thataway,” explained the sheriff, leading the way back to the main
street. “Yuh go straight north out of town, follerin’ the road kinda
northwest. Then yuh turn at the first road runnin’ northeast. About a
mile along on that road you’ll find a trail that leads due east.
Foller that and it’ll take yuh straight to Turkey Track sidin’.”
“This is doggone white of yuh,” said Hashknife, holding out his hand.
“We ain’t the kind that forget, Sheriff. Yore broncs will be there at
the corral. And some day, we’ll try real hard to return the favor.”
“Don’t mention it,” said the sheriff. “I hope yuh catch yore train.
_Adios!_”
* * * * *
They rode out into the night. It was light enough for them to follow
the dusty road, but not light enough for them to distinguish the kind
of country they were traveling through.
“I hope they’ve got that danged car on the track, and are headin’ East
right now,” said Sleepy, peering into the night. “I like this country,
Hashknife.”
“After seein’ as much of it as you have, I don’t wonder.”
“Not that,” said Sleepy seriously. “There’s punchers packin’
Winchesters, and nobody tellin’ yuh what a —— of a good country this
is. I tell yuh, there’s trouble brewin’. I can smell it, Hashknife.”
“Then I hope there’s more than one car off the track, and that we can
get to sleep on that caboose before the train starts. I can build up
all the trouble I can use. If there’s trouble around here, leave it
alone. My old dad used to say—
“‘If yuh ain’t got no business of yore own, yuh ain’t qualified to
monkey with somebody else’s.’”
“That’s a fine sentiment,” laughed Sleepy. “But it don’t work in our
case. We’ve been monkeyin’ with other folks’ business for several
years, haven’t we?”
“Yeah, that’s true. But it don’t prove that we were qualified to do
it. Mebbe somebody else could ’a’ done it better.”
“Well, I’d sure like to set on a fence and watch ’em do it,” laughed
Sleepy. “It would be worth havin’ a front seat at the show. Here’s
that road runnin’ northeast, Hashknife.”
And Sleepy was right when he said that he would like to have a front
seat at the show. For several years, he and Hashknife had drifted up
and down the wide ranges, working here and there, helping to fight
range battles; a pair of men who had been ordained by fate to bring
peace into troubled range-lands.
It was not for gain nor glory. They usually left as abruptly as they
came; dreading the thanks of those who gained by their coming; leaving
only a memory of a tall, serious-faced cowpuncher with a deductive
brain and a wistful smile. And of his bow-legged partner; him of the
innocent blue eyes, which did not harden even in the heat of
gun-battle.
They did not want wealth, power nor glory. Either of them could have
been a power in the ranges, but they were of that breed of men who
can’t stay still; men who must always see what is on the other side of
the hill. The lure of the unknown road called them on, and when their
work was done they faded out of the picture. It was their way.
* * * * *
Jack Hartwell was in a white-hot rage when he rode away from the
Arrow. His own father had virtually accused him of being a spy for Eph
King, and his life-long friends were all thinking him guilty of giving
information to the invading sheepmen.
He set his jaw tightly as he spurred across the hills toward home,
vowing in his heart to make them sorry that they had spurned his
assistance and added insult to injury by declaring him a traitor. Once
he drew rein on the crest of a hill and looked back, his throat aching
from the curses that surged within him.
It was then that he realized how powerless he was, how foolish he had
been to declare a dead-line around his property. It had been a
childish declaration. And with this realization came the selfish hope
that the sheep men might break the dead-line and flood the valley with
sheep. He wanted revenge. And why not help them, he wondered?
His own father had outlawed him among cattlemen. He had been
ostracized from the cowland society. He owed them nothing. Perhaps Eph
King would welcome him into Sunshine Basin. He might even make him a
sheep baron. But the vision did not taste sweet to Jack. He had the
cattlemen’s inborn hatred of sheep. He had heard them cursed all his
life, and it was too late for him to change his attitude toward them.
He rode in at his little corral and put up his horse. There was no
light in the house, but the door was unlocked. He went in and lighted
the lamp. It was not late, and he wondered why Molly had gone to bed
so early. He picked up the light and entered the bedroom, only to find
it vacant, the bed unruffled.
He went back to the living room and placed the lamp on the little
table. It was evident that Molly had left the place. He went out to
the stable and found that her horse and saddle were not there.
He remembered dazedly that she had said she might not be there when he
returned. Back to the house he went, searching around for a possible
note, which might tell him where she had gone. But there was no note.
She had left without a word.
He sat down on the edge of a chair and tried to figure out what to do.
Right now he cared more for his wife than he ever had, and the other
events of the night paled into insignificance before this new shock.
Suddenly he got to his feet, blew out the light and ran down to the
corral. Swiftly he saddled and rode out into the yard, heading
straight back toward the slopes of Slow Elk Creek.
“Get ready, you sheepherders!” he gritted aloud. “I’m comin’ after my
wife, and I’d like to see any of yuh stop me.”
Jack knew every inch of the country, and was able to pick his way
through the starlit hills at a fairly swift pace. He knew that the
dead-line was within three miles of his place, but he did not slacken
pace until up near Slow Elk Springs.
As he rode up through the upper end of a little cañon, a man arose up
in front of him, the starlight glinting on the barrel of his rifle. It
was Gene Hill. The recognition was mutual.
“Where yuh goin’?” asked Hill in a whisper.
He was standing at the left shoulder of Jack’s horse, as if to bar his
way.
For a moment Jack hesitated, and then drove the spurs into his horse,
causing the animal to knock Hill sprawling. Then he ducked low and
went racing away toward the dead-line. Hill got to his feet, cursing
painfully, searching for his rifle, while Bert Allen, of the Circle V,
another of the watchers, came running through the sage, calling to
Hill and questioning him as to what the commotion had been about.
“It was Jack Hartwell,” said Hill, trying to pump some air into his
lungs. “He tried to sneak through, and when I stopped him he rode me
down. The dirty pup has gone over to the sheep.”
“Gives us a good chance at him,” said Allen. “I wasn’t so sure about
him before. We’ll have to pass the word. Sure yuh ain’t hurt, Gene?”
“Not bad enough to make me miss him, if he ever shows up here again.”
Once out of range of Hill’s rifle, Jack drew up, with the sudden
realization that he had given them plenty of circumstantial proof that
he was a spy. He knew that Hill would lose no time in spreading the
report that he had forced his way through the dead-line. He laughed
bitterly at the tricks of fate, but swore that somebody would pay
dearly.
Then he realized that he was in a precarious position. The sheepmen
would be looking for mounted men. Jack knew that they would be just as
alert as the cattlemen; so he dismounted and went on slowly, leading
his horse. There were plenty of sheep bedded down on the slopes of the
hills, and they bleated softly at his approach.
Jack had made a guess as to the probable location of the main camp. It
was a wide swale on a little tributary of Slow Elk Creek, where there
was plenty of fuel and water, and also a bed ground for thousands of
sheep. He led his horse out on to the rim of this swale, where he
could see the lights of the camp below him.
There were several camp-fires, and as he came closer he could see the
outlines of several camp-tenders’ wagons. It was a big outfit and this
was their main camp. Several men were playing cards on a blanket
stretched in the light of one of the fires, and behind them several
tents had been pitched. The men were all wearing holstered guns, and
behind them, leaning against the guy rope of a tent, were several
rifles.
Jack left his horse out beyond the firelight, and walked boldly into
camp, coming in behind the players. Somehow he had slipped through the
sheepmen’s line of guards. He stood near the front of a tent,
listening closely. The players were so engrossed in their game that
they made signs instead of sounds. One of them lifted his head and
looked at Jack, but made no move to indicate that he did not recognize
Jack as one of them.
A few minutes later, three men came walking into camp. One of them was
a big man, walking empty handed, while the other two carried rifles.
As they came into the light of the fires, Jack recognized Eph King. He
was head and shoulders above the other men, bulking giant-like in the
firelight.
His head was massive, with a deeply lined face, looking harsh and
stern in the sidelights, which accentuated the rough contour of his
features. The two men sauntered over to the card game, while Eph King,
after a long glance out into the night, turned toward the tent and
walked past Jack, without looking at him.
Once inside the tent he lighted a lantern, and Jack heard a cot-spring
creak a protest as King settled his great bulk upon it. Then Jack
stepped over, threw back the flap of the tent and stepped into the
presence of the sheep king.
For several moments the big man stared at him. He had not seen Jack
for several years, and it took him quite a while to recall the
features of his enemy’s son. Jack did not speak, but waited to see
what King would have to say.
The big man knitted his brows, glanced toward the flap of the tent and
back at the cowboy, facing him tensely.
“How did you get here?” he asked harshly.
“Walked right in,” said Jack evenly.
“Did yuh?” King studied him closely. “What for?”
“To take my wife back home.”
Eph King started slightly.
“To take her back home, eh? Back from where, Hartwell?”
“From here!” Jack’s jaw muscles tightened and he leaned forward
slightly. “By —— she’s my wife and I want her! Now you produce her,
King.”
“Oh, is that so?” The big man’s bushy brows lifted in mock surprize.
“I’m not a wizard, Hartwell. In fact I don’t know what in —— you are
talkin’ about.”
“That’s a lie, King! She came here tonight, and I came after her.”
Jack’s hand clenched and unclenched over the butt of his gun. “Come
on—tell me where she is.”
The big man sighed and motioned to a camp chair.
“Set down, Hartwell. I’m not in the habit of lettin’ men tell me that
I lie, but you’ve kinda got the edge on me this time. At the risk of
bein’ called a liar again, I tell you that I haven’t seen Molly. ——
it, I haven’t seen her since you stole her away from me.”
“I didn’t steal her,” denied Jack hotly. “She went willingly. You knew
she was goin’, too. Was it a trick, King? Did she marry me to supply
you with information?”
“Eh?” King scowled at the questions. “Did she marry you to—hm-m-m!
What made you think she came up here?”
“She’s gone. I just came from home. One of your men took a note to
her. I reckon he came home with a smashed arm, didn’t he?”
King nodded slowly.
“We expected a few smashes. There are more to come.”
“But that don’t tell me where my wife is, King.”
“No, that’s true, Hartwell. I wish I knew. She ain’t here.”
There was a ring of truth in King’s voice. “If she was here, I
wouldn’t lie to you, Hartwell. And if she didn’t want to go back with
you—well, you’d have a hard time takin’ her. Didn’t you realize that
you was runnin your neck into it by comin’ up here tonight? It’s war,
Hartwell. I’m leadin’ one side and your father leadin’ the other. And
you came into my camp.
“It was a risky thing to do, young feller. You took a big chance of
bein’ shot. Do you think I ought to let you go back? You are my
son-in-law, and I don’t want to have yuh get shot.”
“I reckon I’ll go back,” said Jack coldly. “I never seen the
sheepherder yet that could stop me. I ——”
Jack stopped. King had lifted his hand from the blanket and Jack
looked into the muzzle of a big revolver. The big man was smiling
softly, and the hand holding the gun was as steady as a rock.
“Set down,” he said softly. “Keep your hands on your knees. I’d hate
to kill my son-in-law, but if you make a move toward your gun, that
marriage is annulled by Mr. Colt.”
“All right,” grunted Jack. “I know that kind of language. Go ahead and
shoot. It’ll save yuh future trouble.”
But Eph King only smiled and rested the muzzle of the gun on his knee.
“Futures don’t bother me, Hartwell—not that kind. You come blusterin’
up here and talk big. You kinda amuse me, so I’ve a —— good notion to
keep you here. Did yuh ever read about the old-time kings? They had a
jester—a fool—to amuse ’em. I’m as good as they, so why not have a
jester, eh?”
“A fool,” corrected Jack bitterly.
“Very likely,” dryly. “Still, I’d hate to even be amused by a
Hartwell. Anyway, I’ve a notion to keep yuh here and let your father
know that I’m holdin’ yuh. It might——”
“Amuse him,” finished Jack.
“Meanin’ what?” queried King quickly.
“Meanin’ that he thinks I’m a spy for you. They all think I am—except
Molly. I forced my way through the cattlemen’s dead-line to get up
here tonight. They recognized me. I had to knock one of ’em down to
get through. And they’d be liable to care a whole lot if I didn’t come
back, wouldn’t they?”
Eph King stared at Jack closely. He knew that Jack was telling the
truth and it seemed to amuse him a little. With a flip of his wrist he
threw the gun behind him on the cot, and got to his feet.
“Hartwell,” he spoke seriously, “do you want to throw in with us?”
“No.”
“Still loyal, eh?”
There was a sneer in the question.
“Mebbe not loyal, King.”
“Blood thicker than water, eh?”
“Probably. Anyway, I hate sheep.”
King sighed deeply and threw open the tent flap.
“Sometimes I hate ’em myself,” he said softly, as they went outside.
The men crowded around them, realizing that Jack was an outsider. His
horse had just been brought in by one of the sheepmen. But none of
them questioned King.
“This is one of the cattlemen,” he said to them. “He is going back
now, and I’d like to have one of you go with him until he passes our
lines.”
“Not with me,” declared Jack. “I’ll circle wide and come out away
beyond the sheep. Much obliged, just the same.”
“And tell all yuh know to the cattlemen, eh?” growled one of the men,
and then to King:
“If one of ’em can ride into our camp, what’s to stop a dozen of ’em
from comin’.”
“That’s my lookout, Steen,” replied King coldly. “All he knows won’t
hurt us any.”
The men stood aside and watched him ride away. As soon as he was out
of earshot, King swore harshly.
“You had the right idea, Steen,” he said, “but I didn’t want him to
think that his comin’ bothered us any. We’ve got to tighten the line.
Next thing we know a whole horde of men will come ridin’ over the
hill, and —— will be holdin’ a recess. But I don’t think that Hartwell
will tell what he knows.”
“Was that young Hartwell?” asked Bill Steen, foreman for King.
“Yeah.”
King nodded shortly and went back into his tent, where he sat down on
the creaking cot, leaned his elbows on his knees and stared at the
ground. From beyond the immediate hills came the sound of several
rifle shots. The big sheepman shook his head slowly, thoughfully.
Steen lifted the flap of the tent.
“I’m sendin’ all the men down to the line for the rest of the night”
he said. “We’ll likely have to draw the herd back a little early in
the mornin’, ’cause they’ll prob’ly start shootin’ at ’em.”
“I s’pose,” King nodded. “Not too far, though. We’ll have our own men
placed, and mebbe we can do a little shootin’, too.”
“Sure. We ought to string ’em out pretty wide tomorrow. I think we’ve
got more men than they have, and by stringin’ out kinda wide, we can
slip through the holes any old time yuh say. I don’t think they can
stop us when we get ready to start.”
“When we get ready,” echoed King. “We’re not ready yet.”
* * * * *
“Yeah, this is the right road, but where is that danged trail the
sheriff told us about?” complained Sleepy. “I tell yuh we’re past it,
Hashknife.”
“Prob’ly,” agreed Hashknife dryly. “It’s so danged dark that yuh
couldn’t see it.”
They drew rein and debated upon their next move.
“Let’s go ahead a little ways,” suggested Hashknife. “Mebbe we ain’t
past it. The sheriff said we couldn’t miss it.”
“Mebbe he was educated in a night school and can see like an owl,”
laughed Sleepy as they rode on.
Suddenly both horses shied from something that was in the middle of
the road. Hashknife dismounted quickly and made an examination.
“An old telescope valise, busted wide open,” he remarked. “Lot of
women’s plunder, looks like. Must ’a’ fell out of a wagon.”
He lighted several matches and examined it, while the two horses
snuffed suspiciously at the smashed valise.
“I’ll just move it aside of the road, where the owner can find it,”
said Hashknife. “Some woman is worryin’ over the loss of all them
things, I’ll betcha.”
They laughed and rode on, peering into the darkness. About two hundred
yards beyond the valise, the two horses jerked to a stop. Hashknife’s
horse snorted and tried to whirl sidewise off the road, but the lanky
cowboy swung it back and dismounted again.
“It’s a woman this time,” declared Hashknife as he leaned over the
dark patch on the yellow road. “That driver must ’a’ been pretty
careless to lose his load thataway. Here, hold some matches for me,
Sleepy, and don’t let loose of my bronc. That danged jug-head must be
a woman-hater.”
Together they examined the woman, who groaned slightly as they lifted
her to a sitting position. It was Molly Hartwell. She blinked at the
matches and tried to get to her feet.
“You better take it kinda easy,” advised Hashknife. “You’ve got a cut
on yore head, which has bled quite a lot, ma’am.”
“I—I know,” she said painfully. “I guess I didn’t have the cinch tight
enough and the saddle turned with me. I tried to go back home, but I
got so dizzy I had to lie down.”
“Where do yuh live?” asked Hashknife.
Molly Hartwell peered out into the gloom and was forced to admit that
she did not know.
“It is either—well, I don’t know. Anyway, it is on this road.”
“Well, it ain’t behind us—’less it’s hid,” declared Sleepy. “So it
must be the way we’re travelin’.”
Hashknife assisted her on to his horse, while Sleepy went back and got
the valise. It was a cumbersome object to carry, and the broken straps
made it almost impossible for him to keep from spilling its contents.
It was not far back to the Hartwell place. Sleepy opened the gate,
while Hashknife led his horse up to the house. It was then that the
valise refused to remain intact any longer. It skidded out of Sleepy’s
arms and the contents spilled all about. And as fast as he picked up
one article another fell out.
Finally he tied his horse to the gate-post, so he could use both
hands. The valise had evidently been packed with care, but in
upsetting it had jumbled things until it was impossible for Sleepy to
get them all back.
He swore feelingly, perspired copiously and finally tripped over the
stack of white clothes. He came up with a handful of womanly garments,
to be exact—a nightgown. It was of the voluminous kind, and its bulk
forbade the shutting down of the valise cover.
Hashknife and the lady had gone into the house and lighted the lamp.
Sleepy whistled to himself, as he slipped the nightgown over his head,
ran his arms through the short sleeves, picked up the valise and
started for the house. He had solved the transportation problem to his
own satisfaction.
A man had ridden in at the rear of the house, but Sleepy had not seen
him. He walked up to the open front door and stepped inside, just as
Jack Hartwell came in through the rear door. Hashknife was standing
near the table, looking at Mrs. Hartwell, who was sitting in a low
rocker, her head held in her two hands.
Jack Hartwell’s clothes were torn and there was a smear of blood
across his face, which gave him a leering expression. In his right
hand he held a cocked revolver. His eyes strayed from his wife and
Hashknife to Sleepy, who stood in the doorway dressed in a white gown,
and holding the bulky valise in his two hands. For several moments,
not a word was spoken. Then:
“Evenin’, pardner,” Sleepy spoke directly to Jack, who was staring at
him wonderingly. “Ain’t you the feller I met in Cheyenne last year?”
Jack Hartwell shifted his feet nervously.
“No,” he said hoarsely, “I’ve never been in Cheyenne.”
“Neither have I,” said Sleepy innocently. “Both parties must be
mistaken.”
Hartwell shoved away from the door and came closer to Hashknife.
“Who in —— are you? More sheepherders?”
Mrs. Hartwell looked up at Jack and at sight of his bloody face she
started to get up. He looked at her. She was as bloody as he, and her
clothes were dusty and disarranged.
“More sheepherders?” queried Hashknife.
“Yeah, —— yuh! What are yuh doin’ here, anyway?”
“Excuse me for appearin’ in this condition,” said Sleepy, starting to
disrobe, “but this thing was what broke the telescope’s straps.
There’s a limit to what yuh can git into ’em.”
Jack squinted at Molly.
“Where have you been?” he asked. “You’ve been hurt, Molly. Did these
men ——?”
He whirled and faced Hashknife, who had moved toward him.
“They found me and brought me home, Jack. I—I was going away—going to
Totem City to catch the train—home. But the cinch turned and I fell
off. That valise was too heavy.”
Molly Hartwell began crying softly, and Hashknife walked over to
Sleepy, who had managed to get out of the gown.
“We better go, Sleepy,” he said quietly.
“Just a minute,” said Jack. “I’d kinda like to know who you two
fellers are.”
“Well—” Hashknife grinned slightly—“we’re not sheepherders, if that’ll
help yuh any. We missed the place where the sheriff told us to turn
off, and mebbe it was lucky that we did. We was headin’ for Turkey
Track sidin’, wherever that is.”
“I can show yuh how to get there,” offered Jack. “Go out of my gate,
turn to the left and foller that old road to the Turkey Track ranch.
It turns and crosses the river leadin’ right to the sidin’. Yuh can’t
miss it.”
“Uh-huh, thanks,” nodded Hashknife. “’Pears to me that there’s a lot
of folks around here that have confidence in us. The sheriff told us
we couldn’t miss that trail, too.”
* * * * *
They walked out abruptly, mounted their horses and turned to the left,
following the old road.
“What do yuh make of that outfit?” asked Sleepy, as they gave the
horses a free rein and spurred into a gallop.
“It’s got me pawin’ my chain,” said Hashknife. “Kinda looks like the
little lady was goin’ home to pa, but the cinch turned, and ag’in
she’s in the bosom of her family. Right pretty sort of a girl.”
“And the husband looks like he’d been kinda pawed around, too,” said
Sleepy. “He had blood on his face and a gun in his hand. And he
wondered if we were sheepherders, Hashknife.”
“Well, it’s none of our business, Sleepy. That hubby is a right snappy
sort of a jigger, and he might be bad medicine.”
“Do yuh reckon there’s a sheep and cattle war on here?”
“There’s somethin’ wrong, Sleepy, and it feels like it might be wool
versus hides. Anyway, it ain’t none of our business, bein’ as we’re
just a pair of train chasers and ain’t got no interest in either
side.”
“I hope the cattlemen knock —— out of ’em,” declared Sleepy.
“Same here. What’s this ahead of us?”
They slowed their horses to a walk. Ahead of them, crossing the road,
was a herd of cattle. They were traveling at a fairly good rate of
speed, heading toward the river. From the bulk of them Hashknife
estimated that there must be at least a hundred head.
A rider came surging down through the sagebrush, silhouetted dimly
against the sky, as he urged them on with a swinging rope. The cattle
cleared the road, and the circling rider almost ran into them,
possibly thinking that these other two objects were straggling cows.
“Runnin’ ’em early, ain’t yuh?” called Hashknife.
For a moment the rider jerked to a standstill, and Hashknife’s answer
came in the form of a streak of fire, the zip of a bullet and the
echoing “wham!” of a revolver. He had fired at not over fifty feet,
but his bullet went over their heads.
Then he whirled his horse and went down the slope, swinging more to
the east, before either of them realized that he had shot at them and
escaped. The cattle were bawling, as they scattered down through the
brush, evidently thinking that this loud noise was part of things
designed to keep them moving.
“Well, can yuh beat that?” exclaimed Hashknife. “Shot right at us.
Ain’t this a queer country, cowboy?”