MASON MEETS THE SHERIFF
They had arrived at the bunk-house and Tex was talking to a man in a
dusty khaki suit. The girl saw him and with a bound was out of the
saddle and shaking hands with him. Mason knew that this man was Bud
Anderson whom the girl had talked so much about.
Tex had gone on ahead to the corral. Mason paused, and was slowly
stroking his horse’s mane when Josephine suddenly turned and motioned
to him.
“Tex tells me the Ricker gang are acting suspicious,” he overheard her
saying in a strained voice as he rode up.
The man in the dusty khaki suit muttered something under his breath.
Josephine was plainly ill at ease.
“Mr. Mason, I want to make you acquainted with Bud Anderson, our
sheriff,” she said in a low voice.
Mason shook hands and winced. Anderson had a grip of steel. He was
built on the lines of an athlete with powerful shoulders and an easy
carriage that denoted quickness of action. He had sharp, piercing gray
eyes that seemed to read one’s innermost thought. Standing close on to
six feet, he was a magnificent specimen of manhood.
“Mr. Mason, you have come at just the right time if you like
excitement,” he said, looking the Easterner over sharply.
“That’s my middle name,” returned Mason easily.
Anderson nodded approval.
“We are going to have some stormy times around these parts,” he
declared. “I understand that Miss Josephine has told you about some of
our bad neighbors, the Ricker outfit.
“Well,” he went on, “I just discovered today that four more men joined
forces with them, and I took the trouble to look up their names. They
are the same bunch I rounded up in that shooting scrape five years
ago,” he concluded.
“Oh, I remember,” the girl cried in evident distress, “they wrote you
from prison that they would get you when their term was up.”
They had turned their horses into the corral and were walking slowly
to the house. Anderson shut up like a clam and refused to say anything
further on the subject. Mason figured it was on account of the
nervousness of the girl. That night Anderson told Mason all the ins
and outs of the affair.
The trouble had occurred in a small town called Atwater, situated a
few miles from Trader’s Post. Anderson having business to attend to
there had stumbled on to the case shortly after it happened.
An old retired silver miner living alone in a cabin had been set upon
and robbed by four men. He was found bound and gagged, with a bullet
wound in his shoulder.
Anderson took the trail and followed it untiringly for a week until he
landed his men. After being convicted and sentenced to five years in
prison they had friends write the sheriff a letter swearing vengeance
after their term expired.
Two weeks passed by and nothing of importance had occurred in the
actions of the Ricker faction to verify the suspicions of Tex. Mason
took long rides each day and got so he could keep up with the best
riders. His face had taken on a deep tan, his wind was good and his
muscles were like iron.
“If I felt any better I couldn’t stand it, I’d be in the hospital,” he
declared one day to the ranch owner, in answer to a query as to his
health.
His thoughts often turned to home and at times he had to fight hard to
overcome a fierce longing to chuck up the whole thing and return East
to his old haunts and habits.
“But I won’t,” he gritted to himself, “I told Dad I’d be game, and
I’ll stick. When I get that racing car of mine out here I’ll make the
natives gasp.”
Then he remembered he had promised the girl he would teach her how to
drive, and his thoughts grew tender, for he admitted to himself that
he was growing in love with her each day. Then he thought of her deep
friendship for Anderson and his face clouded.
Mason had started out alone this morning and was riding a horse given
him by the ranch owner. He had determined to see the Ricker ranch and
pay her owners a visit.
“If ever I get in a scrap with Bud it will be over Josephine,” he said
aloud to his horse. “Still, he has always used me white, eh, Sport,
old boy?”
The horse raised his ears as though in sympathy with his master.
Mason had been covering ground at a good clip while voicing expression
to his thoughts. An hour later the dim outline of the Ricker ranch
came into view. He intended to make a short stay at the ranch and then
make for Trader’s Post. He wanted to send a hurry order home for his
car which he had ordered the week before.
Mason slowed his horse down to a walk as he came up to the ranch and
was eagerly scanning the premises for signs of life. A moment later he
dismounted and tied his horse to a post of a low porch that ran the
entire length of the ranch building. About the center of the porch
there was a door leading into a spacious room filled with saddles,
boots and other cowboy paraphernalia.
He boldly tried the door and found it unlocked.
A spirit of adventure seized him and he flung the door open and
entered the room. As he did so, he failed to notice a misshapen
creature, who had watched him with bright, gleaming eyes, disappear
with lightning rapidity through a door at the end of the building.
The place seemed deserted, but what impressed Mason most was the fact
that the boots, spurs and other trappings were richly studded and
embossed.
“Hum,” mused Mason softly, “pretty swell outfit for a bunch of low
down cattle thieves as Bud seems to think they are.”
He had about made up his mind to make a tour of all the rooms and had
started towards a door leading into a hall when he heard a noise
behind him.
“Move, and I shoot!” the command was fairly barked at him.
Quickly he raised his hands above his head, glancing over his shoulder
as he did so.
Through a hole in the wall a bony hand produced, grasping a long
blue-barreled Colt aimed directly at his head. Mason heard his captor
fumbling with a lock and slowly a door swung outward revealing to his
astonished gaze the most hideous-looking object he had ever set eyes
upon. It was a hunchback with massive frame and great powerful arms
that reached to his knees.
He advanced slowly towards Mason with a horrible leer on his lips,
eyes twitching and bright with rage. Mason’s thoughts flew swiftly as
he watched the hunchback close in on him.
He had come away from the ranch unarmed as he never had cared for the
use of firearms. Now, he wished most heartily that he had taken
Josephine’s advice when one day she had urged him to carry a gun.
“Guess I’ve got maw’s fool in a fuss,” he said grimly to himself as he
braced his body for a struggle. “This thing is dippy or I’m foolish.”
When within a few feet of Mason the hunchback suddenly dropped his
revolver and grappled with him.
Mason met the onslaught with a terrific swing to the dwarf’s jaw. Hard
as the blow was, it did not seem to have any effect. Mason felt the
bony hands of his assailant close about his throat with crushing
force. Bright lights flashed before his eyes and he could hear the
hunchback’s breath come and go in a sharp whistle. Mason realized the
hunchback had him at a disadvantage, and allowing his body to become
limp, he sank slowly to his knees. The ruse worked, for the hunchback
released the strangle hold about his neck.
Like a flash Mason straightened up and throwing his left arm around
his assailant’s neck he seized his right arm and exerting tremendous
pressure forced it sharply up between his shoulder blades. It was the
hammerlock and he soon had the hunchback begging for mercy.
Mason was thoroughly angered by this time and threw the loathsome
creature into the corner, a groveling mass.
Picking up the gun he slipped it into his pocket.
“Why did you wish to take my life?” he demanded, gazing down at his
fallen foe.
“I know you,” the dwarf grated in a cracked voice. “Your name is
Mason, the new man at Walters’ ranch, and I got orders to watch you.”
“Why watch me?” Mason asked, his curiosity aroused.
“That’s for you to find out,” the dwarf answered, a crafty look coming
into his eyes.
Mason suddenly whipped the gun out of his pocket and leveled it at the
dwarf.
“Tell me the truth,” he commanded sternly.
“I thought you was trying to steal something, and there was nobody
about and I was left to guard the place,” the dwarf whined.
“That’s a lie and you know it,” Mason retorted, his ire rising once
more. “You claim you were told to watch me, who gave you those
orders?”
Great beads of sweat stood out on the dwarf’s ugly face, and his
claw-like fingers were working like the talons of some great bird.
“Ricker gave me orders to watch you. He has spies everywhere, he knows
you and your father and hates you both. If you want to save your hide
you had better clear out of these parts,” he snarled at last.
Mason was astounded. That Ricker should know his father and have set
this half-witted dwarf to watching his son was a puzzle. He was
inclined to doubt the dwarf’s sanity. So far as he knew his father had
no enemies in the world. He determined to sound the dwarf thoroughly.
“Stand up,” he commanded him sternly, holding the gun into the pit of
the dwarf’s stomach. “I am going to get at the bottom of this thing.
What do you mean by saying that Ricker hates my father?” The dwarf
rose in abject terror and started to mumble through chattering teeth.
“Cut that out and talk like a man,” Mason commanded him sharply.
“Ricker claims that your father did him an injury long ago while they
were in the lumber business in the East. He says it is in his power to
ruin him now and he will ruin you, too,” the dwarf snarled, glaring
savagely at him.
Mason smiled grimly.
“I’ve found out what I wanted to know and will act accordingly if it
is true,” he said, backing slowly out of the room.
“Tell your precious master I will keep this little toy,” tapping the
gun he was holding, “to remember him by, and also tell him I said the
Masons are hard to drive.”
Reaching the door he dropped the gun in his pocket and mounting his
horse rode slowly towards Trader’s Post. He breathed a sigh of relief
when well out of sight of the ranch buildings.
“Well, this is a rum go,” he said softly to himself. “What will
Josephine say when I tell her of my adventure. She’ll say right off
quick that I need a guardian, and bawl me out for not waiting for her
to take me to the ranch as she promised.”
Still, he was troubled over what he had heard, and made up his mind
that if he didn’t get a letter from his father soon he would write him
all about it, or better still, take a trip East to warn him that
Ricker was a desperate character.
He was fast getting on to the ways of the West, and feeling the red
blood flowing swiftly through his veins, he felt like getting into
action on any trouble that might involve his father in peril.
He meant to take Josephine into his confidence as soon as he got home,
and Scotty, too, whom he felt sure he could trust. Thus musing to
himself he was covering ground at a slow canter.
Again his thoughts would travel Eastward to his old friends, and the
hope of getting his car soon raised his spirits high. Then he
remembered Roy Purvis to whom he had said good-bye just before he had
started for the West.
Roy had been a keen and enthusiastic automobile racer along with
Mason, and had just gone in for aviation. He had several bad spills in
learning, but was keener for flying than he ever had been for
automobile racing. He had laughingly made the remark to Mason that he
might expect a birdman to visit him in his chosen god-forsaken
country.
“Just the thing,” he said aloud to Sport, who was so startled that he
broke into a swift run. “Steady, old boy,” he called softly, slowing
him down. “When I get to Trader’s Post I will telegraph for Roy to
come on, and send in a hurry order for my car at the same time.”
It was an ideal day with a gentle wind blowing, and Mason drank in
deep breaths of the pure air for his brain was still whirling with the
adventures of the past hour. He could not connect his father’s past
with Ricker’s life, try as he would. Then he remembered his father
never had taken him into his confidence to any great extent, for he
was a man of few words.
Mason knew that he held vast holdings in coal, and in the iron
industry, besides holding the controlling interest in his New York
bank. As for himself, he never had questioned his father on business
affairs, being content to follow his own usual mad pursuits.
Now, he wished he had taken more interest in his father’s affairs, as
he was getting old. The two weeks he had been away from home had given
him time to think over some of his own mad enterprises of the past,
and he mentally resolved he would square himself with his father and
prove he was a chip of the old block.
The Masons came of good fighting stock, his father was born in
Virginia and served through the Civil War. Mason’s eyes were taking in
the surrounding country with keen delight as his thoughts ran in this
channel. Like most rich Americans, he had toured the principal cities
of Europe and seen little of his own country.
“America for mine,” he said aloud, his eyes aglow with health.
He was but a few miles from Trader’s Post now, and he wondered if he
would meet any of the boys from the ranch there. A few minutes later
he entered the town and was giving his horse over to the care of a
hostler with instructions to feed him well, along with a generous tip,
when he heard a woman scream.
Running out into the hotel inclosure he beheld a sight that made his
blood boil.
It was a girl struggling in the arms of Pete Carlo, the halfbreed.
With a bound, Mason was by her side and tearing the Mexican away from
her, he promptly knocked him down.
“Great work,” called a voice from the hotel porch.
Mason turned and saw Bud and Scotty grinning at him. In the same
instant, Bud’s hand flashed from his hip, followed by a sharp report.
He heard a cry of pain behind him, and bewildered, he turned again to
see the halfbreed nursing a pair of bleeding knuckles.
Bud and Scotty strode toward them with burning wrath in their eyes.
“The dirty skunk,” Scotty was saying, as he kicked a gun out of the
halfbreed’s reach. “He tried to bore you. Never turn your back on a
greaser.”
“He’s drunk,” cut in Bud, “but that don’t excuse him. Get up, you
whelp, and make tracks out of here, you’ll lose your job for this.”
Bud took his gun and the halfbreed slunk away with muttered threats.
Mason looked at the girl. She had recovered from her fright and was
regarding him with large dark eyes filled with gratitude, and
suspiciously close to the point of tears.
He saw at a glance that she was a Spanish girl of unusual beauty.
Taking off his hat he made her a bow and in return he was rewarded
with a dainty curtesy.
Turning to Bud he shook his hand warmly and said,
“Thanks, old man, you saved my life.”
“That’s all right, Jack,” the big fellow returned heartily. “You have
to watch them greasers. Come, Scotty, let’s play a game of cards.
Coming in soon?” he questioned of Mason.
The latter nodded. He had turned his attention again to the girl.
“Do you know that brute of a half breed?” he asked kindly.
“Yes,” she answered in a low musical voice.
He was surprised at her command of grammar. She spoke almost pure
English.
“He used to work on the Ricker ranch where I work,” she added.
Mason was surprised. So this was the Spanish girl that Josephine had
spoken to him about. He remembered she had said the girl was pretty.
He remembered, also, his non-committal answer when she had asked him
if he liked brunette beauty.
The girl had stood silently while he was turning these thoughts over
in his mind. Suddenly with a quick impulse she extended her hand to
him, her great eyes filled with deep pathos.
“I wish to thank you for defending me against that beast. Oh, how I
hate him,” she said with a shudder. “He made life miserable for me
while he was at the ranch, and you disposed of him so easily.”
Her great eyes swept his stalwart build in silent admiration.
“Please don’t mention it. I am very glad to have been of some
assistance to you,” he said, a trifle embarrassed.
“May I ask whom I am indebted to?” she questioned, as he turned to
leave.
“Certainly,” he answered with a smile, “my name is Jack Mason.”
The girl gave a sudden start, and he fancied her face had turned pale.
“My name is Waneda, good-bye,” she said, and was gone quickly.
“Now, why in the deuce did she turn pale at the mention of my name?”
he asked himself, as he started to join Bud and Scotty.
Making his way to the card room he found only Scotty waiting for him.
“Bud has gone on ahead,” explained Scotty, “said he had almost
forgotten a package that he wanted to get to the old man as soon as
possible.”
“All right, Scotty, old top,” Mason replied cheerfully, “come over
with me to that little dump of a telegraph station we have here. I
want to send a message.”
The dispatch sent, they made quick time home to the ranch, and Mason
told Scotty all about his adventure at the Ricker ranch.
They arrived home about dusk and put their horses up. Mason went at
once to the house. On the porch he found Bud and Josephine talking
earnestly.
“Good evening, Miss,” he greeted her as he came up to the porch. “I
suppose that Bud has told you all about me getting in Dutch at the
Post and how I came near getting shot only for Bud here.”
“I heard all about it, sir,” she said with icy coolness. “And also
about the girl,” she added as a parting shot, disappearing in the
house.
Mason was taken completely by surprise.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said weakly to himself.