THE FOREMAN OF THE DOUBLE Y
Buck cinched up his saddle on Allday and led him out of the stable.
"Ned, this is shore one scrumptious hotel," he observed as he swung into
his seat.
"It certainly is. Nothin' to beat it in Montany, I reckon," was Ned's
hearty endorsement.
Buck shook his head as they passed through the gate together. "Most too
good," he suggested.
"I dunno," Ned doubted, "th' branch from Wayback 's shore to come down
th' Jones' Luck, an' then Sandy 'll rake in."
They had just turned into the trail when a rider passed them at speed,
causing Ned's cayuse to shy and buck half way to the Jill. The
evener-tempered Allday only pointed his ears and pulled on the bit.
"Reckon you could catch that feller, eh? Well, you could n't," was
Buck's careless insult. "If Hoppy could see that horse he 'd give all
he 's got for him--bar Mary."
The horse merited his criticism. A powerful black, well over fifteen
hands, he showed the sloping thigh bones and shoulder of a born
galloper, while the deep chest gave promise of long-sustained effort.
His rider had pulled up at the general store just beyond the hotel and
Ned joining him, Buck expressed his admiration. A moment later he added
to it: "By th' Lord, Ned, that 's a woman." The rider had dropped from
the saddle and paused to wave her hand to Ned before she entered the
store. Buck caught the glance from a pair of beautiful dark eyes that
rested on him a moment before it fleeted past to his companion. The
grave smile was well suited to the wonderfully regular features and when
she turned and entered the store it was with the swinging step of
perfect movement. Buck faced about with a jerk when he realized that he
had actually turned in his saddle to gaze after her.
"Best horse in these parts an' th' finest woman," agreed Ned, "an'
honest," he added, gruffly.
Buck stared at him, surprised. "Why, o' course! Anybody says
different?" He unconsciously stiffened at the thought.
"Um--no, not as I knows of. Her daddy 's a nester; got a
quarter-section 'tother side o' Twin River, off th' trail a piece. Rosa
LaFrance--pretty name, ain't it? Th' boys calls her the French Rose."
"Yes, 'tis pretty," drawled Buck. "What I'm askin' about is this
recommendation o' character to me."
It was Ned's turn to feel surprised. He pondered as he looked at Buck.
"I reckon I warn't exactly speakin' to you, Cheyenne," he explained;
"more to myself, like. You see, it's this way: Dave Owens, he won that
horse from McReady of the Cyclone, one night in Wayback. I was n't
there but I hears it's a regular clean up. McReady was in a streak o'
bad luck and would a' lost ranch an' all but his friends hocussed his
liquor an' Mac, he drops out of his chair like somebody hit him with an
axe. Next day Rose rides into Twin River on that same horse. John,
that's her daddy, he never bought him; he could n't. Then how did she
come by it? That's her business, I says. That's one thing. For
another, Dave Owens travels that way considerable, an' Dave ain't no
company for the French Rose. I 'm too old to interfere or I durn soon
would."
Buck brooded on this situation for some time and then burst into a
laugh. Ned eyed him with stern disapproval. "I was thinkin' of a
cow-punch I know," explained Buck, in apology. "He 'd interfere so
quick, there would n't be time to notify th' mourners."
Ned smiled in sympathy. "That 'd do," he admitted, "but you can't jump
in an' shoot up a fellow if a girl's sweet on him, can you? It 'd be
just nacheraly foolish."
"That 's so," agreed Buck, "but if the French Rose can look at that son
of a thief and like him, then Hopalong Cassidy has no call to be proud
o' _his_self."
"Eh?" questioned Ned.
"Th' name slipped out. But now 's as good a time as any to tell you.
Did you ever hear o' Frenchy McAllister?"
"Owner o' the Double Y?"
"Half owner--leastways, he was. Frenchy 's dead. You was cussin' his
brother last night. I want to tell you about Frenchy."
Buck told the story in terse, graphic sentences, every one a vivid
picture. He painted the scene of Trendley's crime to the accompaniment
of a low-voiced growl of lurid profanity from Ned, who was quite
unconscious of it. The relentless hunt for the criminals, extending
through many months; the deadly retribution as one by one they were
found; the baffling elusiveness of Slippery Trendley and the unknown
manner of his fate when run to earth at last--one scene followed another
until Buck left the arch devil in his story, as he had left him in fact,
bound and helpless, looking up at the pitiless face of the man he had
injured beyond the hope of pardon, their only witnesses the silent
growths of Texas chaparral and the grieving eye of God.
It was a terrible story, even in the mere telling of it. Buck's level
voice and expressionless face hid the seething rage which filled him
now, as always, when his thoughts dwelt upon the awful drama. Ned's
judgment was without restriction: "By the Eternal!" he swore, "that
h--l-hound deserved whatever he got. D--d if you ain't made me sick."
They rode in silence for several minutes and then: "Poor fellow! poor
fellow!" he lamented. "Did you say he's dead?"
"Yes, Frenchy's gone under," answered Buck gravely. "You 'd 'a' liked
him, Ned."
"Yes, I reckon I would," agreed Ned. He looked at the other,
considering. "Where do you come in?" he asked. Buck's narrative had
failed to connect the new-born "Cheyenne" as "Frenchy's pardner."
"I 'm Buck Peters," was the simple explanation.
Ned pulled his horse back onto its haunches and Buck wheeled and faced
him. So they sat, staring, Ned inarticulate in his astonishment, Buck
waiting. The power of coherent thought returned to Ned at last and he
rode forward with outstretched hand. "Th' man as stuck to Frenchy
McAllister through that deal is good enough for me to tie up to," he
declared, and the grip of their hands was the cementing of an unfailing
friendship. "An' I 'd like for Buck Peters to tell Frenchy's brother as
I takes back what I said agin' him."
Their way led through an excellent grass country. The comparatively low
ground surrounding Wayback rose gradually to Twin River and more rapidly
after leaving that town. The undulating ground now formed in higher and
more extensive mounds, rising in places to respectable-sized hills;
usually the sides reached in long slopes the intervening depressions,
but not infrequently they were abrupt and occasionally one was met which
presented the broad, flat face of a bluff. The air was perceptibly
colder but the bunch grass, hiding its wonderfully nourishing qualities
under the hue it had acquired from the hot summer sun, was capable of
fattening more cattle to the acre than any but the best lands of the
Texan ranges with which Buck was familiar. Snow had not yet swept down
over the country, though apt to come with a rush at any time. Even
winter affected the range but little as a general rule; disastrous years
were luckily few and far separated, so that the average of loss from
severity of weather was small. The talk of the two naturally veered to
this and kindred topics and Buck began stowing away nuggets of northern
range wisdom as they fell from the lips of the more experienced Ned.
Studying the trail ahead of him, Buck broke the first silence by asking:
"Ain't we near the boundary of the Double Y?"
"You 'll know, soon enough. Th' first big butte we come to, some cuss
'll be settin' there, hatchin' out trouble."
"That's him, then," and Buck pointed to the right where a solitary
horseman showed dark against the sky-line.
"Yep, that's one of 'em. Reglar garjun, ain't he?"
"Beats me how you let 'em stand you off, Ned," wondered Buck.
"Well, when we made good and sure you owned the range, Buck, there were
n't no use in fighting. That McAllister would 'a run in th' reglar army
next, d--d if he would n't."
Buck chuckled. "He 's sure a hard man to beat. I don't mind fighting
when I have to, but I 'm mighty glad it looks peaceful."
"We 'll have fightin'. When I was turned off my ranch, it just about
foundered me. I sold th' stock, every head, an' you saw where th' last
o' th' cash went. But don't forget Smiler Schatz. He 's a bigger man
an' a better man nor I ever was, an' he 's a-layin' low an' a-waitin'.
He calculates to get you--I dunno how."
"An' I dunno how," mused Buck. "Say, Ned, I thought th' stage line ran
through to Big Moose: there ain't no tracks?"
"'Cause it crosses th' ford at th' Jack an' goes to th' Fort; then it
swings round to Big Moose, an' back th' same road. Wonder who 's that
pointin' this way?"
Buck glanced ahead to see a moving speck disappear behind a knoll far
along the trail. "Dunno; maybe another deputy," he suggested.
The distant rider came into sight again and Ned stared steadily at him.
"No," he declared, "think I know that figger. Yessir! It's Smiler. I
kin tell him 'most as far as I kin see him."
"That's the feller gave us the fight, ain't it?"
"Did his share--some over, mebbe. He 's a hard nut."
"Well, I 'm not bad at a pinch, myself, Ned; mebbe I can crack him."
Ned smiled grimly at the jest and hoped he would be cracked good.
Evidently there was no great liking between the quondam owners of the
Double Y.
However, this was not apparent in their greeting. The steady approach
had been uninterrupted and Buck looked with interest at the "hard nut"
as they met.
In a land of dirty men--dirty far more frequently from necessity than
from choice--Schatz was a by-word for slovenliness nearly approaching
filth. If he washed at all it left no impression on the caked
corrugations of his smiling countenance. His habit of smiling was
constant, so much a part of him that it gave him his name. And it had
been solemnly affirmed by one of his men that he never interfered with
his face until the dirt interfered with his smile; then he chipped it
off with a cold chisel and hammer. This must have been slander: no one
had ever seen him when it looked chipped. A big man, with a fine head,
he sat in his saddle with the careless ease of long practice. "Hello,
Ned!" he called, with a gay wave of the hand. "_Wie geht's_?"
"Howdy, Karl!" replied Ned. "How's sheep?"
"Ach! don't say it, der grasshoppers. Never vill dey reach Big Moose.
Also, I send East a good man to talk mit dat McAllister to lease der
range yet. Before now he say a manager come from Texas, soon. Vat iss
Texas like Montana? Nodding. Ven der snow come--"
"Hol' on! This is th' manager, Mr. Buck Peters, half owner o' the
Double Y, an' he 's put me in as foreman."
"So--it pleases me greatly, Mr. Buck. Ned iss a good man. If you haf
Ned, that iss different." He shook hands with Buck who took note of the
blue eyes and frank smile of the blonde German, at a loss to discover
where he hid that hardness Ned had referred to.
"Sorry I can't offer you a job," said Buck, matching the other's smile
at the joke, "but from what I hear, one foreman will be a-plenty on the
Double Y."
"It iss a good range--eggselent--und der iss mooch free grass ven you
haf der Double Vy for der hard years; but dere iss not enough for you
und for me, too, so I turn farmer. Also some of der boys, dey turn
farmer. I take oud quarter-section alretty."
"Quarter-section! Turn farmer! You! Sufferin' cows! give me a drink,"
and Ned looked wildly around for the unattainable.
"_Donnerwetter_! Somet'ing I must do. To lend money iss good but not
enough. Also my train vill not vait. So I say good-morning und vish
you luck."
Ned wheeled his horse to gaze after the departing figure and Buck sat
laughing at his expression. "Luck," echoed Ned; "bad luck, you mean, you
grinnin' Dutchman. H--l of a farmer you 'll be. Now I wonder what's
his little game."
"Aw, come on, Ned. 'Pears to me he 's easy," and Allday sprang away
along the trail.
"Easy, eh!" growled Ned, when he caught up, "he 's this easy: him and me
started even up here, 'bout th' same time. 'T was n't long before he
begun crowdin' me. Neither of us had nuthin' at first but when we quit
he could show five cows to my one. How 'd he do it?"
"Borrowed th' money and bought yearlin's," answered Buck.
"Yes, he did," Ned grudgingly admitted. "But I kep' a-watchin' him an'
he allus branded more than th' natural increase, every round-up--an' I
could never see how he done it."
"You--don't--say," was Buck's thoughtful comment, "Well, down our way
when a man gets to doin' miracles on a free range we drops in on him
casual an' asks questions--they don't do it twice"; and he unconsciously
increased Allday's pace.
"Here, pull up," urged Ned; "this bronc 's beginnin' to blow. That's a
bang-up horse you 've got there. No good with cattle, is he?"
"No," agreed Buck. "I got this horse because 'discretion is sometimes
better than valler,' as Tex Ewalt said when somebody asked him why he
did n't shoot Hoppy. Most times I finish what I start, but once in a
while, on a big job, it's healthy to take a vacation. An' I naturally
expected to leave some hasty an' travel fast."
"Ain't nothin' could catch you, in these parts, not if you got a good
start, less'n it's French Rose an' Swallow."
"Well, I was n't aimin' to run far nor yet to stay long. That seems
like it 'd be th' ranch."
"That's her," agreed Ned.
The ranch house, rectangular and of much greater dimensions than Buck
expected to find it, presented two novel features, one of which he
noticed at once. "What's th' idea of a slopin' roof, Ned?" he asked.
"That's Karl's notion. See that upside down trough runs along th' high
part at th' back? There ain't a foot o' that roof you can't slosh with
a bucket o' water. An' you can shoot along th' walls from them cubby
holes built out at each corner. Th' house is a heap bigger 'n th' old
one was; it used to set over yonder in that valley, but th' wipin' out
o' Custer put th' fear o' God in Smiler an' he raised this place soon
after. Five men could stand off five hundred Injuns."
"Where 's th' water?"
Ned chuckled. "Wait till you see it. There 's a well sunk at th' side
an' you can pull it in without goin' out-door if you wants to. Karl is
one o' them think-of-everything fellers. He put th' ranch house on a
knoll an' th' bunk-house on another. Then, he figgers, if they wants to
rush me they 'll be good an' winded when they gets here. My shack is a
pig-pen 'long side o' this un', but I got it figgered out I need n't to
stop if I don't want."
"How's that, Ned?"
"I could cut an' run any time--come night. I 'll show you when we goes
over there."
Bare as was the interior, the ranch house gave promise of comfort and
the bunk-house and the stable with its adjacent corral proved equally
satisfactory. The fire-place of the bunk-house was built over the bare
earth and there they repaired to make a fire and eat the food they had
brought with them. The added warmth was a distinct comfort but the
smoke brought company on the run. They had scarcely begun their meal
when a faint sound led Buck to saunter to the door and look out. Down
the steep side of a high butte dropped a horseman with considerably more
speed and no more care than a dislodged boulder; arriving at the bottom,
his horse straightened out into a run that showed he was expected to get
somewhere right away. Buck gravely bit into a sandwich the while he
admired the rider's horsemanship; an admiration that was directed into
another channel when the object of it slipped rifle from holster, pumped
a cartridge into the barrel, and threw it forward in business-like
attitude. "'Spects to have use for it, right soon," mused Buck, and
then, over his shoulder: "Better hide, Ned. Here comes a garjun an' he
's got his gun out."
"Th' h--l he has!" rumbled Ned. "Come an' push me up th' chimley, Buck;
I 'm a-scared."
Buck strolled back to the fire and half a minute later the horse pounded
up to the house, his rider sprang off and came through the door, gun
first. He continued across the room with solemn countenance, set his
gun against the wall, and went to the fire where he extended his hands
to the blaze. "Howdy, Ned; howdy, stranger," was his easy greeting.
Ned, sitting cross-legged, smirked up at him. "Howdy, Jack. You were
n't going to run me off'n th' range, was you?"
"Nope. Saw Cheyenne Charley headin' this way 'bout an hour since.
Thought mebbe he 'd burn her up--Pipes o' peace!" His eyes widened as
he gazed at Ned's upturned mouth. "Bottled beer, or I 'm a Injun. You
lives high," and he swallowed involuntarily as the inspiring gurgle
stimulated his salivary glands.
"I 'm taperin' off on beer," explained Ned. "Got three bottles, one for
Buck and two for me. I 'm biggest. But you can have one o' mine.
Buck, this is Jim's Jack, head garjun an' a right good sort. Buck
Peters has come to take charge of his own ranch, Jack."
"Shake," said Jack. He glanced over the papers Buck handed him and
passed them back. All three turned to look at the open door.
"Hang up a sign, Buck," advised Ned. "If we stops here long enough we
can start a hotel. Come in, Charley."
The Indian stepped slowly in. "Cheyenne Charley, Buck," said Ned; "off
the Reservation for a drunk at Twin River. You 'd think he 'd stop in
Big Moose. Reckon he 's hungry, too; he--" Ned paused and his eyes
sought the object of Charley's steady and significant gaze. "Oh, that
be d--d!" he exclaimed, swooping onto the third bottle of beer beside
him and holding it out to Buck. "He wants your beer. Charley is a good
Injun--I _think_--but 'lead us not into temptation'"--and with the other
hand he proceeded to put his share of temptation out of sight, an
example that Jim's Jack emulated with dignified speed.
"Let him have it," said Buck, good naturedly. "I never hankered much
for beer, nohow." He passed the bottle to the Indian, not in the least
suspecting what "an anchor he had cast to windward." The other two
exchanged a look of regretful disapproval.
Half an hour later they had separated, Buck and Ned going on to the more
distant NM ranch, Jack to gather up his fellow deputies, and the
Cheyenne hitting the trail for Twin River with a thirst largely
augmented by the sop he had thrown to it.