THE WARNING.
The full moon was shining on the second night succeeding the conflict
which Budd Hankinson described between the rustlers and the cowmen of
Whitney's ranch. The man that had fallen was laid away in a grave back
of the house, and mother, son and daughter mourned him with a sorrow
that was soothed by the consciousness that he had been a good husband
and father in every sense of the word.
On this night, before the hour was late, three persons were seated in
the balmy air on the outside of the dwelling, talking together in low
tones.
They were Fred Whitney, whose bandaged arm rested in a sling, Monteith
Sterry, and Jennie Whitney. The memory of the recent affliction
suffered in the death of the father naturally subdued the voices and
tinged the words with a seriousness that would not have been felt at
other times.
Young Sterry, as already stated, had accepted an engagement with
the Live Stock Association, which required him to investigate the
operations of the rustlers over a large portion of Wyoming and
Montana, and to report at regular intervals to his superior officers.
This was perilous business, but Sterry set about the work with a
vigour, directness and intelligence that were felt over an extent of
territory numbering hundreds of square miles, and made him a marked
man by the rustlers, who are always quick to identify their friends
and enemies. It seemed to make little difference, however, to him, who
loved the excitement. He was a capital pistol and rifle-shot, a fine
horseman, and as devoid of fear as the men against whom he directed
his movements.
Unconsciously Monteith Sterry brought a grievous peril upon his
friends, who held him in so high regard. Hated intensely by the
rustlers, they were not long in learning that he spent a great deal
of his time at the Whitneys. They came to be regarded, therefore, as
aiders and abettors of his. This enmity was emphasized by the attack
of which an account has been given.
"I think, Fred," said his sister, oppressed by the shadow that had
fallen across the threshold, "we ought to sell out and leave this
country."
"Why?" he gently asked.
"Because not only of what happened yesterday, but of the certainty
that such attacks will be repeated."
"What reason have you to fear their repetition?" asked Monteith.
"Matters are growing worse between the cowmen and the rustlers; I have
heard our men talk, and you have said so yourself."
"I cannot deny it," replied their visitor, thoughtfully smoking his
cigar. He would have been pleased had her brother, now the head of the
little household, decided to make his home once more in the East, for
then he would take up the study of his profession of law and be placed
where he could often meet them.
"It would be cowardly to sell out and abandon the country through
fear of those men," said the brother, to whom the proposition was not
pleasant.
"But suppose you should be their next victim?" suggested Jennie, with
a shudder.
"I don't think I shall be a victim," he quietly responded; "this wound
won't bother me long, and with Budd and Grizzly to help, we can laugh
at all the rustlers in the country."
"It is hardly a matter of courage," ventured Sterry, "for no one
knowing you or your sister would question your bravery, but it is
rather the peace of mind of your mother and her. It will be a
long time, if ever, before your parent recovers from the shock of
yesterday. No matter how confident and plucky you may be, Fred, you
know it is no guarantee against a bullet from one of those scamps at
five hundred or a thousand yards. I shudder to think of what might
happen."
Fred turned and looked full in the handsome face of the fellow beside
him.
"It strikes me that you are showing little faith in your own words.
Why do you remain where you are a marked man when there is no need of
it, and where your personal danger is certainly as great as mine?"
This _argumentum ad hominem_ was so unexpected that Sterry was
embarrassed for the moment, but found voice to reply:
"I have no mother and sister dependent on me, as you have."
"But you have brothers, sisters, father and mother, and therefore the
more to mourn if you should fall. The fact is, Mont, I feel that it
is a duty you owe to them to give up the dangerous calling you have
adopted. You not only do not need it, but are squandering time that
ought to be given to the study of your profession, and you have become
so feared and hated by the rustlers that they will go to any length to
'remove' you."
"The more cause, therefore, why I should stay," responded the other.
"A poor argument--"
The discussion was interrupted by the sound of a horse's hoofs. Some
one was riding toward them on a gallop, and speedily loomed to view
in the bright moonlight. The three instinctively ceased speaking and
gazed curiously at the horseman, who reined up in front of where they
were sitting.
Hospitality is limitless in the West, and, before the stranger had
halted, Fred Whitney rose from his chair and walked forward to welcome
him.
The man was in the costume of a cowboy, with rifle, revolver and all
the paraphernalia of the craft.
"Is your name Whitney?" asked the horseman, speaking first.
"It is; what can I do for you?"
"Do you know Mont Sterry?"
"He is a particular friend of mine," replied Whitney, refraining from
adding that he was the young man sitting a few paces away with his
sister and hearing every word said.
"Well, there's a letter for him; if I knew where to find him I would
deliver it myself. Will you hand it to him the next time you meet
him?"
As he spoke he leaned forward from his saddle and handed a sealed
envelope to Fred Whitney, who remarked, as he accepted it:
"I will do as you wish; I expect to see him soon; won't you dismount
and stay over night with us?"
"No; I have business elsewhere," was the curt answer, as the fellow
wheeled and spurred off on a gallop.
Budd Hankinson and Grizzly Weber, the two hired men, were absent,
looking after the cattle, for the rustler is a night hawk who often
gets in the best part of his work between the set and rise of sun.
Mrs. Whitney was sitting in the gloom, alone in her sorrow. Jennie
wished to stay with her, but the mother gently refused, saying she
preferred to have none with her. No light was burning in the building,
and that night the weather was unusually mild.
Mont Sterry accepted the paper from the hand of his friend and
remarked, with a smile:
"I suspect what it is. When the rustlers don't like a man they have a
frank way of telling him so, supplemented by a little good advice, I
fancy I have been honoured in a similar way."
He deliberately tore open the envelope, while Jennie and her brother
looked curiously at him. The moonlight, although strong, was not
sufficiently so to show the words, which were written in lead-pencil.
Fred Whitney, therefore, struck a match and held it in front of the
paper, while the recipient read in a low voice, loud enough, however,
to be heard in the impressive hush:
"MONT STERRY: If you stay in the Powder River country twenty-four
hours longer you are a dead man. Over fifty of us rustlers have
sworn to shoot you on sight, whether it is at Fort McKinley,
Buffalo, or on the streets of Cheyenne. I have persuaded the
majority to hold off for the time named, but not one of them will
do so an hour longer, nor will I ask them to do so. We are bound
to make an honest living, and it is weak for me to give you this
warning, but I do it, repeating that if you are within reach
twenty-four hours from the night on which this is handed to
Whitney I will join them in hunting you down, wherever you may be.
"LARCH CADMUS."