THE OLLA
The Spider's system of bookkeeping was simple, requiring neither pen
nor paper, journal nor day-book. He kept a kind of mental loose-leaf
ledger with considerable accuracy, auditing his accounts with
impartiality. For example, Scar-Face and three companions just up from
the border recently had been credited with twenty head of Mexican
cattle which were now grazing on The Spider's border ranch, the Olla.
Scar-Face had attempted to sell the cattle to the leader of a Mexican
faction whose only assets at the time were ammunition and hope.
Scar-Face had met this chieftain by appointment at an abandoned
ranch-house. Argument ensued. The Mexican talked grandiloquently of
"Liberty, Fraternity, and Equality." Scar-Face held out for cash. The
Mexican leader needed beef. Scar-Face needed money. As he had rather
carelessly informed the Mexican that he could deliver the cattle
immediately, and realizing his mistake,--for he knew that the Mexican
would straightway summon his retainers and take the cattle in the name
of "Liberty, Fraternity, and Equality,"--Scar-Face promptly shot this
self-appointed savior of Mexico, mortally wounded one of his two
companions, and finally persuaded the other to help drift the cattle
north with a promise of a share of the profits of the enterprise.
The surviving Mexican rode to Showdown with Scar-Face and his
companions, received his share of the sale in cash,--which he
squandered at The Spider's place,--and straightway rode back across the
border to rejoin his captainless comrades and appoint himself their
leader, gently insinuating that he himself had shot the captain whom he
had apprehended in the treachery of betraying them to a rival
aggregation of ragged Liberties, Fraternities, and Equalities.
The Spidery mental ledger read: "Scar-Face--Debit, chuck, liquor, and
lodging"--an account of long standing--"and forty dollars in cash.
Credit--twenty head of cattle, brand unknown."
Scar-Face's account was squared--for the time being.
Pete was also on The Spider's books, and according to The Spider's
system of accounts, Pete was heavily in debt to him. Not that The
Spider would have ever mentioned this, or have tried to collect. But
when he offered Pete a job on his ranch he shrewdly put Pete in the way
of meeting his obligations.
Cattle were in demand, especially in Mexico, so ravaged by lawless
soldiery that there was nothing left to steal. One outlaw chieftain,
however, was so well established financially that his agents were able
to secure supplies from a mysterious source and pay for them with gold,
which also came from an equally mysterious source--and it was with
these agents that The Spider had had his dealings. His bank account in
El Paso was rolling up fast. Thus far he had been able to supply beef
to the hungry liberators of Mexico; but beef on the hoof was becoming
scarce on both sides of the border. Even before Pete had come to
Showdown, The Spider had perfected a plan to raid the herds of the
northern ranches. Occasional cowboys drifting to Showdown had given
him considerable information regarding the physical characteristics of
the country roundabout these ranches, the water-holes, trails, and
grazing.
The Spider knew that he could make only one such raid, with any chance
of success. If he made a drive at all, it would be on a big scale.
The cattlemen would eventually trail the first stolen herd to his
ranch. True, they would not find it there. He would see to it that
the cattle were pushed across the border without delay. But a second
attempt would be out of the question. The chief factor in the success
of the scheme would be the prompt handling of the herd upon its
arrival. He had cowboys in his employ who would steal the cattle.
What he needed was a man whom he could rely upon to check the tally and
turn the herd over to the agents of the Mexican soldiery and collect
the money on the spot, while his cowboys guarded the herd from a
possible raid by the Mexicans themselves. He knew that should the
northern ranchmen happen to organize quickly and in force, they would
not hesitate to promptly lynch the raiders, burn his buildings, take
all his horses worth taking, and generally put the ranch out of
business.
Thus far the ranch had paid well as a sort of isolated clearing-house
for The Spider's vicarious accounts. The cowboys who worked there were
picked men, each of whom received a straight salary, asked no
questions, and rode with a high-power rifle under his knee and a keen
eye toward the southern ranches.
Pete, riding south, bore an unsigned letter from The Spider, with
instructions to hand it to the foreman of "The Olla" and receive
further instructions from that gentleman. Pete knew nothing of the
contemplated raid, The Spider shrewdly surmising that Pete would balk
at the prospect of stealing cattle from his own countrymen. And it was
because of this very fact that The Spider had intrusted Pete--by letter
to the foreman--with the even greater responsibility of receiving the
money for the cattle and depositing it in a certain bank in El Paso.
Heretofore, such payments had been made to The Spider's representative
in that city--the president of the Stockmen's Security and Savings
Bank--who had but recently notified The Spider that he could no longer
act in the capacity of agent on account of local suspicion, already
voiced in the current newspapers. Hereafter The Spider would have to
deal directly with the Mexican agents. And The Spider unhesitatingly
chose Pete as his representative, realizing that Pete was shrewdly
capable, fearless, and to be trusted.
Toward evening of the third day out of Showdown, Pete came upon a most
unexpected barrier to his progress--a wire fence stretching east and
west; a seemingly endless succession of diminishing posts. He
estimated that there must he at least forty thousand acres under fence.
According to location, this was The Spider's ranch--the Olla--Pete
reined around and rode along the fence for a mile or so, searching for
a gateway; but the taut barbed wire ran on and on, toward a sun that
was rounding swiftly down to the western horizon. He dismounted and
pulled the staples from several lengths of wire until he had enough
slack to allow the top wire to touch the ground. He stood on the wires
and jockeyed Blue Smoke across, tied him to a post, and tacked the wire
back in place.
Headed south again, he had just passed a clump of chaparral when up
from the draw came a tall, muscular cowboy, riding a big horse--and a
fast one, thought Pete.
"Evenin'," drawled the cowboy--a slow-speaking Texan, who was evidently
waiting for Pete to explain his presence.
"How!--Is this here the Olla ranch?"
"One end of her."
"I'm lookin' for the foreman."
"What name did you say?"
"I didn't say."
"What's your business down this way?" queried the cowboy.
"It's mine. I dunno as it's any of yours."
"So? Now, that's mighty queer! Lookin' for the fo'man, eh? Well, go
ahead and look--they's plenty of room."
"Too much," laughed Pete. "Reckon I got to bush here and do my huntin'
in the mornin'--only"--and Pete eyed the other significantly--"I kind
of hate to bush on the ground. I was bit by a spider onct--"
"A spider, eh? Now that's right comical. What kind of a spider was it
that bit you?"
"Trap-door spider. Only this here one was always home."
"So?" drawled the Texan. "Now, that's right funny. I was bit by a
rattler once. Got the marks on my arm yet."
"Well, if it comes to a showdown, that there spider bite--"
"The ranch-house is yonder," said the Texan. "Just you ride along the
way you're headed. That's a pretty horse you're settin' on. If it
wa'n't so dark I'd say he carried the Concho brand."
"That's him," said Pete.
"He's a long jump from home, friend."
"And good for twice that distance, neighbor."
"You sure please me most to death," drawled the Texan.
"Then I reckon you might call in that there coyote in the brush over
there that's been holdin' a gun on me ever since we been talkin',"--and
Pete gestured with his bridle hand toward the clump of chaparral.
"Sam," called the Texan, "he says he don't like our way of welcomin'
strangers down here. He's right friendly, meetin' one man at a
time--but he don't like a crowd, nohow."
A figure loomed in the dusk--a man on foot who carried a rifle across
his arm. Pete could not distinguish his features, but he saw that the
man was tall, booted and spurred, and evidently a line-rider with the
Texan.
"This here young stinging-lizard says he wants to see the fo'man, Sam.
Kin you help him out?"
"Go ahead and speak your piece," said the man with the rifle.
"She's spoke," said Pete.
"I'm the man you're huntin'," asserted the other.
"You foreman?"
"The same."
"Thought you was jest a hand--ridin' fence, mebby." And as Pete spoke
he rolled a cigarette. His pony shied at the flare of the match, but
Pete caught an instant glimpse of a lean-faced, powerfully built man of
perhaps fifty years or more who answered The Spider's description of
the foreman. "I got a letter here for Sam Brent, foreman of the Olla,"
said Pete.
"Now you're talkin' business."
"His business," laughed the Texan.
"Nope--The Spider's," asserted Pete.
"Your letter will keep," said the foreman. "Ed, you drift on along
down the fence till you meet Harper. Tell him it's all right." And
the foreman disappeared in the dusk to return astride a big cowhorse.
"We'll ride over to the house," said he.
Pete estimated that they had covered three or four miles before the
ranch-buildings came in sight--a dim huddle of angles against the
starlit sky. To his surprise the central building was roomy and
furnished with a big table, many chairs, and a phonograph, while the
floor was carpeted with Navajo blankets, and a big shaded hanging lamp
illumined the table on which were scattered many dog-eared magazines
and a few newspapers. Pete had remarked upon the stables while turning
his own horse into the corral. "We got some fast ones," was all that
the foreman chose to say, just then.
Pete and the foreman had something to eat in the chuck-house, and
returned to the larger building. Brent read The Spider's letter,
rolled the end of his silver-gray mustache between his thumb and
forefinger, and finally glanced up. "So, you're Pete Annersley?"
"That's my name."
"Have a chair. You're right young to be riding alone. How did you
come to throw in with The Spider?"
Pete hesitated. Why should he tell this man anything other than that
he had been sent by The Spider with the letter which--he had been
told--would explain his presence and embody his instructions?
"Don't he say in that letter?" queried Pete.
"He says you were mixed up in a bank robbery over to Enright," stated
the foreman.
"That's a dam' lie!" flared Pete.
"I reckon you'll do," said Brent, as he folded the letter. The Spider
had made that very statement in his letter to Brent for the purpose of
finding out, through the foreman, whether or not Pete had taken it upon
himself to read the letter before delivering it. And Brent, aware of
The Spider's methods, realized at once why his chief had misstated the
facts. It was evident that Pete had not read the letter, otherwise he
would most probably have taken his cue from The Spider's assertion
about the bank robbery and found himself in difficulties, for directly
after the word "Enright" was a tiny "x"--a code letter which meant
"This is not so."
"Reckon I'll do what?" queried Pete. "Let The Spider or anybody like
him run a whizzer on me after I run a good hoss ragged to git here with
his doggone letter--and then git stuck up like I was a hoss-thief? You
got another guess, uncle."
The old cowman's eyes twinkled. "You speak right out in meetin', don't
you, son?" His drawl was easy and somehow reminded Pete of Pop
Annersley. "Now there's some wouldn't like that kind of talk--even
from a kid."
"I'd say it to The Spider as quick as I would to you," asserted Pete.
"Which might be takin' a chance, both ways."
"Say"--and Pete smiled--"I guess I been talkin' pretty fast, I was some
het up. The Spider used me as white as he could use anybody, I reckon.
But ever since that killin' up to his place, I been sore at the whole
doggone outfit runnin' this here world. What does a fella git, anyhow,
for stickin' up for himself, if he runs against a killer? He gits
bumped off--or mebby he kills the other fella and gits run out of the
country or hung. Pardners stick, don't they? Well, how would it git
you if you had a pardner that--well, mebby was a girl and she got
killed by a bunch of deputies jest because she was quick enough to
spoil their game? Would you feel like shakin' hands with every doggone
hombre you met up with, or like tellin' him to go to hell and sendin'
him there if he was lookin to argue with you? I dunno. Mebby I'm
wrong--from the start--but I figure all a fella gits out of this game
is a throwdown, comin' or goin'--'for the deck is stacked and the wheel
is crooked."
"I was fifty-six last February," said Brent.
"And how many notches you got on your gun?" queried Pete.
"Oh, mebby two, three," drawled the foreman.
"That's it! Say you started in callin' yourself a growed man when you
was twenty. Every ten years you had to hand some fella his finish to
keep from makin' yours. 'Got to kill to live,' is right!"
"Son, you got a good horse, and yonder is the whole State of Texas,
where a man can sure lose himself without tryin' hard. There's plenty
of work down there for a good cow-hand. And a man's name ain't printed
on his face. Nobody's got a rope on you."
"I git you," said Pete. "But I throwed in with The Spider--and that
goes."
"That's your business--and as you was sayin' your business ain't mine.
But throwin' a fast gun won't do you no good round here."
"Oh, I don't claim to be so doggone fast," stated Pete.
"Faster than Steve Gary?"
Pete's easy glance centered to a curious, tense gaze which was fixed on
the third button of Brent's shirt. "What about Steve Gary?" asked
Pete, and even Brent, old hand as he was, felt the sinister
significance in that slow question. The Spider's letter had said to
"give him a try-out," which might have meant almost anything to a
casual reader, but to Brent it meant just what he had been doing that
evening--seeking for a weak spot in Pete's make-up, if there were such,
before hiring him.
"My gun is in the bedroom," said Brent easily.
"Well, Gary's wasn't," said Pete.
"We ain't had a gun-fight on this ranch since I been foreman," said
Brent. "And we got some right fast men, at that. Seein' you're goin'
to work for me a spell, I'm goin' to kind of give you a line on things.
You can pick your own string of horses--anything that you can get your
rope on that ain't branded 'J.E.', which is pet stock and no good at
workin' cattle. You met up with Ed Brevoort this evenin'. Well, you
can ride fence with Ed and he'll show you the high spots and
hollows--and the line--south. If you run onto any strangers ridin' too
close to the line, find out what they want. If you can't find out, get
word to me. That goes for strangers. But if you get to arguin' with
any of my boys--talk all you like--but don't start a smoke--_for you
won't get away with it_. The Spider ain't payin' guns to shoot up his
own outfit. If you're lookin' for real trouble, all you got to do is
to ride south acrost the line--and you'll find it. And you're gettin'
a straight hundred a month and your keep as long as you work for the
Olla."
"Which is some different from takin' my hoss and fannin' it easy for
Texas," said Pete, grinning.
"Some different," said Brent.