THE ULTIMATUM
There was movement on the Gunsight trail at an early morning hour.
Five men rode to within half a mile of the town and then halted for
a final consultation, which was soon over. Three rode westward at
a walk, another went on, bearing slightly to the east, while the
fifth, dismounting, led his horse from the trail, picketed it in a
steep-walled ravine and went north on foot.
The eastern sky paled, grew silvery, and then became tinted with
red and gold. A man crouched behind the hotel shed, swearing softly
because he heard no sounds of a horse within it. He snuggled close
to a knothole, peering at the hotel wall not far from him, and the
rifle in his hand was full cocked. Behind the saloon shed another man
had thrust his rifle through a crack and as the light increased, he
cuddled his cheek against the stock and peered along the sights into an
open window in the rear wall of the hotel. Lying in a clump of weeds
north of the saloon and near the trail was another rifleman, who could
see Dave's north wall and the front of the saloon as well. A fourth
had settled down in the end of a shallow gully across the trail from
Dailey's store, his Winchester needing but to move over a short arc to
cover the door of the saloon. It was point-blank range for him, and in
this matter he was no better off than his three friends. The fifth,
the angry and determined foreman of the Bar H, not finding cover as
close as he would have liked, was forced to ensconce himself over two
hundred yards from the front of the hotel, and a little to the right
of Jerry's shop, where he kept turning problems over in his mind.
Desperate ailments called for desperate cures, and if Gunsight objected
as to methods, then it would have to object in the persons of the three
easy-going inhabitants who were likely to be offended. The actions of
the Double X were far more serious, but had to be risked if life were
to be worth living for the outfit of the Bar H. With the coming of dawn
Big Tom pondered less and looked more, his rifle at his shoulder, ready
for instant use.
Back on the trail there was silent movement as an indistinct and
bootless figure crossed it and paused, waiting for light. The darkness
thinned and the figure moved forward again, bent over close to the
boot marks on the ground, which it followed with slow sureness. The
stockinged feet made no sound, avoiding twigs and dead leaves, and not
an out-thrust branch whipped or scraped as the man worked forward. He
carried a heavy Sharp's, the heel of his hand over the cocked hammer,
his fingers covering the trigger guard as an extra precaution against
accidental discharge.
The few buildings in Gunsight appeared as though a curtain were slowly
rising and finally stood revealed in their entirety. The sun rose and
threw soft, delicate shadows from the bases of all standing objects,
too weak to mark their patterns far, melting into oblivion. A door
slammed, sounding irreverent and out of place, and from the hotel
chimney curled a timid wisp of smoke, this way and that, finally
climbing straight up and losing its identity against the gray-blue of
the sky, while its supporting column twisted and turned and danced as
it hurried to self-effacement. Dailey's chimney sent up a skirmishing
film, which died out; and then, as if in stalwart support of the
fainting advance, there came a darker, thicker column, telling all
who cared to read that Dailey put his trust in kerosene. The hotel
door opened, causing a quick movement of Big Tom's rifle, and George,
sleepy and unpleasant in looks and disposition, glanced idly around and
went back again. From far off in the west the quavering, long-drawn
wail of a coyote, mercifully tempered by distance, arose to greet the
rising sun. Birds sang with delirious abandon and the soft noises in
grass and sand and brush told of a waking world. In the vague grayness
of the hotel, framed by the open door, something moved, steadily
growing plainer and soon took the form of a towel in the hands of
George, who drove winged pests before him and, with a final, frenzied
waving, took hold of the door and slammed it shut. As it closed Big
Tom relaxed, eased his hold on the rifle and reached back to remove
a stone which was beginning to assert its presence under him to his
growing discomfort. Turning his head, he looked back, and froze, his
groping fingers rigid. Ten feet behind him and to his right was the
black muzzle of a heavy rifle, and behind that a pair of gray-blue eyes
regarded him malevolently through narrow slits in the bronzed face.
For a tense, appreciable interval eyes looked into eyes, and then the
foreman squirmed.
"Don't move, only as I tell you, an' slow," said Johnny's clear, low
voice. "I got you just th' way I want you--ambushin'! Don't touch that
gun, an' don't make no noise. First, put yore hands up even with yore
armpits, palms down, on th' ground. Now inch back, away from that gun.
Keep on--more--more--all right--stop! Slide 'em forward, straight out
ahead of you, an' then lay still. You can admire Fannin's front door,
an' imagine me in it, careless an' easy prey for a pot-shooter, if
it'll do you any good. Don't look around till I tell you to, an' don't
make a sound, blast you!"
Not being able to do anything else, Big Tom obeyed and soon felt his
Colt leave its holster. A hand felt up under his coat, to see if
the back-strap of his trousers held a gun. Being right-handed, the
foreman would hardly choose to carry a six-gun there under ordinary
circumstances, but this situation was not in that category. The
back-strap was guiltless.
"Roll over on yore back," came the next command, and when it had
been obeyed the same inquiring hand passed lightly and quickly over
waist-band and shirt bosom, the left hand holding a six-gun now instead
of the rifle. "All right, wiggle down in that gully, and then head for
where you left yore cayuse, keepin' low down, like yore nature, an' out
of sight of town."
"What do you think yo're doin'?" wrathfully inquired Big Tom, but
obeying as he protested.
"Huntin' for an excuse to blow you apart, you ambushin' dog," came the
metallic reply. "Shut yore mouth, an' keep on goin'. I'll give you a
chance to talk later. Any harm that comes to you will be of yore own
makin'. Keep on!"
They reached the brush at the edge of the trail, waited a moment, and
then crossed swiftly, and when they stopped again it was at Pepper's
side. Johnny quickly mounted and urged his captive on again. Coming to
a picketed Bar H horse he ordered the foreman to mount it, and as the
helpless man obeyed Johnny revealed their objective.
"Head for yore ranchhouse," he said. "Ride on my right side, yore
stirrup even with my pommel, where my Colt will have a fair view of
you from under my coat. If we meet anybody, pass 'em on yore side, an'
don't make no remarks that ain't needed. We go at a lope; hit it up!"
And so they rode, except at a few places in the canyon, where the
narrowness of the twisting trail made Big Tom go ahead. Arriving at the
ranchhouse they rode around on its further side, tied the horses to a
stake, and went indoors.
"Sit down," commanded Johnny, indicating a chair in the middle of the
room. "Here, look at this," and he handed the foreman a piece of paper
which was covered with sprawled figures. "I don't know what Fraser
forgot, or what he got tangled up, so I'll go over it again. Them top
figgers are based on th' tally sheets of th' SV in th' fall of th' year
that Arnold took possession. They ain't like th' figgers Ol' Simon
could 'a' showed, for th' ranch had been on th' slide for some years,
an' plenty of its cows went on th' drive trail to give money to th'
heirs. Th' lowest figgers are based on th' tally Cimarron finished
yesterday. Natural increase, figgered as one to five, shows what they
ought to be, minus them that Arnold had to sell to get grub. It's all
there."
"Th' h--l with 'em!" blazed the foreman, crushing the sheet in his hand
and hurling it from him. "What do _I_ care about any figgers belongin'
to th' SV? Take yore figgers an' get out--I'm advisin' you to leave
this part of th' country, an' cussed quick. I ain't playin' godfather
to th' SV, an' I'm runnin' this ranch without no help from you,
Sherwood, or anybody else."
"When I leave this range I'll go of my own accord, an' there won't be
no pushin'," retorted Johnny. "Sherwood can 'tend to his own business;
I'll 'tend to mine; but I've got time to look after a little of yourn.
If you ain't godfather to th' SV, yo're shore goin' to act like one.
There's nine hundred an' seventy head clean missin' from it, an'
there's plenty of big ranches down Texas way that would yell for th'
rangers, an' holler calamity if they had lost that many. For a little
ranch to lose 'em it is shore enough calamity. If anybody would put
that many cows on th' trail for me I'd show 'em a lot of money at th'
other end."
"SV calamities don't mean nothin' to me," rejoined Big Tom. "It was
allowed to run itself, an' it run itself into th' ground. Why wouldn't
it lose a lot of cattle?"
"It shore might do just that," conceded Johnny, "if it wasn't for one
thing. Yo're an old hand in th' cattle business, an' you know that a
bunch of cattle can run wild an' grow amazin'. An' they'd shore do it
on a range like th' SV with that valley an' them brush-filled draws
for winter shelter. There ain't no natural enemies to cut down th'
calves--an' that ranch is good grazin' all year 'round. There wasn't
cows enough to eat it down."
"There's them quicksands, an' there was a lot of gray wolves runnin'
down here th' last couple of years!" shouted Big Tom, red with anger.
"They never even kept up th' wire fence around th' quicksands. Why
wouldn't they lose cows?"
"The quicksands would get a few," rejoined Johnny. "They would get more
if th' cows was drove into 'em like I caught Lang doin'--an' them will
be figgered in th' herd to be throwed back. I've asked about wolves an'
everythin' else--there wasn't nothin' to keep 'em down. An' as for that
fence, th' less you, or any of yore gang have to say about that, th'
better it'll be for you."
"Then yo're callin' me a liar," blazed the foreman. "There _was_ wolves
down here! An' I never touched that fence, neither."
"Mebby you didn't personal; an' I ain't callin' you a liar while you
ain't got a gun," retorted Johnny. "But I am admittin' that yo're plumb
mistaken. Comin' down to cases, pleasant an' friendly, I'm sayin' that
th' Bar H owes the SV nine hundred an' seventy head of cattle, as they
come in a round-up, all kinds an' conditions. When do you aim to start
deliverin'?"
The foreman sprang to his feet. "When do I aim to start deliverin'?"
he shouted, staring into the calm, gray eyes of the man whose Colt
covered him. "When do I aim to start deliverin'?" he repeated, his neck
swelling. "I ain't aimin' to at all! Nine hundred an' seventy! That
would plumb ruin us!"
"It ain't ruined th' SV," replied Johnny evenly. "Not quite, anyhow,"
he added. "An' it won't ruin you, because they can all be figgered as
extras. We all know they ain't never been put on th' tally sheets with
th' other cattle, for th' owners to know about. They're strays, you
might say, that have been eatin' up yore grazin' scandalous. They've
wandered over on you an' are likely to eat you into some kind of ruin.
You ought to be able to do better without 'em, an' you shore ought to
be glad to get rid of such a hungry bunch of cattle that you can't
prove title to."
"I've got all th' title _I_ need--they're on my ranch, an' that's good
enough," shouted Big Tom. "It's good enough for me, an' it's good
enough for everybody else, you included."
"Not for nobody else," corrected Johnny, "me least of all. That title
is questioned now by more than a dozen men. You can't keep 'em, nohow,
for th' general round-up will cut 'em four ways. Th' times are changin'
down here like they changed some years back on th' older ranges. Th'
runnin' iron is dyin' fast, an' for good reasons. Maverickin' is goin'
out of style--an' nothin' can stop it. An' with it goes that title you
was mentionin'. Why not get ahead of 'em, an' throw them cows over onto
th' SV before anybody gets insultin' you?"
"I'll have somethin' to say about any styles changin' down here,"
retorted the foreman. "Mebby more than some folks think."
"You ain't got a chance, not a chance," Johnny assured him. "You'll be
like th' Injun that tried to push back th' first, an' last, engine he
ever saw. It was goin' strong when he tried it."
"An' I ain't got th' authority to give away a cow, not even a single
dogie--not to mention a herd. I'm not ownin' this ranch; I'm workin'
for it. How can I straighten out my tally sheets to cover th' loss of a
herd like that? They don't belong to me--they belong to th' ranch, to
th' owners." He was wasting as much time in argument as he knew how in
the hope that his outfit would return.
"Pshaw!" laughed Johnny. "They can all be accounted for. Didn't I just
say that they never got on th' tally sheets at all? You shore found you
had been feedin' a hull passel of cows that didn't belong to th' ranch
in case they did get on th' tally sheets. You found it out, an' it was
so plumb careless of yore line riders that you up an' fired them that
was responsible. That won't bother you, because you got three names off
yore pay-roll right now. There ain't nothin' we can't get around if we
pull together."
"But th' title to 'em wouldn't stick," objected the baited foreman.
"Every one of them cows could be took away from Arnold. I ain't got
th' authority to make it stick. An' th' only reason I'm wastin' time
talkin' to you over a fool thing like this is because you got a gun
on me, an' I can't help myself." His brain seized upon and rejected
scheme after scheme for getting out of the situation, one of which he
recalled and examined anew. It was not a bad one, if bad came to worse,
and he nursed it, sorry that so much time would have to elapse before
he could carry it out.
"I just said we could get around anythin'," replied Johnny, pleasantly.
"There's an awful lot of mavericks runnin' around on this ranch, most
of 'em under four years old. They wouldn't show any Bar H brand. They'd
only have a SV. There wouldn't even be a vent brand to single 'em out;
an' cattle ain't tellin' where they come from, or we'd 'a' heard a lot
of scandals long ago."
"Nine hundred an' seventy mavericks!" snorted Big Tom. "A fine chance
I'd have of roundin' up that many! Yo're plumb loco."
"That is a lot, I'll admit," conceded Johnny, apparently balked. "Of
course, if you owned this ranch, you could make it up with Bar H
brands. But you don't. You can't give away nothin' that you don't own.
I can see where that would put you. Anythin' that was yours you could
give away; but not no Bar H belongin's. That yore idea?"
"Yo're gettin' th' drift, slow but shore," sarcastically rejoined the
foreman. "Anythin' I own I can give away; but not nothin' I don't own.
A kid can understand that. An' there ain't that many mavericks on this
ranch."
"I still say we can get around anythin' an' I ain't no kid," muttered
Johnny. "Lemme see: First, we'll consider cash. Got any?"
"Nothin' but my wages," answered the foreman, a sarcastic smile playing
around his lips.
"Too bad," mused Johnny, "wages ain't a patch. If we could have you
ownin' a nice pile of money--but can get money!"
"Look here!" snapped Big Tom, aggressively. "I can't sign no checks
over a certain amount a year--th' bank wouldn't cash 'em. An' they've
all been signed for this year, all but th' pay-roll. An' I don't own
that money, neither. That belongs to th' ranch."
"Well, failin' in cash," said Johnny, crisply, "I'll take a note. Will
you gimme one?"
"I will; you can have it," nodded Big Tom, his pet scheme coming more
vividly into his mind. "I'll make it out right here, an' now."
"I don't want yore note," objected Johnny. "What good is it? Now, if
it was endorsed by somebody that could make it good, why that would be
different. You said you'd gimme a note; then gimme that one for three
thousand dollars, of Arnold's, that _is_ endorsed by somebody that can
make it good. An' also a receipt for it. That'll cut down that nine
hundred an' seventy an amazin' lot. Th' difference won't be too many to
get right here on th' Bar H, an' all of 'em mavericks."
Big Tom was staring at him as if doubting his senses. His face flushed
and the veins on his neck and forehead stood out like serpents.
He stepped forward involuntarily, but the gun stopped him. He was
incapable of speech for the moment and could only make inarticulate
sounds.
"That'll help a lot," said Johnny, lightly balanced and leaning
slightly forward. "Well let th' Double X say how many cattle, takin'
'em as they come, they would sell for three thousand dollars. Then
we'll take that many away from that nine seventy. You can easy round-up
what are needed to make up th' difference, brand 'em with th' SV
stampin' irons, an' throw 'em over where they belong. I'll take th'
note _now_."
"You'll take h--l!" yelled the foreman. "You'll take h--l!"
"You'll _get_ h--l!" snapped Johnny, his eyes narrowing; "an' you'll
get it _pronto_! Hunt up that note, an' without no more cussed
nonsense. It's yore play, an' you shore want to play fast!"
"You won't get no note!" shouted Big Tom, his face twitching with rage.
He seemed about to spring.
"_Don't!_" ordered Johnny, softly, but with a cold ferocity in his
voice that carried conviction. "I'll shoot you like I would a coyote,
you pot-shooter, for you are a coyote! Get that note!"
Big Tom, seething with rage, swayed in agonizing hesitation. He had
courage, plenty of it; but he also had common sense. Unarmed, he could
do nothing against the gun which had killed his two-gun man in an even
break; and his common sense came to his rescue, and barely in time.
Glancing out of the window, he detected no signs of his outfit on the
trail, and craftily attempted to begin the argument all over again.
"That'll do," said Johnny. "We've finished that. My time is valuable,
even if I ain't lookin' for company; an' if they come, you'll be th'
first to go under. Get--that--note!"
Shrugging his shoulders, the foreman stepped forward, but Johnny
slipped aside and snarled a warning, so venomous and tense that Big Tom
gave up the desperate idea, and slowly turned, a beaten man. He walked
toward a metal-bound box in a corner of the room, Johnny close at his
heels, the gun against the foreman's back. Unlocking it, he slowly
raised the lid, and felt Johnny's breath on his neck, the gun pressing
solidly against his spine. As the cover went up it revealed a derringer
lying on top of a few papers, and the foreman's hand slowly passed by
it and fumbled among the contents, reluctantly withdrawing with an
unsealed envelope. Shutting down the lid he turned the key, and arose
to his feet as his captor, alert as a cat, stepped aside.
Johnny took the envelope, backed off a little farther, opened it,
glanced at the note and nodded. He looked around the room and then
ordered Big Tom to the table. Taking the pen and ink from a shelf,
he placed them before the foreman and then handed him the envelope,
telling him what to write. When the pen ceased scratching he took the
receipt, read it, and held it out a moment for it to dry.
"This saves you a lot of brandin'," he remarked. "Somewhere around
two-thirds, I reckon, 'though th' Double X will set its value in
cattle. Now, you listen close. There ain't goin' to be any round-up
or brandin' on th' northwest section of this ranch till th' SV gets
its herd. When we know how many will be needed you will have till th'
general round-up to use th' SV irons. Send for 'em when you get ready,
an' an SV puncher will come with 'em. I'm warnin' you fair: A Sharp's
will talk to anybody runnin' a brand or round-up out there unless
a SV man is on th' spot. An' there's goin' to be some SV men right
soon--good ones--an' they'll be plumb touchy about wire fences comin'
down. Now I'm takin' you for a little ride with me, so you won't be
tempted to smoke up out of a window while I'm ridin' off. Come on; I'm
shore in a hurry."
In a few moments they rode westward, Big Tom leading the way, and it
was not until more than an hour had passed that he was free to ride
back again, or to Gunsight for his outfit, as his fancy dictated.
He chose to return to the ranch and while he rode he elaborated the
plan which had come to him, and rubbed his hands as its details
unfolded. Since Nelson had admitted being the man who was responsible
for the mysterious events which had puzzled the country, Big Tom had
remembered Lang's report about having seen Margaret and Johnny riding
together. The foreman had not given her up, although pretending to have
no interest in her. Having lost the note he had to change his plans,
and go about it in a different way. Now his rage and jealousy fanned
the flame of his impatience, gave a keener edge to his scheming wits,
and added zest to what he purposed to do; and before he knew it he
arrived at the house. Entering, he saw the crumpled piece of paper and,
kicking it across the room, laughed sneeringly.
"You've been proddin' th' wrong man, Mr. Nelson," he growled. "I'm slow
to start; but when I _do_, there ain't nothin' that'll stop me."