THE LOOT OF THE LAZY A
By W. C. Tuttle
Author of “Romance,” “Straight Shooting,” etc.
CULTUS COLLINS ONCE MORE STARTS OUT TO INVESTIGATE
FOR THE CATTLE ASSOCIATION, AND FALLS INTO MORE ACTION
THAN HE THOUGHT COULD BE FOUND IN THE WHOLE SOUTHWEST.
AND THE END OF IT ALL WAS HIS OWN DISCOVERY THAT IT
NEEDS MORE STRENGTH TO BE BEST MAN AT A WEDDING THAN
TO BE BEST MAN IN A GUN-FIGHT--WITH WHICH ROLE CULTUS
WAS ONLY TOO FAMILIAR
It was one of those foggy, raining, dismal nights, when all the world
seemed one vast drip, drip of water; cold gusts of wind from the bay,
where the fog warnings boomed dismally, boat whistles shrilled; while
on the streets of San Francisco, little less wet than the bay itself,
cable-car motormen danced jigs upon their gongs, seeking to clear the
tracks, which they could hardly see in the dim glow of their own
headlights.
Standing in the protection of a half lighted doorway, just outside the
borders of Chinatown, was a girl. She was dressed in a black suit,
black hat. Close inspection would have shown that both the suit and
hat were slightly more than well worn, and were also very wet. She
carried no umbrella. She was not beautiful, but perhaps it was because
of the abject misery in her big, dark eyes, the utter helplessness of
her expression.
She was of medium height, slender, white-faced. In fact, her face
was so white against the gloom of the doorway, which blended with
her black garb, that it seemed like a white mask suspended invisibly
against a dark curtain. The wind swirled past the doorway, showering
her with rain, but she did not draw back--only stared ahead, dumbly.
A policeman emerged out of the fog, peered at her, as he went slowly
past, glanced up the street toward the clanging of a street car bell,
and went on. Possibly he thought she was waiting for a car.
A man emerged from a doorway farther up the street, and came down
past her. He was tall, rather slender, his head surmounted by a huge
Stetson sombrero, which made him look gigantic in the dim light. His
heels hit hard on the sidewalk, because of the fact that he was
wearing high-heeled boots, and in one hand he carried a suitcase.
The street car clanged past before he could reach the corner; so he
placed his baggage on the sidewalk, shoved his hands deep in his
pockets and leaned against a post, almost directly in front of where
the girl stood. He turned and looked directly at her, but turned back
and drew his hat farther over his eyes. He shivered a little. He had
no overcoat either.
A man came from the opposite direction, swathed in a heavy overcoat,
whistling aimlessly. He was a big man, the collar of his coat touching
the brim of his derby hat. He did not see the girl until he was almost
past her. He stopped and came back to her. It is possible that he did
not see the tall man, who leaned against the post.
“Hello, Kid,” he said ingratiatingly. “What are you doing out in the
rain, all alone?”
The girl did not reply, but drew back against the wall. The tall man
turned his head.
“No coat, no umbrella?” The man in the overcoat laughed. “Say, you must
be up against it, Kid. You don’t look so bad. Snap out of it. Gee, you
don’t need to shiver on a corner.”
“Will you please go away?” asked the girl. “I’m all right.”
“I’ll say you are, Kid--all right. I like you. Don’t be uppish. Come on,
and I’ll show you a good time.”
“Please let me alone.” The girl spoke softly.
“Don’t try to kid me,” laughed the man. “You’re going with me and I’ll
show you the best time----”
The tall man had stepped in behind him and a huge hand, which gripped
like a vise, had fastened to his shoulder.
“The lady asked yuh to let her alone, yuh know.” The tall man’s voice
seemed mild, apologetic.
The man squirmed quickly. “Who in hell are you?” he demanded.
“Names wouldn’t mean anythin’,” the other said mildly.
The man jerked loose. “Then keep your hands off me! This is none of your
business! Now, trot along and let us alone.”
“Ma’am,” the tall man spoke softly, ignoring the threatening attitude of
the other man, “do yuh want to go with this man?”
“I certainly do not.”
“I reckon that’s final, don’tcha think?” The big man in the overcoat
possibly did not agree with this, and he was foolish enough to swing
a right-handed blow at the head of the tall man. The overcoat was a
serious handicap. His blow had only traveled half of its arc, when a
thick, bony fist, seemingly weighted with lead, caught him under the
chin, and he went backward into the street, where he went down in a
heap.
The girl stifled a scream, but the tall man’s chuckle was reassuring.
“Did yuh know this man, ma’am?” he asked, caressing his right hand.
“No, I did not. I don’t know who he is.”
“Neither does he--right now. Ain’t it cold! I hate this kind of weather.
I s’pose it’s because I live so much on the desert.”
“On the desert?” The girl spoke softly. “Where everything is clean and
good--and the sunshine----”
“Have you lived there?”
“Ages and ages ago.”
The tall man peered closer at her. “Yuh don’t look old.”
“I’m twenty-two.”
The tall man laughed softly. “Yeah, yo’re sure ancient, ma’am. And
yo’re all wet and shiverin’. Will yuh--? Say, that’s funny. I just
knocked that feller into the street for askin’ yuh to go with him,
and I was about to do the same thing. He’s gettin’ up.
“Yeah, and he’s goin’ the other way. He’s stoppin’ at the sidewalk,
prob’ly wonderin’ what to do about it. Mebbe he don’t know what it’s
all about.”
The man had staggered to the opposite sidewalk, where he stood, humped
slightly in the rain. His derby hat was out in the street, but he did
not seem to miss it. A policeman was coming down that side of the
street, and they heard the man say something, which caused the officer
to stop.
“C’mon,” said the tall man, grasping the girl by the arm. “Yuh never can
tell what that jigger will tell the law.”
Shielding her as much as possible from the rain, the tall man picked up
his suitcase and escorted the girl around the corner and down the block.
She did not hold back. There was too much sincerity in the voice of this
big cowboy for her to feel afraid.
“Where are we going?” she ventured to ask.
“I know a place,” he said jerkily. “It ain’t so much to look at, and
lotsa ornery folks eat there, but they sure sabe how to cook a steak,
and make soup. Do yuh like soup?”
“Soup?” The girl spoke the word queerly, as though it was something she
had once known, but had forgotten.
“Yeah, that’s it. Lotsa onions and meat. Here we are.”
He led her up a rickety stairs, where the air was redolent with odors
of frying meats, garlic; the hundred-and-one odors that make up the
atmosphere of a bohemian chop-house, where no questions are asked.
No head waiter met them. In fact they were almost knocked down by a
hurrying waiter, carrying a tray of dishes; a short-haired, broken-nosed
individual; a one-time artist in the manly art of scrambling ears.
It was warm up there amid all those smells. The tall man led the girl to
a vacant booth, which an anemic-looking waiter was cleaning up, and they
sat down opposite each other. The tall man had placed his suitcase
beside the entrance, where he could watch it. It was the first time they
had had a good look at each other.
The girl’s face was slightly flushed now, and when she removed her
dripping hat, she was really pretty. Her hair was a soft brown. The
man’s face was long and bony, with a large nose, keen gray eyes and
a big mouth. His cheek-bones were prominent, his hair of a neutral
shade, neither blonde, brown nor red.
His hands were huge, bony-wristed, flecked with freckles. He was
dressed in a cheap brown suit, flannel shirt, and his trousers were
tucked in the tops of his high-heeled boots. The girl looked intently
at him. There was no denying that he was homely. Then he smiled at
her. She caught her breath for a moment--and smiled back at him.
He was not the same man when he smiled. She caught herself staring at
him, while the waiter took their order, wondering that a smile should
so absolutely change a man. The waiter went away, marveling at the
appetites these two must have.
“Ma’am,” said the tall man gravely, “my name’s Collins. My friends call
me ‘Cultus’; Cultus Collins, from Cuyamac.”
“And I am just Mary Smith,” she said simply. “They used to call me Mary
Elizabeth--when I had friends.”
“When yuh did have, Mary Smith?”
“Yes.”
“Uh-huh. Mary Smith, how long since yuh ate a meal?”
“Why--er--this noon.”
“Yuh don’t need to lie to me, Mary Elizabeth. Callin’ yuh that ought to
prove me yore friend--and yuh hadn’t ought to lie to yore friends.”
Mary Smith looked into the gray eyes of Cultus Collins, and decided not
to lie, because he seemed to know that she lied.
“It wasn’t a very big meal,” she said slowly.
“It wasn’t any meal at all, Mary Smith.”
“No, I guess it wasn’t.” And then Mary Smith bowed her head on her wet
arms and cried, while Cultus Collins upset a bottle of catsup, trying
to pat her on the shoulder and tell her to quit crying. Several diners
looked curiously at them, but they were of the breed that mind their
own business.
Mary Smith finally stopped crying, dabbled her eyes with a wet
handkerchief, and tried to appear brave, while she choked over the first
meal she had eaten in two days. Cultus did not question her, nor did she
offer any explanation, until the steaks and baked potatoes and soup and
salads were but memories, and they were eating huge slices of apple pie
and cheese, for which the place was famous.
There were roses in Mary Smith’s cheeks now, even if her body was still
wet from the rain. Bit by bit she told her story to Cultus Collins. It
was not a new tale of woe. Mary Smith had come from a little town in New
England; literally ran away, because she did not want to marry a certain
man, greatly desired by her parents, and because she wanted to see some
of the world. She had saved enough money to buy a ticket to the Middle
West, and by selling a few pieces of jewelry she was able to stretch
this ticket to San Francisco, where she had an aunt.
But the aunt was not there. Lack of a business education lost her
several fairly good positions. Sickness cost her all her slender
savings, and just now she was a week overdue on her room rent, and the
room was locked against her. For three days she had haunted the stores,
trying to get a position, but they merely looked at her shabby clothes
and told her that there was nothing available just now.
Cultus Collins rubbed his chin and wondered what to do. He was not
financially able to give her much assistance. He could give her enough
money to square up her room rent and enough for a few days of square
meals. But that would not remedy the clothes proposition--and without
clothes she could not hope to get a paying position.
“Just what was yuh goin’ to do--standin’ there in the rain, Mary Smith?”
he asked.
She shook her head, her eyes filling with tears. “I--I don’t know. My
body was numb, and I guess my mind was not far from being in the same
state. It was all so hopeless, don’t you see?”
“Uh-huh, I see. And yet yuh wouldn’t _go_ with that man.”
She shook her head. “I was going the other way.”
“Toward the bay?”
Mary Smith nodded dumbly. Cultus sighed and shook his head.
“It’s a queer old world, Mary Smith. I’ve been here two days, and I
was roomin’ in a little place jist up the street from where we met.
I was leavin’, yuh see. I had plenty of time, but I hurried. That’s
fate, I reckon.”
“It was fate for me,” sighed the girl. “The bay seems a long way from
here, Mr. Collins.”
Cultus smiled widely. “Nothin’ like a steak to make a person change
their mind.”
Another couple had entered the restaurant, and came up to the next
booth. The man was fairly young, sleek-haired, flashily dressed. The
woman was wearing a brown traveling suit, trimmed with expensive
furs, and was wearing a small hat. She was young and beautiful, in an
artificial way, but just now her face was contorted with indignation,
as she faced the young man.
“I suppose you think that was a smart thing to do!” she fairly snapped
at him. “Is it any of your business if I want to take a little trip?
Explain yourself!”
The man deposited a suitcase beside the one Cultus had placed near the
booth entrance and took the girl by the arm.
“Don’t talk so damn’ loud,” he advised. “Get in there and sit down,
Janice. I just wanted to be sure you wasn’t doin’ a runout on me. This
don’t look right to me. I happen to know that your lawyer friend has
been up to see you twice in two days, and I know you haven’t any need
of legal advice. Sit down!”
They sat down in the next booth, but their voices were pitched loud
enough for Cultus and Mary Smith to hear what was said.
“I’ll explain nothing,” declared the girl. “Let that pocketbook
alone!-- Well, are you satisfied?”
It was evident that the man had investigated her bag.
“You’re not very well heeled, that’s true. But that don’t mean you won’t
meet somebody at the Ferry Building. I heard you tell the taxi driver
where to take you. Now, come clean, Janice. You were going to leave me
flat. I’ve bought you clothes, diamonds, paid your rent, furnished you a
car--and you run out on me.”
Came a few moments of inaudible conversation; the man’s voice was raised
in anger.
“What do you care how I make my money? You’re getting rather prudish,
it seems. I suppose you think that if the police get me, you’ll go
along, because you spent my money, eh? Well, my money is as good as the
money of that dirty bum of a lawyer! He’s as crooked as anybody in the
district. Sa-a-ay! Are you giving me the gate for that welcher?”
“Your opinions do not interest me,” said the girl. “Call me a taxi. I’m
sick of your insinuations.”
“Aw, pull that stuff and get a vaudeville contract! Why, you little bum,
anybody would think you was Bernhardt! Snap out of it! Get away from me?
Ha, ha, ha, ha! Fine chance. Na-a-aw! Sit still, or I’ll knock you for a
loop!”
Cultus was not so interested that he failed to see two men come in. One
was the big man he had knocked into the street, while the other was of
the same type as the man with the girl. They halted midway of the room,
ignoring the gestures of a waiter.
Then Cultus heard the man in the booth say, “There’s that dirty welcher
now! Leggo me!”
A dish crashed to the floor, as the man jerked away from the girl and
stepped out beyond the curtains of the booth. The two men had turned
toward it, and the big man had stepped forward, his hand reaching
inside his overcoat, as the woman’s companion emerged.
There were no preliminaries. It seemed to Cultus that both men knew
what this meeting would mean. He saw the man at the booth whip out a
snub-nosed gun. The other man was just as quick, and both guns spat
rapidly, filling the room with short, snappy reports, both men
shooting as fast as they could press the trigger. It was all done in
the space of a few seconds. The man at the booth entrance dropped
his gun, turned around, as though to re-enter the booth, but his
grasping hands tore down the hanging curtains, pulling them down on
top of him, as he fell.
The other man was on the floor, trying to stay on his hands and knees. A
frightened waiter had dropped a filled tray, and was running toward the
back of the room.
“My God, they hit that girl, too!” someone yelled.
And then somebody cut off the lights. Cultus and Mary had got to their
feet and were at the booth entrance, when the lights went out,
plunging the room in darkness. But Cultus had located the exit, and
now he grasped his suitcase in one hand, while with the other he clung
to Mary Smith, fairly dragging her to the top of the stairs, tearing a
way through the frenzied mob.
At the top of the stairs he lifted her up with one arm, fending the
strugglers away with his suitcase, and plunged down the rickety stairs
and out into the rain, where he let her down. Cultus knew it would only
be a minute or two until the police would be there; so he hurried Mary
Smith down the street, around a corner, where they found a taxi.
Into this they went, and Cultus told the driver to take them to the
Ferry Building. Mary had said nothing, and by the dim light of the
cab, Cultus could see that she was very white. He patted her on the
shoulder, and she tried to smile.
“Hang onto yore nerve,” he whispered, and then his eyes happened to fall
upon the suitcase at their feet.
It was not Cultus’ bag at all; it was the other one!
Cultus looked at it closely. Only in the dark could it have been
mistaken for the battered suitcase Cultus had owned. This one was of
fine finish--an expensive thing--and was filled to capacity. But
Cultus did not mention it to Mary Smith.
They got out at the Ferry Building and went inside. Cultus bought
tickets to Oakland. It would be ten minutes before ferry time; so he
led Mary Smith to a secluded seat, putting the suitcase on his lap.
It was not locked. He unfastened the nickel buckles and opened the
case, while Mary gasped with astonishment. It was filled with women’s
clothes; dainty things which seemed to arise from the depths of the
case, as they were released from pressure.
On the top were two envelopes. The first contained a ticket and Pullman
accommodations to Oreana, Arizona and a hundred-dollar bill. The other
was sealed in a plain envelope. Cultus ran the blade of his knife under
the flap and opened the envelope without damaging it. Together he and
Mary Smith read:
Dear M:
Introducing Janice Lee, alias anything you want to call
her. She knows part of the game, and is a fair actress,
if you can keep her sober.
Good luck to you.
Yours,
L.
P. S. I only gave her a hundred out of that five you sent;
so you only owe me a hundred, if it pans out all right.
Better see that she gets hers, because I won’t swear to
her playing on the square, unless you do.
Cultus looked sideways at Mary Smith, as he sealed the letter and
replaced it in the suitcase. He removed the envelope, containing the
tickets and hundred-dollar bill, which he handed to Mary Smith.
“Why give it to me?” she asked, looking queerly at him.
“Does fate scare yuh, Mary Elizabeth?” he asked softly. “I was going to
Arizona, when yuh made me miss my car. I wasn’t headin’ for Oreana, but
it’s on my way.”
“But I’m not going to Arizona.”
“Listen to me, Mary Elizabeth Smith. Yuh can’t buck fate. If I’m any
judge of things as they look, that big feller was the one that was
sendin’ that girl, Janice Lee, out to Oreana, Arizona.
“The big feller is plumb full of lead, and I heard somebody say that the
girl was hit. She was behind him, yuh remember. A lot of lead was used
this night. You was headin’ for the bay, wasn’t yuh? Here’s a suitcase
full of clothes, and I’m sure I seen a trunk check stickin’ down in a
corner. There’s a hundred-dollar bill. From now on, yo’re Janice Lee, a
pretty fair actress, as long as yuh stay sober. And they better pay yuh
what’s comin’ to yuh, or you’ll yelp. Sabe what it means?”
“But--but wouldn’t it be wrong?” faltered Mary.
“It started wrong, Mary.”
As Cultus fastened up the shining buckles, the ferry-boat passengers
came crowding out. He picked up the suitcase, held out his hand to
Mary Smith, and they went out together.
And while they listened to the throb of the engines and the eery wail of
the foghorns a police officer reported to a desk sergeant:
“It was all over when we got there, Sarge. Two dead men and a girl
they say can’t live. They sure did a good job. Everyone else was out
of there, but we got a suitcase, which one of the waiters said ‘Speed’
Evans brought in. Loring, the lawyer, was all shot to pieces.”
Another officer came in, carrying the battered suitcase, and the
detective bureau assisted in its examination. They found two pairs
of overalls, several socks, a red shirt, a lariat rope and several
packages of tobacco.
“If that belonged to Speed Evans, it’s too bad he got killed,” observed
a hard-bitten detective, grinning.
“Why?” asked the desk sergeant.
“Why? Because the blamed crook must have been starting out to do
something useful in the world.”
“What do you know about Loring, the lawyer?”
“Enough,” said the detective, “to shed very few tears over his demise.”
“And the girl?”
“Speed’s girl, Searg. Maybe Loring tried to get her. She’s badly shot
from liquor. Got two automatic bullets through her, besides. No use
investigating. They cleaned up everything for themselves. My gosh,
that dump is a wreck.”
“Somebody else took a wallop at Loring tonight,” said an officer, who
had been at the restaurant. “He was all over mud, and his hat was in
the street. He tried to tell me what it was all about, but I told him
to go home and wash his face.”
And thus ended the incident, as far as the police were concerned. Cultus
Collins’ suitcase was thrown on a shelf, along with a lot more derelict
bundles, and the officers went back to their work.
* * * * *
Oreana City was a typical cattle town of the Southwest; an old place,
where the original settlers had builded with adobe, and was still half
adobe. Most of the houses were one-story, arranged along a single
dusty street, and the alignment of the buildings would have driven an
engineer frantic. In early days they had builded along a crooked road,
and the crooked road was still the main street of Oreana City.
It was located at the end of a branch railroad line, which served thirty
miles of cattle and mining country. An irregular freight and passenger
train made daily round trips over the line, making little pretense of a
schedule. Oreana City, like the majority of cattle towns, was more
unmoral than immoral. The honkatonk was the main center of amusement,
and gambling was taken as a matter of course.
A stage line ran from Oreana City to the gold mines of Welcome Creek,
thirty miles away. Being an outfitting center for both cattlemen and
miners made Oreana City somewhat the pivotal center of that little
universe. It was also the county seat.
Three miles northwest of Oreana City was the ranch of the Lazy A: three
miles southwest of Oreana City was the ranch of the Star X. Between
these two outfits was a feud which had lasted so long that no one paid
much attention to it any more.
That is, they hadn’t, until the funeral of old Jud Ault, owner of the
Lazy A. Over a year previous to the funeral, Jud Ault had been shot from
ambush, the bullet injuring his spine and causing partial paralysis.
Since then he had never been able to walk. It was generally believed
that the bullet was fired by one of Eph Wheeler’s Star X outfit, if not
by old Eph himself. But there was no evidence to convict them.
The feud had started so long ago that no one seemed to know just what
had caused it. Some said it started over a card game, in which whisky
played a prominent part; others said it was over the woman who married
Jud Ault and died when their little girl, Faith, was but a tiny slip of
a child. At any rate, Jud Ault and Eph Wheeler had been bunkies before
this trouble, but had not met, face to face, in over twenty years.
Jud Ault, even before his injury, which finally killed him, was a
grim, sour-faced old man, quick of temper. He hated mankind, and did
not hesitate to say it. The Lazy A made Ault rich. Mining engineers
had urged the old man to lease or sell part of his ranch, which was
rich enough to make him a millionaire. But he refused. He hated
miners. They dug holes in the ground. He did not want to be rich.
Faith had grown up in awe of her parent, the prettiest girl in the
country, but denied suitors. Woe unto the gay cowboy who tried to jingle
his spurs across the threshold of the Lazy A ranch-house. And when she
was eighteen she married Jack Keene, a gambler; ran away with him, spent
a short honeymoon, and came back for the paternal blessing.
But what they found was a door closed against them. Never again did Jud
Ault speak to his daughter. He drew back in his shell, like an old
turtle, even refusing to go to town. And when it was definitely decided
that Jud Ault had made his final decision, Jack Keene, gambler, former
lawyer (according to Miles Lane, a local attorney, who had formed a
friendship for Keene), disappeared from Oreana City--alone.
Not even then did Jud Ault relent and take back his daughter, who had
no means of support. Men went to him and urged him to take care of her,
even if he did not want to see her, and he cursed them out. There was
no doubt in the minds of everyone that Jack Keene had had an eye on the
Lazy A when he married Faith; but had sneaked away like a cur when he
found that his marriage did not mean money.
Then came the Keene baby. Men said that old Jud Ault would relent now.
But he never saw his grandchild. Faith Keene lived in a little shack of
a house, which Jack had partly furnished. She tried to make a living by
taking in washing, but the returns were too small compared to the
physical labor involved. Also she was obliged to compete with a Chinese
laundry--which some of the cowboys offered to put out of business and
give her a clear field. But she declined their offer.
Things were breaking very badly for Faith Keene, when Miles Lane came
to her with some money, which he told her came from Jack Keene. She
did not wonder why he did not send her this money direct, because she
was too thankful to get it. Lane would not tell her where Jack Keene
was. Every month the Oreana City lawyer would bring her enough for her
monthly wants, and she was able to struggle along and take care of her
baby.
East of Oreana City, about four miles, were the tumbledown ranch
buildings of the Cross Arrow, owned by “Badger” Hill and his son,
known as “Shif’less.” They were veritable range derelicts, these
two. Badger was a short, squatty, bewhiskered sort of a man, who
greatly resembled his namesake. His vocabulary was limited to a few
words--mostly profane.
Shif’less was a big hulk of a man, less than thirty years of age. He
was not unhandsome, in his big, lumbering way. His features were
strong, blocky, and his wistful gray eyes seemed to be continually
wondering at the world from beneath a huge mop of blonde hair, which
seemed forever to stand on end.
It was hinted that the Cross Arrow existed through the taking of
oreanas--calves which had escaped the branding-iron of their original
owners. Farther to the north, these animals were designated as
mavericks. And it was also hinted that Badger Hill was not averse to
forcing an oreana--taking a calf away from its mother, that he might
later run it on the Cross Arrow and claim it for his own.
Shif’less Hill had, in a way, grown up with Faith Keene, and always
admired her from afar. Jud Ault had detested Badger Hill and his big
cowpuncher son--making it mutual, because both Badger and Shif’less
hated the hard-faced owner of the Lazy A.
Eph Wheeler was a mild-mannered old man, thin-faced, keen-eyed; one of
the old type of cattlemen, who cursed with no trace of emotion, and
fanned the hammer of his six-shooter, when the need arose, with the
air of a man who had a slightly disagreeable task to do, and wished to
do it as quickly as possible.
“Dude” Wheeler, the son, was a tall, straight-backed young man, who
walked so straight in his high-heeled boots that it seemed as though
a gust of wind would blow him over backward. He was thin of face,
with a wide mouth, showing excellent teeth when he smiled. His eyes
were deep-set, black as India-ink, beneath heavy brows, while his
nose was bony.
His love for gaudy clothes had won him his cognomen, and he was the
flashiest cowboy in the Oreana country. But Dude Wheeler was a top-hand
cowboy; ready to fight, drink, gamble or race. He had been taught to
hate the Lazy A. But now there was no Lazy A, as far as the Ault family
was concerned. Faith had been disowned, and no one ever heard Jud Ault
speak of having any relatives. So, as long as there was no Ault family
to fight, it seemed that the feud would, or had, died. No one considered
that Faith Keene was an Ault.
The Lazy A was in the hands of “Idaho” Breen, who had been Ault’s
foreman for years. Idaho was small of stature, as gray as a badger and
with about the same disposition. Perhaps association with Jud Ault had
caused Breen to become cynical, never smiling.
Cleve Sears, the sheriff, had well described Idaho Breen, when he said,
“If I was goin’ to pick out a man to do a first-class job of murderin’
somebody, I’d pick Idaho Breen, ’cause he’d be sure that it was a neat
job--and I don’t reckon his conscience would ever bother him at all.”
Not that Idaho had ever killed anybody--not in the Oreana country, at
least. No one had ever heard him mention the feud between the Lazy A
and the Star X, but for years he had ridden with a Winchester rifle in
a boot under his saddle fender.
It had been hinted that Dude Wheeler had found Faith Ault rather easy to
look upon, but, because she was an Ault, he had rarely seen her. Seldom
did the Lazy A and the Star X outfits meet in Oreana City, but when they
did both sides were coldly civil. They came to the same dances, thereby
causing the sheriff much mental anguish for fear of trouble, as he
wanted to play square with both sides.
But the Aults were gone now, and there were only Idaho Breen his
three punchers, “Omaha” Woods, “Mex” Leone, and “Pie” Ide. But they
were enough. In range language, a man had to be salty to work for the
Lazy A. Omaha Woods was broad of beam, with the neck and shoulders of
a wrestler and the mustache of a Viking.
Mex Leone was small, slender, almost as black as an Indian; possibly
the best bronc rider in the country. Pie Ide was rangy built, tall,
powerful. Men likened him to Abraham Lincoln in his facial aspect, but
the physical likeness was the only way in which he resembled the great
Emancipator. Pie Ide was as hard-bitted as a roundup bucker, but with
a sense of humor, which neither Omaha nor Mex seemed to possess.
It was about a week after the funeral of Jud Ault. Shif’less Hill
was on his monthly peanut spree. While the other cowboys spent their
monthly salary, or a great part of it, for liquor and cards,
Shif’less Hill consumed large quantities of peanuts and a sprinkling
of peppermint candy hearts, chuckling to himself over the inane
inscriptions thereon.
Just now he had strolled to the front gate of Faith Keene’s little
place, where Faith was sitting on the porch with the little boy. She
spoke to Shif’less, who opened the gate and came in, sprawling lazily
on the steps.
He offered Faith some peanuts, but she declined, smiling at the boyish
actions of the big cowboy, who poked a finger at the boy, who chuckled
with delight.
“Hyah makin’ it?” he asked Faith.
“Oh, all right, Shif’less.”
“Uh-huh,” Shif’less crunched a mouthful of peanuts, his big hands
hanging limply on his knees. “Tha’s good, Mrs. Keene. Glad to hear it.
Say,” he looked up at her quizzically, “I heard that yore dad left a
will.”
Faith looked blankly at him. “Why, I--I never heard----”
“Well, he did. I heard Idaho Breen tellin’ about it. Miles Lane helped
him make it out. Idaho signed it, so he said. Some of the boys got to
talkin’ about the Lazy A, and some of ’em seemed to think that you was
agoin’ to git it. But Breen said there was a will. He didn’t tell much
about it, except that there was a niece, or somethin’ like that, mixed
up in it. I was a wonderin’ if Miles Lane had told yuh anythin’ about
it, yuh know.”
“He didn’t, Shif’less,” Faith sighed deeply. “No, I didn’t know anything
about it.”
“Uh-huh. I hear lotsa fellers goin’ around, kinda admittin’ that Jud
Ault was all right. I suppose that’s the thing to do, after a man’s
dead and gone, but they all knowed that----”
“He was my father, Shif’less.”
“That’s all right. Bein’ a father seems to be more or less of a
responsibility, Mrs. Keene; but yore dad shucked his. Yeah, he’s dead
and gone, and you get tears in yore eyes when folks talk about him.
Mebbe yo’re right. I’ve got a dad,” Shif’less smiled slowly, his
wistful eyes fixed upon the little boy on Faith’s lap, “and lotsa
folks say he ain’t worth nothin’. He’s a mean voiced, hard-fisted old
pelican. Yeah, I know him better than anybody else does.
“They say he steals cattle. But they ain’t never caught him at it. Mebbe
he’s a thief, and he sure uses bad language. Sometimes he gets drunk and
acts pretty rough. But as long as I can remember, Mrs. Keene, he’s never
said a mean thing to me, except,” Shif’less smiled and filled his mouth
with peanuts, “except the time he said that I shore as hell was a
throw-back to my monkey ancestors. Dad hates peanuts.”
Faith laughed, and the boy chuckled, as though he understood.
“Yuh named him Jack, didn’t yuh?” asked Shif’less.
“Yes,” softly. “Jack Keene, Junior.”
“Uh-huh. Well,” Shif’less got to his feet, brushing the peanut shells
off his lap, “I’ll be anglin’ along. Say, I was jist a-thinkin’. Out at
the ranch I’ve got a little painted bronc. He ain’t bigger’n a minute.
Been goin’ to break him to ride, but he’s so small that m’ feet hit the
ground. I was jist a-wonderin’ if little Jack wouldn’t like him.”
“Oh, that’s thoughtful of you, Shif’less, but don’t you realize that
little Jack won’t be able to ride a horse for a long time?”
“Uh-huh. Well, I--uh--tha’s all right, too. Yore welcome. I’ll give him
the bronc, and keep it out at the ranch until yuh need it. Them painted
ones shore live a long time. Well, good day, Mrs. Keene. I reckon I’ll
git more peanuts, and head for home.”
Shif’less walked back to the main street, and was heading toward the New
York General Merchandise Store, when he met Cleve Sears, the sheriff.
Sears was short and fat, with a full-moon sort of a face. His idea of a
good time was to sit in the shade and whittle.
“Hello, Shif’less,” he said jerkily. Too much fat had made him short of
breath.
“’Lo, Cleve,” drawled Shif’less. “Whatcha know?”
“I know that Idaho Breen is sore as hell. Know what he done? This
mornin’, so he says, he found fifty-three Lazy A cow hides in a
prospect hole, somewhere between the Lazy A and the road to Welcome
Creek. Said the damn’ hole was about fifty feet deep, and he didn’t
know that them hides was there until he smelled ’em.”
“Smellin’ kinda deep, wasn’t he?” smiled Shif’less.
“Prob’ly the smell come out the mouth of the shaft.”
“Prob’ly. Still that ain’t so bad for him. Hides are worth good money
right now.”
The sheriff breathed heavily. “I dunno. Idaho’s mad. Says he’ll show the
Star X where to git off at.”
Shif’less cracked his few remaining peanuts, poured them into his mouth
and began chewing complacently. “Didja hear that old Jud Ault wrote out
a will before he died?”
“Somebody said he did. Left the Lazy A to a niece of his.”
“And left his daughter out in the cold.”
“Yeah, that’s true. I hear her husband is sendin’ her money every month.
That’s how she gits along, Shif’less. He can’t be such an awful jigger,
if he does that for her.”
“Must be all right,” mumbled Shif’less. “Don’t yuh reckon the feud
between the Lazy A and the Star X is ended?”
“It ort to be, Shif’less. Still, yuh never can tell. They tell me that
this niece of Jud Ault’s is named Ault--Mary Ault. Ordinarily I’d say
that a woman ain’t got no business runnin’ a cow ranch, but if she keeps
Idaho Breen there she won’t have to do much of the runnin’. Idaho’s been
in charge ever since Jud Ault got shot.”
“Uh-huh. The Lazy A is worth a lot of money, Cleve. I had a talk with
one of them minin’ engineers ’bout a year ago. He was pokin’ around
the hills out near our place, and he told me that the surface showin’
on the Lazy A was worth a cold million.”
“Yeah, I heard it, too. Old Jud knowed it was there. But the Lazy A
made him plenty of money--and he hated holes in the ground. I asked
Miles Lane if the old man’s will stated that no minin’ was ever to be
done on the Lazy A, but he said it didn’t.”
“I was jist wonderin’ if Faith Keene couldn’t contest that will, Cleve.”
“Miles says she can’t, because the old man left her one whole dollar.
He says he disowned her and didn’t want to even leave her the silver
dollar, but Miles showed him where she could bust the will, if he
didn’t mention her at all.”
“Uh-huh,” Shif’less picked his teeth with a match. “It ’pears to me
that them damn’ lawyers jist _has_ to be accurate, even if it wrongs
the right folks. Well, I’m all out of peanuts. See yuh later, Cleve.”
“S’-long, Shif’less.”
Shif’less sauntered on up the street. He saw Idaho Breen in front of
Miles Lane’s office, talking with Lane. They nodded coldly to him, as
he went past and entered the store just beyond.
Miles Lane was above average height, slightly stooped. His sandy hair
was thin and wiry; his eyes, close-set, were buried beneath beetling
brows, which grew together over the bridge of his thin nose. The hinges
of his wide jaws were knobby from incessant gum-chewing. But although
the jaw was wide at its hinge, it tapered down to a weak chin, which
gave his head the appearance of being top-heavy.
He invariably wore a winged collar and a stringy black tie, which no
doubt gave him a judicial air. Lane was a bottle drinker. Perhaps so
because of its economy. And as a result he was very often under the
influence of liquor.
“You said she’d be here Wednesday, eh?” questioned Idaho Breen, his cold
eyes studying the flushed face of the lawyer.
“Yes; Wednesday, Breen.”
“Uh-huh. When is the will to be read?”
“Oh, after she gets here. We’ll have the judge and the sheriff there
to hear it. I suppose the best thing to do will be to take her right
out to the Lazy A as soon as she comes.”
“That’s what I aim to do, Miles. I was just wonderin’ if Faith Keene
will make any move to contest the will. It looks as though she could
do that.”
“If she had enough money to make a fight of it, Idaho. I’m goin’ to
have a talk with her and see how she feels about it. But she can’t
do much. The will gives her one dollar. That’s a legal point. And
everybody around here knows that Jud Ault wouldn’t let her in his
house. He disowned her.
“No, I don’t think she’s got a chance to contest the will. In fact, I
don’t think she ever thought of such a thing. She’s proud.”
“How much do yuh really think the Lazy A is worth, Miles?”
The lawyer smiled thoughtfully. “The mineral rights are easily worth
a million. I talked with those engineers when they prospected it and
they said it was so rich that they were afraid to estimate. One of
’em got drunk and talked. They were employed by Eastern capital, and
I happen to know that Jud Ault was offered more money than he knew
existed, just for the mineral rights.”
“I know that,” said Idaho. “I’ve had assays made, too. Oh, it’s there,
Miles.”
“You bet it’s there. Now, what about those cow-hides?”
“Just what I told you. That prospect hole is full of Lazy A hides. That
damn’ Star X outfit used that deep shaft to get rid of Lazy A hides.
They’ve been eatin’ Lazy A meat for years, and I’ve wondered where they
threw the hides.”
“Any proof?” asked Lane judicially.
“Proof? No! How can yuh prove who shot a beef? They’ve all been shot.”
“Then drop the subject until you’ve got proof, Idaho. There’s no use
starting a battle with the Star X.”
“Just let ’em keep on eatin’ our meat, eh?”
“Have you ever eaten any Star X beef?”
“Yo’re damn’ well right, I have! But not that much.”
“The amount doesn’t matter. What I want you to do is to forget those
hides. If you can get the goods on the Star X, I’m for it. But right
now we don’t want to stir up any war. Get this girl established out
at the Lazy A, Breen. I suppose every cowpuncher in the country will
want to marry her.”
Breen laughed coldly. “I suppose. My own outfit have taken to washin’
their necks, ever since they heard she was comin’.”
“She’d be a good catch,” Lane laughed softly. “I might marry her
myself.”
“You better quit drinkin’,” advised Idaho coldly.
“I don’t drink enough to hurt me.”
“Well, I don’t want yuh to drink enough to hurt _me_.”
Miles Lane laughed. “I guess you won’t get hurt much. Just forget those
cow-hides, Idaho. We’ll deal with the Star X when we get the goods on
’em. Anyway, rustling is petty larceny beside what we’ll get.”
Something prompted Idaho to step over to the front window, which
looked out on the crooked main street. Leaning against the wall, near
the window, was Shif’less Hill, still eating peanuts. Idaho motioned
to Lane, who came over to the window. Apparently Shif’less was merely
engaged in eating more peanuts.
Idaho watched the big Cross Arrow puncher, who finally dusted the peanut
shells off his shirt front, shoved the remainder in his chaps pocket and
walked away. He did not even glance toward the window. Idaho stepped
back, his eyes squinting narrowly.
“Do yuh suppose that big fat-head was listenin’ to what he might hear?”
“I don’t think so, Breen. Anyway, what could he hear?”
“Nothin’, I reckon. I don’t like him.”
“He’s harmless.”
“Yeah, I suppose he is. Except when it comes to stealin’ calves.”
“Anyway, our conversation was none of his business.”
But perhaps Shif’less Hill felt differently about it. He untied his
horse at the New York Store hitch-rack, mounted and rode toward home. He
had not stopped in front of Miles Lane’s office with the intention of
listening. In fact, he had heard only the dull mumble of conversation,
until Lane had raised his voice slightly and said:
“Just forget those cow-hides. What do we care? Rustling is petty larceny
beside what we’ll get.”
“Beside what we’ll get,” muttered Shif’less. “Now, jist why did he say
that, I wonder?”
* * * * *
Dear Al:
You heard about me getting shot? It was over a year ago. Since
then I’ve been a cripple--paralysis. Bullet lodged against my
spine, and the doctors are afraid to take it away. I’ve lost
my nerve, Al. I’m as old as hell, and they say I’m as bitter
as gall. Maybe I am. I haven’t a kindly feeling towards anyone.
You don’t know how it is, Al; to be old, crippled, nothing to
look forward to. I can’t get around. The damn’ doctor won’t
tell me the truth. If you want honesty, don’t expect it after
you’re old and crippled.
Al, I’m not appealing to the Association. I don’t want no cozy
detective hanging around me. But I do want a man who can find
out things. I’ll pay well. Maybe I’m crazy. I know they are
saying I am. But I feel that everything is not right. The old
Lazy A is worth a lot of money. I’ve made my will. But something
makes me feel like an old bull, dyin’ out in the open, surrounded
by coyotes and buzzards, waiting. I suppose they hate me. I don’t
blame ’em. I’ve hated a lot in my time. See if you can find the
right man, Al. The Lazy A can pay well for what it gets. Hope
I’ll see you some day.
Yours truly,
Jud Ault.
Cultus Collins looked up from reading the letter. A gray-haired man,
with kindly blue eyes, was seated at a desk beside him, idly drawing
circles on a desk blotter with a pencil. On the walls were detail maps
of Arizona, a meat packer’s calendar, a framed picture of a longhorn
steer. From the adjoining room came the clicking of a typewriter.
“I had a hard time locating you, Collins,” said the gray-haired man. “I
got that letter nearly three weeks ago.”
“Yuh say this Lazy A is at Oreana City?”
“Yes. Have you ever been there?”
Cultus smiled grimly, but shook his head.
“No. Do you believe in fate?”
“In fate? Why, I don’t know, Collins. Do you?”
“I’m beginnin’ to,” Cultus smiled softly, as he folded up the letter.
“That’s a queer sort of a letter, Al. There’s a lot in it; a lot of the
soul of a bitter man. Mebbe I better see if I can help him. I dunno what
he wants done, do you?”
“No. Perhaps it’s merely hallucinations, Cultus. I don’t know much about
the place. If you take the job, it’ll be up to you to go there and see
what you can find out. I’ll give you a note to Ault so he’ll know you’re
on the job.”
“All right.”
The secretary of the Cattlemen’s Association penciled a note for Cultus,
while the lean-faced cowboy grinned softly over the manufacture of a
cigarette; grinned to himself, because he still had an hour to catch the
same train that Mary Smith was taking to Oreana City.
Cultus had had no inkling that the Cattle Association was going to send
him to Oreana City. He had told Mary Smith good-by, and had promised to
join her as soon as possible to help carry out the deception. Neither of
them knew what it meant, but there was no question that it was a crooked
deal. And now the Association was sending Cultus to the same location.
“What seems so funny to you?” queried the secretary, as he folded
the note. Cultus grinned widely, but did not reply. They shook hands
and Cultus went back to the busy street of an Arizona metropolis. He
headed for the depot, where he found Mary Smith.
Part of the hundred-dollar bill had been invested in a modest gray suit
and a small hat. There were roses in her cheeks now, as she sprang up to
greet Cultus.
“I’ve got to buy a ticket to Oreana,” he grinned.
“Oh, are you going with me?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
“Oh, I’m so glad, Mr. Collins!”
“Well, that’s nice of yuh, Miss Janice Lee,” Cultus sobered quickly.
“Don’t forget that’s who yuh are, little woman. Forget Mary Elizabeth
Smith. And my name ain’t Collins. My name’s Jones, and I’m from
Oklahoma. All you know about me is that yuh met me on the train, and
yuh think I’m buyin’ cattle.”
“But--but what is the idea?”
“Strictly business. Miss Lee. Unless I’m mistaken, there’ll be someone
to meet yuh in Oreana City. You don’t know, and I don’t know what the
game is. But let ’em do the talkin’, and you’ll soon know. I can’t be
with yuh. But don’t be scared. They won’t hurt yuh; that ain’t what they
want yuh for. But I won’t be far away. Play the game, Mary Elizabeth.”
“Oh, I’ll do that, Mr. Jones of Oklahoma.”
“_Buena muchacho_,” smiled Cultus. “I have a feelin’ that yo’re goin’ to
be a help in my business this time.”
“What is your business, anyway?”
“Bein’ Jones of Oklahoma--a cattle buyer.”
* * * * *
“Off that shirt! Off that shir-r-r-rt!” Pie Ide’s voice almost lifted
the shingles off the Lazy A bunkhouse. Mex Leone stopped putting on a
cerise creation, and stared at Ide, who had been shining his boots
with Rising Sun stove-polish, which was smelling to high heaven.
“Ain’t this my shirt?” asked Mex softly.
“Yore shirt! Sa-a-a-ay, when did you own a shirt like that? I bought
that shirt in Phoenix three years ago, Mex. I’m not dressin’ both of
you jiggers. Omaha’s got on a pair of my socks, and if that ain’t my
red tie he’s-- Hey, Omaha, that’s my collar!
“Yeah, it is, too! You never had none as high as that. My Gawd, if you
ever set down hard, you’d slice off yore ears. Now, look at it! Why
don’tcha polish yore boots _after_ yuh dress yore neck? Hell, I can’t
wear that collar now! And there ain’t-- Wear one of yours, Omaha? That’s
right neighborly of yuh, cowboy. I’ve got a fifteen and a half neck, and
you’ve got a seventeen.”
“I’d rather have a phonygraft, wouldn’t you, Omaha?” asked Mex,
searching his war-sack for another shirt. “Yuh can shut off a
phonygraft.”
“I don’t pay no attention to the big scorpion,” said Omaha. “He
thinks he can claim things by talkin’ louder than anybody else. That
was my collar. Provin’ it to him jist ruined it for both of us. And
this tie----”
“Give us the hist’ry of it,” begged Pie Ide. “After you’ve done lied
yore soul into purgatory, I’ll tell yuh where and how I got that tie.
Mex! Didn’t I tell yuh to let that shirt alone? Flimsy? Of course
it’s flimsy! But yuh didn’t need to rip it down the bosom thataway,
jist showin’ it was flimsy. O-h-h-h-h, why didn’t yore folks wean yuh
in yore callow youth?”
“Ain’t you goin’ to shave?” asked Omaha mildly.
“Not with my razor,” said Mex. “Every time Pie shaves with my razor I
have to pay a barber a dollar to hone the nicks out of it.”
“Aw, he’s beautiful enough,” grinned Omaha. “When that girl takes a look
at him, she’ll----”
“Wonder how I can stand to live with you two misfits,” finished Pie.
“Yeah, I’m goin’ to shave--with Mex’s razor. I’m goin’ to wear that
flimsy shirt and I’m goin’ to accept one of Omaha’s clean collars,
even if I have to punch some new buttonholes to ram my collar-button
through.”
“And ruin it for me?” wailed Omaha.
“Prob’ly.”
“Are you aimin’ to make a play for this heiress?” asked Omaha
resignedly.
“Jist like a road-runner pickin’ a grasshopper,” said Pie seriously.
“Ain’t it legitimate? She’s single. There ain’t nothin’ in the
constitution of the State that says I ain’t eligible, is there? I’m
a clean, whole-souled young feller, and I’ve got ambitions to be
somethin’ in the world.”
“If you’d ’a’ said you was clean-souled, I’d keep still, ’cause yore
soul ain’t visible,” grinned Mex. “You ain’t took a bath since yore
bronc bogged down in the Little Muddy last spring. With all the land
she’s gettin’ on the old Lazy A, I don’t reckon the lady would want
any extra real estate, Pie.”