“I dunno jest why, Tad,” Shorty broke the silence, “but I shore feel
sorry fer that Kipp gent. He’s right old tuh be pestered by a skunk
like Fox. His nerves ain’t so steady as they once was. I seen his
hand shake when he called Fox’s hand. A man can’t do good shootin’
when his hand shakes, Tad.”
“He’d a played his string out though, Shorty. Even when he knowed
Fox ’ud beat him to the draw. Kipp’s game, and I reckon that’s why
we kinda cottoned to him. Besides, he shore fed us good. I’m
wonderin’ what he meant by sayin’ he’d put honest ca’tridges in our
guns? Reckon we’re nosin’ into a range war? Danged if we don’t git
into more jams than a burglar. Yonder’s the lone cottonwood.”
The sun had just set and the rolling hills were bathed in the
subdued afterglow. The greasewood flat beyond took on the appearance
of a dark-green carpet. Distant peaks reflected the last rays of the
sun. A covey of sage hens whirred from the brush in front of the
horses, then dropped out of sight. Tad and Shorty pulled up in front
of the giant cottonwood, eyes fixed on a rudely lettered sign nailed
to the wide trunk, a sign riddled with bullets.
Warning to LF men. This here tree is my north boundry. The line
runs due west to Squaw Butte. Ary Fox man that crosses that line
will be huntin’ trouble and he’ll shore find it. HANK BASSET.
Tad waved a hand toward the sign.
“Yonder’s the reason why me and you are picked fer the steer-gatherin’
job, runt. I knowed there was a ace hid up Fox’s sleeve. What do yuh
say, pard? Do we turn back from here er go through with it?”
“We done hired out fer the job, Tad. Let’s play our string out.
Shucks, I’d hate tuh be bluffed out by ary sign.”
Tad nodded thoughtfully.
“Kipp aimed that we should go through. There’s more to this play
than a bad debt, and I’m right curious tuh turn the next page. Haze
that hammer-headed, pack-slippin’ mule on to the trail and we’ll git
goin’, pardner. I’m rearin’ tuh git a squint at this here Basset
hombre, providin’ he ain’t linin’ his sights on my briskit.
Likewise, li’l’ ’un, bear this in mind. Don’t go clawin’ fer no gun
iffen we gits jumped. Set tight and lemme augur ’em some. We ain’t
crossin’ this dead-line tuh burn powder. If it comes to the wust and
there’s no other way outa the tight, we takes our own parts like
gentlemen. We ain’t huntin’ no trouble and, on the other hand, we
ain’t stoppin’ no soft-nosed bullets with our carcasses if we kin
keep from it. And git a tail holt on yore ingrowed temper, _sabe_?
The fust sign I reads uh you comin’ to a boil and buckin’ yore cover
off, I knocks yuh between the horns. Hear me, runt?”
“Yeah. I hear yuh. Yo’re bellerin’ fit tuh be heard a mile. I ain’t
growed deef on this trip. Fer a forty dollar a month cow hand, yuh
shore kin git shet of a heap uh advice. I’ll remind yuh about it
when yo’re yellin’ fer me tuh pull this Basset feller off yuh. Git
along, mule.”
Hours passed and the moon rose. If the future held any fear for
these two followers of the dim trails, they gave no sign. Shorty
rode in the lead, picking the trail. Sometimes he sang and as the
words of the lament drifted back to Tad, the lanky puncher grinned
his appreciation and hummed an off-key accompaniment. Now and then
they dozed, heads swaying gently with the movements of their horses.
Innumerable cigarets were rolled, smoked and the butts pinched out.
Thus the night wore on and the first streak of dawn found them
halted before a pole gate.
Beyond the gate, lining the near-by creek, were innumerable tall
cottonwoods. A thin spiral of smoke lifted from the chimney of a
hidden cabin. Twenty feet beyond the gate was a buck-brush thicket.
Not a sound broke the quiet of the morning.
Shorty leaned in his saddle to pluck forth the wooden pin that held
the gate closed. A moment later he straightened.
“She’s locked with a stay chain and padlock, Tad,” he called softly.
“Reckon we better call out afore we goes further with the game.
Haloooooo!”
He raised his voice in a wolf-like howl. Followed a moment of
silence. Then, in an ordinary tone of voice that caused both
punchers to jump with surprise, a man called from the brush patch:
“Hello yoreself. Jest set where yuh be till we looks yuh over a
spell. Keep the little ’un covered with the shotgun, Ma.”
“I’ll make a sieve outa him if he makes ary move, Hank. ’Tend to the
big feller. Know either of ’em?”
“Nope. Light’s too dim yet tuh read the brands on their hosses but
ain’t that paint hoss the LF hoss we seen in town last week?”
“—— a’mighty, Tad,” groaned Shorty in an uneasy voice. “Start a
talkin’ afore we’re killed complete.”
“We’re plum peaceful, mister,” called Tad. “That’s a LF hoss and so
is the others, but hold yore fire. We come here tuh——”
“To finish robbin’ honest folks, eh?” snapped a feminine voice that
carried the sharp edge of a newly whetted knife. “LF men, eh? Come
to do the dirty work of that pole cat, Luther Fox! Gun toters, by
the looks of yuh. You seen the sign on the cottonwood?”
“Yes’m, but we ain’t——”
“Shetup! Quit interruptin’ a lady. Hank, watch that big gent, he’s
got a mean eye. Dim as the light is, I kin see it. You there, little
feller, keep them hands where they belongs. There’s eighteen
buckshot in both these barrels and I’m takin’ a rest across this
boulder. Come to git them cattle that’s due Fox?”
“Yes’m. But we ain’t cravin’ no trouble ma’am, leastways, not with
women-folks. Joe Kipp, the sheriff, ’lowed that we should come.”
“Huh!” snorted the hidden lady. “And what under the sun and seven
stars has that old sage hen got to say about it? If Kipp had the
gumption of a rabbit, he’d run the hull LF pack outa the country.
He’s stood by like a lump on a log and seen a pore ol’ couple git
robbed uh their eye teeth, and never once raised a finger to stop
it. He don’t dast set foot on the place, he’s that ashamed uh
hisself fer——”
“Hush, Ma,” cut in the voice of Hank Basset. “Joe done his best by
us. His hands is tied, drat it, the same as ours is. Now, big
feller, how come that Joe Kipp ’lowed that you should come here?
Don’t try no lyin’ er we turns loose these shotguns. Yuh read the
sign on the cottonwood and me’n ma is within’ our rights when we
shoots. Git tuh talkin’, dang yuh.”
“Me’n my li’l’ pardner is strangers, Basset, and we ain’t takin’ up
no man’s fight fer him. Kipp done told us tuh take Fox up on it,
when Fox give us the offer uh the job. We was in jail at the time
and the ol’ buzzard was aimin’ tuh cold-deck us into the pen, savvy?
It was either take this job er go over the road fer a few years. We
ain’t doin’ dirty work fer no man, mister. We’re cow hands, me and
Shorty is, not gun-toters. We come here peaceful and we stays
thataway, lessen we’re crowded bad.
“If I was a gun man, Basset, and was aimin’ tuh th’ow lead in yore
direction, I’d be doin’ it now. That there bush yo’re a squattin’
behind ain’t so thick as she might be. I kin see yuh plain. Yuh’d
orter pick a boulder fer shelter.”
A muffled curse and cracking of twigs came from the brush as Hank
Basset shifted his position. Tad’s eyes followed the moving brush
tops. His ruse had worked. He now knew where the cow man crouched.
Shorty grinned his approval at Tad’s clever lying.
“Good guessin’, Taddie. Now shoo that there settin’ hen of a female
from her nest and we’ll feel easier,” he whispered. “If it comes to
the wust, we gotta run. We can’t noways shoot no female women. I
might try a pot shot at Basset.”
“Hush up, runt.” Then, in a louder tone. “I said my say, Basset. She
goes as she lays. We ain’t burnin’ no powder here ner elsewhere fer
Luther Fox. Yo’re the doctor, _sabe_? If we’re messin’ into ary
range war er such, we’ll go back the way we come, with our guns in
the scabards, and leave the job tuh them that wants it. From what I
seen of the LF hands, there’s plenty of ’em that’ll take it. There’s
our proposition, Basset. Take it er leave it.”
There was a long silence, broken only by whispering between the cow
man and his wife. Then the answer came from behind the boulder in
the voice of Ma Basset.
“Shed yore guns and light. As long as we gotta be pestered with LF
men, it’d as well be you two as them others. Keerful how you handle
yore hands while yo’re coming through the fence. Keep to the middle
of the wagon road that leads to the house. Hank and me’ll have yuh
covered, every step.”
Tad and Shorty exchanged a quick look. Tad nodded briefly.
“Shed the cannon, pard, and we’ll take her up.”
They tossed their guns to the ground, swung from the saddle and
approached with their hands in the air. The presence of a woman
caused Shorty to blush confusedly, but Tad seemed to rather enjoy
the situation. Once through the barbed-wire fence, they kept to the
road. A bend in the road brought them in view of the buildings.
* * * * *
The sun was just rising and both cowpunchers gazed in surprise at
the scene spread before them. Low walled, log buildings, the sod
roofs covered with green grass and wild mustard. Well-built horse
corrals, branding shute and branding pen beyond. A well-irrigated
alfalfa patch, blooming and ripe for cutting. A small blacksmith
shop surrounded by mowers, rakes, and two round-up wagons.
Everything neat and orderly, rare indeed, for a cattle ranch.
The ranch house and adjacent bunk house were whitewashed, and
climbing the walls were masses of morning glories. Wild rose bushes,
pink blossoms wet with the early morning dew, lined the gravel walk
that led to the doors. All around were the tall cottonwoods.
“Gosh!” whispered Shorty, and removed his hat.
Tad followed suit. They halted on the threshold of the open door,
carefully wiping their feet on the burlap sack mat. Tad sniffed the
warm air that came from the kitchen.
From the service-berry brush behind the cowpunchers, stepped the
oddly mated couple with their shotguns.
Hank Basset, shorter by six inches and lighter by some eighty pounds
than his wife, was clad in faded flannel shirt and freshly
laundered, neatly patched overalls. Slightly bent over, tanned the
color of an old saddle, a bald patch showing in the center of his
silvery hair, he was anything but warlike in appearance. His mild
blue eyes twinkled with humor, but there was a look about his
straight mouth and square chin that told of hidden determination and
a fearless spirit if he were roused.
Ma Basset, red of cheek, her well-combed, abundance of gray hair
glistening in the morning sun, was as neat as her rose bushes, and
as fresh looking, in her red-and-white checked gingham. Despite the
scowl that furrowed her wide brow, there was everything in her
make-up to denote a generous, mothering personality. A bit stout, to
be sure, but her step was firm and alert and her bare arms were more
muscular than fat. A woman of the pioneer stock, ranch born and
raised. As much at home in the saddle as in her immaculate kitchen,
a fair example of the cattle man’s wife whose courage and sacrifice
has played so important a role in the building of the West. Even as
her mother before her had fought Indians, so now, did Ma Basset
wield her sawed-off shotgun in defense of her home.
Suddenly Tad sprang forward into the open door of the kitchen.
“Coffee’s b’ilin’ over!” he bellowed over his shoulder.
Shorty, left on the threshold, shoved his aching arms higher in the
air and gazed with agonized eyes into the twin barrels of Ma
Basset’s raised shotgun.
Tad now appeared in the doorway, holding aloft the steaming coffee
pot as proof of his good intentions.
“—— a’mighty, yuh big lummox,” groaned Shorty. “Yuh like tuh got me
killed.”
There was that in the appearance of the two partners to cause even
the stoniest hearted to smile. Shorty, his swollen eye a sickly
green, tanned face perspiring and red from suppressed emotion and
embarrassment, gazing beseechingly at his partner. Tad, his homely,
rough-hewn features wreathed in an infectious grin, holding aloft
the huge granite-ware coffee pot.
“Shucks, Hank,” muttered Ma Basset in an undertone of relief, “them
two boys ain’t no badmen. Why that pore little feller is nigh scared
tuh death. Don’t suppose he ever hurt a livin’ thing in his hull
life. My gracious but that big ’un did give me a start when he tore
into the house thataway. I was sure certain he was aimin’ to make a
fight of it. Lawzee!”
The elderly couple did not relax their vigilance, however, until
breakfast was well on its way.
Tad, with his unaffected, loquacious manner, did much to quell
suspicion. He insisted on putting on an apron and helping with the
breakfast, all the while keeping up an aimless chatter with the lady
of the house. More than often he had her chuckling gaily.
Shorty, in the front room with Hank, told a straightforward story of
their sojourn in Alder Gulch.
“Yuh mean that you whupped that big miner by yoreself? Why, Fox
claims that big hunkie is a ex-prize fighter!”
Shorty shrugged.
“I dunno about that, mister. If he’s a pug, he’s a pore ’un. You’d
uh died laffin’ tuh see Tad a-holdin’ off that gang with a empty
gun.”
“And you boys ain’t fightin’ fer Luther Fox?”
“Mister,” said Shorty solemnly, “when me and Tad draws our shootin’
irons, we does it because somebody’s crowdin’ us er our friends,
bad. We’re aimin’ tuh go back tuh Arizony some day and we got
friends down there that we want tuh look square in the eyes,
_sabe_?”
“Breakfast is about ready,” called Ma Basset from the doorway.
Hank and Shorty got to their feet.
“Ma’am,” said Shorty, flushing hotly, “our hosses is outside the
fence yonder. My grub ’ud plumb choke me if I was tuh set down to
the table afore I’d took care uh my Skewball hoss. Tad, I reckon,
feels the same about his Yaller Hammer hoss. He’d ’a’ said so
hisse’f only he’s a-tormentin’ me by makin’ me axe yuh, kin we be
excused while we ’tends to ’em. The big walloper pesters me
continual when there’s women folks around.”
Shorty was the color of an Indian blanket by now. Tad, grinning
widely, winked at Hank.
“Tush, son,” smiled Ma Basset. “Now don’t you pay no attention to
him. He’d orter be ashamed uh hisself, tormentin’ a boy half his
size. You boys hurry on now and tend to yore ponies. The key to the
gate hangs on a nail on the gate post. Unsaddle and turn yore hosses
into the pasture. There’s blue-joint grass and water a-plenty there.
I’ll put the biscuits and eggs in the warmin’ oven. Hurry, now.”
Five minutes later there came the sound of splashing water. Ma
Basset, looking out the kitchen window, nodded her approval.
“They’re washin’-up at the bunkhouse, Hank,” she whispered. “Those
boys has had raisin’.”
“When a man sets down to his grub afore he’s took care uh his hoss,
watch out fer him,” added Hank. “I was a-waitin’ tuh see if they was
goin’ tuh let their animals wait. It don’t take no smart gent tuh
see that they’re as different from the other LF riders as a
gentleman is different from a sheep herder. I bin thinkin’, Ma,
mebbe so them two boys kin help us. They’re kinda like home folks,
sorter.”
“Help us?”
Ma Basset shoved a second pan of biscuits in the oven and closed the
door thoughtfully. Then she straightened.
“Help us, Hank? I’m afeered not. The cattle’s gone, that’s all.
They’re good boys, like as not, but they can’t make a herd uh cattle
outa a handful uh sore-footed cows and wind-bellied calves. No,
we’re beat and beat bad. But we ain’t hollerin’, neither of us. If
only our Pete boy was back home, I’d feel as chipper as a meadow
lark. But the thought uh him cooped up in a prison cell, kinda takes
the warm feelin’ outa the sunshine, somehow.”
Tears glistened in her eyes. She seated herself on a chair and
dabbed at the tears with the corner of her apron. Hank crossed over
to her and put an arm about her shoulders.
Tad and Shorty had removed their spurs at the bunkhouse. They made
but little noise as they came to the door and halted to wipe the
dust from their boots. They could not help but see what went on
inside the kitchen. Embarrassed, they looked at each other in
silence.
“Our Pete sent over the road by that low-down LF spread, our cattle
run off and a ten-thousand-dollar note due next week,” came the
voice of Hank Basset whose back was toward the cowpunchers. “It’s
hard lines fer folks as old as us, Ma. But we ain’t licked yet. I
kin still hold down a job punchin’ cows.”
“And I kin beat ary round-up cook that ever burned a batch uh beans
er turned a mess wagon over,” added Ma Basset bravely. “Yuh mind
that fall when I cooked fer the outfit, Hank, and drove two broncs
fer wheelers? I can do it again, too.”
Tad, a vise-like grip on his partner’s arm, backed quietly away from
the door. On tiptoe they retreated to the bunkhouse. Then, with
careless step and a whistle coming discordantly from Tad’s pursed
lips, they again approached the kitchen.
Ma Basset’s eyes showed faint signs of redness and Hank seemed
somewhat ill at ease. He led them back into the front room.
“Biscuits ain’t quite done,” he explained, waving the two punchers
to chairs.
He moved stealthily to a cupboard and reached a hand in behind the
curtain. It came forth holding a brown bottle.
“Ma keeps it fer snake bite,” he whispered. “Have a nip?”
But before he could hand the bottle to the expectant Shorty, an
approaching step sounded from the kitchen. Hank deftly slid the
bottle back behind the curtain, a second before his wife appeared in
the doorway.
In Ma Basset’s hand was a piece of raw beefsteak and a strip of
cloth.
“Fer your eye,” she told Shorty, and forthwith tied the piece of
meat over the swollen and discolored member.
“Your pardner was a-tellin’ me how you fell off your hoss and bunged
that eye up,” she smiled, standing aside to survey the bandage
critically.
“Hoss th’owed me?” returned Shorty dazedly. “Shucks, I——”
“Nothin’ to be ashamed of,” she replied. “There ain’t a bronc rider
livin’ that ain’t got it some time er another.”
“Never was a rider that never got th’owed,” chanted Tad, trying in
vain to catch his partner’s eye. “Never was a bronc that never got
rode,” he finished the rime.
But Shorty did not see. Hank was shifting uneasily in his
rawhide-bottomed chair. He too, seemed to be trying to convey a
silent message of some sort to Shorty.
“But, ma’am, I——”
“Ma, ain’t them biscuits a burnin’?” Hank was sniffing the air like
a hound scenting a fox. Ma, her thoughts diverted to the bread, made
her way hastily to the kitchen.
Hank’s hand darted to the cupboard and the bottle of whisky came
forth once more. This time it went the rounds. Hank replaced the
cork and the bottle vanished behind the curtain.
“Now, Ox,” growled Shorty. “How come yuh lied about this here eye?”
“Miz Basset ’lowed that them as mixed up in saloon fights was mighty
low-down sorter humans, _sabe_? Tuh keep yuh from bein’ disgraced, I
lied a mite about that black eye that miner hung on yuh.”
“Ma is plumb sot ag’in’ fightin’,” added Hank. “I aimed tuh wise yuh
up, but it kinda slipped my mind. Onct, when I gits tangled up in a
nice quiet scrap and shows up with a swole-up jaw, Ma kinda
quarantined me off and I et, slept and subsisted, as the sayin’
goes, in the blacksmith shop. One uh the boys toted my grub to me.
Doggone, she was on the prod. She don’t paw the earth ner beller
loud ner bend no rollin’ pins across a man’s withers. No, sir. She
jest swells up like a buck Injun, gits proud and haughty and kinda
looks a feller over like he was lower than a sheep herder.”
Shorty was not cheered by this bit of news. Ma Basset summoned them
to breakfast at this juncture and the little puncher inwardly
writhed with the burden of a guilty conscience. Pangs of hunger
conquered, however, and he ate as heartily as Tad.