. After a
few steps Purdy braced up, and relieving him of his gun the man bade
him follow. They seemed to be in a cave. Purdy glanced upward and could
see no stars. The darkness was intense, and he placed his hand on the
man's shoulder. They turned a sharp corner and another and found
themselves in a blaze of light. Three men lounged about an open fire,
and the light from two coal-oil lamps lighted the interior of what
seemed to be a large room. Cooking utensils were ranged neatly along the
wall near the fire, and beyond, Purdy could see rolls of bedding. The
man who conducted him in tendered him a tin cup of water and Purdy
gulped it greedily to the last drop and extended the cup for more.
"Better wait a bit an' let that soak in," advised the man, "they's
plenty an' you kin have all you want." The other three men looked on in
silence, and when Purdy had drained two more cupfuls of water, one of
them motioned him to be seated. Another handed him tobacco and papers,
and as he rolled a cigarette, Purdy glanced about with a distinct air of
relief. This was no posse. There was an air of permanency about the
camp, and as he glanced into the faces of the men he recognized none of
them.
When he had returned the tobacco and lighted his cigarette, one of the
men addressed him directly. Purdy noticed that he was a squat man, and
that the legs of his leather chaps bowed prodigiously. He was thick and
wide of chest, a tuft of hair protruded grotesquely from a hole in the
crown of his soft-brimmed hat, and a stubby beard masked his features
except for a pair of beady, deep-set eyes that stared at Purdy across
the glowing brands of the dying fire. He tossed his cigarette into the
coals and spoke abruptly:
"What you doin' down here? Where you headin'?"
Purdy glanced into the eyes that seemed to flash menacingly as a brand
flared feebly. Then he lied: "Headin' fer south of the Mizoo. Got a job
down there."
"Who with?"
"Don't know the name. It's out of Lewiston. Feller come through couple
of days ago an' said they was short-handed."
"Cow outfit?"
"Yup."
"That why yer ridin' a Circle J horse? An' why you snuck into the brush
back yonder an' laid low while Pete, here, rode past a-singin' 'Big Foot
Sal'?" The man's eyes were still upon him, and Purdy knew that he had
been caught in his lie. He glanced toward the man called Pete, and
recognized the leisurely rider of the afternoon. The man who had
conducted him in laughed, and Purdy was surprised that the sound held a
note of genuine amusement:
"An' is that why you cussed me an' Bill when we was keepin' cases on you
comin' down the coulee, an' wound up by cussin' the whole world, an'
invitin' us to string you up?"
Purdy was at loss for words. He felt the blood mounting to his face, and
he cleared his throat uncertainly.
"D'you know who I am?" The squat man questioned.
Purdy shook his head.
"Grimshaw's my name--Cass Grimshaw."
"Cass Grimshaw! The--" Purdy stopped abruptly in confusion.
The other laughed shortly: "Go ahead an' say it. It won't hurt my
feelin's none. I'm the party--Cass Grimshaw, the horse-thief."
Purdy stared open-mouthed, for the man had uttered a name that in the
cattle country was a name to conjure with. Cass Grimshaw, and the
Grimshaw gang were notorious for their depredations throughout Montana
and half of Wyoming. For two years they had defied the law and resisted
all efforts to break them up. One or two of their number had been killed
in fights with posses, but the gang remained intact, a thorn in the side
of the Stock Association, and the sheriffs of many counties. Purdy
continued to stare and again Grimshaw broke the silence: "Total rewards
on all of us is thirty-two hundred. On me, personal, takin' Association,
State, an' County, it's two thousan' even money. Figurin' on
collectin'?"
Purdy gasped. What kind of a man was this? As a matter of fact, he had
been thinking of those rewards. He had forgotten his own crimes and was
picturing himself riding into Wolf River with a squat, bow-legged body
dangling across the front of his saddle.
"Hell--no!" he managed to blurt out, "I'm--I'm a horse-thief, myself!"