“‘Way up high in the Mokiones, among the mountain tops,
A lion cleaned a yearlin’s bones and licked his thankful chops;
When who upon the scene should ride, a trippin’ down the slope,
But High-Chin Bob of sinful pride and maverick-hungry rope.’”
Shorty’s voice, loud and high pitched, filled the small cabin. For
once, Tad found no fault with his partner’s singing. This, because
the sound of the singer’s voice drowned out what noise Tad might be
making as he whittled doggedly at the pine log wherein the iron bars
of the window were embedded.
Shorty, eyes fixed on the heavy pine door, sang with the air of one
who does his duty in the face of great obstacles. Without missing a
note, he gathered in a handful of whittlings and shoved the shavings
under his hat, which lay on the floor. Then his toe poked Tad’s shin
with none too gentle contact and the whittling ceased. Shorty,
resuming his seat on the edge of the bunk, sang on, head tilted
upward, eyes half closed.
Thus the sheriff found them when he entered, bearing a heavily laden
tray.
They looked innocent enough, these two. Shorty, reclining on the
bunk, Tad gazing broodingly out between the rusty bars in an
attitude of silent dejection.
“Ten o’clock breakfast, Taddie.” Shorty thus broke off his song.
“Come and git it er I th’ow it away! Gosh a’mighty, Tad, it’s real
grub! Steak and ’taters and pie! Sheriff, yo’re a plumb white man!”
The sheriff grinned and set the tray on the table. The grin gave the
old officer an almost benign appearance.
“Have at it cowboys, afore she gits cold. It’s the best I could
rustle at the Chink’s place. Yuh earned it, both uh yuh. My hat’s
off tuh ary two gents that kin clean up Alder Gulch on empty bellies
and with empty guns.”
[Illustration: map]
“Yuh ain’t holdin’ no hard feelin’s?”
“Not me. Joe Kipp ain’t that kind. Personal, it done me good tuh see
that big miner whupped. That —— bartender had it comin’ too.”
“Gosh!”
Tad swallowed a mouthful of food, washed it down with a swallow of
coffee and eyed the sheriff in mild surprise.
“’Pears tuh me like you’d had a sudden change uh mind, Sheriff. Yuh
acted plumb ringy when yuh nabbed us.”
“Folks was watchin’. The bartender had swore out a complaint and
with Fox a-watchin’, I had tuh go through.”
“Yuh mean this Luther Fox gent is after yore taw? He’s rearin’ tuh
jump yore frame?”
“Somethin’ like that. Him and me don’t waste no soft-spoke love
words on one another.”
He paused, scowling at the floor as if worrying out some problem.
“There’s more than a few gents on this range that’ll tell yuh I’m
scared uh Luther Fox and ‘Black Jack’,” he finished.
“Black Jack?”
“Fox’s wagon boss. Runs the LF spread.”
Tad and Shorty exchanged grins. “Black-whiskered gent? Eyes like a
Injun?”
Kipp nodded.
“You boys know him?”
“We come by the LF round-up. Yeah, we know him tuh look at.”
“Ain’t yuh the boys from the south?” inquired Kipp. “I see yuh both
ride double-rigged saddles and yore hosses pack strange brands.”
“We’re from Texas fust, Arizona after barb wire run us outa our home
range. We come tuh Montana tuh close a deal that was hangin’ fire.
Wound up our deal and was headin’ fer our home range when we loses
our life’s gatherin’s in yore Missouri River. Pack hoss, bed, money,
grub, the hull works goes. Shorty’s paint hoss which we’re packin’
makes a shore game fight, but ’twan’t no go. The undercurrent
ketches him and he goes under and don’t come up no more.
“I’d uh gone the same way only fer Shorty. Yuh see, me’n my yaller
hammer hoss bein’ brung up in a windmill country, we ain’t neither
of us used tuh water in sech big doses. Mebbeso I got Yaller’s cinch
too tight er he gits water in his ears er suthin’. Anyways, he goes
belly-up in the middle uh the crick and fer a spell it looks like
me’n him’s a-headin’ fast fer the Big Range.
“I’m a thinkin’ along them lines, as the feller says, when Shorty on
his Skewball pony, bustin’ that water like a side gougin’ steamboat,
jest nacherally ropes me, takes his winds and yanks me ashore.
Yaller drifts to a sand bar and wades out while Shorty bails the mud
and water outa me. Drunk er sober, my Shorty pard ain’t much tuh
look at, but there’s times when he shows good p’ints.”
“Shucks, Sheriff, don’t pay no mind tuh Tad,” grinned the
self-concious Shorty. “He shore likes the sound uh his own voice. If
yuh was tuh th’ow him and mouth him, yuh’d find his front teeth
plumb wore down. That comes from his havin’ his mouth open fer
talkin’ so much. The wind, a-blowin’ to and fro across his teeth,
consequential, has wore ’em down.”
The sheriff was beginning to like these two oddly mated partners
thoroughly. He moved across the floor to a chair. As he did so, he
accidentally moved Shorty’s hat, revealing the pile of whittlings.
Shorty manfully stepped into the breach.
Before the sheriff noticed, the little puncher had grabbed the
handful of shavings and shoved them into his mouth.
“Now swaller,” whispered Tad in an undertone, as he dropped his
neckscarf on the sill to cover the freshly whittled notch at the
base of the steel bar.
Shorty swallowed, choked, gasped and his tanned face grew purple.
Tad, moving swiftly, promptly up-ended Shorty, thumping him on the
back with an unconcern that hinted of boredom. A wad of mashed
potatoes, well wadded with shavings, spewed forth and Tad promptly
kicked the sodden mass under the bunk.
“Will yuh hand me the water pitcher, Sheriff? Thanks. Now irrigate,
runt.”
He held the pitcher to Shorty’s mouth and poured a generous potion
down the little puncher’s throat. Then, with a paternal air, he sat
Shorty on the edge of the bunk and loosened his collar.
“Ain’t I told yuh, time and again, not tuh swaller yore grub whole,
little ’un? Dang me if I can see how yuh ever growed up without
chokin’ tuh death.”
Tad turned to the sheriff with an apologetic grin.
“In spite uh all I tell him, that li’l’ varmint will wolf his grub.
It ain’t the fust time he’s choked down on me thataway. Onct, at a
ice-cream sociable down on the Gila, a brockle-faced school marm,
a-ketch-in’ him off his guard with a face full uh cake, ast him was
his hair nacherally curly afore it slipped and left him bald between
the horns. I’m out in the kitchen when the play comes up and he like
tuh perished complete afore I gits there. The fiddler, a-thinkin’
the li’l’ cuss had th’owed a fit, empties a pailful uh pink lemonade
on him. I tips him upside down, knocks the hunk uh cake loose from
where it’s lodged between his buck teeth and his briskit, and the
show is over. We spends a good half-hour huntin’ the loose change
which drops outa his pocket durin’ the proceedin’s. I bin thinkin’
serious uh knockin’ his teeth out so’s he’d have tuh graze on mush
and sech light truck.”
“Aw, let a man be, Ox,” grinned Shorty, buttering his fourth
biscuit. “If yuh gotta run off at the head, tell about the time that
Hash-Knife hoss crow hopped with yuh and yore set uh store teeth
swapped ends and like tuh bit yore tongue off. Only for the hoss
a-pilin’ yuh into the sourdough pan, you’d uh gone through life
without a tongue. Yuh mind, Taddie, how that kettle-paunched ol’
cook run yuh outa camp fer sp’ilin’ his batch uh bread dough? He’d
uh whittled yuh down tuh his size and whupped yuh, too, only I
tripped him up. There’s times when I wisht I’d let that ol’ grub
sp’iler ketch yuh.”
A shadow passed the window. The grin on Kipp’s face vanished.
“Here comes Fox,” he whispered. “Play yore cards keerful, boys. Yuh
whupped the best man he has in camp, Shorty. And he’s done heard how
Tad stood off his gang uh tough men with a empty gun. Down in that
black heart uh hisn, he respects nerve like yourn. He may put yuh
some kind of a proposition. Better consider keerful afore yuh turn
it down.
“He’s got yuh in a tight. He owns that saloon and the busted window.
Fact is, he owns the camp. Reckon I’d better let him in now. He’s
poundin’ out yonder fit tuh bust the door down.”
With a faint, uneasy smile, Kipp rose and unbolted the heavy door.
Luther Fox entered with one long stride. His gimlet eyes were fixed
on the remains of the prisoner’s sumptuous dinner.
“Fancy victuals that you give your prisoners, Kipp,” he spoke in a
rasping, flat voice. “County payin’ for such grub?” Kipp’s eyes took
on a chilly look.
“I paid the chink outa my own pocket, Fox.”
Luther Fox’s thin lips twitched at the corners. It may have been
meant for a smile. Devoid of mirth, it seemed to accentuate the
cruelty that lurked behind the pale-gray eyes.
“I want that I should be left alone with these two men, Kipp. Clear
out.”
It was the command of a man who was accustomed to being obeyed.
Tad, watching Kipp closely, saw the sheriff’s mouth tighten so as to
leave the lips a bloodless, crooked line. For a long moment the
officer and the cow man held each other’s gaze.
“Fox,” said Kipp, measuring his words with deliberate slowness, “I’m
sheriff here. This jail is county property. I leave here when I
get —— ready. If yo’re aimin’ tuh smell powder smoke, go fer yore
gun.”
Fox’s upper lip lifted, revealing long, crooked, yellow teeth. They
made the man hideous. His long fingers patted the butt of an
ivory-handled .45 that swung in a tied holster, low down on his
thigh.
“Whenever I pull my gun, Kipp, this county will be in line for a new
sheriff. However, it’s bad luck to kill an officer of the law. Our
quarrel will keep without spoilin’. I’ll word my wishes differently.
I’d like a few minutes pow-wow with your prisoners, Sheriff Kipp.
Will you be so kind as to grant so great a favor?”
His long frame bent at the waistline in a mocking bow. Rumor had it
that Luther Fox, in his youth, had been a New England schoolmaster.
Like rust corroding a steel blade, frontier contact had well nigh
obliterated the polish that belonged to that former life.
Occasionally it was visible, usually in the form of sarcasm.
Kipp, with a visible effort, fought down the hot rage that surged up
inside him. He turned on his heel and walked to the door. Without a
backward glance he closed the door behind him.
* * * * *
Inside the jail, Tad and Shorty looked up with curious gaze at Fox
and waited for him to break the silence that followed Kipp’s
departure. Fox’s lips were again twitching at the corners.
Otherwise, his expression did not change.
“Well, what have you two got to say for yourselves?” he asked
finally.
Long legs far apart, bony fingers twisting in a knot behind his
back, he glanced coldly at the two punchers.
“It don’t look to me like it was our ante,” Tad grinned easily. “The
sheriff tells us yo’re holdin’ the joker.”
“Exactly. The way the play stands, I can either make or break you
two.”
He paused.
“Spread yore cards, mister.”
Tad forestalled the silence that Fox had anticipated, a silence
during which he had expected to watch these two cow punchers squirm.
A frown of annoyance brought his reddish brows together. He had
rather expected to find the prisoners afraid and eager to please
him. Instead, both were grinning as if they enjoyed the situation.
“Very well,” he snapped. “I give you your choice. Either you go to
the penitentiary or on the LF payroll.”
“Penitentiary?” said Tad slowly. “Since when has it got tuh be a
penitentiary offense tuh mix in a two-bit saloon fight?”
“Assault with a deadly weapon means a stretch in the big house,”
smiled Fox. “Crossing Luther Fox, you may find, is even a worse
crime.”
“Yuh mean you’ll railroad us, eh?” said Tad evenly. He seemed to be
musing aloud. “Yeah, I reckon yuh could. Me’n my li’l’ pard is
strangers in a strange land and plumb broke. Yeah, reckon yuh could
do it, mister. Now supposin’ we take yuh up on the other
proposition? Jest what kind uh work do yuh aim that me and Shorty
should do tuh earn our pay? I might as well tell yuh now, Fox, our
guns ain’t fer hire, if that’s yore game.”
“The job I have in mind for you two is legitimate and within the
law,” said Fox. “A rancher named Hank Basset owes me money. I hold
his note for ten thousand dollars which falls due next week. It will
be your job to ride to his ranch and collect that ten thousand
dollars, in cash or steers. Since the man is broke, the payment will
be made by turning over to me five hundred head of steers at twenty
dollars per head.”
“Mighty cheap cattle,” grunted Shorty. Fox shrugged.
“Mebbeso. That’s beside the question. I am waiting for your answer
and it ain’t healthy, as a rule, to keep Luther Fox waiting.”
Fox fished a long stogie from his pocket, repaired its broken
wrapper with a cigaret paper and set fire to it. His little eyes
surveyed them through the haze of blue smoke. Tad turned to Shorty.
“Supposin’ we leave it to the sheriff to decide fer us, pardner?”
“Suits me, Tad.”
Luther Fox’s eyes became pin-points of glittering gray through the
smoke haze. His head thrust forward on a skinny neck, he peered at
the two punchers. A sinister, hate-lined face, unchanging in
expression. Behind his back, the long, bony fingers intertwined
until the joints cracked.
“—— old buzzard,” was Shorty’s inward comment.
Without a word, Fox turned and strode to the door. He swung it open
and shoved his head outside.
“Come in here, Kipp,” he snapped. “You’re wanted.”
Kipp, a stub of cigaret sticking from the corner of his mouth, rose
from his squatting posture against the log wall of the jail.
“Fox wants me’n Shorty tuh collect a bad debt from a gent named Hank
Basset,” said Tad, coming to the point. “We ’lowed we’d leave it up
tuh you.”
Kipp nodded.
“Kinda figgered he might pick you boys fer the job. Take him up on
it.”
“We’re obliged to yuh, Sheriff,” grinned Tad. “Mister Fox, yuh done
hired two hands.”
Again the twitching at the corners of Luther Fox’s thin lips.
“Get your guns from Kipp and pull out. I heard your six-shooters
were empty. You’ll find ammunition a-plenty in your saddle pockets.
Likewise a Winchester apiece, in your saddle scabbards. Here’s an
order on Basset for the steers.”
He held out a folded paper. Tad shoved it in his vest pocket. Fox
turned to the sheriff.
“Kipp, these two men are now on my payroll. The charges against them
are dropped. Give ’em their guns and let ’em go. They’re wasting LF
time here and they have a long ride ahead. If you have any message
for Hank Basset, carry it yourself, understand? My men are paid to
carry out my orders, not to deliver your messages. I think, Kipp,
that you savvy what I’m driving at, even if these men don’t.”
“I savvy, Fox,” returned the sheriff evenly, as he handed Tad and
Shorty their guns. He ushered them outside.
“Boys,” he said, ignoring Fox, “I loaded both yore guns. Five shells
in each six-gun, leavin’ a empty chamber under the hammers. When yuh
ride away from Alder Gulch, jest remember this; them is good, honest
ca’tridges, bought with clean, honest money. So-long and good luck.”
Kipp nodded a brief farewell and reentering the jail, swung the door
closed behind him.
Tad and Shorty gave each other a puzzled look, then followed the
scowling Fox toward the livery barn.
In the corral adjoining the barn were their private horses, saddled.
Also six more horses and a pack mule, the latter bearing a bed
covered by a new tarpaulin.
“That gives you three mounts apiece beside your privates,” Fox
explained. “You’ll help Basset gather those steers. Use your own
judgment about any difficulties that come up, the same as any
regular ‘rep’ would do. One week from tomorrow, I’ll meet you at the
lone cottonwood on Rock Creek and receive the cattle. I don’t want
either of you to forget that you’re drawin’ LF pay, and top wages at
that. You’ll govern yourselves accordingly.”
“Uh-huh,” grinned Tad. “Top wages, Fox, but not fightin’ wages. Me
and my pardner is peaceful fellers lessen we gits tromped on. We
don’t travel none on our shapes ner lead-slingin’ qualities. We
ain’t wanted no place fer no crime and we don’t figger on leavin’
this country with a posse follerin’ us. We’ll gather them steers,
but we won’t fight none tuh hold ’em. I bin punchin’ cows long
enough tuh know that there’s a nigger in the woodpile somewheres on
this deal er you’d either gather them steers yorese’f er send some
uh yore regular hands tuh do the job. We taken the sheriff’s say-so
about hirin’ out and we’ll see the play through to the last card,
but we ain’t doin’ no dirty jobs fer no man, mister.”
Tad had swung aboard his horse and sat slouched in the saddle,
watching Fox.
“Get the cattle and I’ll be satisfied,” replied Fox. “Yonder’s the
trail. Basset’s home ranch lays at the foot of that hazy peak. You
should make it by daylight tomorrow. Follow this trail till you come
to the lone cottonwood, where the trail forks. Take the right hand
trail.”
Shorty swung open the pole gate and Tad hazed the horses into the
open.
Legs spread far apart, hands clenched behind his back, Luther Fox
stood in the dusty trail and watched them out of sight. Once more
the corners of his cruel mouth twitched oddly. As he watched the
rapidly fading dust cloud that hid the partners, his eyes glittered
with a look of cunning.