which Pie hurled the length of the room. It was a good throw--as far as
velocity was concerned--but the angle was bad and Omaha looked up just
in time to get the handle of it across the bridge of his nose. Omaha
went backward over a chair, landing on the back of his neck near the
door, howling bloody murder. Nothing could ever convince Omaha that Pie
Ide had not intended to hit him. He came to his feet, swearing a streak,
blood running from his injured nose, eyes half blinded.
His grasping hands came in contact with his belt and gun on a bunk, and
he fired one wild shot, as Pie Ide went under a bunk on his hands and
knees.
“Gdigyuh!” wailed Omaha. He staggered to the center of the room, one
hand held to his streaming nose, as he tried to locate Pie under the
bunk.
“What’s goin’ on in here?” Idaho Breen had just heard the commotion,
and had come from the stable. “What happened to you, Omaha? Put down
that gun!”
“It was an accident, Idaho!” panted Pie, sticking his nose and eyes
out between a drapery of blankets, which hung down over the end of the
bunk. “I throwed that brush at Mex, and Omaha walked into it. Take the
gun away from him, Idaho.”
“I’d wadden’t no dab aggcided,” denied Omaha. “He idtedded to hid be.”
“He throwed it at me,” Mex stuck his head around the corner of the
doorway. “But you’ve got my consent to kill him, Omaha.”
“Some of you damn’ fools are goin’ to kill each other one of these
days,” declared Idaho. “Why don’tcha ever grow up?”
Omaha tossed the gun to the bunk, and turned to the broken mirror to
examine his injury. The nose was swelling, and was tinged with purple
across the bridge. Idaho grunted disgustedly and walked out, while Pie
crawled from beneath the bunk and advised Omaha to hold his breath and
stop the bleeding.
“Will thad stob id?” asked Omaha wearily.
“Sure it will.”
Omaha tried it, but with no results. “How log?” he asked heavily. “How
log do you hab to hold id?”
“All depends on the person,” said Pie seriously. “Some die a lot harder
than others.”
But this time Pie had secured Omaha’s gun, and walked outside to
join Mex. Idaho was hitching up the buggy team, with the intention
of going to Oreana City to meet the train. Idaho had not dressed for
the reception of the heiress of the Lazy A, but the three cowboys
felt differently about it. All they knew was that Mary Ault, old Jud
Ault’s niece, was coming to the Lazy A. Idaho had told them that she
was a fairly young woman. It was not often that the Lazy A boys
dressed up, but when they did they made an event of it.
Pie had suggested that they all go to the depot to meet her, but
Idaho vetoed that idea. Idaho drove away. It would be several hours
before train time. Omaha came from the bunkhouse, looking queer with
his purple nose, which resembled a potato in contour.
“All dressed up and no place to go,” complained Pie. “It’s hours before
the train comes in.”
“And nothin’ to drink on the ranch,” wailed Omaha. “I’d sell my soul for
a shot of liquor.”
“Got over yore hayfever, eh?” grinned Mex. “Yore nose looks like the
handle on a door.”
“Thasall right,” growled Omaha. “Ne’ mind my nose.”
“It strikes me that somethin’ must be done,” said Pie. “We can’t gloom
around here for hours, dressed thisaway. Suppose we go to town, keep out
of sight of Idaho, and when the train whistles we can head for home.”
“Yore voice is tuned for my heartstrings,” said Mex. “How about you,
Omaha?”
“Pshaw, I’m halfway there right now. C’mon.”
And while the three Lazy A cowboys headed for town, four other riders,
“Buck” Wing, “Heinie” Moriarity, “Klondike” Evans and Joe Chevrier, of
the Star X, foregathered in the Oreana saloon and gambling house, with
enough money in their pockets to make the visit worthwhile.
Buck Wing was a long-legged, buck-tooth cowboy, with one eye slightly
out of line, and one of his ears, in prize fight parlance, was slightly
cauliflowered. Moriarity was short, broad of shoulder, typically Celtic,
even to his love of battle.
Klondike Evans was of medium height, bald-headed, sallow complexioned,
which accentuated the wispy black mustache on his long upper lip. Joe
Chevrier was a little, red-faced, French-Canadian, voluble, excitable,
the butt of most of the rough jokes originated by Buck and Heinie.
The Lazy A and the Star X outfits had never met since the funeral of
Jud Ault. Personally there had never been any bad blood between the
cowboys, but they had been loyal to their own outfits, respecting the
ancient enmity.
Idaho Breen saw that the Star X outfit was at the Oreana; so he tied
his buggy team in front of the New York Store, and gave the Oreana a
wide berth. This was as Pie Ide had expected; so the Lazy A trio tied
their horses at the rear of the Oreana and made their entrance through
the rear door.
The four Star X boys were at the bar. Omaha, Pie and Mex stopped about
midway of the room, looking at the Star X men.
Buck Wing grinned widely. He had imbibed plenty of liquor and his soul
was mellow toward everybody.
“’S far as I kin see,” he said slowly, “there ain’t no feud left. Hyah,
cowboys!”
And for the first time since the feud started, the Star X punchers
shook hands with those from the Lazy A. After about the sixth drink,
Omaha offered this explanation:
“This here Miss Ault, which the old man designates in his will-paper as
bein’ the one he chooses to own the Lazy A, is due to hit Oreana City
this evenin’. Idaho Breen aims to take her out to the ranch. That’s the
reason we’re all duded up this-a-way. When that train toots for Oreana
City, we fogs for home and lines up at the front door to welcome her.”
“Perfec’ly proper,” said Klondike owlishly. “My, my, I don’t see how
you boys ever got so stylish! I take one look at Pie Ide, and I says
to myself, ‘Here’s a ’Piscopal preacher.’ You shee it was that collar
that fooled me.”
“’S one of mine,” said Omaha. “Pie punched button-holes in it. Had t’
kinda lap the ends over to fit his neck.”
“My Gawd, he shore is a dude!” applauded Buck Wing. “Yo’re all
pretty gaudy, if yuh ask me. Still, it’s perfec’ly proper under the
circumstances. Whatcha say, Joe?”
Joe Chevrier hadn’t said anything. Liquor made him just a trifle
mournful, it seemed. He looked gloomily upon the three Lazy A punchers.
“I say not’ing,” he replied. “Me, I’m jus’ t’ink w’at somebody say ’bout
Star X kill Lazy A beef and t’row hide in de prospec’ hole.”
“Drop it!” growled Heinie. “This is no time to stir up a lot of smelly
cow-hides, you frog-eater!”
Frenchy was properly squelched, but continued to glower. He was just
drunk enough to hold a grudge, and his remarks brought a decided chill
over the festivities.
“I’m for buryin’ any hatchet that might be around,” said Pie Ide. “We
might as well all be good little friends together.”
“Sure thing,” agreed Buck Wing. “I’m willin’. But you know yourself,
Pie, that Idaho Breen made some remarks that are hard to overlook.”
“You say somet’ng true,” applauded Joe.
“And I’m goin’ to squirsh you, if yuh don’t shut up!” snapped Heinie.
“And I’ll help yuh,” offered Omaha. Heinie glared at Omaha.
“The hell yuh will!”
“If yuh need help,” amended Omaha quickly.
“I’m not scare from de Lazy A, you bet,” declared Joe.
“You shore don’t need to be, Joe,” said Klondike warmly.
“Well, yuh can’t hold us responsible for what Breen said, can yuh?”
asked Pie Ide. “I’d crave to know if we’re responsible for what our
boss says; that’s what I’d crave to know.”
“You seems to have a cravin’, cowboy,” observed Buck coldly. “Folks that
crave hard enough usually gits, yuh know.”
“Aw, you don’t need to git yore tonsils all swelled up,” said Pie. “We
came here in a peaceful mood. Yo’re four to our three, but nobody ever
seen the Lazy A----”
“Let’s arbitrate,” interrupted Omaha. “I’ll buy a drink. And we don’t
care how many Lazy A cows you’ve rustled. We don’t care if you’ve
filled every prospect hole from here to Welcome Creek with Lazy A
hides. Whatcha drinkin’, gents?”
“Are you admittin’ to yourself that we has done such a thing?” Heinie
Moriarity hitched up his belt, his eyes snapping.
“Let’s have the drink first,” suggested Klondike.
Arguments were forgotten for the moment, while seven men drank. Joe
Chevrier threw his glass in a cuspidor, smashing it into a hundred
pieces.
“I drink no more wit’ Lazy A,” declared Joe, waving his arms. “I’m
insult from w’at Breen say about de cow-hide.”
“Why,” said Omaha expansively, “don’t some of you Star X gents kill that
damn’ Frenchman? He’s a menace to friendship.”
“’O’s a menace?” demanded Joe belligerently. “Tak’ dat off! By gosh, I
no stand for dat!”
“He ain’t no menace,” said Klondike. “You hadn’t ought to call him
that.”
“Then why don’t he forget them cowhides?” wailed Omaha.
“He’s so honest it hurts him,” explained Buck Wing thickly.
“Hurts him to be honest,” nodded Mex. “I sabe what yuh mean.”
“You don’t sabe nothin’!” snorted Buck Wing.
“All right, all right,” Pie Ide hitched up his belt. “I can see that you
Star X whip-poor-wills are pinin’ for battle. But we ain’t in the market
for no wars t’day. We got to remain safe and sane until our new she-boss
arrives. After she’s kinda inaugurated, we’re receptful to anythin’ you
hedge-hawgs nominate. We meets yuh any old place yuh ain’t afraid to go,
and we’ll let yuh choose yore weapons. Yo’re four to three, but after
the first two has been choosed, I whip the remainin’ two.”
“You kinda hates yourself, don’tcha?” asked Buck Wing.
“Yeah; but I’ve got enough to cover you four ant-eaters.”
“If you fellers has got any quantity of brawlin’ to do, I wish you’d go
some’ers else,” said the bartender mildly.
“Who’s brawlin’?” demanded Klondike. “This here is jist an argument
among men--so keep out of it.”
Both sides knew that there was no chance for peace. Omaha hitched up his
belt, spat dryly and said, “All right. You Star K’s don’t want no peace,
I can see that; so we’ll go away. That cowhide matter don’t mean nothin’
to any of us. All I can say is that if yuh ate all the beef that was
inside them hides yo’re shore plenty fat on good meat.”
Then the three Lazy A cowboys filed out through the front door and
headed down the street toward the Rawhide saloon, just well enough
organized to ignore the fact that Idaho Breen might meet them.
“All six of ’em went, eh?” Joe Chevrier looked owlishly toward the front
door.
“There was only three,” said Klondike.
“By gosh, dere was six went out!” exploded Joe. “I tell you w’at, I’m
sore. Caus’ now I c’n whip all six--me!”
“You couldn’t whip a canary,” declared Buck Wing. “Shut up.”
“But dey accuse,” wailed Joe.
“They ort to be teached a lesson,” observed Klondike.
“They will be,” nodded Buck. “I’ve got a scheme. That train gets in
after dark, and there won’t be nobody there to meet the girl, except
Idaho Breen. How’d it be--?” Buck scratched his chin thoughtfully.
“How’d it be to swipe that girl and take her out to the Star X?”
“I’ll buy a drink!” exploded Heinie.
“You’ve spoke yore piece.”
* * * * *
When Idaho Breen came to Oreana City he drove his team to the little
depot, where he left it to await the arrival of Mary Ault. He went to
the depot, where the agent divulged the information that the train
would be about three hours late.
“I got a telegram for Jud Ault,” he grinned. “Didn’t just know how to
deliver it--do you, Breen?”
“That’s funny, ain’t it?” laughed Idaho. “Mebbe I better take it along
with me; it might concern the business, yuh know.”
“Sure. Here she is. Lookin’ for somebody on the train?”
Idaho pocketed the telegram. “Yeah; the new owner of the Lazy A is due
in on this train.”
“That so? Oh, I did hear about Jud Ault making out a will.”
Idaho nodded and walked out to his team. He opened the telegram. It was
from the secretary of the Cattlemen’s Association, and read:
Sending you best titan for job will identify himself.
Al Traynor.
Idaho leaned against a buggy wheel and pondered over the telegram.
“Sendin’ you best man for job.” he muttered. “What job? A telegram to a
dead man! And Al Traynor is secretary of the Association. I wonder jist
what job they had in mind.”
He folded up the telegram and went back up the street. The sheriff was
sitting in front of the New York Store, whittling, his eyes scanning the
front of the Oreana saloon. Idaho spoke to him, and the sheriff moved
over to give him a seat.
“Yore gang and the Star X gang are over there in the Oreana,” offered
the sheriff, pointing with his pocket-knife. “They’ve been in there for
about fifteen minutes, and nobody ain’t been throwed out yet.”
Idaho scowled heavily. “All gettin’ drunk, eh?”
“All got drunk,” corrected the sheriff.
Just at that moment the three Lazy A boys filed out and headed for the
Rawhide. None of them were able to follow a chalk-line. They filed into
the Rawhide, and the sheriff breathed easier.
“Well, I’m glad that’s over,” he said thankfully.
The sun had gone down, and it would soon be dark. They were lighting one
of the hanging lamps in the Oreana, when Joe Chevrier and Klondike Evans
came from the place. Both of them were unsteady on their feet. It seemed
that Klondike was trying to argue Joe out of doing a certain thing of
which Joe was bound and determined to do.
“My gosh, I’m insult!” roared the little cowpuncher angrily, as they
came across the street. “He tak’ it off, Klondike!”
“Thasall ri’.” mumbled Klondike. “You ain’t got no shense. I tell you
for-f’rgit it, da-aw-gone yuh. Whatsa use----?”
“Ho, ho!” Joe had seen Idaho and the sheriff. He braced his feet,
roaring out his war-whoop, “You sonn-of-a-gonn!”
Klondike made an ineffectual grab at Joe, who had dragged out his
six-shooter, staggering out of Klondike’s reach.
_Wham! Crash!_ His bullet smashed through the window just over Idaho’s
and the sheriff’s heads.
_Wham! Wham!_ Two more bullets practically ruined the rest of the
window, while Idaho and the sheriff, running like a team of heavy-bodied
fire-horses, headed for the sheriff’s office.
_Wham!_ Another bullet struck the side of the building, as they fell
through the doorway. Heinie Moriarity and Buck Wing staggered out of
the Oreana, while from the Rawhide, a short block down the street, and
almost opposite the sheriff’s office, came the boys from the Lazy A,
seeking to find what the shooting was about.
Wham! Joe’s fifth bullet struck the dirt just in front of Omaha Woods,
who almost fell over backward, when the spray of gravel blew up in his
face. And without any further argument, Pie Ide drew his six-shooter
and proceeded to take pot-shots at the Star X gang.
A bullet knocked Klondike’s sombrero off and when he stooped over to get
it, another hunk of lead threw gravel in his face: so he forgot the hat
and went galloping drunkenly toward the doorway of the Oreana, where he
caught his toe on the step and fell halfway through the doorway.
The shooting became general, except Joe Chevrier, who was the cause of
the whole thing, and who was trying to stuff more cartridges into his
six-shooter, but with little success. Buck Wing had run in close to
the side of the Oreana, while Heinie sat down in the street, shooting
across one bended knee.
_Bang!_ A note entirely different from that of the six-gun. Joe Chevrier
yelped like an injured pup and galloped toward the far corner of the
Oreana, grasping at the rear of himself. The enraged sheriff had poked a
ten-gauge shotgun through a pane in his office window, and had given the
Star X Frenchman something to think about besides loading his gun.
Heinie’s gun was empty; so he crawled on his hands and knees back to
the Oreana. The Lazy A outfit had tracked to the door of the Rawhide,
only to find it barred against them. The saloon-keeper was taking no
chances of them using his place as a fort.
“Is anybody hurt?” panted Pie Ide, as they leaned against the barred
door.
“I got my mustache full of gravel!” wailed Omaha. “And some of it hit my
sore nose.”
“Didja see what happened to the frog-eater?” chuckled Mex. “The sheriff
busted him with a load of duckshot.”
“I wonder what started it?” grinned Pie, as he reloaded his long
Colt .45. “Let’s go across the street and set on the sidewalk. Them
snakehunters are too drunk to hit a house, and it’ll soon be dark.”
“Yuh didn’t see us hittin’ anything didja?” inquired Omaha, pawing at
his mustache. “We’re a fine lot of shooters! We never hit anybody.”
“We fanned ’em out of the street, didn’t we?” fleered Mex. “Didja want
to kill ’em, Omaha?”
“Well, I didn’t want to kiss ’em. Let’s sneak around and get in the back
door of the sheriff’s office.”
“And git a hideful of duck-shot, eh?” Pie Ide shook his head so hard
that his hat fell off. “We’ve got all the war we can handle, without
foolin’ with the sheriff and Idaho Breen.”
The Star X boys were of the same opinion as three of them leaned against
the Oreana bar. Klondike was bitter. His fairly new Stetson had a jagged
hole in the crown.
“Well, what started it, anyway?” demanded Buck Wing.
“Joe Chevrier took a shot at Idaho Breen and the sheriff.”
“Danged fool! Did we kill any of the Lazy A?”
Nobody seemed to know. Joe came through the rear doorway, limping. He
had sobered considerably.
“By gar, I’m get stoong by fortee bee!” he exclaimed. “Behin’ me I’m
feel like de centipeed walk h’all over me.”
“Yuh got a load of duck-shot in yore back!” snorted Buck Wing
disgustedly. “It’s too damn’ bad he didn’t use a cannon. What made
yuh start shootin’ out here, you danged Canuck? Yuh shore put us in
bad.”
“Well,” Joe grimaced painfully, “I’m see dat Ida-hoo, and I’m so insult
about de raw-hide.”
“We might go down and apologize to the Lazy A boys,” suggested Heinie
Moriarity. “They’re prob’ly in the Rawhide.”
But that suggestion didn’t go well with Buck Wing. Except for the
bartender, they had the Oreana all to themselves. What few other
patrons had been in there had sneaked out the back door during the
shooting, and had given the main street a wide berth. The bartender,
while still sticking to the ship, did not feel any too secure.
“I don’t apologize to nobody,” declared Buck. “If Joe wants to apologize
to Idaho and the sheriff----”
“She don’t!” snorted Joe. “I’m ver’ sore jus’ now.”
“I’d suggest that we go home,” said Klondike, mourning over his
sombrero.
“And let the Lazy A think they run us out?”
“Let ’em think what they will. What they don’t know won’t hurt ’em.”
The Lazy A bunch, sitting like three buzzards on the sidewalk, saw the
Star X boys ride away from the Oreana hitchrack, and chuckled with glee.
It was too dark to see them get their horses at the rack. Idaho Breen
and the disgruntled sheriff also saw them ride away, and breathed a sigh
of relief.
“We whipped ’em!” declared Mex.
“We shore did, by golly!” chuckled Omaha. “Here comes Idaho and the
sheriff. I suppose they’re comin’ to congratulate us.”
But Idaho Breen was not in a congratulatory frame of mind.
“Why in hell didn’t you fellers stay at the ranch and behave
yourselves?” he demanded angrily. “Comin’ down here and startin’
trouble!”
“Who started any trouble?” grunted Pie Ide. “If we hadn’t been here to
turn the tide you and the sheriff would ’a’ had to pull another Alamo.
They’d shore made yuh hard to catch.”
“You fellers started it! Yuh mixed with that Star X outfit in the
Oreana, and made trouble.”
“Well, whatcha goin’ to do about it?” asked Omaha. “Is this a free
country, or are we workin’ for a Czar?” Idaho debated. Good cowhands
were not plentiful. He knew he was just on the verge of losing all
three of them.
“Well,” he said slowly, “I suppose it’s all right. But I didn’t want you
boys drunk when Miss Ault comes. Dang it, that ain’t the right spirit,
boys. She prob’ly ain’t used to seein’ a lot of drunken punchers.”
“Who’s drunk?” demanded Omaha.
Idaho shook his head. “Mebbe I was mistaken. I--I was judgin’ from the
shootin’ that yuh wasn’t cold sober. Why, some of yore bullets hit the
sheriff’s office, and it ain’t noways in the line between where you was
and the middle of the street.”
“Oh, we didn’t want to kill ’em,” said Pie Ide. “All we wanted to do
was to scare ’em out of town; so they’d let you and the sheriff out
of the office.”
“My shotgun settled that,” said the sheriff, panting heavily. “I handed
Joe Chevrier an ounce and a quarter of number fives, and he’ll itch for
a long time.”
“There ain’t no fun left, anyway,” said Mex mournfully. “I’d jist as
soon go home.”
“Same here,” nodded Omaha. “We was jist killin’ time, anyway.”
So the Lazy A boys went behind the Oreana, where they mounted their
horses and headed for home. Idaho tried to find Miles Lane, but the
lawyer was not in evidence. The town had recovered its composure after
the bloodless battle, and there was much speculation as to what would
happen next time the two outfits met.
It was almost time for the train arrival, when Idaho went to the depot.
He went in the waiting room, where the agent told him the train would
be in very soon. Then he went out on the platform and walked around the
corner of the depot, with the intention of changing the position of his
half broke buggy team, which might get frightened at the train. But as
he swung around the corner, three or four men piled upon him, bearing
him down by sheer weight of numbers. An old saddle-blanket was flung
over his head, and inside of two minutes Idaho Breen was trussed up
like a mummy, and dumped unceremoniously behind the depot.
The train ground ponderously up to the station, and when Mary Smith
climbed down the steps, assisted by the gray-haired conductor, she
was met by Buck Wing and Klondike Evans of the Star X. Behind her
came Cultus Collins, apparently paying no attention to her.
“Howdy, Miss,” greeted Buck Wing, a half smile on his face. “Are you
Miss Ault?”
“Why, yes,” said Mary, who was prepared to be “alias anything she was
called.”
Klondike grasped her suitcase and she walked with Buck, who guided her
around to the hitch-rack, where the frightened team was being taken care
of by Heinie and Joe. Mary noted a strong smell of liquor about them.
It seemed settled that Klondike was to do the driving. He got in and
took the lines, while Heinie and Joe clung to the bridles of the rearing
broncos.
“Head for the ranch,” said Buck. “We’ll catch yuh.”
“You’ll go some, if yuh do!” snorted Klondike, surging back on the
lines. The team whirled around, almost upsetting the buggy, and went
up the main street of Oreana City like a pair of racehorses heading
for the wire.
Mary got little view of Oreana City, as she was entirely occupied in
clinging to the seat of the open buggy. The road was far from smooth,
and they went bouncing off the street into a wide sweep of low hills,
gray and blue in the starlight. Klondike clung to the frail lines,
content to keep the running team in the road.
The light buggy meant nothing to the broncos; running, wild, cold-jawed.
A mile or more reeled out behind them. Klondike knew of a bad spot in
the road, where a washout had cut a deep furrow across the highway. To
go into this at top speed would mean a smashup. He shortened his lines,
braced his feet and pulled steadily. But the cold-jawed broncs did not
mind the pull on the straight-bar bits.
Klondike, still half drunk, realized that things were not working out
just right. He shot a glance at the girl beside him, who was clinging
to the seat with both hands, and surged back on the lines again. He
knew the washout was very close now.
_Snap!_ The left line broke and came back, striking Klondike in the
chest, and throwing all the pull on the right line. It swerved the team
to the right, and a wheel went over a mesquite snag, throwing Klondike
off the seat.
Just beyond here an old road turned to the right; an old road, which had
not been used for years. The buggy slewed around, skidded dangerously,
and then straightened up as the frantic team headed up the old road.
Mary was thrown off the seat and down against the dash, but managed
to get back to the seat. Her mind was in a whirl, as she realized
that the driver had been thrown off. She wanted to jump, but realized
the danger. The buggy was careening over the old road, possibly half
a mile from where Klondike had been thrown out, when the team whirled
suddenly, throwing Mary off into a patch of brush, and headed back in
the general direction of the Star X, cutting across country.
The cause of their sudden turn was a lone horseman, who had appeared
suddenly just a few yards ahead of them. The team was almost into him,
when it turned, and Mary narrowly missed being thrown against his horse.
The horse whirled wildly, but he reined it back, dismounted swiftly and
ran over to the girl.
With little difficulty he disentangled her from the bush, which had
broken her fall, and placed her on the ground. It was Dude Wheeler,
cutting across country toward the Star X, his face a mixture of
wonder and astonishment as he scratched a match and looked down into
the frightened eyes of Mary Smith.