[Illustration: “I Take it I am the One Wanted,” Said Williston.]
LANGFORD OF THE THREE BARS
By KATE AND VIRGIL D. BOYLES
With Frontispiece in Color
By N. C. WYETH
A. L. BURT COMPANY
PUBLISHERS—NEW YORK
Copyright
A. C. McClurg & Co.
1907
Published April 15, 1907
Entered at Stationers’ Hall, London, England
All rights reserved
Including dramatic rights
TO OUR MOTHER
MRS. MARTHA DILLIN BOYLES
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I—THE ISLAND WITH A MYSTERY
CHAPTER II—“ON THE TRAIL”
CHAPTER III—LOUISE
CHAPTER IV—“MAGGOT”
CHAPTER V—AT THE BON AMI
CHAPTER VI—“NOTHIN’ BUT A HOSS THIEF, ANYWAY”
CHAPTER VII—THE PRELIMINARY
CHAPTER VIII—THE COUNTY ATTORNEY
CHAPTER IX—THE ATTACK ON THE LAZY S
CHAPTER X—IN WHICH THE X Y Z FIGURES SOMEWHAT MYSTERIOUSLY
CHAPTER XI—“YOU ARE—THE BOSS”
CHAPTER XII—WAITING
CHAPTER XIII—MRS. HIGGINS RALLIES TO HER COLORS
CHAPTER XIV—CHANNEL ICE
CHAPTER XV—THE GAME IS ON
CHAPTER XVI—THE TRIAL
CHAPTER XVII—GORDON RIDES INTO THE COUNTRY
CHAPTER XVIII—FIRE!
CHAPTER XIX—AN UNCONVENTIONAL TEA PARTY
CHAPTER XX—THE ESCAPE
CHAPTER XXI—THE MOVING SHADOW
CHAPTER XXII—THE OUTLAW’S LAST STAND
CHAPTER XXIII—THE PARTY AT THE LAZY S
CHAPTER I
THE ISLAND WITH A MYSTERY
He said positively to Battle Ax, his scraggy buckskin cow pony, that
they would ride to the summit of this one bluff, and that it should be
the last. But he had said the same thing many times since striking the
barren hill region flanking both sides of the river. Hump after hump had
been surmounted since the sound of the first promise had tickled the
ears of the tired bronco, humps as alike as the two humps of a Bactrian
camel, the monotonous continuity of which might very well have confused
the mind of one less at home on these ranges than George Williston. Even
he, riding a blind trail since sun-up, sitting his saddle with a heavy
indifference born of heat and fatigue, began to think it might be that
they were describing a circle and the sun was playing them strange
tricks. Still, he urged his pony to one more effort; just so much
farther and they would retrace their steps, giving up for this day at
least the locating of a small bunch of cattle, branded a lazy S, missing
these three days.
Had not untoward circumstances intervened, he might still have gone
blindly on; for, laying aside the gambling fever that was on him, he
could ill afford to lose the ten or twelve steers somewhere wandering
the wide range or huddled into some safe place, there to abide the time
when a daring rustler might conveniently play at witchcraft with the
brand or otherwise dispose of them with profit to himself and with
credit to his craft. Moreover, what might possibly never have been
missed from the vast herds of Langford, his neighbor of the plains
country, was of most serious import to Williston for an even weightier
reason than the actual present loss.
The existence of the small and independent ranchman was becoming
precarious. He was being hounded by two prolific sources of trouble,
these sources having a power and insolent strength contemptuously
indifferent to any claim set up in their paths by one weaker than
themselves. On the one hand was the wealthy cattle owner, whose
ever-increasing wealth and consequent power was a growing menace to the
interests of the small owner whose very bread and butter depended upon
his ability to buy and sell to advantage. But with bigger interests
slowly but surely gaining control of the markets, who might foretell the
future? None beheld the ominous signs more apprehensively than did
Williston, who for more than two years, striving desperately to make
good mistakes and misfortunes made back in Iowa, had felt the pinching
grow more and more acute. On the other hand was the vicious combination
of the boldness, cunning, and greed of the cattle rustlers who harassed
all the range country of the Dakotas and Nebraska. Annihilation was the
sword of Damocles held over the head of the small ranchman. A hand
lifted to avert impending doom would have set the air in vibration and
the sword would have fallen. Nemesis was as sure to follow at the hands
of the fellowship of rustlers as ever it was at the hands of the Secret
Tribunal of old.
Williston was chafing under his helplessness as the jaded pony climbed
doggedly this last bluff. To the right of his path a hawk was fluttering
frantically just above the reach of a basilisk-eyed rattlesnake, whose
baneful charm the ill-advised bird was not able to resist.
“Devil take you, Battle Ax, but you’re slow,” muttered Williston,
utterly indifferent to the outcome of this battle royal. “I’d give a
good deal to sit down this minute to some of my little girl’s flapjacks
and coffee. But nothing for us, lazy-bones, till midnight—or morning,
more likely. Do walk up as if you had some little standing in the world
of cow ponies. You haven’t, of a surety, but you might make an effort.
All things are possible to him who tries, you know, which is a
tremendous lie, of course. But perhaps it doesn’t apply to poor devils
like us who are ‘has beens.’ Here we are. Ah!”
There were no more hills. Almost directly at his feet was one of those
precipitous cut-aways that characterize the border bluffs of the
Missouri River. A few more steps, in the dark, and horse and rider would
have plunged over a sheer wall of nearly two hundred feet. As it was,
Williston gave a gasp of involuntary horror which almost simultaneously
gave place to one of wonder and astonishment. He had struck the river at
a point absolutely new to him. It was the time of low water, and the
river, in most of its phases muddy and sullen-looking, gleamed silver
and gold with the glitter of the setting sun, making a royal highway to
the dwelling-place of Phœbus. A little to the north of this sparkling
highroad lay what would have been an island in high water, thickly
wooded with willows and cottonwoods. Now a long stretch of sand reached
between bluff and island.
Dismounting, with the quick thought that yonder island might hold the
secret of his lost cattle, he crept as close to the edge as he dared.
The cut was sheer and tawny, entirely devoid of shrubbery by means of
which one might hazard a descent. The sand bed began immediately at the
foot of the yellow wall. Even though one managed to gain the bottom, one
would hardly dare risk the deceitful sands, ever shifting, fair and
treacherous. Baffled, he was on the point of remounting to retrace his
steps when he dropped his foot from the stirrup amazed. Was the day of
miracles not yet passed?
It was the sun, of course. Twelve hours of sun in the eyes could play
strange tricks and might even cause a dancing black speck to assume the
semblance of a man on horseback, picking his way easily, though mayhap a
bit warily, across the waste of sand. He seemed to have sprung from the
very bowels of the bluff. Whence else? Many a rod beyond and above the
ghostly figure frowned the tawny, wicked cut-away. Path for neither
horse nor man appeared so far as eye could reach. It must be the sun.
But it was not the sun.
Motionless, intent, a figure cast in bronze as the sun went down, the
lean ranchman gazed steadfastly down upon the miniature man and horse
creeping along so far below. Not until the object of his fixed gaze had
been swallowed by the trees and underbrush did his muscles relax. This
man had ridden as if unafraid.
“What man has done, man can do,” ran swiftly through Williston’s brain,
and with no idea of abandoning his search until he had probed the
mystery, he mounted and rode northward, closely examining the edge of
the precipice as he went along for any evidence of a possible descent.
Presently he came upon a cross ravine, devoid of shrubbery, too steep
for a horse, but presenting possibilities for a man. With unerring
instinct he followed the cross-cut westward. Soon a scattering of scrub
oaks began to appear, and sumach already streaked with crimson. A little
farther and the trees began to show spiral wreaths of woodbine and wild
grape. Yet a little farther, and doubtless there would be outlet for
horse as well as man.
But Williston was growing impatient. Besides, the thought came to him
that he had best not risk his buckskin to the unknown dangers of an
untried trail. What if he should go lame? Accordingly he was left behind
in a slight depression where he would be pretty well hidden, and
Williston scrambled down the steep incline alone. When foothold or
handhold was lacking, he simply let himself go and slid, grasping the
first root or branch that presented itself in his dare-devil course.
Arrived at the bottom, he found his clothes torn and his hands bleeding;
but that was nothing. With grim determination he made his way through
the ravine and struck across the sand trail with a sure realization of
his danger, but without the least abatement of his resolution. The sand
was firm under his feet. The water had receded a sufficient length of
time before to make the thought of quicksands an idle fear. No puff of
cloudy smoke leaped from a rifle barrel. If, as he more than half
suspected, the island was a rendezvous for cattle thieves, a place
surely admirably fitted by nature for such unlawful operations, the
rustlers were either overconfident of the inaccessibility of their
retreat and kept no lookout, or they were insolently indifferent to
exposure. The former premise was the more likely. A light breeze, born
of the afterglow, came scurrying down the river bed. Here and there,
where the sand was finest and driest, it rose in little whirlwinds. No
sound broke the stillness of the summer evening.
What was that? Coyotes barking over yonder across the river? That alien
sound! A man’s laugh, a curse, a heart-breaking bellow of pain.
Williston parted ever so slightly the thick foliage of underbrush that
separated him from the all too familiar sounds and peered within.
In the midst of a small clearing,—man-made, for several stumps were
scattered here and there,—two men were engaged in unroping and releasing
a red steer, similar in all essential respects to a bunch of three or
four huddled together a little to one side. They were all choice,
well-fed animals, but there were thousands of just such beasts herding
on the free ranges. He owned red steers like those, but was there a man
in the cattle country who did not? They were impossible of
identification without the aid of their brand, and it happened that they
were so bunched as to completely baffle Williston in his eager efforts
to decipher the stamp that would disclose their ownership. That they
were the illegitimate prey of cattle rustlers, he never for one moment
doubted. The situation was conclusive. A bed of glowing embers
constantly replenished and kept at white heat served to lighten up the
weird scene growing dusky under the surrounding cottonwoods.
Williston thought he recognized in one of the men—the one who seemed to
be directing the procedure of this little affair, whose wide and dirty
hat-rim was so tantalizingly drawn over his eyes—the solitary rider
whose unexpected appearance had so startled him a short time before.
Both he and his companion were dressed after the rough, nondescript
manner of cattle men, both were gay, laughing and talkative, and
seemingly as oblivious to possible danger as if engaged in the most
innocent and legitimate business.
A little to the left and standing alone was an odd creature of most
striking appearance—a large, spotted steer with long, peculiar-looking
horns. It were quite impossible to mistake such a possession if it had
once been yours. Its right side was turned full toward Williston and in
the centre of the hip stood out distinctly the cleanly cauterized three
perpendicular lines that were the identifying mark of the Three Bars
ranch, one of those same big, opulent, self-centred outfits whose
astonishingly multiplying sign was becoming such a veritable and
prophetic writing on the wall for Williston and his kind.
Who then had dared to drive before him an animal so branded? The
boldness of the transgression and the insolent indifference to the
enormity of attendant consequences held him for the moment breathless.
His attention was once more called to the movements of the men. The
steer with which they had been working was led away still moaning with
surprise and pain, and another brought forward from the reserve bunch.
The branded hip, if there was a brand, was turned away from Williston.
The bewildered animal was cleverly roped and thrown to the ground. The
man who was plainly directing the affair, he of the drooping hat and
lazy shoulders, stepped to the fire. Williston held his breath with the
intensity of his interest. The man stooped and took an iron from the
fire. It was the end-gate rod of a wagon and it was red-hot. In the act
of straightening himself from his stooping position, the glowing iron
stick in his right hand, he flung from his head with an easy swing the
flopping hat that interfered with the nicety of sight requisite in the
work he was about to do, and faced squarely that quiet, innocent-looking
spot which held the watching man in its brush; and in the moment in
which Williston drew hastily back, the fear of discovery beating a
tattoo of cold chills down his spine, recognition of the man came to him
in a clarifying burst of comprehension.
But the man evidently saw nothing and suspected nothing. His casual
glance was probably only a manifestation of his habitual attitude of
being never off his guard. He approached the prostrate steer with
indifference to any meaning that might be attached to the soft snapping
of twigs caused by Williston’s involuntary drawing back into the denser
shadows.
“Y’ don’t suppose now, do you, that any blamed, interferin’ off’cer is
a-loafin’ round where he oughtn’t to be?” said the second man with a
laugh.
Williston, much relieved, again peered cautiously through the brush. He
was confident a brand was about to be worked over. He must see—what
there was to see.
“Easy now, boss,” said the second man with an officious warning. He was
a big, beefy fellow with a heavy, hardened face. Williston sounded the
depths of his memory but failed to place him among his acquaintances in
the cow country.
“Gamble on me,” returned the leader with ready good-nature, “I’ll make
it as clean as a boiled shirt. I take it you don’t know my reputation,
pard. Well, you’ll learn. You’re all right, only a trifle green, that’s
all.”
With a firm, quick hand, he began running the searing iron over the
right hip of the animal. When he had finished and the steer, released,
staggered to its feet, Williston saw the brand clearly. It was J R. If
it had been worked over another brand, it certainly was a clean job. He
could see no indications of any old markings whatsoever.
“Too clean to be worked over a lazy S,” thought Williston, “but not over
three bars.”
“There were six reds,” said the chief, surveying the remaining bunch
with a critical eye. “One must have wandered off while I was gone. Get
out there in the brush and round him up, Alec, while I tackle this
long-horned gentleman.”
Williston turned noiselessly away from the scene which so suddenly
threatened danger. Both men were fully armed and would brook no
eavesdropping. Once more he crossed the sand in safety and found his
horse where he had left him, up the ravine. He vaulted into the saddle
and galloped away into the quiet night.