Author of “Reputation,” “The Misdeal,” etc.
“Peace River” Parker turned from unsaddling a sweat-marked gray horse
and picked up his saddle. He was a tall, gaunt-looking cowpuncher. His
bat-winged chaps were polished from much usage, his thin cotton shirt
indefinite of color was topped by a black muffler and atop his head
rode a high-crown sombrero.
“Peace” Parker was not handsome by any manner of means. His hair was an
unruly mop of almost roan color, his nose much larger than necessary and
a mouth all out of proportion. But his eyes were a clear gray and set
wide apart.
Now he stood in the shade of the tall, pole corral, holding the saddle
by one hand, while he squinted toward the Cross L ranch-house a hundred
yards away. It was a low, rambling sort of a building, with a wide
veranda running across the front. It had been originally a one-room
affair, painted white, with blue trimmings. But, as each addition had
been built, it seemed as though the taste in decorations had changed,
and each addition had a color all its own.
Behind and on the opposite side of the house grew several tall
cottonwoods, while in the front yard there had been some attempt to grow
a flower garden and some rose bushes, but the effort of water-bucket
irrigation had been too much and the garden did not thrive.
There was a black horse tied to a corner of the veranda; a racy-looking
animal, surmounted by a silver-decorated, swell-forked saddle, which
flashed in the sunlight, as the black moved impatiently.
Peace Parker looked at this horse for a long time, but no hint of his
thoughts was depicted on his face. He turned his head slowly and looked
down at his saddle. It was as if he were trying to remember just what he
was going to do with that saddle.
A slight twitch of his head, which might have been a negative answer to
one of his unspoken questions, and he went slowly toward the bunk-house,
a long, one-room structure, facing the same way as the ranchhouse, but
farther back toward the tall barn.
As he stopped at the bunk-house door, a man came out of the kitchen,
slammed the door and stood on the narrow step, looking around. He saw
Peace Parker and greeted him with an upward jerk of his hand and arm
as he strode down toward him.
This man was “Cross L” Marshall, owner of the ranch. He was a smaller
man than Parker; a typical old-time cattleman. He was slightly
bow-legged and walked with elbows bent at his sides. An enormous hunk of
tobacco deformed one side of his face and caused one of his mustaches to
assume a belligerent angle. His lips were slightly compressed and his
blue eyes seemed to reprove Peace Parker.
“What’s achin’ yuh?” Peace smiled slightly at the older man.
Marshall did not speak for several moments. He turned and squinted
toward the house, spat explosively and scratched his shoulders against
the bunk-house wall. Then he shifted his tobacco and squinted at Peace.
“Achin’ me? Huh!”
He jerked his thumb toward the house.
“Whatcha think? More candy. Uh-huh. ---- it, he uses vas’leen on his
hair!”
“They tell me,” said Peace slowly, “that it’s good for the hair. Looks
kinda slick and pretty.”
“Yeah?” A shift of the tobacco made the mustache assume a more
belligerent attitude.
“Does, eh?”
“You don’t hate vaseline, do yuh?” queried Peace.
“No, but by ----!”
Cross L Marshall glared at Peace and shook his head violently.
“I don’t sabe you, Peace. Yo’re what Jim Horn used to call a en-ig-maw.
Yeah, yuh are. Yo’re like some of the race horses them slickers brought
here last Summer. One of ’em had a stifle, two ringbones and a broken
nose.
“Couldn’t run. ’Course they couldn’t run. How in ---- could that kind of
a critter run, I ask yuh? Jim Horn said it was a en-ig-maw, whatever
that is. I bet agin’ it and lost five hundred dollars and a span of work
horses.”
Peace Parker smiled softly.
“But I ain’t got no ring-bones nor----”
“Yes, yuh have,” interrupted Marshall, “Yours are inside yore head,
where they don’t show open-like. Them is the worst kind t’ have.”
Marshall spat thoughtfully and nodded his head.
“As a cow-hand, yo’re first-class, Peace. Yeah, I’d go so far as to say
that you sabe the cow business, but when it comes to anythin’ else, you
qualify as a first-class ---- fool. What do yuh think of that?”
Marshall squinted quizzically at Peace and waited for him to speak.
“Maybe,” said Peace softly, “if I wasn’t a first-class ---- fool, I
might be somethin’ better than a first-class cow-hand.”
“Aw-w-w ----, I didn’t mean it that-away.”
Marshall’s tone was contrite and he grasped Peace by the arm.
“You make me so ---- mad, Peace! I say things that I don’t mean,
don’tcha know it? Yo’re the best danged----”
Marshall stopped and glared toward the porch.
“Peace River Parker, I--I dunno.”
Peace smiled at Marshall’s serious face.
“What do yuh reckon I better do, Marshall?”
“Do?”
The mustaches bristled again.
“By grab, if it was me, I’d go up there and--uh----”
“No, yuh wouldn’t.”
Peace shook his head.
“Now let me tell yuh about me, Cross L. Jess is of age. She can do about
as she pleases. If Frank Campion comes to see her, what right have I got
to object?”
Peace smiled softly and shook his head.
“He ain’t comin’ to see me.”
“My gosh, you two are engaged, ain’tcha?”
“Ye-e-es, but we ain’t married, Cross L.”
“All right, all right! None of my ---- business, eh? Ain’t got nothin’
t’ say about who I git for a son-in-law, eh? This is gittin’ to be a
fine country. Feller can’t have nothin’. When that Campion leaves, I’m
goin’ t’ give Jess a little ---- of a good talk, y’betcha.”
“You let her alone,” advised Peace coldly.
“Thasso?” Marshall squinted closely at Peace.
“Say, what in ----’s the matter with you? Don’tcha want her?”
Peace stared at Marshall for a moment and then stooped over to unbuckle
one of his spurs. It took several moments to remove the two spurs, which
gave him time to evade the direct question.
“That gray bronc bucked half-way to End-Gate Creek this mornin,’ Cross
L. Dang near made me grab leather. Ain’t been shook up thataway for
quite a while. Ought to sell him to Barney Edwards, I reckon. Barney is
pickin’ up broncs for some of the Eastern rodeos, and that gray would
make some of them contesters ride high and handsome, y’betcha.”
“Uh-huh,” uninterestedly. “You do it. Didja hear anythin’ new in Tarp
City?”
Peace shook his head.
“No-o-o. I kinda thought I’d hear from Gus Sinks, but there wasn’t no
word. Feller from Sun Prairie said that the feed was pretty good agin.
They had a good lot of rain up there, he said.
“I told Gus to let me know if he got any kind of an offer for them
sheep, but I don’t reckon there’s been any buyers through there lately.
I’d sure like to get them off my hands.”
Cross L Marshall grunted explosively and Peace turned. Frank Campion had
vaulted the porch-rail and was preparing to mount the black horse. Jess
Marshall, dressed all in white, leaned across the railing and talked to
him.
From his raiment, Frank Campion was either a range dandy or a “dude
cowboy,” just out of college. He was dark complexioned, thin-faced
and sported a tiny mustache. His hair was so sleek that it glistened
in the sun like patent-leather and was of the latest approved cut.
His clothes, patterned after the range fashion, were of the finest
quality, but he mounted his horse with the ease and grace of a top-hand
cowpuncher.
Cross L Marshall was swearing softly to himself, as Campion galloped
away toward the main road, and Peace River looked curiously at him.
Jess had turned away from their sight.
“What you got against Campion?” asked Peace.
“Not a danged thing! I just hate the name, Peace. Once upon a time,
I knocked ---- out of a Campion. It was down in Wyoming a long time
ago. I reckon it was a dirty deal, but I was kinda young and wild in
them days.
“I know yuh won’t repeat it so I’ll tell yuh how it was. Me and Joe
Campion was bunkies in them days. It was a lot easier to lift a bunch
of cows than to work at forty a month; so we kinda helped ourselves.
“We was around the town of Searchlight, if I remember right. Anyway, me
and Joe got stuck on the same girl. We had a bunch of cows tucked away
on a branch of Lost Cow river, waitin’ for the right time to drift ’em
across the divide.
“Then we proceeds to git stuck on this girl. I reckon we made love
jist like we stole cows--kinda fast-like. If that girl had been twins,
everythin’ would ’a’ been fine, but one girl ain’t enough for two
gunpackin’ lovers. Anyway,” Marshall spat reflectively, “we settled it
out of court and I hammered ---- out of Joe.”
“Bein’ a pair of danged fools, I reckon we thought that settled which
one was to get the girl. Anyway, Joe had a danged mean disposition and
he goes to the sheriff and has a talk with him about me.
“’Course I don’t know this until the sheriff asks me to rattle my hocks
out of town. He says that I’m suspected of covetin’ my neighbor’s
property and that I’d better high-tail it out while the gate is open.
“Me and him kinda talks things over and I finds that this danged Campion
is responsible. Joe decides to set the law on my trail. Then I asks the
sheriff how he’d like to put the deadwood on a rustler and I finds him
plumb willin’.”
Marshall laughed shortly.
“I was mad then and I’m mad yet. I told the sheriff where to find that
bunch of cows, and if he watched long enough he’d find the man who put
’em there. Then I went to Joe and told him I was foggin’ out that night,
’cause the sheriff was onto me. Joe sure sympathized a heap with me and
promised to split the cow money with me later on.
“And that was the last time I ever heard of the dirty pup. I never heard
what happened. He sure tried to frame me into the penitentiary and beat
me out of the girl I had won with m’ bare hands.”
“Didja go and tell the girl good-by?” asked Peace.
“---- no! She was the sheriff’s daughter.”
Marshall chuckled and bit off a fresh chew, while Peace leaned against
the bunkhouse door and grinned at Marshall.
“I’ll bet you was a tough rooster when you was young, Cross L.”
“Dang right! Play ’em high and sleep in the street--that was me. But I
had brains when it come to wimmin.’”
Peace smiled softly and shook his head.
“I don’t s’pose I have,” he admitted, “but I’ll likely tell somebody
that I did have--when I get older. Lookin’ back kinda gives folks a
wrong impression of what they’ve done.
“I ain’t never got the combination, Cross L. Women, to me, is a heap
like a roulette wheel. I guess red and she comes black. I’ll bet on
a horse, but never on a woman. I reckon that God A’mighty made ’em
thataway on purpose, so that a fool man won’t get so smart that he
thinks he knows it all.”
“Meanin’ that I don’t know wimmin, Peace River?”
“Yeah. And meanin’ that you know ---- well yuh don’t. Want me to bring
them Herefords up from the Bar X Bar tomorrow?”
“Always want to change the subject, when it’s somethin’ I know all
about,” complained Cross L. “Talk cows! You don’t know nothin’ but
cows, Peace River Parker. I wish t’gosh yuh knows more about wimmin.
I hope that Campion gits bucked off on his vas-leen hair and skids
plumb out of Chinook Valley, that’s what I wish. But--” quickly--“he
sure does _sabe_ wimmin’, y’betcha.”
* * * * *
The Valley of the Chinook was practically a mountain-locked stronghold
of the cattlemen. It was about thirty miles in length with an average
width of seven miles. At the north end of the valley several glacier-fed
streams met to form the Chinook River, which wound its crooked way
southward, feeding from more tributaries until it roared its formidable
way out through a snake-like box cañon at the extreme south end and
joined with the Fossilshell River twenty miles beyond.
Poncho Pass, a V-shaped notch in the cliffs which encircled the valley,
was the only well-known entrance and exit. The road was a succession of
narrow grades, climbing out of the valley to where it sloped sharply off
to the shipping center, Tarp City.
Pasiooks was the only town in the valley and was situated nearly
midway. At one time it had been an old French trading post, and the
Indians named it with the Chinook word which meant French. Pasiooks
was about thirty miles from Tarp City, which was the county seat of
that particular county.
The Chinook was a cattlemen’s paradise, and many a stock-man looked with
envious eyes upon the rolling hills, the many cottonwood lined streams
which furnished an abundance of water and the encircling, impassable
range of mountains which precluded any chance of cattle-stealing and
served to break the force of Winter storms.
With Poncho Pass as the only outlet, horse and cattle thieves left
Chinook severely alone. The sheep-men grumbled at the name. Their
only range, the Sun Prairie country, was sheeped out and dotted with
the bones of blizzard and drouth victims. To the south of them was
the Fossilshell cattle range, where cowpunchers rode the dead-line,
that no sheep might stray across.
But the cattlemen of the Chinook lived secure in their own tight little
valley, herded their fat cattle over Poncho Pass to the loading pens at
Tarp City, banked their checks at Pasiooks and waited for the next herd
to fatten on the rich bunch-grass.
Bart Severn had owned the Three Dot outfit for several years and was
rated as a rich man, but he hated the narrow confines of the Chinook,
and when Frank Campion offered a big price for the Three Dot, Severn
sold out to him.
The price was almost prohibitive, but Campion paid it willingly. He
proved himself to be a plunger; a gambler who played money instead of
his cards. Instead of keeping the Three Dot cowpunchers he brought in
“Tiny” Bender, a giant of a man, Gus Mehl and “Blackie” Erne.
They were all capable looking men and minded their own business. Once a
month they went on a “bust” in Tarp City, and Frank Campion went with
them. Bender, Mehl and Erne did not associate with any of the Chinook
punchers, but seemed to hold themselves aloof.
But Frank Campion was a “mixer.” He drank hard, rode wildly and was
belligerent in his cups but he also danced well, sang in a ringing
baritone voice and never seemed to lack for something to say. There
was no denying the fact that Frank Campion was fast becoming the most
popular young bachelor in the Valley of the Chinook.
Peace River Parker had been foreman for the Cross-L for a long time, and
was respected by every man and woman in the valley. A few months prior
to this time, Peace had just finished a prison term although innocent of
the charge.
His return had stopped a sheep invasion of the valley, and ended in the
death of the invaders after Peace’s innocence of the former charge had
been proven.
And Peace Parker had inherited the sheep, as a payment for the years
he had lost in the prison. One of the guilty parties, a weasel-faced
outlaw, Gus Sinks, whom Peace had saved from the enraged citizens of
Tarp City, had been sentenced by Peace to herd that particular band
of sheep.
And Gus Sinks went gladly. He would have walked through burning
brimstone for Peace River Parker. Sinks was a one-idea man and that
idea was to serve Peace Parker regardless of what it might entail.
Thereupon he trailed the big herd of bleating sheep into a land which
was cursed by all cowpunchers and became a sheepherder.
And to a cattleman or cowpuncher, “Greater love hath no man shown than
to turn shepherd through friendship.”
Peace Parker was engaged to Jess Marshall, but, as Peace told Cross L
Marshall, they were not married yet. Jess Marshall’s mother was dead,
but she had left Jess a sweet disposition and capabilities beyond those
of the average girl. Jess was not a beautiful girl, as beauty standards
are measured, but she was attractive and worth looking at more than
once.
Peace Parker had worshiped her for years, and she had confessed her love
for him, but still he hesitated over the marriage problem.
“Yuh gotta be sure, Peace River,” he told himself time and again. “I’m
sure about me, but can she look across the table three times a day at
this face of mine and still keep her sweet disposition? I’d hate to
think she can’t, but I’d rather find it out ahead of time.”
He did not show by word or deed that he resented the visits of Frank
Campion which were becoming more frequent. He did not mention it to
Jess. Jim Horn and Bert Hart, the other two cowpunchers, resented it
openly. They were loyal to Peace River and agreed that Frank Campion
was breeding a lot of trouble for himself.
They knew that Peace Parker would fight a buzz-saw with his bare
hands and that no man in that country was as swift and deadly with a
six-shooter.
“I tell yuh, Campion’s goin’ to arrive home without his top-knot some
of these days,” declared Jim Horn, “and old Peace River’ll be wearin’
a vaseline-slicked scalp on his belt. Yuh can jist push the old Peace
feller so far and then somethin’ rips.”
“I’ve got a danged good notion to say somethin’ to Jess,” said Bert
Hart. “She ought to know that she’s smokin’ her pipe in a
niter-glycerin’ fact’ry.”
“You lay off that kinda stuff,” advised Jim. “She’s plumb enamored by
that slickear and if you start any argument she’ll think Peace sent
yuh.”
“Yeah, I reckon that’s right, Jim. I dunno what in ---- Campion wants a
cowranch for. If I had his money, I’d be danged if anybody could sell
me a ranch. I’d go to Helena and buy me three suits of clothes, three
shirts, three pairs of socks and some neckties. Yessir, I’d go plumb
hawg-wild on clothes. I’d get me a derby hat; one of them flat-topped
jiggers, and some heel-yuh-trope per-fume. Mamma mine, I’d sure hang on
the dog! That’s the way to do when yuh got money.”
“I wouldn’t.”
Jim stretched out in the shade of the bunk-house and began rolling a
cigaret.
“I’d buy me a ---- of a good bronc and I’d hit for the South Sea
Islands. I’m plumb sick and tired of wearin’ flannel underclothes and
buckin’ blizzards in the Winter. They say that folks don’t have to wear
flannels down there in the Winter, and that’s the range I’m headin’ for
when I get rich.”
“You’ve got a ---- of a idea of how to spend money!” snorted Bert. “Yuh
don’t need money down there.”
“Tha’s all right, Bert. Anythin’ to get rid of wearin’ them danged
woolly shirts. I can go there if I want to, can’t I? You ain’t tryin’
to stop me, are yuh?”
“Go ahead,” magnanimously. “Don’t let me stop yuh, cowboy. I’ll take
mine to Helena and buy out a clothing store. I’ve allus wanted one of
them flat-topped derby hats.”
All of which serves to give an idea of the lofty ambitions of Bert Hart
and Jim Horn. In appearance they were as unlike as their ambitions. Jim
was thin, dark of features and with a crooked nose, while Bert was
fleshy, blond, and his fat face was decorated with a stubby nose, almost
bridgeless. His eyes were set far apart and almost Oriental in contour.
But they were both top-hands in the rangeland and had been with the
Cross L for more than two years.
* * * * *
The visits of Frank Campion annoyed Cross L Marshall. He spluttered and
----ed everybody for everything, but did not speak about it to Jess. He
knew her too well for that. She was a chip off the old block, as far as
resenting interference was concerned, and Cross L knew that a word from
him would not be well received.
Which accounts for the fact that Cross L did not keep his word and “give
her a little ---- of a good talk, y’betcha.”
Peace was in his usual good humor that evening and several times he
caught Jess watching him from across the supper table. He felt that
she was comparing him to Frank Campion and it made him conscious of
the fact that, as far as facial and tonsorial beauty was concerned,
he was hardly a match.
But he felt no anger against Campion; none against Jess. Perhaps, down
deep in his big heart he felt a bitter ache against an unkind fate, but
he was big enough to keep it hidden.
“It’ll all come out in the wash,” he assured himself that night. “I
reckon I’m playin’ for the Double O on this old human roulette wheel
and there’s a lot of odds agin’ me. Mebbe the old dealer has got the
thing fixed, but I’m still hopin’ to win out. If I don’t, I’m just a
homely old cowpuncher, and I’ll get along--kinda.”
The next day was Saturday and pay-day, which was the big day for the
cowpuncher. Hart and Horn both decided to go to Tarp City; so Peace,
needing a new pair of overalls and boots, decided to go with them.
Peace decided to leave the Bar X Bar Herefords until Monday, as both
of his cowpunchers were eager for a fling at the Tarp City games. Just
before they saddled their horses, Frank Campion, Mehl, Erne and Bender
rode past, heading toward the Pass. They did not even wave toward the
Cross L boys, but swept past at a gallop, looking straight ahead.
“Them jaspers need a curryin’,” growled Hart. “You’d think they was the
four kings of Calcutta.”
Hart knew nothing of kings and less of Calcutta, but no one disputed his
statement.
“They sure are uppity as ----!”
Jim Horn grunted an agreement as he shook out his rope.
“Mebbe,” thoughtfully, “somebody will curry ’em.”
Peace swung his saddle off the peg and looked back at Jim.
“Keep clear of that gang, if yuh know what’s good for yuh, Jim,” he
said slowly. “Bender looks like he could whip a dozen men at once, and
they’re all slickers with a gun, if yuh can judge by the way they wear
’em.”
“Sa-a-ay!” drawled Jim in astonishment. “You ain’t scared of that
outfit, are yuh, Peace River?”
“Well,” Peace grinned softly and unfolded a gaudy saddle-blanket, “I
ain’t scared--no. You fellers might drink quite a lot tonight, and
whisky kinda makes a feller cover too much territory in his remarks.
Whisky sure spoils yore sense of distance, direction and discretion,
and I don’t want no cripples loafin’ around here.”
“We’ll get a lunch while they’re gettin’ a feast,” said Hart meaningly,
but added quickly, “we ain’t startin’ no trouble, yuh understand, but
we’ll be Johnny at the rat-hole if it does start.”
Peace smiled softly and led the way out to the corral. He knew that the
two cowboys, after a few drinks, would not wait for trouble to start and
he hated to think that they might tangle with the Campion gang.
With practically all of the cowboys from Chinook and those from the
Fossilshell in Tarp City, there was no chance that a trouble hunter
would not be accommodated. He knew that Buck Houston, the sheriff,
would keep order as long as possible to salve his own conscience and
then go home, trusting in the Lord that nothing serious would happen.
Barney McManus, the deputy, would dog Houston’s footsteps until Houston
went home, and then Barney would proceed to forget that he was the sole
representative of law and order and become an ordinary cowpuncher again
with a cowpuncher’s idea of things as they should be.
Tarp City was a he-man’s town on payday, and Peace Parker found the
hitch-racks already filled when they rode in dusty and tired from the
trip. Hart and Horn immediately stabled their horses, but Peace tied
his to a hitch-rack, along with a nondescript lot of broncos from the
Fossilshell.
Across the street in front of the Royal saloon he saw the four
saddle-horses from the Three Dot. Campion had ridden the racy-looking
black, which was salty with dried sweat and looked leg-weary. Peace
frowned slightly. He loved a good horse and he knew that Campion had
given the black a grueling run to Tarp City and had left it in the
chill winds of the street, instead of giving it a blanket and a stall
in the livery-barn.
Peace and his two men had taken the trip easy and, in range parlance,
had not laid a hair, but Peace had insisted on Hart and Horn stabling
their horses for the night.
Peace met Sheriff Houston at the door of Carney’s General Merchandise
Store and shook hands with him. Houston was a portly man, middle-aged
and serious of mien.
“Glad to see yuh, Peace,” greeted the sheriff. “How’s everythin’ in the
Chinook?”
“Kinda gettin’ along,” grinned Peace. “How’s Tarp?”
“Well,” Houston indicated the filled hitch-racks, with a flirt of his
hand, “yuh can see that the census is about filled t’day. There’s a few
yet t’ come from Chinook, but I reckon that most of Fossilshell is here
a’ready.”
“Good business for Tarp City,” observed Peace.
“Yeah,” grudgingly, “but ---- bad business for the sheriff’s office. Who
owns that black race horse over there at the Royal rack, Peace?”
“Campion. That’s his reg’lar mount, I reckon. Looks like a runnin’
son-of-a-gun, don’t it?”
“Uh-huh. What kind of a feller is Campion?”
“All right, I reckon.”
“Which he ain’t,” declared Houston. “No man’s all right that runs the
tripe out of a blooded animal and leaves it out that-away.”
“Mebbe he’s just thoughtless,” suggested Peace.
“Um-m-m, mebbe. Know anythin’ about his gang?”
Peace shook his head.
“No. Yuh see, they don’t mix with us much. Look like a bunch of
top-hands, though, and it’s their business if they want to be lonesome.”
“Don’t you never dislike anybody enough t’ say somethin’ against ’em,
Peace River? You’d say somethin’ good of the ----, wouldn’t yuh?”
“Well,” grinned Peace, “it wouldn’t hurt me none and it might do him
some good, don’tcha think? Yuh can’t expect old Nick to ever do any
good, with everybody down on him the way they are.”
“All right, I pass,” laughed Houston.
Barney McManus came out of the store and his wrinkled face broke into
a smile at sight of Peace. Barney was one of the old Chinook Valley
punchers, prematurely old in appearance, and filled with the belief
that anything a cowpuncher did was the right thing.
“Ah-h-h!” grunted Barney. “The meanest man in the old Valley comes to
visit us, does he?”
“Hello, you old bog-trotter,” greeted Peace.
“Bog-trotter, eh? Is that all the respect ye have for the law, Peace
Parker? Will ye answer me one question by yes or no?”
“Sure,” grinned Peace.
“Well,” Barney grinned expansively, “have ye quit rustlin’ cattle for
the Cross L?”
Peace looked at him blankly for a moment.
“I’ll buy the drink, Barney.”
“That makes five already today,” chuckled Barney. “Nobody seems to want
to incriminate themselves. Sure, it’s a elegant question, but I’ve got
to quit askin’ it. When do we accept your kind offer?”
Houston nodded to Peace’s unspoken question, and the three of them
crossed toward the Royal saloon. Hart and Horn were coming down the
street from the livery-stable and joined them at the saloon door.
The saloon was nearly filled with men and the games were all running
full-blast. There were a number of cowpunchers from the Fossilshell
at the bar, acting like a lot of kids just out of school. They fell
upon Houston and insisted that the drinks were on Fossilshell. The
boys from the Chinook were included in the invitation, but Gus Mehl,
who had been drinking heavily, moved away from the bar.
One of the Fossilshell cowboys, evidently considering this an insult to
their hospitality, said to Mehl--
“Pardner, that invite went to everybody at the bar.”
Mehl laughed crookedly and shook his head. His face was flushed from
liquor and his step was none too steady.
“Thasall right,” he gulped. “I don’t mind drinkin’ with you
Fossilshellers, but I ain’t drinkin’ with everybody.”
“Meanin’ us?” queried Bert Hart quickly, but Peace grasped Bert by the
arm.
Mehl laughed mockingly. He was all primed for trouble, but hardly drunk
enough to lose sight of the fact that the odds were against him.
“Meanin’ what I mean,” he replied slowly. “I drink with who I ----
please; _sabe_?”
“Yo’re plumb welcome,” said Horn meaningly, shoving away from the bar,
but the sheriff blocked him from Mehl.
“Wait a minute,” begged the sheriff. “This ain’t worth havin’ trouble
over, boys. If the gent from the Three Dot don’t want to drink, he don’t
drink. But,” he added meaningly, “the gent from the Three Dot might at
least decline in a gentlemanly way.”
Houston’s manner amused Peace, who grinned widely.
“Funny, ain’t it!” sneered Mehl drunkenly. “Yo’re the notorious Peace
River Parker, ain’t yuh? Understand that they think yo’re a little tin
god around here. Well,” Mehl braced himself carefully, “I want to tell
yuh right now that us fellers from the Three Dot ain’t worshipin’ no
tin gods. What do yuh think of that?”
“Well, I think yo’re wise,” grinned Peace.
“Yuh do, eh? Pullin’ in yore horns. Blah! Somebody told me that you was
a fighter. Huh! Somebody lied!”
Mehl turned and lurched away toward a roulette table, swaggering
drunkenly, bumping into every one who got in his way. The crowd at the
bar turned back to their drinks, but Hart and Horn continued to glare
at Mehl.
“Let him alone,” advised Peace. “He’s drunk and ain’t responsible.”
But Mehl was not through yet. Campion was at the poker table and Mehl
caught sight of him.
“Hey, Frank!”
Mehl’s voice was pitched high enough to be heard above the roar of
conversation.
“I curried the he-buzzard of Chinook. Made Peace Parker swaller his
talk, y’betcha. I betcha he’ll be good, or I’ll ride him ag’in.”
Many of the crowd looked toward the bar, but Peace did not even look
at Mehl. Bert Hart fidgeted around, casting imploring glances toward
Peace, who continued to talk with the sheriff. Barney nudged in closer
and whispered to Peace--
“Wait’ll the sheriff sneaks home, and then yuh can have plenty of room
to put a sharp point on that jasper’s head.”
Peace grinned and turned away from the bar. Mehl was still crowing loud
enough for every one to hear. Bender was bucking the faro game and Erne
was playing roulette, but neither of them was paying any attention to
Mehl.
“Well, I reckon I’ll have to leave yuh,” observed Peace, “I’ve gotta get
me a pair of boots and some overalls before the store closes.”
“Aw-w, shucks!” exploded Horn. “That hombre will think he run yuh out of
Tarp City, Peace.”
“Well,” grinned Peace, “it won’t hurt me none and it may do him some
good. You and Bert keep half-way sober. It looks like there might be
storm and strife around here before long and you’ll be danged well
off if yuh ain’t mixed into it.”
“Sure, we’ll be meek like two lambs,” agreed Horn.
Peace turned and walked out of the door. Mehl saw him go and a drunken
grin wreathed his lips. He thought he had run Peace Parker out of the
saloon. But he was not content. His one-idea brain pictured more honors
to come; so he lurched through the crowd and followed Peace, who crossed
the street and went into a general store.
Bert Hart saw Mehl leave the room and motioned Horn to follow. Campion
was watching Mehl, and when Hart and Horn started for the door, Campion
drew out of the game and came out behind them. Mehl lurched across the
wooden sidewalk and in through the open door.
The two cowpunchers stopped just outside the saloon door, as did Frank
Campion. They watched him closely, but he paid them no heed.
Suddenly the door of the store banged open and out came Peace Parker
with Mehl in his arms. He walked deliberately to the edge of the
sidewalk and cast Mehl into the street where he rolled over and over.
Then he tossed Mehl’s gun into the dust, adjusted his own belt, turned
his back and walked into the store.
Mehl got to his feet, staggered a circle and looked back at the store.
Twice he tried before he could pick up his gun and then he came back
toward the saloon. Both of his eyes were assuming a mauve tint and he
seemed rather at a loss to know what had happened.
He halted at the edge of the sidewalk, looked back and then at Campion.
“Di’zuh see it?” he demanded.
“You are a ---- fool, Mehl!” declared Campion.
“Oh, tha’ was it, eh?”
Mehl blinked owlishly through his swollen eyes and began to pity
himself. Whisky tears started and he became very indignant.
“Oh, shut up!” snapped Campion. “You’re partly to blame, but he had no
right to hit you when you were drunk.”
“Is--that--so?” drawled Hart. “Kinda looks to me like Peace Parker held
off a ---- long time. If it had been me I’d ’a’ popped him ten minutes
ago. He was lookin’ for it.”
“Is this any of your business?” demanded Campion.
“We kinda act thataway, don’t we?”
Campion did not seem to have a ready reply; so he herded Mehl inside
the saloon, while the two cowboys grinned gleefully and slapped each
other on the back.
“Let’s go back and have another snifter,” invited Hart. “It’s worth
a drink to see old Peace hoodle that bad jasper out of the store.
Whoo-ee! Mehl lit settin’ down and about tomorrow he’ll be ridin’
with short stirrups.”
* * * * *
They went back to the bar, but did not neglect to see what was going on.
Campion had gone to the roulette layout and was talking earnestly to
Erne. He turned from there and strolled over to the faro table where he
stopped long enough to speak to Bender.
Bender listened closely, glanced around the room and nodded. Mehl had
sat down near the poker table and was holding his head in his hands.
The sheriff had left the saloon, and was, no doubt, on his way home,
but Barney McManus had anchored himself into a poker game and proceeded
to forget that he represented the law of Tarp City.
The two cowpunchers leaned back against the bar and watched
developments. Bender cashed in his chips and joined Erne who also
quit playing. They came over to the bar and had a drink, but neither
of them even looked at the two from the Cross L.
“We better stable our broncs,” said Bender quietly. “No use leavin’ ’em
out there at a hitch-rack.”
Erne nodded and they went out of the door. Campion was watching the
poker game and did not look up as his two men left the place, but the
Cross L boys followed them outside and watched them lead their horses
down the street toward the livery-stable.
There was nothing about their actions to excite the suspicions of any
one, but Jim Horn was not satisfied that everything was all right.
“I dunno,” declared Jim. “Campion never took the trouble to go around
whisperin’ to them jaspers to go and put their broncs in the stable.”
“Aw, I reckon it’s all right,” replied Bert. “Mebbe they ain’t got sense
enough to do it without bein’ told. Let’s go back and enjoy the fullness
of the season.”
Peace Parker completed his purchases, talked a few minutes with Bill
Carney and decided to go back to the Cross L. He gave little thought to
his trouble with Mehl, blaming most of it to liquor, and sorry that he
was forced to knock Mehl down and throw him out of the store; but Mehl
was trying to draw a gun.
“I wouldn’t never monkey with them kinda people,” declared Carney. “You
didn’t learn him nothin’, Peace. My motter is to hit ’em so ---- hard on
the head that it’ll bust the arches of their feet.”
“He was just drunk, Bill,” protested Peace.
“Thasso? Lemme tell yuh, pardner, that a man’s disposition only shows
when he’s drunk. That jasper’s a trouble hunter, but when he’s sober
he ain’t got the nerve. You watch him.”
“All right, Bill.” Peace laughed and picked up his bundles. “See yuh
later.”
As Peace crossed the street toward the hitch-rack he saw Campion come
out of the Royal and also start for the rack. He was paying no attention
to Peace. His black horse was at the nearer rack, but he passed it and
went on toward where Peace’s horse was tied.
Peace expected Campion to continue on up the street, but he stopped at
the rack and waited for Peace to arrive. At this moment Bender and Erne
came from the rear of the feed store and approached the sidewalk beyond
the hitch-rack.
Peace nodded to Campion and began fastening his purchases to his saddle.
Bender and Erne came in closer and stopped near Campion.
“Didja want to see me for somethin’?” asked Peace, turning his head
toward Campion.
“Yeah,” Campion nodded quickly. “I just wanted to know what was the
trouble between you and Gus Mehl.”
“Oh!” Peace finished tying his bundles and turned.
“Why, I dunno exactly what was the trouble, Campion.”
“That’s what I thought. I don’t suppose you stopped to think that Mehl
was drunk, did you?”
“Yeah, I know he’s drunk.”
“Well, I want you to understand that I’m not drunk.”
“No-o-o, I wouldn’t say that yuh was--but yuh ain’t far from it.”
Peace grinned widely at Bender and Erne, but only received black looks
for his trouble.
“Is that so?”
Campion’s face grew tense and the muscles twitched around his eyes.
“Now, let’s be reasonable,” urged Peace softly. “Yo’re all warmed up
over somethin’, and I can’t see no reason for us havin’ trouble. Mehl
got drunk and tried to abuse me. I got away from him, but he follered
me and tried to draw his gun. I’d ’a’ been justified in pluggin’ him,
but he was too slow with his gun; so I just knocked him loose from
the floor and threw him out.”
“You’re so ---- fast yourself, I suppose?”
“No, I don’t claim to bust no records, Campion.”
Peace turned to his horse and prepared to mount, but Campion was not
through yet. He moved in closer.
“You know what I think of anybody that’ll hit a drunk man?” he asked.
Peace turned and looked closely at the three men.
“Campion,” Peace spoke softly and without a trace of nervousness. “I
don’t want trouble with you. You’ve brought two of your men with you
to see that yuh don’t get hurt, and that kinda puts me in a bad hole.
“I ain’t got no quarrel with you. I didn’t want to hurt yore cowboy, but
he insisted on it. Now, let it go as it lays.”
Campion laughed sarcastically.
“I looked for you to say that, Parker. You’ve got a ---- of a big
reputation around here, but you ain’t got the guts to protect it. We’ve
heard that you are a fighter, but this part of the country must be awful
shy on fighting material to speak of you that way.”
“I s’pose,” nodded Peace and turned back.
He was trying his best to avoid trouble, but Campion was in no mood to
be pacified. He felt that Peace was afraid of trouble, and it made him
more abusive. Campion had drunk just enough to make him reckless of
words.
“You suppose, do you?” sneered Campion. “You’re a four-flusher, Parker.
These two men of mine have nothing to do with this, if that’s holding
you back. I think you are a big-mouthed quitter, and I’ve a ---- good
notion to----”
“With your gun or your hands?” Peace turned quickly, a wide grin on his
face, but his eyes were not smiling.
Campion jerked back slightly. He had not expected Peace to accept his
challenge, and now that it was put directly up to him, he hardly knew
what to say.
Peace shook his head.
“Campion, you don’t want trouble with me. You think it over for a while
and you’ll see just how foolish yo’re actin’.”
For a moment Campion only stared at him and Peace turned to reach for
the tie-rope, but a wave of anger flashed across Campion’s face and he
stepped in closer, grasping Peace by the arm, as though to whirl him
around.
And if that was Campion’s intention, the results far exceeded his
expectations, because Peace turned like a flash and his right fist
caught Campion square in the face. The blow struck too high for a
knock-out, but it sent Campion off his feet and he went down on the
back of his neck in the dust.
The action had been so sudden that Bender and Erne had no time to
assist Campion, and Peace was facing them, smiling easily, his right
hand swinging near the butt of his holstered gun.
Campion struggled to his feet and stood there in sort of a daze, looking
at the man who had hit him, but making no further effort to continue the
battle. Bert Hart and Jim Horn were hurrying from the Royal, and several
men were crossing from the opposite side of the street.
There was nothing dapper looking about Campion now. The bridge of his
nose was skinned badly and one eye was fast swelling shut. He was still
dazed from the blow, but fully realized what had happened and his face
was white with hate against the man who had knocked him down.
Suddenly his right hand flashed toward the butt of his gun. It was an
unlooked for action on the part of every one, except Peace Parker,
whose hand jerked upward from his side and he shot directly from his
hip.
Campion jerked sideways and his gun thudded into the dust. Whether
through accident or design, Peace’s bullet had smashed into the curving
butt of Campion’s gun, splintering the bone handle and cutting Campion’s
fingers badly.
Bender and Erne made no move, as Campion looked down at his crippled
hand and cursed wickedly. Jim Horn was standing directly behind
Bender and Erne, waiting for either of them to make a hostile move.
Erne glanced back at him, turned on his heel and went back toward the
saloon, with Bender following him.
There was an awkward silence for several moments and Campion picked up
his hat, dusted it off against his knee, his face a mixture of anger
and chagrin. Then he walked to the hitch-rack, mounted his horse and
rode away.
Bender and Erne watched him from the saloon door, and, in a few moments,
went toward the livery-stable. Campion was heading straight toward the
Poncho Pass road.
Peace shook his head at the crowd, which volleyed him with questions as
to the why and wherefore of this trouble.
“Just foolishness,” said Peace, but Bert and Jim led him away from the
crowd.
“It was a frame-up,” declared Jim. “We seen Campion whisper to Bender
and Erne, and then they took their horses to the livery-stable--or said
they was goin’ to and we seen ’em go down there.
“We didn’t see Campion go out, and Bender and Erne didn’t come back. A
little later I looked out back of the Royal, and there was two of them
Three Dot horses tied to that old corral fence. They’d made a bluff to
stable ’em, but circled back and tied to the fence. Me and Bert fogged
out to the street just in time to see yuh swat Mr. Campion.”
“Well, I dunno what they want to frame up on me for,” grinned Peace. “I
never done nothin’ to them.”
“Don’t make no never mind,” Jim shook his head. “It was all framed,
Peace.”
“Wait a minute,” said Bert, and bow-legged his way to the rear of the
feed store.
He came back in a minute and grinned wonderingly.
“Both broncs are gone. I’ll betcha that all three of them jaspers has
headed for home.”
Peace grinned thoughtfully, as he walked back to his horse and swung
into the saddle.
“We’ll be home by Monday mornin’,” assured Jim.
Peace nodded and rode away slowly. It was a long, hard ride to the Cross
L, but Peace was in no hurry. Ahead of him was Campion, Bender and Erne,
somewhere along the high grades of Poncho Pass.
“They knew I was ready to go home,” reflected Peace, “and them pullin’
out of town thataway don’t look good to me a-tall. Cowpunchers don’t
leave a saloon on payday without a danged good reason. Mebbe they’re
lookin’ for me.”
* * * * *
The sun was setting behind the V-shaped notch of Poncho Pass and the
graded road was already plunged into the shadows of evening, when Peace
drew rein and scanned the country about him.
To the left was a rocky, brush-covered hog-back ridge, which broke
sharply against the cliffs beyond. There was little footing for a
horse and no sign of a trail, but Peace urged his horse off the road
and up this ridge.
Twisting in and out of the brush, he gradually climbed until the road
was far below him. Then he swung to the left through a rocky swale and
along the north side of a rock-bound cañon.
There he picked up what might have been an old, old trail, which led
down across the cañon and angled up the other side among the barren
rocks. A bevy of blue-grouse whirred up about him, came to roost in
the branches of a stunted pine and craned their necks curiously at
him.
A little beyond there a mule-deer crossed the ridge ahead of him,
stopped and looked him over curiously. Then it whistled and bounded
heavily down the hill, disappearing in the trees.
Peace was following the marks of the old trail now, paying no attention
to the back trail. This was the one secret way into the Valley of the
Chinook and was only known to a few men, who guarded the secret well.
He came at last to the beetling crags which marked the timber-line, and
the trail led him down over the lip of another narrow cleft, where he
angled his way to the slope of the valley side. It was not a difficult
pass, but no one would ever look for it at that part of the range. Those
who knew of it only used it at rare times and were careful not to follow
exactly the same route, except through the very pass itself.
It was fast growing dark when Peace started down the rocky slope that
led to the foothills of the valley. Below him the valley seemed a huge,
mystic bowl, rimmed with a jagged edge which was high-lighted with the
gold of sunset.
Slowly he descended into the purple shadows. About a mile further down
he came to the beginning of a well-beaten trail, where the cattle had
cut deeply into the ground on their way to water.
He rode beside this trail, where his horse’s tracks would not show in
the dust. It was a long way from the secret pass, but Peace did not
want his horse’s track even to show up there.
He drew rein beside the trail and looked back up the dim slopes behind
him. He could see only a short distance, but he had a vague feeling that
something was behind him. He grinned at his own foolish imagination and
began to manufacture a cigaret.
He hesitated about scratching a match. Suddenly he heard a sound. It was
like the click of a shod hoof on stone. Quickly he turned away from the
trail and rode further back into the jack-pine thicket, where he stopped
to listen. The sound was not repeated. Unluckily he had moved too far
back to catch a view of the trail.
Once he thought he heard the jingle of a bit-chain, but decided that
it was his imagination. He waited for perhaps ten minutes before going
back to the trail. There he dismounted, lighted his cigaret and held
the match close to the dusty trail.
He examined it closely for a few moments, pinched out the match and
swung back into his saddle. In the trail was the well-defined track of a
horse, heading down into the valley, and the track showed that the horse
was shod with thin shoes--almost as light as racing-plates.
“Campion followed me through,” reflected Peace wonderingly. “He must ’a’
swung in behind me and watched me leave the road.”
Far down in the valley an owl hooted dismally, and from the timber-line
a coyote seemed to answer with a wailing howl. Peace ground the lighted
end of his cigaret against the leg of his chaps, settled himself in his
saddle and went slowly down the trail toward the Cross L.
* * * * *
Sunday was a dull day at the Cross L. Peace slept late and was only
awakened by the sound of a wagon leaving the ranch, as Cross L Marshall
took Jess to church at Pasiooks.
It was an ordeal for Cross L, this Sunday pilgrimage to the little
church; an hour or so of misery, while he listened to the denunciation
of sin, which the minister seemed to point directly to him. Cross L
hated to _have_ to do anything, and hoped for the day when Jess might
have a man to take her to church, and let her tired old dad sleep late
and loaf around the house in his slippers, instead of going to church
in a pair of creaking, palpably new Sunday boots and a suit of black,
uncomfortable clothes.