TEX BORROWS A BLACKSNAKE
Dinsmore recovered from his wound and was held prisoner by Captain
Ellison for a month after he was well. Then the ranger captain dismissed
the man with a warning.
"Skedaddle, you damn jayhawker," was his cavalier farewell. "But listen.
If ever I get the deadwood on you an' yore outfit, I'll sure put you
through. You know me, Dinsmore. I went through the war. For two years I
took the hides off'n 'em.[5] I'm one of the lads that knocked the bark
off this country. An' I've got the best bunch of man-hunters you ever
did see. I'm not braggin'. I'm tellin' you that my boys will make you
look like a plugged nickel if you don't get shet of yore meanness.
They're a hell-poppin' bunch of jim-dandies, an' don't you ever forget
it."
Homer Dinsmore spat tobacco-juice on the floor by way of expressing his
contempt. "Hell!" he sneered. "We were doin' business in this neck of
the woods before ever you come, an' we'll be here after you've gone."
The Ranger Captain gave a little shrug to his shoulders. "Some folks
ain't got any more sense than that hog rootin' under the pecan tree,
Dinsmore. I've seen this country when you could swap a buffalo-bull hide
for a box of cartridges or a plug o' tobacco. You cayn't do it now, can
you? I had thirty wagons full of bales of hides at old Fort Griffin two
years ago. Now I couldn't fill one with the best of luck. In five years
the buffaloes will be gone absolutely--mebbe in less time. The Indians
are goin' with the buffaloes-an' the bad-men are a-goin' to travel the
same trail. Inside of three years they'll sure be hard to find outside
of jails. But you got to go yore own way. You're hard to curry, an' you
wear 'em low. Suits me if it does you. We'll plant you with yore boots
on, one of these days."
Dinsmore swaggered from the jail and presently rode out of town to join
his companions. Three days later an acquaintance stopped Jack Roberts on
the street.
"Seen Cap Ellison this mo'nin'? He was down at the shippin'-pen an'
wanted to see you. The old man's hot as a ginger-mill about somethin'."
The Ranger strolled down toward the cattle-yards. On the way he met
Arthur Ridley. They had come to be pretty good friends in the past
month. The standards of the Texan were undergoing revision. He had been
brought up in an outdoor school which taught that the rock-bottom factor
of a man's character is gameness. Without it nothing else counted. This
was as vital for a man as virtue for a woman. But it had begun to reach
him that pluck is largely a matter of training. Arthur had lived soft,
and his nerve, like his muscles, needed toughening. Were his gayety, his
loyalty, his fundamental decency, the affectionate sweetness of his
disposition, to count for nothing? He had a dozen advantages that Jack
had not, and the cowboy admired him even though he was not hard as a
rock.
"Have you spoken to Captain Ellison yet?" asked Ridley eagerly.
"Says he's thinkin' about it, Art. There's goin' to be a vacancy on the
force soon. My notion is that you'll get the appointment."
It was a part of Ridley's charm for the Texan that he would not give up
to his timidity. The young fellow meant to fight it out to a finish.
That was one of the reasons why he wanted to join the Rangers, to be put
in places that would force him to go through to a fighting finish. He
had one other reason. Arthur wanted to settle a score with the
Dinsmores.
Captain Ellison was listening to the complaint of a drover.
"I aim to drive a clean herd, Cap, but you know how it is yore own self.
I start to drive in the spring when the hair's long an' the brand's hard
to read. By the time I get here, the old hair is fallin' out an' the
brand is plain. But what's a fellow to do? I cayn't drop those
off-brands by the way, can I? The inspector--"
"That's all right, Steel. The inspector knows you're on the level.
Hello, Jack! I been lookin' for you."
The Captain drew his man to one side. "Steve Gurley's in town. He came
as a spokesman for the Dinsmores an' went to see Clint Wadley. The damn
scoundrel served notice on Clint that the gang had written evidence
which tied Ford up with their deviltry. He said if Clint didn't call me
off so's I'd let 'em alone, they would disgrace his son's memory. Of
course Wadley is all broke up about it. But he's no quitter. He knows
I'm goin' through, an' he wouldn't expect me not to do the work I'm paid
for."
"Do you want me to arrest Gurley?"
"Wouldn't do any good. No; just keep tabs on the coyote till he leaves
town. He ought to be black-snaked, but that's not our business, I
reckon."
Ridley walked back with the Ranger toward the main street of the town.
From round a corner there came to them a strident voice.
"You stay right here, missy, till I'm through. I'm tellin' you about
yore high-heeled brother. See? He was a rustler. That's what he was--a
low-down thief and brand-blotter."
"Let me pass. I won't listen to you." The clear young voice was
expressive of both indignation and fear.
"Not a step till I'm through tellin' you. Me, I'm Steve Gurley, the
curly-haired terror of the Panhandle. When I talk, you listen.
Un'erstand?"
The speech of the man was thick with drink. He had spent the night at
the Bird Cage and was now on his way to the corral for his horse.
"You take Miss Ramona home. I'll tend to Gurley," said Roberts curtly to
his friend. Into his eyes had come a cold rage Arthur had never before
seen there.
At sight of them the bully's brutal insolence vanished. He tried to pass
on his way, but the Ranger stopped him.
"Just a moment, Gurley. You're goin' with me," said Jack, ominously
quiet.
White and shaken, 'Mona bit her lip to keep from weeping. She flashed
one look of gratitude at her father's former line-rider, and with a
little sob of relief took Ridley's offered arm.
"You got a warrant for me?" bluffed the outlaw.
At short range there is no weapon more deadly than the human eye. Jack
Roberts looked at the bully and said: "Give me yore gun."
Steve Gurley shot his slant look at the Ranger, considered
possibilities--and did as he was told.
"Now right about face and back-track uptown," ordered the officer.
At McGuffey's store Jack stopped his prisoner. A dozen punchers and
cattlemen were hanging about. Among them was Jumbo Wilkins. He had a
blacksnake whip in his hand and was teasing a pup with it. The Ranger
handed over to Jumbo his guns and borrowed the whip.
Gurley backed off in a sudden alarm. "Don't you touch me! Don't you dass
touch me! I'll cut yore heart out if you do."
The lash whistled through the air and wound itself cruelly round the
legs of the bully. The man gave a yell of rage and pain. He lunged
forward to close with Roberts, and met a driving left that caught him
between the eyes and flung him back. Before he could recover the Ranger
had him by the collar at arm's length and the torture of the whip was
maddening him. He cursed, struggled, raved, threatened, begged for
mercy. He tried to fling himself to the ground. He wept tears of agony.
But there was no escape from the deadly blacksnake that was cutting his
flesh to ribbons.
Roberts, sick at the thing he had been doing, flung the shrieking man
aside and leaned up against the wall of the store.
Jumbo came across to him and offered his friend a drink.
"You'll feel better if you take a swallow of old forty-rod," he
promised.
The younger man shook his head. "Much obliged, old-timer. I'm all right
now. It was a kind of sickenin' job, but I had to do it or kill him."
"What was it all about?" asked Jumbo eagerly. The fat line-rider was a
good deal of a gossip and loved to know the inside of every story.
Jack cast about for a reason. "He--he said I had red hair."
"Well, you old son of a mule-skinner, what's the matter with that? You
have, ain't you?" demanded the amazed Wilkins.
"Mebbe I have, but he can't tell me so."
That was all the satisfaction the public ever got. It did a good deal of
guessing, however, and none of it came near the truth.
[Footnote 5: To "take the hides off'n 'em" was the expressive
phraseology in which the buffalo-hunter described his business.]