“Wheezer, you’re talkin’ too ---- much!”
“Well, there ain’t no use of talkin’--much,” observed Wooden-shoe
slowly, “and we don’t want to make trouble among us, do we, Wheezer?”
“Aw, I ain’t huntin’ trouble,” Wheezer assured him, “but we ain’t got a
---- thing t’ show that the NR owes us a danged thing.”
“True as gospel preachin’,” agreed Chet warmly. “If Leather’d only said
like this to the old man: You write----”
“Now, you’re gettin’ the tongue-trouble, too, eh?” interrupted Leather
ominously, but did not look up.
Wheezer shoved away from the wall and stepped around in front of Leather
Kleig, his thumbs hooked over the top of his cartridge-belt.
“Kleig, if you think for a minute that you can stop me from talkin’--cut
yore wolf loose.” Wheezer’s voice was pitched low, but was full of
meaning. “You’ve bossed this outfit too ---- much; _sabe?_ We’ve been
gypped out of everythin’. Now, put up or shut up.”
Kleig did not move, but his eyes flashed to Wheezer for a second.
“Like I said before,” stated Wooden-shoe impassively, “we shouldn’t
quarrel among us. Whatcha say, Wheezer? Let’s all be good little friends
together.”
“Thassall right,” nodded Leather. “I ain’t sayin’ that I didn’t make a
mistake, but yuh gotta agree that I lose as much as you fellers do.”
“Sure, sure,” agreed Chet indifferently. “I heard the old man tell yuh
that he was goin’ to sell the NR and split the pot. Yuh can’t blame
Leather ’cause the old man decides to die off, can yuh, Wheezer?”
“’S far as that’s concerned--no,” admitted Wheezer. “But it sure leaves
us high and dry, Chet.”
Wooden-shoe suddenly burst into a dry chuckle.
“Now, what in ---- are you laughin’ at?” demanded Chet.
“Just laughin’,” replied Wooden-shoe. “Here we’ve been stealin’
stock for over a year for old Nick Ralls, and ain’t got nothin’ for
ourselves.”
“Except experience,” said Wheezer gloomily.
All of which was both sad and true. Many years previous to this time,
Nick Ralls, an old gun-man of the Southwest, had migrated to the Broken
Butte ranges and taken up the NR ranch. Nick Ralls was a bitter old
codger, quick of temper, and very flexible of conscience.
He did not prosper, but made a living. There were few NR cows on the
Broken Buttes when Leather Kleig, Wheezer Bell, Wooden-shoe Van Dorn
and Chet Wells rode into the yard of the tumble-down ranch-house and
informed old Nick that they were both hungry and tired.
The sheriff of the adjoining county lost them in the breaks and went
home disgusted; but they did not know this. They needed sanctuary, and
old Nick Ralls gave it to them, because he recognized them as kindred
spirits.
Old Nick was growing old--raspingly old. The Broken Butte range was a
fertile field for those who carried a running-iron and little regard
for the law. And when the adjoining county had practically forgotten
the four men who attempted to rob the bank at Dry Wells, the four men
made an oral contract with old Nick Ralls.
Leather Kleig was a brand counterfeiter. His skill with a running-iron
or razor was uncanny. Combination brands were an open book to him. Every
animal that fell within their loop or corral was quickly made over into
an NR, which would pass muster even on close examination, and old Nick
Ralls chuckled evilly, while his herd grew until the hills of Broken
Butte range were dotted with his possessions.
Then, as Wheezer described it:
“He ups and dies. And the or’nary old son-of-a-sea-cook knowed he was
goin’ to die, didn’t he? Then why does he send for a lawyer to make out
his will?”
All of which was not at all cheerful to the four men in the shade of the
NR bunk-house.
“Yeah, it leaves us high and dry,” admitted Chet. “We ain’t got nothin’
to show for all our hard work. If yuh asks my opinion, I’d suggest that
we all line up, give the word and all start shootin’. If there’s any
survivor, he can take what money the other fellers has got and pull
out.”
“Good idea!” exploded Wooden-shoe. “I’d like----”
“You would!” interrupted Wheezer sarcastically. “You ain’t got a danged
cent to lose. Leather must have about six-bits, which is four-bits more
than I’ve got. I dunno about Chet, but I reckon two-bits would about tap
him.”
“Then that idea ain’t so good,” said Chet mournfully. “What’ll we do?
Brand the NR cows all over and sell them to the sheriff?”
“----, the sheriff!” grunted Leather. “He’s too pious. Goes to church!
---- deliver me from a church-goin’ sheriff.”
“One thing’s a cinch,” observed Chet thoughtfully. “If them misbranded
critters are ever discovered, they can’t hang the deadwood on to us. We
don’t own ’em. And no sensible man ever steals cows as a pastime.”
“I’m through stealin’ cows,” declared Wooden-shoe, emphatically. “I tell
yuh, I’m through.”
“Reformin’, eh?” sneered Leather Kleig.
“Yeah, I’m goin’ to rob banks or trains--and I’m goin’ to steal for me;
_sabe?_”
“We’re a ---- of a fine bunch of outlaws,” declared Wheezer. “Bad men
from Bitter Crick. ----! ’F we don’t look out, some old lady is goin’
to hoodle us off this range with a parasol.”
“For his heart was hard and so was his hide,
And the rattlesnake crawled away and died,
The da-a-a-y he bit Bill Jo-o-o-nes.”
Chet’s voice quavered lovingly on the last line, and his broken nose
twitched feelingly.
“You can do a lot of things better than yuh can sing,” observed
Wooden-shoe sadly. “You ought to twist yore ears a little, Chet. Yuh
sound like a couple of yore strings was loose.”
“Bein’ funny ain’t gittin’ us no place--” Wheezer dug his heel into
the hard dirt. “What are we goin’ to do? That’s the question. If old
Ralls didn’t leave no will, I s’pose the whole works will be sold by
the sheriff.”
“I’d love to set on a fence and see that ---- sheriff sell my cows!”
exploded Leather.
“What ’d yuh do?” asked Wheezer. “Would yuh tell him how it comes that
yuh feel bad about it, Leather?”
“Talkin’ makes me hungry,” stated Wooden-shoe. “Let’s go and see what Ma
Coogan’s got for supper.”
“And that’s another thing,” said Wheezer. “What in ---- is goin’ to
become of Ma Coogan?”
“Yessir, that’s another thing,” agreed Wooden-shoe.
* * * * *
Ma Coogan was the cook and housekeeper of the NR, and was as much a part
of the ranch as the old ranch-house. She was about sixty years of age;
thirty of which had been spent in the range country.
Ten years previous to this time, Jim Coogan and his wife had been
nesters in the Broken Butte range. Nesters were not wanted, and old
Jim had absorbed a bullet; which left Ma Coogan destitute.
Nick Ralls, whose heart was bitter against everything, and nesters in
particular, had installed the old widow as cook and housekeeper in the
NR. He swore at the time that he did not do it to be kind, but to prove
that he could be contrary to his own nature.
Ma Coogan was a little woman, with a typically Irish face, a heart of
gold, but with a tongue that proved to Nick Ralls the advisability of
running his end of the ranch and not interfering with the household.
It was five days since the burial of Nick Ralls, and Ma Coogan was
beginning to get back to normal. She had never considered what Ralls’
death might mean to her. She was sitting on the porch, as the four men
came up to the ranch-house, fanning herself with a magazine.
“Ye’re all hungry, I suppose,” she remarked. “And what have ye done to
make ye hungry, I’d ask? Are ye goin’ to sit in the shade all the rest
of your life?”
“Looks kinda like it, Ma,” said Wheezer. “But what’s the use of workin’?
There’s nobody to pay salaries.”
“Nobody?” Ma Coogan stopped fanning herself. “Nobody to pay--well, bless
me soul!”
She stared at them and her eyes shifted to the hazy hills, as a sudden
realization of things came to her.
“I never thought of that,” she said softly. “Nobody to pay salaries,
nobody to run the ranch. Now, what’s to become of everybody, I’d like
to know?”
Wheezer shook his head.
“I dunno, Ma. Do you remember that lawyer comin’ up here a couple of
days before Nick Ralls died?”
“That fat, fish-eyed feller from Broken Butte? Aye, he was with Nick
Ralls for a long time.”
“He’s a lawyer, Ma. We was wonderin’ if Nick made out a will. He knowed
he was goin’ to die, I reckon.”
“He did that,” declared Ma. “Belike he heard the banshee wailin’; I
dunno.”
“What’s a banshee, Ma?” asked Wooden-shoe.
“Sure, it’s an Irish ghost. When ye hear one wailin’, ye’r goin’ to die,
Wooden-shoe. There’s a lot of thim that has heard the banshee.”
Leather Kleig laughed sarcastically.
“Ghosts! No ghost would wail over Nick Ralls. What I’d like to know: Did
Nick Ralls make out a will?”
“There was such a thing mentioned,” said Ma slowly. “I heard thim speak
of a will, and there was a paper that I had to sign me name to, but I
did not read it.
“This fish-eyed feller he puts his finger on one spot, and he says for
me to write me name there. Ould Nick says that I’m a witness. I dunno
what it was all about, but it looked like some sort of a cer-ti-fic-it.”
“That was a will,” declared Wheezer. “Did he ever tell yuh about any of
his relatives, Ma?”
“He did not, Wheezer. I misdoubt if he had any. But Nick Ralls was no
man to blather about any one. Hated the world, so he did. He even swore
at the lawyer. Well, the poor soul has gone to glory, and if I don’t go
in and finish gittin’ supper, the rest of ye will be failin’ for want
of food.”
“If Nick Ralls has gone to glory, I hope I don’t,” declared Leather
Kleig. “He wasn’t entitled to it.”
“Aw, sure, now--” Ma Coogan turned at the doorway and looked down at
Leather, “ye mustn’t wish ill of a dead man. He wasn’t all bad, Leather.
Do ye think that God is goin’ to punish ye by sendin’ ye to a hot place?
What would He gain by it, I’d ask ye? Would it be a lesson to thim that
stayed behind in this life?
“We wouldn’t see it. A lovin’ God wouldn’t git no satisfaction out of
it, would He? Thin where is your reasons for a place of damnation, I
dunno? I tell ye, I think that Nick Ralls went to glory.”
“All right, Ma,” said Leather gloomily. “I hope, if he has, that he can
look down and see what a ---- fool he was to leave the NR in this kinda
shape.”
“Amen,” said Ma Coogan piously.
* * * * *
It was three days later that Eph Williams, the lawyer from Broken Butte,
came again to the NR; and with him came Ben Murtch, the sheriff, and a
lady.
The four cowboys looked with great disfavor upon Ben Murtch and Eph
Williams, because they had little use for the law in any of its forms.
But there was a certain amount of speculation regarding the lady.
Murtch was a bandy-legged person, broad-shouldered, and with a massive
head. His features were of the type commonly known as bulldog, and he
was reputed fast with a gun. On account of their wild doings in Broken
Butte, Murtch had no use for the boys of the NR--and did not conceal
his feelings.
Both Murtch and Williams attended the little church at Broken Butte, and
at times Williams would pass the collection plate. The four cowboys from
the NR went to church one Sunday night, more out of curiosity than from
piety, and observed the actions of Williams and Murtch.