CREDIT AND LYNCHING
“We can’t do a thing for you, Dave. You ought to know we’re carrying you
for every cent your ranch is worth to us. This is not a personal matter.
I know you’re good for it; but I merely represent the directors, the
stockholders of this bank.”
John Harper, president of the Mesa City Bank, leaned back in his swivel
chair and looked at Dave Morgan, who was seated across the table from
him. Harper was small, wiry, grizzled, smooth shaven and neatly dressed.
He had been with the Mesa City Bank since the day it opened.
Dave Morgan twisted his lips seriously. He needed a shave and, judging
by his bloodshot eyes, he needed sleep.
“All right,” he said slowly, “I reckon I could get along, John. I just
wanted to see about a loan. How about buyin’ the Flyin’ M?”
Harper shook his head quickly.
“No, Dave. Say, why don’t you get Peter to take a second mortgage? He’s
pretty well fixed.”
Dave smiled crookedly, shaking his head.
“Not Pete. If I was anybody except his cousin. He thinks I’ve got poor
judgment in business.”
“You haven’t done so well, Dave.”
“Oh, that’s all right. I’m not kickin’. I get more fun out of my money
than Pete does. He’s been goin’ around like a bear with a sore head ever
since them nesters moved in on him. They’ve got him bluffed.”
“The nester’s son had a fight over at the Oasis today,” said the banker.
“I happened to be out in front about the time it was over. I don’t know
who got whipped, but I saw young Lane get on his horse and ride out of
town. In a few moments Ben Leach followed him, I think. Several of the
boys stood around the hitchrack for a few minutes, and then they all
rode away.”
“Wasn’t a gun fight, was it?”
“No, there wasn’t any shooting.”
“Young Lane is a tough _hombre_,” laughed Dave. “Some of Pete’s punchers
probably rubbed him the wrong way. I guess the old man is kinda salty,
too. Well, I’ve got to be movin’.”
“I’m sorry about that loan, Dave; but business is business.”
“That’s all right, John. I’m pretty near busted, but I’ll pull through.”
He laughed bitterly and hitched up his belt.
“Mebbe somebody will die and leave me a fortune.”
“Have you any rich relatives?”
“Only Pete—and he’s healthy.”
Dave laughed and walked out of the bank. But there was little mirth in
his laugh. He stopped in at the post office to get the ranch mail, and
the clerk handed him a telegram along with the rest of his mail.
“I’m not sure about that telegram,” he said. “It is either D. Morgan or
P. Morgan, and I can’t tell which.”
Dave tore it open and glanced quickly at the telegram.
“It’s mine,” he said shortly, and walked out, stuffing the mail in his
pocket. The telegram read:
MRS. MORGAN PASSED AWAY SUDDENLY AND WAS BURIED LAST
SUNDAY STOP TRACED SON TO DEPOT WHERE HE PURCHASED
TICKET TO CANONVILLE
—J. E. BLAIR
* * * * *
Dave Morgan halted at the edge of the wooden sidewalk, a puzzled
expression on his face.
“Mrs. Morgan!” he exclaimed to himself. “So old Pete had a wife and a
son, eh?”
He started to laugh, but checked himself quickly. When had Pete married,
he wondered? He had been on the same range with Peter for over twenty
years. Of course, Peter had taken trips east with cattle and it had been
said that Peter was a wild devil in those days, but no one had ever
mentioned the fact that Peter had been married.
He probably had got drunk, married in that condition, and had been
forced to support the woman away from Mesa City. And there was a son,
too, a son who would inherit the 6X6 and the Oasis. And Dave had thought
he was the only living relative of Peter Morgan.
Dave had been married. It had been so long ago that he could hardly
remember what the woman looked like. But the nuptial bliss had not
lasted long. Dave was too wild. He remembered that Peter had
remonstrated with him, tried to get him to straighten up, but it was no
use. Anyway, it was none of Pete’s business, he had decided. And one
morning, when he awoke from a drunken spree, the woman was gone.
Dave wondered what had caused Pete and his wife to separate. As he stood
there, thinking over the situation, Peter Morgan rode in to town with
his three men, the sheriff and deputy and the body of Ben Leach.
Their arrival caused plenty of excitement in Mesa City. A crowd gathered
quickly around the livery stable, where Lem Sheeley had hired a vehicle
in which to take the body to the coroner at Cañonville. Indignation ran
high when the crowd heard that Leach had been killed by Long Lane, and a
number volunteered to form a posse.
But Lem Sheeley, the sheriff, was deaf to their offers.
“Keep your hands off,” he requested them. “This job belongs to the
law—not to a lot of damn’ fools with a rope.”
“Then you better do somethin’ right quick,” said Peter Morgan. “Either
you do your duty, Lem, or—”
“Or what?”
“You’ll see.”
* * * * *
Shortly after the sheriff and deputy drove away with the body of Ben
Leach, old Paul Lane rode into Mesa City. He had been to Cañonville, but
had stopped at home on his way back, where he had heard what had
happened. Now he wanted more information than Nan was able to give him.
He met Peter Morgan in front of the bank. Dave Morgan and Joe Cave, the
stage driver, were there. For several moments the big cattleman and the
nester eyed each other closely. Then—
“That’s what you get for stayin’ where you ain’t wanted,” said Peter
coldly.
“Yeah-a-ah?” Lane gritted his word through clenched teeth.
“That’s what I said, Lane. You better move quick.”
“I’m not movin’, Morgan. Today I filed a homestead.”
“You did, eh? I suppose you know your son is a murderer.”
“I don’t know any such thing! If he killed Ben Leach, it was in
self-defense.”
“Men who kill in self-defense don’t usually run away.”
“When everybody’s ag’in’ ’em, they do.”
“You’re crazy.”
Morgan turned his back and started away, but stopped and came back to
Lane.
“We’re through fooling with you, Lane,” he said. “We’ll find your son
and make an example of him, and it won’t take us long to do it, either.
And if you’re wise, you’ll pull out of this country as fast as you can.”
“If you’re through, I’d like to say a few words, Morgan,” said the old
man coldly. “That ranch belongs to me now. The line runs about two
hundred yards this side of the ranch-house. And when you or your men
ride my way, you better estimate distance pretty close.”
“Drawin’ a deadline, eh?”
“Ag’in, the 6X6. And another thing, Morgan; yesterday I found an
_orejano_, with my brand on it. I brand on the left hip, but this calf
was branded on the right hip. I suppose your punchers, or you, forgot
where I branded. They tell me you got your start by pickin’ up
_orejanos_, Morgan; so I just heated an iron and run the 6X6 on its left
shoulder, passin’ it back to you.”
For a moment Morgan glared at the old man, who was little more than half
his size, and then lashed out with his right fist, catching Lane just
above the left eye and knocking him flat. But the old man was not
knocked out; the blow had landed too high for that. For a moment the old
man sprawled on his side, dazed, hurt. Then his hand jerked back to his
holster.
But Joe Cave stepped in front of him, blocking him from using the gun.
Morgan laughed shortly, turned his back and strode over to the Oasis
Saloon, while Joe Cave helped Lane to his feet.
“That shore was a dirty punch,” said Joe.
The old man brushed off his clothes, turned and went back to his horse,
while Dave Morgan and Joe looked at each other and laughed.
“I’d hate to be in Pete’s boots,” grinned Joe. “That old jigger will
kill him, if he don’t look out.”
“That’s no lie, Joe. Let’s go and have a drink, eh? No, not to the
Oasis.”
Joe had worked for Dave before driving stage, and they knew each other’s
business fairly well. Joe was a colorless sort of a person, with
tow-colored hair and buck teeth. He had been fired from the 6X6 for
playing a crooked game of poker in the bunkhouse, and naturally had no
love for Peter Morgan.
“Mebbe I was a fool for blockin’ the old man,” said Joe Cave.
“Mebbe Pete will give you a reward for savin’ his life,” grinned Dave.
“He ought to pay you for that, Joe.”
“Any time!” snorted Joe. “He wouldn’t pay a nickel for a front seat at
the Battle of Waterloo, with the original folks doin’ the fightin’.”
“Why, I thought you loved old Pete.”
“That overbearin’ old badger? What are you drinkin’?”
* * * * *
Peter Morgan and Dell Bowen rode back to the 6X6, but Spike Cahill and
Bert Roddy stayed in town. Bert was a roly-poly sort of cowboy, too fat
to walk and almost too fat to ride. He had bunked with Ben Leach, and
after a few drinks he became tearful.
In fact, the evening was still young when Bert became almost maudlin in
his grief. He and Ben had quarreled for over a year, and at times they
had almost come to blows; but now Ben had been his best friend, a model
young man, a paragon of all the virtues.
“My, my, he wash shome feller,” declared Bert owlishly. “Do I mish him?
I tell you, Spike, it wash jist like tearin’ out my own heart to lose
ol’ Bennie. There never wash and never will be another like ol’ Bennie.”
“Lishen,” said Spike thickly, “you shut up. Nex’ thing you know I’ll be
cryin’ with you. I don’ wanna cry. Have ’nother drink, Bertie.
Na-a-a-a-aw! Not another cry! You fool, don’tcha unnerstand English?”
“I—I feel my losh,” wailed Bert. “Don’tcha know I feel my losh?”
“He feels his losh,” explained Spike to the bartender.
“He feels his liquor, you mean,” said the calloused dispenser of drinks.
“A great shorrow has come upon me,” explained Bert. “You heard ’bout
Bennie Leach, didn’t you, bartend’r? Ter’ble! The bes’ man in thish
State died t’day, and I mourn him. His losh is more than I can bear.”
And Bert Roddy proceeded to cry openly and unafraid. Spike looked at him
disgustedly, kicked him a few times, which seemed ineffectual, and then
proceeded to have a little cry on his own hook.
“Go home,” advised the bartender.
“Home won’t never be home without Bennie,” wailed Bert.
“We ought to do shomethin’,” said Spike tearfully. “That sheriff won’t
do nothin’.”
“Tha’s a good idea,” agreed Bert. “Le’s take this in our own hands,
Schpike. We owe it to poor ol’ Bennie.”
“You fellers better rattle your hocks home, before somebody finds you
loose,” advised the bartender.
“That is alsho good advice,” agreed Bert. He dug in his pocket and took
out some money. “Gimme a quart, bartender. I’d rather drink alone out of
a bottle than to make merry with a crowd at your bar. Your face would
shour milk. Keep the change.”
“Hey! You’re two bits shy, feller.”
“Hold your bub-breath till you get it, will you?”
They stumbled outside, Bert carrying the quart of liquor, and went to
their horses.
“The ques’n is,” propounded Spike, “what’ll we do?”
“Sh-shall we flip a coin?” asked Bert.
“Tha’s fine. Heads we do, tails we don’t.”
Spike produced a piece of money and threw it in the air. The night being
quite dark, they had no idea where it fell, so they lighted matches and
crawled around in the dust on their hands and knees, until Spike
happened to find it.
“It’s heads,” declared Spike, gathering in the money.
“We do,” said Bert solemnly.
“It’s all shettled,” agreed Spike. “We do, and that’s all there is to
it.”
After several moments they were able to regain their feet.
“We do,” declared Bert thickly. “Now the ques’n is, what do we do?”
“Ex-actly. What do we do, Bertie?”
“I dunno. Go home? No, that wasn’t it. Let’s have ’nother drink.”
They drank from the bottle.
“’F poor old Bennie was only here,” sighed Spike. “He loved to drink
from a bottle.”
“Tha’s it!” exclaimed Bert. “That’s what we came for. Don’tcha ’member,
Spike? We was goin’ to do shomethin’.”
“Yes, sir,” choked Spike, “let’s go out and shee if we can’t find that
murderin’ nester. We’ll lock’m up.”
“Tha’s the idea. Wait’ll I button my vest around thish danged bottle.
We’ll show ’m shomethin’, ol’ par’ner.”
* * * * *
They managed to get on their horses and headed away in the darkness.
Both horses wanted to run, and both riders were willing to let them.
They were too drunk to realize their danger in going to the nester’s
place at night.
There were no lights in the old ranch-house. They fell off their horses
at the corral fence, had another drink and tried to formulate a plan of
battle. It was very dark out there. Somewhere in the hills a coyote
yipped lonesomely.
“Wha’s the idea now?” asked Bert drunkenly.
“Tha’s question.”
Spike Cahill was not feeling just like a fighting man now. He rather
wanted to sleep.
“Let’s turn their horshes loose firs’,” suggested Bert. “Set ’m on foot,
eh?”
They went staggering along the corral fence to the old stable, where
they had another drink.
“You stand guard at the door,” instructed Spike.
“I’ll guard it, y’betcha,” agreed Bert. “I’m bes’ li’l guard you ever
sheen.”
The big stable door was unlocked. There was quite a wind blowing, and it
was not very warm. Both cowboys were carrying their guns in their hands.
Spike opened the big door, swinging it back against the wall, and went
inside, while Bert stood just inside the stable, with a cocked gun in
his hand, trying to tune his ears to all sounds.
Even in the darkness it did not take Spike long to discover that the
stable was empty. He bumped his nose against the side of a stall, and
swore drunkenly. One of his pawing hands came in contact with a set of
harness, which obligingly fell off a peg and draped around him.
“Wha’s goin’ on in there?” demanded Bert in a sepulchral whisper.
“Speak, or I’ll sh-shoot.”
“Shoot if you mus’,” wailed Spike. “I’m helpl’s. Got a breechin’ round
my damn’ neck and a hame in one of my boots.”
He managed to get loose from the harness, and one of his groping hands
came in contact with the short ladder which led up to the old loft. Just
why he should go up there never occurred to him, but he did.
He tried to straighten up, and his head came in contact with the low,
sloping roof so hard that he fell on his hands and knees. Just ahead of
him was the square opening in the end of the stable, used as a hay
window.
Spike was blinking at the window when he heard a dull thud, a frightened
curse, the sound of a revolver shot. There was only one explanation to
Spike. The nesters had discovered Bert Roddy.
“Well, they’ll have their hands full,” he declared to himself, and
walked out through the hay window.
It was about twelve feet to the ground, and he landed all in a heap. The
liquor had made him almost shock proof, but he realized that a man had
jumped on him and was kicking and striking with sickening regularity.
Spike Cahill loved to fight. He had lost his gun, but that was merely
incidental. He managed to shake off his assailant long enough to get to
his feet, and then they went at it, hammer and tongs.
Down they went again, rolling over and over, kicking, striking and
gouging, missing oftener than they landed, unable to see each other. A
man was running from the ranch-house, carrying a lantern; but Spike paid
no attention to him, until the lantern illuminated both him and his
antagonist. Then he looked up at Old Man Lane, half dressed, a cocked
revolver in his right hand. To Spike it was very like a nightmare. He
realized that his opponent had ceased fighting and he looked down at the
bruised face of Bert Roddy, whose eyes were blinking in the lantern
light.
* * * * *
“What seems to be goin’ on here?” demanded the old man.
“Thish?” queried Spike. “Oh, thish? Ha-ha-ha!”
“Yeah, this!” snapped the old man. “What are you two doin’ here in my
yard? Ain’t there room at the 6X6 for you to fight, without comin’ over
here, shooting and fightin’, wakin’ everybody up?”
Slowly Spike got up from Bert, who managed to get to his feet. They were
both badly bruised.
“Misser Lane,” said Spike foolishly, “thish is so unexpected. B’lieve
me, I dunno what to shay. I’d crave to have you put away that gun. We
ain’t doin’ nothin’ and we ain’t goin’ to do nothin’.”
“You’re danged right you ain’t. Now, you fellers get on your horses and
head for home. I ought to fill you both with lead, I suppose. What in
hell were you doin’ here, anyway?”
“Tha’s a question,” said Spike seriously. “B’lieve me, whatever it was,
we’re all through.”
“Ain’t it a fac’?” agreed Bert. “I sholemnly swear that the test’mony I
give in this case shall be the truth, the whole truth and—”
“Go home,” said the old man. “You’re both too drunk to do anything. And
don’t never come here again.”
“We won’t,” promised Spike. “Believe me, we won’t.”
Lane followed them to their horses and watched them ride away in the
darkness, wondering why they had been fighting and especially why they
were fighting in his dooryard.
“What I’d crave t’ know is thish,” said Bert dismally, as they rode
toward Mesa City. “What was it all about, and where in hell did you come
from? You was inside the stable, wasn’t you?”
“I shore was, Bertram. What I want to know is, what happened to you down
there. Didn’t you shoot?”
“Oh, abstively. I—say, I’ve lost my gun!”
“Same here,” sadly. “What did you shoot at?”
“I dunno. I thought somebody slammed the door shut on me. Anyway I got
knocked down and my gun went off. I got up as quick as I could and
shoved the door open, when somebody comes bouncin’ almost into me; so I
jist cuts loose and fights f’r m’ life. I give somebody a couple good
wallops.”
“That was me,” dismally. “I fell out of the hayloft.”
Bertram sighed and said—
“Mebbe it was the wind.”
“What was the wind?”
“Slammed the door ag’in’ me.”
“Mebbe. Where’s the bottle?”
“Some’ers. I ain’t got it. We can git more in Mesa.”
“Aw, I wasn’t thirsty. I wanted to bust it over a rock.”
“Gittin’ temperance, cowboy?”
“Gittin’ wise. Man hadn’t ought to drink.”
Bert was not quite convinced.
“Well, I won’t bear down so hard, Spike. I will say that a man hadn’t
ort to do anythin’ else, when he’s drinkin’.”