THEY KILLED THE BOSS!
Sundown, much to his dismay, was lost. With a sack of salt tied across
his saddle, he had ridden out that morning to fill one of the salt-logs
near a spring where the cattle came to drink. He had found the log,
filled it, and had turned to retrace his journey when a flock of wild
turkeys strung out across his course. His horse, from which the riders
of the Concho had aforetime shot turkeys, broke into a kind of
reminiscent lope, which quickened as the turkeys wheeled and ran
swiftly through the timberland. Sundown clung to the saddle-horn as
the pony took fallen logs at top speed. The turkeys made for a rim of
a narrow cañon and from it sailed off into space, leaving Chance a
disconsolate spectator and Sundown sitting his horse and thanking the
Arizona stars that his steed was not equipped with wings. It was then
that he realized that the Concho ranch might be in any one of the four
directions he chose to take. He wheeled the horse, slackened rein, and
allowed that sagacious but apparently disinterested animal to pick its
leisurely way through the forest. Chance trotted sullenly behind. He
could have told his master something about hunting turkeys had he been
able to speak, and, judging from the dog's dejected stride and
expression, speech would have been a relief to his feelings.
The horse, nipping at scant shoots of bunch-grass and the blue-flowered
patches of wild peas, gravitated toward the old trail to the Blue and,
once upon it, turned toward home. Chance, refreshing his memory of the
old trail, ran ahead, pausing at this fallen log and that
fungus-spotted stump to investigate squirrel-holes with much sniffing
and circling of the immediate territory. Sundown imagined that Chance
was leading the way toward home, though in reality the dog was merely
killing time, so to speak, while the pony plodded deliberately down the
homeward trail.
Dawdling along in the barred sunshine, at peace with himself and the
pleasant solitudes, Sundown relaxed and fell to dreaming of Andalusian
castles builded in far forests of the south, and of some Spanish
Penelope--possibly not unlike the Señorita Loring--who waited his
coming with patient tears and rare fidelity. "Them there
true-be-doors," he muttered, "like Billy used to say, sure had the glad
job--singin' and wrastlin' out po'try galore! A singin'-man sure gets
the ladies. Now if I was to take on a little weight--mebby . . ." His
weird soliloquy was broken by a sharp and excited bark. Chance was
standing in the trail, and beyond him there was something . . .
Sundown, anticipating more turkeys, slid from his horse without delay.
He stalked stealthily toward the quivering dog. Then, dropping the
reins, he ran to Corliss, knelt beside him, and lifted his head. He
called to him. He ripped the rancher's shirt open and felt over his
heart. "They killed me boss! They killed me boss!" he wailed, rising
and striding back and forth in impotent excitement and grief. He did
not know where to look for water. He did not know what to do. A
sudden fury at his helplessness overcame him, and he mounted and rode
down the trail at a wild gallop. Fortunately he was headed in the
right direction.
Wingle, Bud Shoop, and several of the men were holding a heated
conference with old man Loring when Sundown dashed into the Concho.
Trembling with rage and fear he leaped from his horse.
"They killed the boss!" he cried hoarsely. "Up there--in the woods."
"Killed who? Where? Slow down and talk easy! Who's killed?" volleyed
the group.
"Me boss! Up there on the trail with his head bashed in! Chance and
me found him layin' on the trail."
The men swung to their saddles. "Better come along, Loring," said
Shoop, riding close to the old sheep-man. "Looks like they was more 'n
one side to this deal. And you, too, Sun."
The riders, led by the gesticulating and excited Sundown, swung out to
the road and crossed to the forest. Shoop and Hi Wingle spurred ahead
while the others questioned Sundown, following easily. When they
arrived at the scene of the fight, Corliss was sitting propped against
a tree with Shoop and Wangle on either side of him. Corliss stared
stupidly at the men.
"Who done it?" asked Wingle.
"Fadeaway," murmured the rancher.
Loring, in the rear of the group, laughed ironically.
Shoop's gun jumped from its holster and covered the sheep-man. "If one
of your lousy herders done this, he'll graze clost to hell to-night
with the rest of your dam' sheep!" he cried.
"Easy, Bud!" cautioned Wingle. "The boss ain't passed over yet. Bill,
you help Sinker here get the boss back home. The rest of you boys hit
the trail for the Blue. Fadeaway is like to be up in that country."
"Ante up, Loring!" said Shoop, mounting his horse. "I'll see your hand
if it takes every chip in the stack."
"Here, too!" chorused the riders. "We're all in on this."
They trailed along in single file until they came to the ford. They
reined up sharply. One of them dismounted and dragged the body of
Fadeaway to the bank. They grouped around gazing at the hole in
Fadeaway's shirt.
Shoop turned the body over. "Got it from in front," he said, which was
obvious to their experienced eyes.
"And it took a fast gun to get him," asserted Loring.
The men were silent, each visualizing his own theory of the fight on
the trail and the killing of Fadeaway.
"Jack was layin' a long way from here," said Wingle.
"When you found him," commented Loring.
"Only one hoss crossed the ford this morning," announced Shoop, wading
across the stream.
"And Fade got it from in front," commented a puncher. "His tracks is
headed for the Blue."
Again the men were silent. Shoop rolled a cigarette. The splutter of
the sulphur-match, as it burned from blue to yellow, startled them.
They relaxed, cursing off their nervous tension in monosyllables.
"Well, Fade's played his stack, and lost. Jack was sure in the game,
but how far--I dunno. Reckon that's got anything to do with stampedin'
your sheep?" asked Wingle, turning to Loring.
Loring's deep-set eyes flashed. "Fernando reported that a Concho rider
done the job. He didn't say who done it."
"Didn't, eh? And did Fernando say anything about doin' a job himself?"
asked Shoop.
"If you're tryin' to hang this onto any of my herders, you're ridin' on
the wrong side of the river. I reckon you won't have to look far for
the gun that got _him_." And Loring gestured toward the body.
Hi Wingle stooped and pulled Fadeaway's gun from its holster. He spun
the cylinder, swung it out, and invited general inspection. "Fade
never had a chance," he said, lowering the gun. "They's six pills in
her yet. You got to show me he wasn't plugged from behind a rock or
them bushes." And Wingle pointed toward the cottonwoods.
One of the men rode down the cañon, searching for tracks. Chance,
following, circled the bushes, and suddenly set off toward the north.
Sundown, who had been watching him, dismounted his horse. "Chance,
there, mebby he's found somethin'."
"Well, he's your dog. Go ahead if you like. Mebby Chance struck a
scent."
"Coyote or lion," said Wingle. "They ain't no trail down them rocks."
Sundown, following Chance, disappeared in the cañon. The men covered
Fadeaway's body with a slicker and weighted it with stones. Then they
sent a puncher to Antelope to notify the sheriff.
As they rode into the Concho, they saw that Corliss's horse was in the
corral. Their first anger had cooled, yet they gazed sullenly at
Loring. They were dissatisfied with his interpretation of the killing
and not a little puzzled.
"Where's Fernando?" queried Shoop aggressively.
Loring put the question aside with a wave of his hand. "Jest a minute
afore I go. You're tryin' to hang this onto me or mine. You're wrong.
You're forgettin' they's five hundred of my sheep at the bottom of the
Concho Cañon, I guess. They didn't get there by themselves.
Fadeaway's got his, which was comin' to him this long time. That's
nothin' to me. What I want to see is Jack Corliss's gun."
Bud Shoop stepped into the ranch-house and presently returned with the
Coitus. "Here she is. Take a look."
The old sheep-man swung out the cylinder and pointed with a gnarled and
horny finger. The men closed in and gazed in silence. One of the
shells was empty.
Loring handed the gun to Shoop. "I'll ask Jack," said the foreman.
When he returned to the group he was unusually grave. "Says he plugged
a coyote this mornin'."
Loring's seamed and weathered face was expressionless. "Well, he did a
good job, if I do say it," he remarked, as though to himself.
"Which?" queried Shoop.
"I don't say," replied Loring. "I'm lettin' the evidence do the
talkin'."
"Well, you'll hear her holler before we get through!" asserted the
irrepressible Bud. "Fade, mebby, wa'n't no lady's man, but he had
sand. He was a puncher from the ground up, and we ain't forgettin'
that!"
"And I ain't forgettin' them five hundred sheep." Loring reined
around. "And you're goin' to hear from me right soon. I reckon they's
law in this country."
"Let her come!" retorted Shoop. "We'll all be here!"