THE FRYING PAN

In that rare half-hour just before sunrise, when the cool breeze

blowing across the meadows seemed saturated with sweetness and the

vivifying essence of all life, as if here for a moment one might

inhale the very breath which God breathed into his image made of clay

and awakened it to the consciousness that it was a man, seven riders

mounted at the Meadowlark corrals and went galloping down the trail,

bound for the Frying Pan ranch, a long ride of forty miles through

rough country.

Quivering drops of dew, scattered by eager hoofs, blinked at the first

mellow sun rays and vanished from sight. Birds chirped and sang and

flew here and there seeking breakfast for their hungry fledglings that

would themselves soon be surprising the early worm. Every man's face

was eager and alert, glad for no tangible reason save that it was good

to be alive and on a horse, riding out in the cool of the morning once

more after the leisurely two weeks just gone.

Lark was not among them, having made the excuse that he was tired

from his trip to Glasgow; a thin excuse, for Lark could stay in the

saddle as long as any man when the need arose. In reality Lark wanted

to leave this horse-buying deal for Bud to handle alone. It was time,

he thought, that the young man learned to assume some responsibility

in a business way, and he was curious to see what sort of bargain Bud

would make with the Frying Pan. So far Lark was secretly proud of his

handsome young nephew whom he had cared for since he was a boy the size

of Skookum, but for all that he was minded now to supplement Bud's

schooling with a course of practical application of the lessons he had

presumably learned from books.

The Meadowlark needed to build up its horse herd, and it was Bud

himself who had suggested that they see what the Frying Pan had to

offer. Lark did not think much of the Frying Pan, and Kid Kern, the

owner, he did not trust at all; but he told Bud to go ahead and see

what he could do over there with fifteen hundred dollars, intimating

that he ought to be able to buy a hundred head of mixed stock for that

amount.

Privately, Lark believed that the Frying Pan dealt mostly in "wet"

stock--which is range parlance for stolen stock. A fresh brand is a

"wet" brand. Stolen horses or cattle must be rebranded, the original

brand hidden under another. That detail, combined with the fact that

stolen stock is rushed by forced drives to distant localities, gave

rise to the term, and that term was applied in undertones to Frying Pan

horses. Lark wondered if Bud knew that. But wet stock is usually good

stock, and cheap--for cash. So Lark did not say anything to Bud. If the

kid wanted advice he'd probably ask for it.

So Bud rode proudly at the head of the little cavalcade with fifteen

hundred dollars in gold coin wrapped in his slicker and tied behind

the cantle, and the cameo brooch pinning back his hat brim while a

blue satin bow stolen laughingly from Marge sat perkily between the

twitching ears of his horse--braided into the short hairs of the mane

for safe-keeping. And Bud, the young devil, was not thinking of girls

at all, but dreaming of those two black bronchos he meant to tame, and

trying to think of names worthy their magnificent beauty. Stirrup to

stirrup with him rode Frank Gelle, who sent a glance over his shoulder

to see how close were the others when they slowed for the climb up

through the pass.

"What was Butch quizzing Skookum about last night, Bud, down by the

little corral?" he broke ruthlessly into Bud's meditations.

"Butch? I don't know, Jelly. I heard him say something about teaching

the kid some birdcall or other." Bud, brought back to the present,

bethought him that now was a good time to roll a smoke. He slipped the

reins daintily between his third and little fingers and reached for

tobacco sack and papers.

"Didn't sound like no birdcall to me, Bud. He was pumpin' the kid about

something. I couldn't ketch none of the words, but I could tell by the

tonation of his voice that he was askin' one question right on top of

another. Do you reckon, Bud, he was snoopin' around tryin' to pump the

kid about our pilgress?"

"Marge? No reason he should pump the kid about her. That girl's an open

book--printed in clear type. She and Butch were having a great old

visit down by the corral yesterday when he was showing off his fancy

roping. You saw them, Jelly. I bet she was giving him her life history.

A girl that's lived the pure, simple life Marge has will tell all about

herself without much coaxing. I don't believe Butch would be a darn bit

backward about asking her anything he wanted to know. He must have

been quizzing the kid about something else."

"She's a purty girl and a sweet girl, and no mother to guide her,"

Gelle eulogized solemnly. "No bonehead rustler like Butch Cassidy can

run any rannigans whilst I'm on the job. If I was shore--"

"It wasn't that. Anyway, Marge can hold her own without any help. If

you'd heard some of the roastings I've got, already--somebody told her

I lied about our frogs. I never will be able to square myself, I guess.

Say, Jelly, Butch may have been asking Skookum about that boat. He

seemed pretty keen about it in the bunk house."

"Bud, I wouldn't put that bank job past the Fryin' Pan outfit, do you

know it? From the way Butch talked, I'll bet they've been figuring on

it, some time or other." Gelle sent another cautious glance over his

shoulder.

"They didn't do it, Jelly. I left them all at the ranch, and rode

straight across the reservation, the shortest way there is. I was

expecting to make it home that night, you see. They couldn't have

beaten me in. They were sitting around the house, whittling and telling

it scarey, when I left, and their horses weren't caught up or anything.

Butch may feel sore because some one beat them to it, and if he

thought the boodle was cached somewhere within reach--

"Tell you what I'm going to do, Jelly. Soon as we get back with

the horses I'm going to do a little scouting around. I've thought

of several places I want to take a look at. That yarn about how I

was spotting for the gang that killed Charlie Mulholland--well, the

quickest way to stop that is to pin it on the guilty parties. If it's

a home job, as it looks to be, we can do as much as the sheriff toward

getting them with the goods. And, Jelly, I may need you before I'm

through."

"Well, now, you'd have a heck of a time tryin' to keep me out of the

muss!" Gelle laughed to himself. "Here comes Butch, so I'll drop back

with the roughnecks. I wouldn't trust Butch if I was you, Bud. He's a

nice feller and all that, but he's a horse thief and a killer and I

wouldn't trust him fur as I could throw a bull by the tail."

Bud was grinning at that when Butch rode up on his high-stepping brown

horse, but he did not pass along the joke.

The Frying Pan ranch, so called because of the brand most used by

the owners, lay a good day's ride from the Meadowlark, over near the

Missouri and close to that stretch of chaotic country called the

Badlands. A small town might have stood on the level plateau against

the hills, but as it was the Frying Pan ranch had a fine sweep of

pasture land with a long lane running straight back to where the house,

stable and corrals stood against the butte. Had the owners planned

the place with an eye to the strategic possibilities, they could not

have improved the smallest detail. First, the house, a two-story log

building set well out in the open with a well and pump in one corner

of the woodshed built against the kitchen. Beyond the house stood the

barn, another log building with ample room for hay sufficient to winter

eight or ten horses; and behind the barn the corrals, three of them in

a string, with a branding chute between the two smaller ones and with a

pair of funnel wings that never failed to ease the wildest broomtails

into the enclosure left open to receive them. A somewhat elaborate

arrangement, though the Frying Pan was a horse outfit that seemed to be

making money faster than the cattlemen.

Range gossip is quite as malicious as a small-town club that is on

the brink of disorganization. Range gossipers grinned at the Frying

Pan brand, a blotched circle with the handle pointing downward; very

convenient to cover any small brand and blot it forever from sight;

handier still to have the choice of left hip or shoulder. One might

guess that another brand was buried beneath that burned circle, but who

could swear to the fact?

Whether Bud knew the gossip or not, he did know good horses when he saw

them, and it was with a glow of pride that he climbed the fence of the

largest corral and roosted on the top rail with the other Meadowlark

riders, all staring down at the circling, kicking, squealing, nipping

herd which the Frying Pan boys had just whooped down the wings and

inside. A pretty sight they were--one that brought a shine into eyes

other than Bud's.

"I trimmed the bunch down to about three hundred while we had them up

waiting for you to come over after them," Kid Kern shouted, climbing up

to straddle the rail and sit beside Bud. "I knew pretty well what you

didn't want. Some good stuff there, hunh?"

"I've seen worse pelters than these," Bud grinned. "Got any fillies you

want to throw in as an honorarium to me for having Lark dig up the full

price in gold?"

"Say, Bud! If you bring any honorariums on to the ranch, by golly,

you'll have to break 'em yourself!" Tony yelled, and winked at Jack

Rosen. "They're tricky as hell, and you know it."

"Oh, I know you're not supposed to look a gift horse in the mouth," Bud

retorted, "but I'll take a chance on five or six colts presented by

Kid, here."

"If you put it that way, I might add half a dozen head; for you

yourself, Bud. Gold is mighty useful to me, boy."

"You talk like good old greenbacks ain't money no more," Bob Leverett

chided.

"There's a black gelding I'm going to build a loop for," Tony cried

enthusiastically, and pointed to where a magnificent head and neck

showed over the shoulder of a sorrel, the big brown eyes regarding

curiously the strange row of figures on the fence.

"There's his twin, by golly! I speak fer him right now," Jack Rosen

exclaimed.

"And they both belong to yours truly," Bud stated with outward calm.

"Lark's giving them to me for making the deal, and my one-legged

Meadowlark goes on to-morrow morning. You'll need darned fast loops,

you fellows, to beat mine."

"My gosh, more honorariums!" wailed Tony. "Bud's bashful, I don't

think!"

"Bud knows two good horses," Kid grinned, glancing sidelong toward

Butch. "Them two blacks came"--he glanced again toward Butch and went

on smoothly--"damn' near queering the deal. I didn't want to let them

two go, but Bud, he couldn't see no bunch of horses that didn't include

them, so I had to cave in or lose the sale. You'll have two dandy

mounts, Bud, if you break 'em right."

"I don't intend to break them at all." Bud's eyes softened wonderfully

as they rested on the nearest black horse. "All they need is to be

taught. I'll have them both following me around like dogs, inside a

month."

Butch lounged over and leaned against the fence near where Bud was

perched. His hatcrown reached to Bud's knees, and he stared into the

restless herd that crowded to the far side of the corral. His lip

lifted a bit at one corner.

"Look out fer hydrophoby, then," he drawled. "One of 'em is a mankiller

at heart; mebbe both. You'll have one fine time makin' pet dogs outa

them two. I advise yuh to hogtie 'em and put a muzzle on 'em before you

go caressin' around them birds."

Bud's cheeks darkened with the hot blood of anger, for Butch lied.

Those big, intelligent eyes staring with shy wistfulness from the head

of the nearest black betrayed the slander.

"Thanks for the advice, Butch. When I need more, I'll send word over,"

he said coldly.

The Meadowlark boys almost stopped breathing for a moment, and sent

swift, sidelong glances at one another. But nothing came of the

incident, save a tenseness in the atmosphere, a guarded note in

conversations that had before been carelessly friendly. Not until after

supper, however, did Bud speak his mind to any one, and then it was to

Gelle.

"I don't like the feel of this place, Jelly. We'll get out of here as

soon as we can in the morning, and I wish you'd come with me while I

turn over the money to Kid and get a bill of sale--and then I wish

you'd slip the word to the boys that I'd like to have them keep out of

the card games and turn in early.

"The Frying Pan thinks I'm young and green. I suppose they also think

I'm a fool, and can't take the hints that have dropped around here. But

it's like this, Jelly: We need this bunch of horses. I want that bill

of sale signed to-night, and I want you to see me pay Kid the money.

Butch doesn't want to see me get those two blacks, and the whole bunch

may be slightly damp." He grinned, and Gelle laughed softly. "But if

we lose any horses on that account, Kid will have to settle with the

Meadowlark; don't think he won't!

"And when we've got them safe home," he added, after a reflective

pause, "I'll have Lark let the boys off for a few days. They can go

spend their good money in Smoky Ford while you and I take a little

scouting trip around. How does that strike you, Jelly?"

"Fine and dandy; betcher life!"

"So come on, now, while all the boys are in sight and it's still

daylight, and we'll dig up the gold and get the paper signed that will

make these _our_ horses. One hundred and six head of them, at least.

Nothing like being young and innocent, is there, Jelly?"

"No, there ain't," Gelle agreed soberly. "I never did have much use fer

the Fryin' Pan, and that's the truth. Now Butch is with 'em, they don't

stack up near so good. Come awn, let's git that gold money paid over to

Kid before they steal it. That's how _I_ trust this bunch!"