THE DEAD-LINE
by W. C. Tuttle
Author of “Sun-Dog Loot,” “Rustler’s Roost,” etc.
Jack Hartwell’s place was not of sufficient importance in Lo Lo Valley
to be indicated by a brand name. It was a little four-room,
rough-lumber and tar-paper shack, half buried in a clump of
cottonwoods on the bank of Slow Elk Creek.
The house had been built several years before by a man named Morgan,
who had the mistaken idea that a nester might be welcome on the Lo Lo
range. He had moved in quietly, built his shack, and—then the riders
from Marsh Hartwell’s Arrow outfit had seen his smoke.
Whether or not Marsh Hartwell legally owned the property made no
difference; he claimed it. And few men cared to dispute Marsh
Hartwell. At any rate, it was proved that a nester was not welcome on
the Arrow.
It was an August afternoon. Only a slight breeze moved the dry leaves
of the cottonwoods, and the air was resonant with the hum of insects.
Molly Hartwell, Jack Hartwell’s wife, stood on the unshaded front
steps of the house, looking down across the valley, which was hazy
with the heat waves.
Mrs. Hartwell was possibly twenty years of age, tall, slender; a
decided brunette of the Spanish type, although there was no Spanish
blood in her ancestry. She was the kind of woman that women like to
say mean things about; and try to make themselves believe them.
The married men of the Lo Lo mentally compared her with their
women-folk; while the single men, most of them bashful, hard-riding
cowpunchers, avoided her, and hoped she’d be at the next dance.
Jack Hartwell did not wave at her as he rode in out of the hills and
dismounted at the little corral beside the creek. He unsaddled, turned
his sweat-marked sorrel into the corral and hung his saddle on the
fence.
Jack Hartwell was a few years older than his wife; a thin-waisted,
thin-faced young man with an unruly mop of blond hair and a freckled
nose. His wide, blue eyes were troubled, as he squinted toward the
house and kicked off his chaps.
He could not see his wife, but he knew that she was waiting for him,
waiting for the news that he was bringing to her. After a few moments
of indecision he shrugged his shoulders and walked around the house to
her.
She was sitting down in the doorway now, and he halted beside her, his
thumbs hooked over the heavy cartridge belt around his waist.
“It’s hot,” he said wearily.
“Yes, it’s hot,” she said. “There hasn’t been much breeze today.”
“Water is gettin’ kinda low, Molly. Several of the springs ain’t
runnin’ more than a trickle.”
“We need rain.”
Neither of them spoke now, as they looked down across the valley.
Winged grasshoppers crackled about the duty yard, and several hornets
buzzed up and down the side of the house, as if seeking an entrance.
Finally the woman looked up at him and he moved uneasily.
“Yeah, it’s him—Eph King.”
There was bitterness in Jack Hartwell’s voice, which he did not try to
conceal.
A flash of triumph came into the woman’s eyes, and she turned back to
her contemplation of the hills. Her husband looked down at her,
shaking his head slowly.
“Molly, it’s goin’ to mean —— in these hills.”
“Is it?”
She did not seem to mind.
“They’ve drawn a dead-line now,” he said slowly, “and there has been
some shootin’. They’ve sent for the outfits down in the south end, and
they’ll be here tonight.”
“Well, we won’t be in it,” she said flatly. “It means nothing to us.”
“Don’t it?”
Jack squinted hard at her, but she did not look up.
“No. The law has decided that a sheep has the same right as a cow. The
cattlemen of the Lo Lo do not legally own all this valley.”
“Mebbe not—” Jack shook his head wearily—“but they hold it, Molly.”
“Well,” she laughed shortly, scornfully, “you are not a cattleman.
You’ve got nothing to fight for.”
“No-o-o?”
She sprang to her feet, her eyes flashing.
“Well, have you?” she demanded. “Your own people have turned you down.
Your own father cursed you for marrying a daughter of Eph King. You
wasn’t good enough to even work for him; so he gave you this!” She
flung out her arms in a gesture of contempt. “Is this worth fighting
for?”
Jack Hartwell bit his lip for a moment and the ghost of a smile passed
his thin lips.
“It ain’t worth much, is it, Molly? Still, it was worth so much
that——”
“That they killed the man who took possession of it,” she finished
angrily.
“Yeah, they killed him, Molly. Morgan was a fool. He had a chance to
go away, but he would rather fight it out.”
“He was a friend of my father.”
“Yeah, I know it, Molly. But that has nothing to do with us.”
“Did you see the sheep?”
“Yeah. I went as far as the dead-line, Molly. The hills are full of
sheep. They were comin’ down the draws like the gray water of a
cloud-burst, spreadin’ all over the flats. As far back as yuh can see,
just sheep and dust.”
“Are they on Arrow range?”
“On the upper edge. The punchers threw ’em back about half a mile, but
I dunno.” Jack shook his head. “There’s so many of ’em.”
“Dad has thirty thousand head,” she said slowly. “Or he did have that
many before——”
“Before yuh ran away to marry me,” finished Jack.
“I went willingly, Jack.”
“Oh, I know it, Molly.” He turned and threw an arm across her
shoulder. “You’ve had a rotten deal, girl. I wish for your sake that
it could be undone. I didn’t know that there was so much hate between
your dad and mine. I knew that they were not friends, but—well, I know
now.”
“Your father drove my father out of this valley.”
“But that was years ago, Molly.”
“And branded him a thief,” bitterly.
“Yeah, I reckon that’s right. It never was proved nor disproved,
Molly. We’ve known for years that he was goin’ to try and shove sheep
across the range into Lo Lo. He swore that he would sheep us out.
There ain’t been a time in two years that men haven’t ridden the upper
ranges, watchin’ for such a thing.
“There’s a man livin’ in Kiopo Cañon, whose job is to watch the other
slope. I dunno how it was he didn’t warn us; and I dunno how your
father ever found out that we were goin’ to hold the roundup two weeks
ahead of time. He sure picked the right time. If we’d ’a’ known it,
he’d never got his sheep up over the divide.”
“You say ‘we,’” said Molly slowly. “Are you one of them? After they
have turned you out, are you still one of them?”
Jack turned away, shading his eyes with one hand, as he studied the
hills.
“I’ve always been a cowman,” he said slowly. “I’ve been raised to hate
sheep and yuh can’t change a man in a day.”
“What have the cattlemen done for you, Jack?”
Jack did not reply.
* * * * *
A man was riding out of the hills on a jaded horse. He rode slowly up
to them, a bronzed, wiry cowboy, with sun-red eyes and a
sweat-streaked face.
“Hello, Spiers,” said Jack.
“G’d afternoon, folks. Hotter’n ——, ain’t it.”
“Crawl off and rest your feet,” invited Jack.
“No, thank yuh. I jist rode down this-away to tell yuh that there’s a
meetin’ at the Arrow t’night. The boys from the other end of the
range’ll be there by evenin’.”
“Did my dad send yuh after me, Spiers?”
“No-o-o, he didn’t,” Spiers shifted in his saddle nervously. “But I’ve
always liked yuh, Jack; and I kinda thought yuh might want t’ come.
It’s a cattlemen’s meetin’, yuh know.”
“And he’s a cattleman,” said Molly dryly.
Spiers flushed slightly and picked up his reins.
“Well, I’ll be ridin’ on. S’long, folks.”
He swung his horse around and rode on into the hills, without looking
back.
“Oh, I hate that man!” exclaimed Molly angrily.
“Spiers is all right,” defended Jack calmly.
“All right! He’s a gunman, a killer.”
“Prob’ly. He’s dad’s foreman; been his foreman for years.”
“And does your dad’s dirty work.”
Jack sighed deeply and shook his head.
“There’s no use arguin’ with yuh, Molly.”
“Spiers killed Jim Morgan.”
“Well, Morgan had an even break. He—Say, how did you know that Spiers
killed Morgan?”
“I didn’t.”
Molly turned away and went into the house.
Jack went back to the corral, where he leaned on the fence and tried
to decide what to do. Naturally his sympathies were with the
cattleman. He had been born and raised in the Lo Lo Valley, steeped in
the lore of the rangeland; a top-hand cowboy at sixteen.
He had known Molly King when they were both attending the little
cow-town school at Totem City, when the fathers of both were
struggling for supremacy in the valley. Then came a day, when
accusations were hurled at Eph King and his outfit. He was accused of
wholesale cattle stealing, but no arrests were made. The cattlemen,
headed by Marsh Hartwell, bought him out at a fair price and sent him
out of the country.
But whether through his ill-gotten gains or through his own ability,
Eph King became the sheep king of the Sunland Basin, a vast land to
the north of Lo Lo, a land that was a constant threat to Lo Lo.
But there was one thing in the cattlemen’s favor: The sheep would have
to come through the pass at the head of Kiopo Cañon, where old Ed
Barber kept daily watch of the slopes which led off into Sunland.
Jack Hartwell again met Molly King in Medicine Tree, which was the
home town of the King family. It was circus day. The recognition had
been mutual and old scores were forgotten. They spent the day
together, like a couple of kids out of school, drinking pink lemonade
and feeding peanuts to the one elephant. It was not a big circus.
For several months after that Jack Hartwell found excuses to go to
Medicine Tree. Then one day he came back to the Arrow ranch with a
wife. They had eloped. Big Marsh Hartwell listened to their
explanations, his face blue with suppressed anger, while Mrs.
Hartwell, a frail little, gray-haired woman, with pleading blue eyes,
clutched her apron with both blue-veined hands and watched her husband
anxiously.
“So that’s it, eh?” Marsh Hartwell nodded slowly, his eyes almost
shut. “You went over there and married her, did yuh. You married Eph
King’s daughter.”
“Father!”
Ma Hartwell put a hand on his arm, but he shook it off.
“And yuh brought her back here, eh? Now what are yuh goin’ to do?”
“Why, I thought—” began Jack.
“No, yuh didn’t think! That’s the trouble. You know —— well that a
King ain’t welcome in this valley. You’ve put yourself on a level with
them. The son-in-law of a shepherd! You can’t stay here. Don’t you
know that for years we’ve spent money to keep the King family out of
this valley? And here yuh bring one in on us.”
“All right,” Jack had replied angrily. “We’ll go back to ’em.”
“No, yuh won’t. You move your stuff over to the old Morgan place. I’ll
make yuh a present of it. Mebbe yuh can live it down—I dunno; but yuh
can’t stay here on the Arrow.”
Jack thought all this over as he leaned on the corral fence. They had
lived there less than a year. People avoided them. Molly had no women
friends. To them she was the sheep woman, although they were forced to
admit that she did not contaminate the air. Jack took her to dances
and tried to make her one of the crowd, but without success.
And the men were not friendly to Jack. He had been one of them; one of
a crowd of wild-riding, rollicking cowboys, who drank, played poker
and danced with reckless abandon. In fact, Jack had been a sort of
ring-leader of the gang.
He missed all this more than any one knew. But most of all he missed
the home life of the Arrow ranch.
His sister and her husband, Bill Brownlee, lived at the Arrow.
Brownlee hated the sheep even worse, if such a thing were possible,
than did Marsh Hartwell. There were three cowboys employed:
Three gunmen, as Molly had called them.
“Honey” Wier, a wide-mouthed, flat-faced cowboy, who hailed from
“Alberty, by gosh,” “Cloudy” McKay, a dour-faced, trouble expecter
from Arizona, and “Chet” Spiers, the foreman, composed the hired
element of the Arrow. And Lo Lo Valley respected them for their
ability. Marsh Hartwell knew cowpunchers, and in these three men he
had ability plus.
And Jack Hartwell, as he leaned on the corral fence, knew down deep in
his heart that he could not remain neutral. It would be impossible. He
must decide quickly, too. If he did not attend that meeting, the
cattlemen would take it for granted that he was against them. Spiers
had given him no chance to vacillate.
* * * * *
Far back in the hills sounded the report of a rifle. Jack lifted his
head, and as he did so he thought he caught a flash of color back on
the side of a hill. For several minutes he watched the spot, but there
was nothing other than the sage brush and the dancing haze.
“Seein’ things,” he told himself, but to make sure he walked back up
the brush-lined stream, keeping out of sight of that certain spot. But
he found nothing, and came back to the corral, where he busied himself
for an hour or so, putting in a couple of new posts.
He needed physical action, and he worked swiftly in the blazing sun.
Then he flung himself down in the shade and smoked innumerable
cigarets, still wrestling with himself. The sun went down before he
walked back to the house. Molly was putting their supper on the table,
but he had no appetite.
“I heard a shot a while ago,” she told him, and he nodded grimly.
“You’ll prob’ly hear a lot more before it’s over, Molly.”
He sat down at the table, but shoved his plate aside.
“I’m not hungry,” he said slowly. “I’ve fought it all out with myself
today, Molly. It’s been a —— of a fight.”
“Fought out what?”
She swallowed dryly, almost choking.
“Just what to do. I’m goin’ to that meetin’ at the Arrow tonight.”
She got to her feet, staring down at him.
“You going to that meeting? Why, you won’t be welcome. Don’t be a
fool, Jack. They know you won’t be there.”
“I’ll be there,” Jack nodded slowly, but did not look at her. “Molly,
you married a cowpuncher, not a sheepherder. This is my country. I—I
reckon I hate sheep as bad as anybody around here, and I’ve got to
help keep ’em out.”
“You have?” She sat down and stared across the table at him. “After
what they’ve done to us?”
“Yeah—even after that.”
“You’d fight against—me?”
“You? Why, bless yore heart, Molly; it ain’t you.”
“It’s my father, my folks. He never did you any harm.”
“Well,” Jack smiled grimly, “he never had a good chance. Yuh must
remember that I haven’t seen him since I was a kid. I had to steal
yuh, girl. He’d ’a’ prob’ly killed me, if he knew.”
Molly shook her head quickly.
“I think he knew, Jack. In fact, I’m sure of it.”
“How do you know?” He squinted closely at her. “We didn’t know it was
goin’ to happen until we met that day, the day we ran away to get
married. And you never seen him since.”
“Oh, I don’t know.”
She got to her feet and walked to the kitchen door. He watched her for
a while, and then got up from the table, picking up his hat. Quickly
she turned and walked back to the table.
“Jack, I forbid you to go there tonight.”
“Well,” he smiled softly at her, “I’m sorry yuh feel that way about
it, Molly, but I’m goin’, thassall.”
“Are you?” Her eyes blazed with anger.
“Well, go ahead. I may not be here when you come back.”
“Uh-huh?”
He turned his sombrero around several times, as if trying to control
himself.
“Well,” he looked up at her wistfully, “I may not come back, yuh
know.”
“Why—why do you say that, Jack?”
“Well, I don’t want to come back, unless I’m sure you’ll be home.”
She stared at him as he went past her and walked down to the corral,
where he saddled his horse, drew on his chaps and rode away toward the
Arrow. She had not told him whether or not she would be home when he
returned, and he had not told her good-by.
[Illustration]
Jack rode out over the trail that led to the Arrow ranch house three
miles away. He was in no hurry, and drew up his horse after he was
hidden from the house. He wondered if Molly would be foolish enough to
ride back into the hills to her father. Her horse and saddle were at
the corral.
He knew that it might be dangerous for her to ride across the
dead-line at night. She wore men’s garb for riding purposes. He turned
his horse around and rode back to where he could watch the house. It
was not his nature to spy upon his wife, but he did not want her to
run into danger foolishly.
He did not have long to wait. A man came through the fringe of brush
along the creek, going cautiously. Once he stopped and looked intently
at the spot where Jack was hidden. Then he went swiftly toward the
house, coming in at the opposite side.
Jack mounted his horse and spurred back along the trail. He could not
recognize this man, but his very actions stamped him as dangerous.
Jack dismounted at the rear of the house and went around to the front,
where he stopped. Voices were coming from the other side of the house.
Silently as possible he went to the corner. Molly was standing with
her back to him, looking at something in her hands, while the man
stood beside her, looking down toward the corral.
“Company came, eh?” said Jack softly.
Molly and the stranger turned quickly. With a quick intake of breath,
Molly flung her hands behind her. The stranger was a middle-aged man,
unkempt, with a face covered with black stubble. His clothes were
dirty, torn. The butt of a six-shooter stuck out of the waistband of
his overalls.
He merely squinted at Jack and looked at Molly. It was evident that he
did not know Jack, who came closer, holding out his hand to Molly.
“Give me that letter, Molly,” ordered Jack.
“I will not!”
Her teeth clicked angrily, as she faced him.
He walked up, ignoring the man, grasped her by the shoulder and
whirled her around. The action was unlooked for and she threw out one
hand to catch her balance. Quick as a flash Jack grabbed at the hand
which held the letter, but all he got was a corner of the paper.
“Quit that!” snapped the stranger, grasping Jack by the arm. “Don’tcha
try ——”
He whirled Jack around and got a left-hand smash full in the jaw,
which sent him to his knees, spitting blood. But the blow was not
heavy enough to do more than daze him, and as he straightened up he
jerked the six-shooter from his waist.
But Jack was looking for this, and his bullet crashed into the
stranger’s arm between elbow and wrist, leaving the man staring up at
him, unable to do more than mouth a curse.
Molly had been leaning back against the side of the house, her face
white with fright, but now she sped into the kitchen, slamming the
door behind her. The stranger got to his feet, holding his arm with
his left hand, and looked around.
“Yo’re from the sheep outfits, ain’t yuh?” asked Jack.
“That’s my business.” The stranger was not a bit meek.
“It’s a —— of a business,” observed Jack. “Who was that letter from?”
“Mebbe yuh think yuh can find out, eh?”
“All right. Now you mosey back where yuh came from, _sabe_? If I ever
catch yuh around here again, I’ll not shoot at yore arm. Now vamoose
_pronto_.”
The man turned and went swiftly back past the corral, where he
disappeared through the brush. A few moments later he came out on to
the side of a hill, where he lost no time in putting distance between
himself and the ranch.
Jack watched him disappear and went to the kitchen door. It was
locked. For a while he stood there, wondering what to do. He had lost
the piece he had torn from the corner of the letter, but now he found
it on the ground.
It had torn diagonally across the corner, and on it were only three
words, written in lead-pencil:
Find out what——
Just the three words. For a long time he studied them, before the full
import of them struck him. He walked to the front door, but found it
locked. Then he went back, mounted his horse and rode back toward the
Arrow. It was growing dark now, and he felt sure that the stranger
would not come back. He was in need of medical attention, and Jack
felt that he would lose no time in getting back to his own crowd.
Jack took the tiny piece of paper from his pocket and looked it over
again.
“It’s from her father,” he told himself. “Find out what? Find out
somethin’ about the cattlemen, I wonder? My ——, is my wife a spy?”
He straightened in his saddle, as past events flashed through his
mind. Molly had known that there was a lookout in Kiopo Cañon. He
remembered that Honey Wier had spoken in her presence of old Ed
Barber, the keeper of the Kiopo Pass, who drew a salary for sitting up
there, watching for sheep.
She also knew that the fall roundup was to be held at this time. Had
she written this to her father, he wondered? She had plenty of
chances, when she went for the mail. And she had intimated that her
father knew she was going to marry him.
“Is she standin’ all this for her father?” he asked himself. “Did she
marry me just to give her father a chance to get even with the Arrow?”
He tried to argue himself out of the idea, but the tiny, triangular
piece of paper, with the three written words, was something that he
could not deny. It was after dark when he rode in at the Arrow. There
were twelve horses tied to the low fence in front of the ranch house.
A yellow glow showed through the heavy window curtains of the living
room.
Jack did not stop to knock on the front door, but walked right in. The
room was full of men, hazy with smoke. They had been arguing angrily
as he entered, but now they were still.
His father was sitting at the back of the room, in the center, while
the others were facing him. There were Cliff Vane, owner of the Circle
V, and his two cowboys, Bert Allen and “Skinner” Close; Sam Hodges,
the crippled owner of the Bar 77, with Jimmy Healey, Paul Dazey and
Gene Hill; Old Frank Hall, who owned the 404, his son Tom and three
punchers.
“Slim” De Larimore, the saturnine-faced owner of the Turkey track
brand, a horse outfit. Three of his punchers were scattered around the
room. Seated near Marsh Hartwell was “Sudden” Smithy, the sheriff, who
owned the Lazy S outfit. Near him sat “Sunshine” Gallagher, his
deputy, the prize pessimist of Lo Lo Valley.
Near the dining-room door, Spiers sat hunched against the wall, and
near him was Brownlee, Jack’s brother-in-law. Jack closed the door
behind him and looked quickly around the room. Marsh Hartwell squinted
closely at Jack. It was the first time that Jack had been in the Arrow
ranch house since his father had told him he would not be welcome any
longer.
De Larimore had evidently been talking, as he started in again to
explain something, but Marsh Hartwell silenced him with a motion of
his hand, looking intently at Jack.
“Was there somethin’ yuh wanted?”
Marsh Hartwell’s voice was cold and impersonal. He might have been
speaking to a total stranger instead of to his own son.
“Somethin’ I wanted?” said Jack puzzled. “I came to the meetin’, thass
all.”
“I asked him to,” said Spiers. “I didn’t think he’d come.”
“Yuh can’t never tell about some folks.” Thus Sunshine Gallagher,
grinning.
“Thank yuh, Sunshine,” said Jack easily.
“Oh ——, yore welcome, I’m sure.”
“What did you expect to do at this meetin’?” queried Marsh Hartwell.
“For one thing,” said Jack coldly, “I didn’t expect to be insulted. I
know I’m an outsider, but I own a few cattle.”
Some one laughed and Jack turned his head quickly, but every one was
straight faced.
“Oh, ——, you fellers make me tired!” roared old Sam Hodges, hammering
his cane on the floor. His white beard twitched angrily. “Why don’tcha
let the kid alone. What if he did marry the daughter of a sheepherder?
By ——, that ain’t so terribly awful, is it?”
He glared around as if daring any one to challenge his argument.
“Are any of you fellers pure? Ha, ha, ha, ha! By ——, I could tell a
few things about most of yuh, if I wanted to. I’ve seen Jack’s wife,
and I’ll rise right up and proclaim that they raise some —— sweet
lookin’ females in the sheep country. Set down, Jack. Yo’re a cowman,
son, and this here is a cowman’s meetin’. We need trigger fingers,
too, by ——! And if m’ memory don’t fail me, you’ve got a good one.”
“But—” began the sheriff.
“But ——!” snorted the old man.
“Don’t ‘but’ me! You —— holier-than-thou! Smithy, some day you’ll make
me mad and I’ll tell yuh right out what I know about yuh. Oh, I know
all of yuh. I’m a ——ed old cripple, and the law protects me from
violence, so hop to it. Start hornin’ into me, will yuh? I’ve lived
here since Lo Lo Valley was a high peak, and I’m competent to write a
biography of every ——ed one of yuh. And some of it would have to be
written on asbestos paper. Set down, Jack Hartwell; yo’re interruptin’
the meetin’.”
Jack sat down near the door, hunched on his heels. Old Sam Hodges had
come to his rescue at a critical time, and he inwardly blessed the old
cripple. Hodges had been a cripple as long as Jack could remember, and
his tongue was vitriolic. He was educated, refined, when he cared to
be, which was not often. But in spite of the fact that he cursed every
one, the men of Lo Lo Valley listened to his advice.
“Well, let’s get on with the meetin’,” said Vane impatiently. “You
were talkin’, Slim.”
“And that’s all he was doin’,” said Sunshine. “Slim is jist like a
dictionary. He talks a little about this and a little about that, and
the —— stuff don’t connect. What we want is an agreement on some move,
it seems to me.”
“Sunshine’s got the right idea,” agreed Hodges. “Too much talk. If
anybody has a real suggestion, let ’em outline it. You ought to have
one, Hartwell.”
Marsh Hartwell shook his head.
“It will be impossible to wipe them out now. The only thing to do will
be to make a solid dead-line and hold ’em where they are until the
feed plays out and they have to go back. The feed ain’t none too good
up there now, and if it don’t rain they can’t stay long.”
“How many men will it take to hold that line, Marsh?” asked Vane.
“They’re spread over a two-mile front now. Figure it out. They’ve got
about twenty-five herders, all armed with rifles. I look for ’em to
spread plumb across the range, and the —— himself couldn’t stop ’em
from tricklin’ in.”
“Which ruins the idea of a solid dead-line,” said Hodges dryly. “Who
has a worse idea than that?”
* * * * *
The sheriff got to his feet, but before he could state his proposition
there came a noise at the front door. Jack sprang to his feet and
flung the door open, while in came Honey Wier, half-carrying,
half-dragging old Ed Barber, who had been the keeper of the Kiopo
Pass.
The old man was blood-stained, clothes half torn from his body, his
face chalky in the light of the lamp. One of the men sprang up and let
Honey place the old man in an easy chair, while the rest crowded
around, questioning, wondering what had happened to him.
“I found him about a mile from Kiopo,” panted Honey. “His cabin had
been burned. They shot him, but he managed to hide away in the brush.
I reckon he lost his mind and came crawlin’ out on to the side hill. I
got shot at, too, when I was bringin’ him in, but they missed me.”
“How bad is he hurt?” asked Hartwell.
“Kinda bad, I reckon. He talked to me a while ago.”
Vane produced a flask and gave the old man a drink. The strong liquor
brought a flush to his cheeks and he tried to grin.
“Good stuff!” he whispered wheezingly. “I ain’t dead yet. Need a
doctor, I reckon.”
“I’ll get one right away,” said one of the cowboys, and bolted out
after his horse.
“Who shot yuh, Ed?” asked Hartwell.
“I dunno, Marsh. They sneaked up on me, roped me tight and brought in
the sheep next day. I heard ’em goin’ past the cabin. They knowed what
I was there for. One of ’em told me. They knowed that the roundup was
on, too. I managed to fight m’self out of them ropes, but it was too
late.
“The sheep had all gone past. Some of them men was comin’ back toward
the cabin and they seen me makin’ my getaway. I didn’t have no gun.
They hit me a couple of times, but I crawled into a mesquite and they
missed findin’ me.”
“Then they burned the cabin,” said Honey angrily.
Marsh Hartwell scowled thoughtfully, as he turned away from the old
man.
“What do yuh think of it, Marsh?” asked Hodges.
“I think there’s a spy in Lo Lo Valley.”
“A spy?” queried the sheriff.
“Yeah, a spy. How did they know that Ed Barber lived in Kiopo Cañon to
watch for sheep? How did they know that we’d hold our fall roundup
this early in the season? By ——, somebody told ’em, some sneakin’
spy!”
Marsh Hartwell turned and looked straight at Jack. It was a look
filled with meaning, and nearly every man in the room interpreted it
fully. Still Jack did not flinch, as their eyes met. Some one swore
softly.
“There’s only one answer to that,” said De Larimore. “Show us the spy,
Hartwell. This is a time of war.”
Marsh Hartwell shook his head slowly and turned back to his seat.
“Things like that must be proven,” said Hodges. “It ain’t a thing that
yuh can take snap judgment on.”
“We better put Ed between the blankets,” suggested Honey Wier. “He’s
got to be in shape for the doctor to work on when he comes, so I
reckon we’ll take him down to the bunk house, Marsh.”
The boss of the Arrow nodded, and three men assisted the wounded man
from the room. Jack turned to Gene Hill,
“Have they got any men on the dead-line now, Gene?” he asked softly.
Hill was a long-nosed, watery-eyed sort of person, generally very
affable, but now he seemed to draw into his shell.
“Better ask Marsh Hartwell,” he said slowly. “I ain’t in no position
to pass out information.”
There was no mistaking the inference in Hill’s reply. Jack turned and
walked to the door, where he faced the crowd, his hand on the
door-knob.
“I came here tonight to throw in with yuh,” he said hoarsely. “I’m as
much of a cattleman as any of yuh here tonight, and —— knows I hate
sheep as bad as any of yuh. I had a gun to help yuh fight against the
sheep men.
“But I know how yuh feel toward me. My own father thinks I’ve done him
an injury. You think I’m a spy. Well, —— yuh, go ahead and think all
yuh want to! From now on I don’t have to show allegiance to either
side. I’m neither a cattleman nor a sheepman. I’ll mind my own
business, _sabe_? You’ve drawn a dead-line against the sheep; I’ll
draw one against both of yuh. You know where my ranch-lines run? All
right, keep off. Now, yuh can all go to ——!”
He yanked the door open and slammed it behind him. For several moments
the crowd was silent. Then old Sam Hodges laughed joyfully and
hammered on the floor with his cane.
“Good for the kid!” he exploded. “By ——, I’m for him! He told yuh all
to go to ——, didn’t he? Told me to go with yuh. But I wouldn’t do it,
nossir. Catch me with this gang? Huh! Draw a dead-line, will he? Ha,
ha, ha, ha! Betcha forty dollars he’ll hold it, too. Hartwell, you are
an ass!”
Marsh Hartwell flushed hotly, but did not reply. He knew better than
to cross old Hodges, who chuckled joyfully over his evil-smelling
pipe.
“If I had a boy like Jack, I’ll be —— if I’d turn him down because his
wife’s father favored mutton instead of beef,” he continued. “Now that
we’ve all agreed that Marsh Hartwell is seventeen kinds of a —— fool,
let’s get back to the business at hand.”
Marsh Hartwell glared at Hodges, his jaw muscles jerking.
“If you wasn’t a cripple, Sam——”
“But I am, Marsh.” The old man chuckled throatily, as he sucked on his
pipe. “I wish I wasn’t, but I am.”
“All of which don’t settle our questions,” observed Slim Larimore
impatiently.
“No, and it don’t look to me like there was any use of talkin’ any
further.”
Thus Frank Hall, of the 404, a dumpy, little old cowman, with an
almost-round head. He got to his feet, as if the meeting was over.
“There’s only one thing to do: Shove every —— rider we’ve got along
that dead-line and kill every sheep and sheepherder that crosses it.”
“That looks like the only reasonable thing to do,” nodded Marsh
Hartwell, looking around the room. “Are we all agreed on that?”
Sudden Smithy, the sheriff, got to his feet.
“Gents,” he said slowly. “I can’t say yes to that. You all know that
I’ve sworn to uphold the law; and the law has given the sheep the same
right as cattle. Legally, we don’t own but a small portion of Lo Lo
range; morally, we do. I’m as much of a cowman as you fellers, but
first of all, I’m the sheriff.”
“That’s all right,” said Hartwell. “You’re not against us, Sudden?”
“O-o-oh, —— no! I’m just showin’ yuh that it won’t be my vote that
turns —— loose in these hills. And she’s goin’ to be ——, boys. Eph
King is a fighter. He shoved that mass of sheep over Kiopo Pass, and
the —— himself ain’t goin’ to be able to stop him, until every
sheepherder is put out of commission and the sheep travelin’ back down
the slopes into Sunland Basin.”
“And King’s no fool,” growled Bill Brownlee. “He prob’ly ain’t got no
central camp, where we might ride in and bust ’em up quick. Every
sheepherder goes it alone. King is prob’ly back there somewhere,
directin’ ’em.”
“I sure like to notch my sight on him,” said Cloudy McKay of the
Arrow. “I got a bullet so close to my ear today that it plumb raised a
blister. And any of you fellers that ride that dead-line better look
out. Them shepherds lay close in the brush, and they can shoot,
don’tcha forget it. Our best bet is to leave our broncs in a safe
place, and play Injun.”
“There’s wisdom there,” nodded Sam Hodges. “Eph King hasn’t got
ordinary sheepherders in charge of that outfit. He can hire trigger
fingers and pay ’em their price. He’s got more men up there right now
than we can throw against him, and he’s ready for battle.
“We better shove our men in close to that line before daylight,
Hartwell. Spread ’em out, hide ’em in the brush. It looks —— nice to
see a long string of mounted punchers, but a man on a horse up there
will prove that he’s a cattleman, a legitimate target for a shepherd.
My idea is: Fight ’em with their own medicine.”
“Suits me fine.” Old Frank Hall picked up his hat. “We’re too shy on
men to make targets out of ’em. That’s the best idea we’ve had, so
let’s go. How’s everybody fixed for ammunition?”
A check of the cartridge belts showed that every man had enough for
his immediate needs.
“I’ll throw a chuck wagon into Six-Mile Gulch,” stated Hartwell, “and
we can feed in relays. If this lasts very long, we can throw another
into the head of Brush Cañon; so that we won’t have to draw the men
too far away from the line.
“Smithy, when yuh go back to Totem, tell Jim Hork to wire Medicine
Tree or Palm Lake for ca’tridges. Tell him to get plenty of
thirty-thirties, forty-five seventies and a slough of forty-fours and
forty-fives. If he can get us fifty pounds of dynamite, we’ll take
that, too. That’s all, I reckon.”
* * * * *
The crowd of men filed out to their horses, where they mounted and
rode away into the hills. Marsh Hartwell stood in the doorway of the
ranch house, bulking big in the yellow light, and watched them ride
away. He turned back into the smoky room and squinted at his wife, who
stood just inside the room, one hand still holding the half-open
dining-room door.
For several moments they looked at each other closely. Then she
released the door and came toward him.
“Marsh, I heard what was said to Jack,” she said softly. “I was just
outside that door.”
“Well?”
“You drove him away from here.”
“He drove himself away, Mother. When he married that——”
“He came to help you. After what you had done to him, he came to help
you, Marsh. Blood is thicker than water.”
“Not his blood! Came to help me? More likely he came to see what he
could hear.”
“Marsh! Do you think that Jack——?”
“Well, somebody did. I tell you, there’s a dirty spy around here.”
“Marsh Hartwell!”
The old lady came closer and put a hand on his arm, but he did not
look at her.
“Perhaps there is a spy, Marsh,” she said softly. “There are many
people in Lo Lo Valley. We don’t know them all as well as we know each
other. And knowing each other so well, after all these years, Marsh,
are we the only ones capable of raising a—a spy?”
He looked down at her. There were tears in her old eyes and her lips
trembled in spite of the forced smile. Then she turned away and went
back through the doorway. He stared after her for along time, before
he turned and went back to the open front door, where he scowled out
into the night.
There was no relaxation, no admission that he might be wrong in his
estimate of Jack. But between his lips came a soft exclamation, which
had something to do with “a —— fool,” but only Marsh Hartwell knew
whom he meant.
* * * * *
A long train of cattle-cars creaked through the hills, heading for the
eastern markets. Back in the rattling old caboose, a number of cowboys
sat around a table under a swaying lamp and tried to kill time at
poker.
They were the men in charge of the stock, and had found, to their
sorrow, that a swaying, creaking, jerking caboose was no place for a
cowboy to sleep. They growled at each other and swore roundly, when
the caboose swayed around a sharp curve and upset their piles of
poker-chips.
“I ain’t got a solid j’int in m’ body,” declared a wizen-faced
cattleman seriously, holding his chips in his hands. “By ——, I jist
went on this trip t’ say that I’d seen Chicago, but I’ll never see it.
Nossir, I won’t. Yeah, I’ll call jist one more bet before I fall
apart.”
“One more bet and ‘Hashknife’ will have all the money, anyway,”
declared “Sleepy” Stevens, yawning widely.
“I spur my chair,” grinned Hashknife Hartley, a tall, thin,
serious-faced cowboy. “And thataway—” he shoved in a stack of chips
and leaned back in his chair—“I ride ’em steady, while you mail-order
cowpunchers wobble all over and expose yore hands. Cost yuh six bits
to call, ‘Stumpy’.”
“Not me.” The wizen-faced one threw down his cards. “You call him,
‘Nebrasky’.”
“F’r six bits?” Nebraska Holley shook his head. “Nawup. I’ve paid too
danged many six bits to see him lay down big hands. Anyway, I’ve had
enough of this kinda poker. I wish t’ —— that engineer would go easy
f’r a while. I ain’t slept since night afore last, and I didn’t sleep
good then.”
“He’s whistlin’ for somethin’,” observed Hashknife.
“Mebbe he’s scared of the dark, and he’s whistlin’ for company.”
“Whistlin’ for a station,” yawned Stumpy. “I asked the conductor about
them whistles.”
“Must be a wild station,” observed Sleepy Stevens. “He’s sure sneakin’
up on it in the dark.”
The train had slowed to a snail’s pace, and finally stopped with a
series of jolts and jerks.
“We’re at a station,” declared Stumpy, flattening his nose against a
window pane. “I can see the lights of the town.”
The conductor came storming into the caboose, swearing at the top of
his voice.
“Some more —— hot-boxes!” he snorted. “Half of the axles on this ——
train are on fire. A fine lot of rollin’ stock to ship cows in. Be
held up here a couple of hours, I reckon. Take us half an hour to cool
’em off, and then we’ll have to lay out for the regular passenger.”
“What’s the town, pardner?” asked Nebraska.
“Totem City.”
“Let’s all go over and see what she looks like,” suggested Hashknife.
“I’ll spend some of my ill-gotten gains.”
“Not me,” declared Nebraska. “In two hours I can be poundin’ my ear.”
“Me, too,” said Stumpy Lee. “I’m goin’ to sleep.”
“How about you, Napoleon Bonaparte?”
Napoleon Deschamps, a fat-faced cowpuncher, who had been trying to
read an old magazine, shook his head at Hashknife.
“Bimeby I go sleep too, Hartlee. De town don’ int’rest.”
“Well, Sleepy, we’ll go. And you snake-hunters won’t sleep much after
we get back; _sabe_? C’mon, Sleepy.”
They swung down off the caboose and walked the length of the train.
Toward the upper end of the train lanterns were bobbing around, and
there was a sound of hammers on steel. There was a dim light in the
depot, but they did not stop. About midway of the main street a
brightly lighted building beckoned them to the Totem City Saloon.
“Little old cow-town,” said Hashknife as they walked down the wooden
sidewalk, passing hitch racks, where saddle horses humped in the dark.
“I seen this place on the map,” offered Sleepy. “I kinda wanted to
know what country we were goin’ through, so I took the trouble to look
it up. This here is that Lo Lo Valley.”
“Lo Lo, eh?” grunted Hashknife. “They liked it so well that they named
it twice.”
They walked into the Totem Saloon and headed for the bar. It was
rather a large place for a cow-town. There were not many men in the
room and business was slack, but that could be accounted for because
of the late hour.
A big, sad-faced cowboy was leaning on the bar, gazing moodily at an
empty glass. It was Sunshine Gallagher, the deputy sheriff. He had
come to the Totem Saloon, following the meeting at the Arrow ranch,
and had imbibed considerable hard liquor. Sudden Smithy was across the
room, involved in a poker game.
Hashknife and Sleepy ordered their drinks. Sunshine looked them over
critically, and solemnly accepted Hashknife’s invitation to partake of
his hospitality.
“I never refuse,” he told them heavily. “’S nawful habit to git into.”
“Drinkin’ whisky?” asked Hashknife.
“No—o—o—refusin’. Oh, I ain’ heavy drinker, y’understand! I jist drink
so-and-so. I c’n take it or leave it alone. Right now, I could jist
walk away from that drink. Yesshir. Jist like anythin’, I could do
that. But wha’s the use, I ask yuh? If it wasn’t made to be
drank—would they make it? Now, would they? The anshwer is seven times
eight is fifty shix, and twenty-five is a quarter of a dollar. Here’s
how, gents.”
They drank solemnly. Sunshine looked them over with a critical eye.
“Strangers, eh?” he decided.
“Just passin’ through,” said Hashknife. “We’re goin’ East with a train
load of cattle. Old cattle-cars developed hot-boxes, so we had to stop
a while.”
“Thasso? Goin’ East, eh?” Sunshine grew reflective. “I ain’t never
been East. Mus’ be wonnerful country out there. No cows, no
sheep—nothin’. Not a thing. I wonder how folks git along out there.
Lo’s of barb wire, I s’pose, eh? Whole —— country fenced in, eh?
P’leecemen to fight yore battles. Nothin’ for a feller t’ do, but eat
and sleep. Mus’ be wonnerful.”
“We dunno,” admitted Hashknife. “This is our first trip East.”
“Oh, my, is that so? My, my! Hones’, I wouldn’t go, ’f I was you
fellers, nossir. Firs’ trip is always dangerous. Let’s have another
snifter of demon rum and I’ll try to talk yuh out of it.
“I had a frien’ who went East. Oh, my gosh, it was ter’ble! Got drunk
and bought him some clothes. My, my, my! Wore ’em when he got back
here and got shot twice before anybody rec’nized him. Everybody
thought he was a drummer.”
“Did he have a drum with him?” asked Sleepy innocently.
“Huh?” Sunshine goggled at Sleepy wonderingly. “Shay! Me and you are
goin’ to git along fine. If you ever want to be arrested decently, you
have me do it. Gen’lemen, I sure can do a high-toned job of arrestin’.
I’m Shunshine Gallagher, the dep’ty sheriff of Lo Lo County ’f I do
shay it m’self.”
Hashknife and Sleepy shook hands solemnly with Sunshine, removing
their hats during the handshaking. Sunshine was just as solemn, and
almost fell against the bar in trying to make an exaggerated bow.
Sudden Smithy drew out of the poker game and came over to the bar.
“Better let up on it, Sunshine,” he advised.
“Oh, h’lo, Sudden,” said Sunshine owlishly. “Meet two of the mosht
perfec’ gen’lemen, Sudden. Misser Hartknife Hashley and Steepy
Stevens. Gen’lemen, thish is Misser Smithy, our sheriff. Hurrah for
the king, queen and both one-eyed jacks!”
Sudden grinned widely and shook hands with Hashknife and Sleepy, while
Sunshine tried to shake the bar with both hands to hurry the
bartender. Sudden was sober. Hashknife explained about their reasons
for being in Totem City.
A couple of cowboys clattered into the place and came up to the bar,
where they had a drink and bought a bottle to take with them. Both men
were carrying rifles in their hands, in addition to the holstered guns
on their hips. Both of them spoke to Sunshine and Sudden, but went
away immediately.
Hashknife and Sleepy looked inquiringly at each other, but asked no
questions. They were wise to the ways of the range, and knew that, as
an ordinary thing, cowboys did not carry Winchesters in their hands at
midnight, drink whisky in a hurry and ride away without any
explanation.
But the sheriff vouchsafed no explanation, although they felt that he
knew what was afoot. They drank to each other’s good health.
“They’re goin’ Easht,” explained Sunshine owlishly to the sheriff.
“Use yore influensh, Shudden. Tell ’m lotta lies, won’t yuh? No use
wastin’ good cowboys on the Easht, when we need ’m sho badlee. Talk to
’m.”
“You better go to bed,” advised the sheriff. “This ain’t no condition
for you to be into, Sunshine. Yo’re a disgrace to the office yuh
hold.”
“Tha’s right. I’m no good, thassall. No brainsh, no balansh. Ought t’
git me a steel bill and live with the chickens. I’m jist ol’ Shunshine
Gallagher, if I do shay it m’shelf. But with all my faults, I’m hungry
as ——. Now, deny that if you can. I dare you to deny me the right to
eat.”
“Speakin’ of eatin’,” said Hashknife seriously, “I’m all holler
inside.”
“Good place to eat here,” offered the sheriff. “Up the street a little
ways. I’m kinda hungry, too.”
“Count me in,” grinned Sleepy. “Let’s go git it.”
* * * * *
They went up to a Chinese restaurant, where they proceeded to regale
themselves with ham and eggs, and plenty of coffee. Hashknife tried to
draw the sheriff out in regard to conditions in that country, but the
sheriff refused to offer any information. Sunshine went to sleep, with
his head in a plate of ham and eggs, and the sheriff swore feelingly
at him.
“He’s a danged good deputy most of the time,” he declared. “But once
in a while he slops over and gits all lit up like a torchlight
procession. He’s harmless thataway.”
After the meal, Hashknife and Sleepy helped the sheriff take Sunshine
down to the sheriff’s office, where they put him to bed. An engine
whistled as they came out of the office, and Hashknife opined that
they had better go to the depot and see if their train was ready to
pull out. The sheriff offered to go with them, so the three of them
sauntered up there.
A passenger train was just pulling out, but there was no sign of the
cattle-train.
“Well, I know danged well we left one here,” said Hashknife blankly,
as they walked up to the depot and questioned the sleepy-eyed agent.
“Cattle-train? Oh, yes. Why, it left here quite a while ago. Went on
to the siding at Turkey Track for the passenger.”
“Oh, so that’s where it went, eh?” Hashknife scratched his head
wonderingly. “Where’s Turkey Track sidin’?”
“About six miles east. They’ve pulled on quite a while ago.”
“With all our valuables!” wailed Sleepy.
“That’s right,” agreed Hashknife. “There’s an ancient telescope
valise, inside of which is three pairs of socks, seven packages of
Durham, two cartridge belts and two holsters.”
“And my yaller necktie,” added Sleepy mournfully.
“Well, that’s almost frazzled out,” said Hashknife. “Yuh can’t wear
’em forever, yuh know, Sleepy.”
“Yeah, I s’pose. It’s a danged good thing that we saved our guns.”
“Wearin’ ’em _à la_ shepherd,” laughed Hashknife, opening his coat to
show the butt of a heavy Colt sticking out of the waistband of his
trousers. “We was headin’ East, where it ain’t proper to wear ’em on
the hip, yuh know. Feller kinda gets so used to packin’ a gun that he
feels plumb nude if he ain’t got one rubbin’ his carcass.”
“And we don’t go East,” complained Sleepy. “Dang it all, I’ll never
see nothin’, I don’t s’pose. That makes three times I’ve started
East.”
“Yuh never got this far before,” laughed Hashknife. “Yo’re gainin’ on
her every time, Sleepy. Anyway, we won’t have to fight that blamed
caboose t’night, and that’s somethin’ to cheer about.”
They walked back to the Totem Saloon. The sheriff did not seem as
friendly as he had been before they went to the depot. Down deep in
his heart was a suspicion that these two men might be in the plot to
sheep out Lo Lo Valley. They had arrived at an opportune time, and
they did not seem greatly concerned over the departure of their train.
“What’ll yuh do now?” he asked, as they stood on the sidewalk in front
of the Totem.
“Sleep,” said Hashknife. “No use worryin’ about that train. It’s gone,
thassall.”
“Yeah, it’s gone, that’s a cinch. Where are you fellers from?”
The sheriff knew better than to ask that question, and did not expect
an answer.
“From the cattle-train,” said Sleepy after a pause. It was more than
the sheriff expected.
A man was coming down the sidewalk, and as he came into the lights of
the saloon windows they saw that he was the depot agent. He stopped
and peered at them.
“I was wonderin’ if I’d find you,” he said, a trifle out of breath.
“One of them cattle-cars got derailed just out of Turkey Track sidin’,
and they’re held up for a while. It ain’t more than six or seven miles
out there.”
“A nice long walk,” observed Hashknife.
“I can fix that,” said the sheriff quickly. “I’ll let yuh have a
couple of horses and saddles. Yuh can leave ’em tied to the loadin’
corral and I’ll get ’em tomorrow.”
“Now that’s danged nice of yuh,” agreed Hashknife. “We’ll take yuh up
on that, and thank yuh kindly. Let’s go.”
The sheriff led the way to his stable, where they secured two horses
and saddles.