“I ain’t noways aimin’ tuh be hollerin’,” explained old Hank,
spraying a sage bush with tobacco juice. “I jest want that you boys
should know what kind of a skunk yo’re workin’ fer and how he’s
throwed the hooks to me.”
Tad and Shorty, riding on either side of the cattle-man, nodded.
“Two years ago, come July fourth, my son, Pete, gits into a jam over
a hoss that Black Jack is abusin’ on the street in Alder Gulch.
Black Jack pulls a gun. He’s tanked up on Injun whisky and onery
as ——, _sabe_? He hates the Pete boy anyhow, and comes a rearin’
when Pete tells him tuh quit beatin’ the hoss over the head.
“His bullet ketches Pete in the thigh and Pete limbers up his
six-gun as he’s a fallin’. Black Jack goes down with a .45 slug in
his gun arm and the fight is over.
“But the Black Jack gent and Luther Fox is playin’ of a deep game
and they sets out tuh bust us. They has Pete throwed in jail and
tried fer attempt tuh murder. They’s a dozen LF pole cats that
swears on the witness stand that Pete starts the fight and shoots
fust. Pete, not havin’ ary witness, is railroaded.
“Trials is expensive, boys. Pete’s law sharp bleeds me fer all I kin
scrape up. The price uh cattle is lower’n a rattler’s belly and I’m
bad crowded tuh git the coin. I borrys ten thousand dollars from the
bank and gives my note, never thinkin’ they’d sell the note tuh
Luther Fox. I ain’t wise tuh them throat-cuttin’ tricks that’s
called good business by some.
“That fall finds me busted and in debt. I’m doin’ business with
Fox’s bank, buyin’ grub from Fox’s store and the pore specimens uh
cowpunchers that’s workin’ fer me is drawin’ double wages from Fox
and stealin’ me blind. Up till then, Pete has bin runnin’ the
round-up and takin’ care uh that end. He’s made me and Ma take it
easy like, sendin’ us to Californy and Florida fer the winters and a
babyin’ us scan’lous thataway. Now we’re throwed up ag’in’ it onct
more and we pitches in tuh do our dangdest.
“The day Pete is sentenced to twenty-five years at Deer Lodge, Ma
takes the train fer Helena tuh see the governor and I comes back and
starts the fall round-up with as sorry a crew as ever rode a good
hoss tuh death. My range covers the country between the lone
cottonwood and the Missouri River. Some eighty thousand acres and
she’s supposed tuh be fair stocked. Gents, it sounds scary when I
tell it, and yuh kin believe it er not, but we works that range and
we don’t gather five hundred head uh steers. Somebody’s beat us to
it, understand, and I’m cleaned out complete!
“I ships the five hundred head which don’t bring no kind of a price,
pays off these hoss killers, and gits Joe Kipp tuh help me home with
the _remuda_ uh sore-backed hosses. Then me and Joe starts in fer tuh
hunt them stolen cattle.
“There’s old sign a plenty and when we cuts the main trail, we splits
up and follers it into the bad lands. There’s mebbe so a stretch uh
rough, timbered brakes fer fifteen-twenty miles betwixt the open
prairie and the river. Timbered some and stood on end fer the most
part. I follers a trail along a timbered ridge while Joe takes the
main trail which seems tuh twist eastward towards the LF range.
“I’ve rode mebbe so eight-ten miles when my hat gits knocked off and
I hears the pop of a 30-30. Some gent has drilled my hat. Over
behind some boulders is a puff of white smoke. The range is upwards uh
five hundred yards. I picks up my hat, unlimbers ole “meat-in-the-pot”
and heads fer Mister Bushwhacker.
“_Ping!_ Off goes my hat onct more and this time the shot comes from
the other side, a good four hundred yards away.
Whoever is doin’ that shootin’ is —— good shots. Thinkin’ along them
lines, and wonderin’ where the next bullet will hit, I jabs home the
spurs and goes a shootin’ towards Mister Polecat behind the
boulders.
“_Wham!_ A Winchester barks and my hoss piles up, shot between the
eyes. I takes my stand behind his carcass and throws some lead in
the direction uh the brush patch where I sees the white smoke fadin’
away. When my gun is empty, I commences shovin’ fresh shells in the
magazine. Then —— busts loose. Seems like a army is bombardin’ me.
But every danged bullet is goin’ about a foot high. Sudden like, the
shootin’ quits.
“Got a plenty?” calls a stranger voice. “We bin foolin’ up to now.
The next shootin’ we does will be the real article. Git on yore
laigs and hit fer home.”
“I feels the wind of a steel-jacket bullet as she misses my nose by
about a inch. Mad? I was b’ilin’, gents. Only fer leavin Ma a
widder, I’d uh stayed till they got me. But het up as I was, I sees
how plumb useless it is tuh make a fight, so I drags it.
“At the edge uh the bad lands, where we’d split up, I finds Joe
Kipp. He’s kinda white and shaky like, and he’s afoot, the same as
me. The drawed look around his mouth and the way his eyes looks at
me, makes me feel plumb sorry fer him. He’s takin’ it wuss than I
am.
“‘They shot yor hoss and made a danged target outa yuh, Joe?’ I
asks, not knowin’ how else tuh ease his feelin’s.
“‘Hank,’ says he, solemn like and earnest as ——, ‘I wish tuh —— they’d
uh killed me, instead uh wingin’ me, like they did.’
“And he shows me his gun arm, busted between the shoulder and elbow
by a soft-nosed bullet. I ties up the arm the best I kin and we
commences that thirty-mile walk home. Ol’ Joe never whimpered onct
durin’ that night’s walk, though I knowed he was sufferin’ bad. Ner
did he do ary talkin’. Up till then he’d bin right hopeful about
gittin’ them stolen cattle back. But bein’ set afoot and sech musta
drug it outa him bad, fer he ain’t never bin the same man since.
“There’s them that claims he’s scared uh Fox, and sometimes it shore
looks like they done read the sign right. Me, I don’t know. Seems
like, if he was scared uh Fox, that he’d throw up his tail and quit.
But he still holds the job down. Some day, I look fer him tuh kill
Fox er git killed a-tryin’.”
“Didn’t yuh never make no more fight tuh find them cattle?” asked
Tad after some silence.
“Kipp done went down into the hills two-three times. Each time he
went there, he come back afoot, lookin’ like he’d seen a ghost. And
somewhere in his hide ’ud be a bullet hole. Not bad, jest a kinda
souvenir uh the occasion, as the feller says.
“Onct, I gathers me a posse uh cow-men from around the county and we
slips into the brakes after night. Injuns couldn’t uh done it more
quiet. We’d gone mebbe so five-six miles and was goin’ single file
down a steep trail that led into a canyon. Sudden like, fifty feet
ahead uh my hoss—I’m in the lead, _sabe_?—a match sputters. Before I
kin unlimber my cannon, a heap uh brush blazes up. There we are,
square in the light uh the blaze, the trail too narrer tuh turn
around, with a dead drop uh two hundred feet on one side and a shale
cliff on the other. On the trail behind us, afore we gits our senses
good, another brush pile busts into flame.”
“‘Do you idjits turn back from here er does we start a shootin’?’
bellers a gent from the dark up above.
“It don’t take no more’n a half-witted sheep herder tuh decide which
to do. We tells this gent that we’re turnin’ back.
“‘Fifty feet down the trail,’ says he, ‘the trail widens. When the
front fire goes out, ride over it to that place and turn. Ary man
that passes that wide point, gits a free ticket tuh ——. Us boys is
holed up here fer a spell and we ain’t cravin’ no visitors. The next
man that rides into these brakes, don’t see his happy home no
more.’”
“That ended it, eh?” inquired Tad.
Hank nodded.
“I ain’t never bin back there. What’s the use? They got the bulge in
that country. They kin set on a pinnacle and see every rider between
the brakes and my place, if they got ary fieldglasses, which they
likely has. The only way tuh git into the hills is along them trails
and every danged trail is watched. Them cattle is like so many flies
in a bottle and Fox’s hand over the mouth tuh keep ’em in. The same
crew uh gun fighters that keeps folks from goin’ into the hills,
keeps the cattle from driftin’ out.”
“Hmm,” mused Tad aloud. “Regular hole-in-the wall proposition, ain’t
it? Yeah. How many trails leadin’ into that section, Hank?”
“Two,” came the prompt reply. ‘It’s a kinda pocket, widening out
beyond where the brakes meets the bottom lands.”
“Trails along the river bottoms, ain’t there?”
“Nary trail ’ceptin’ late in the fall when the water’s low. It’s
what they call the Narrows. Except fer where trails has bin cut out,
a man can’t water his saddle hoss along the riverbank fer ten miles.
Thirty and forty foot banks, _sabe_? And at each end uh the ten-mile
stretch is a gorge cut out by spring rains and the cricks, which is
so full uh quicksand that they’d bog a jacksnipe. A danged pocket, I
tell yuh, a danged, gyp-water, soap-hole, shale-banked pocket. And
they’s feed in them cañons tuh winter half the cattle in Montana.”
“Uh-huh. Yet, some way er another, Hank, it don’t sound noways
reasonable that a man can’t git in there. Supposin’ that a man was
tuh cross the river, say at one uh the ferries, ride back on the
opposite bank till he come opposite them Narrers, then swim across
to where one uh them trails is cut in the bank?”
Hank laughed mirthlessly. “Can’t be done, pardner. My boy Pete is
the only human that ever done it and he crossed when the river was
down. Now, at high water, the —— hisself couldn’t make it.”
“Yore Pete done it?” put in Shorty, silent up till now.
Hank smiled reminiscently.
“Pete knowed the river better’n ary human alive. As a kid, he used
tuh kinda look after the hosses durin’ the summer. He’d go into the
pocket with a pack outfit and stay there till time fer the fall
round-up. Long afore I even knowed he could swim, that kid was
bustin’ that river wide open, jest fer the fun of it. He like tuh
drowned a dozen hosses, learnin’ ’em the channel. I never knowed
nobody else that ever swum the Missouri at the Narrows.”
“Got ary uh them water hosses at the ranch, Hank?” Shorty’s eyes
were dancing excitedly.
“Shore thing, but even if you was fool enough tuh tackle it, Shorty,
the river’s up and boomin’ now and the current swifter’n a
blue-racer snake. I wouldn’t let yuh tackle it, boy. ——’s bells,
what ’ud yuh do if yuh did git across?”
“Now there’s where yuh got me guessin’,” grinned the little puncher,
but that dancing light still flickered in his eyes as they rode on.
“If yo’re figgerin’ on playin’ fish, runt, fergit it,” grunted Tad
as he licked the paper of a cigaret.
They rode on in silence for some time, heading back toward the
Basset ranch.
“Hank,” Tad broke a lengthy silence, “Did Kipp ever try tuh git help
from the Stock Association on this deal?”
“If he did, he never said so ner nothin’ ever come of it. Why?”
“I was jest a-askin’, that’s all,” came the evasive reply. “Jest
tryin’ tuh git a squint at the lay from all sides. How long have yuh
knowed Kipp?”
“Ever since he come to the country. Lemme see. About eighteen years,
near as I kin figger.”
“Where’d he come from?”
“Don’t know as Joe ever said, and I never asked him. Look here, if
yo’re figgerin’ that Joe Kipp is mixed up with Fox and ain’t square,
yo’re plumb wrong. Joe’s honest, bank on that. I’d bet my last steer
on it.”
“Mebbe so yuh done bet ’em already, and lost ’em,” laughed Tad.
Hank smiled bitterly.
“I reckon not, Ladd. Does ol’ Joe look like a crook er a cow thief
tuh you?”
“No, Hank. If ever a man had honest eyes, it’s Kipp. A right nice
ol’ feller from what me’n Shorty seen uh him. How long has this Fox
pole cat bin clutterin’ up the range around here?”
“Three years. He leased and bought all the range he could git holt
of and throwed in some dogie stuff from the south. Black Jack come
with the cattle. He’s bin after my range ever since he come to these
parts, but he never offered nowhere near a fair price. He told me,
last time he made me a offer, that it was his top price and if I
didn’t take it, he’d bust me. It looks like he’s shore doin’ it,
too. Him and that black-whiskered Injun.”
“Is Black Jack a Injun?” asked Tad. “Half-breed, so they claim.
Apache, I reckon, by his looks. It wouldn’t surprise me none if he’s
a outlaw. If he wasn’t scared uh bein’ recognized, why does he wear
them whiskers? I asked Joe but he ’lowed a man couldn’t arrest a man
and shave him without havin’ danged good reason, and I reckon he’s
right.”
They rode on, each of the three busy with his own thoughts. Ma
Basset was waiting for them at the corral. Beside her stood Joe
Kipp. Both seemed unusually excited. Ma Basset’s eyes showed signs
of weeping.
“God help us and him, Hank!” she cried out as Hank dismounted,
“Pete’s escaped the pen!”
“Have they caught him yet?” asked Hank, his lips white with fear.
“He got clean away, Hank,” said Kipp. “I rode over tuh tell yuh.”
V
If ever a man looked worried, it was Joe Kipp. Every feature of his
tanned face was drawn and haggard. His eyes were bloodshot and
seared with some tortuous pain. His hands shook so that he spilled
the tobacco he was pouring into a brown paper.
“Pete was a sorter trusty at Deer Lodge,” he went on to explain. “He
waited till the chance come, then made a clean getaway. He was gone
two hours afore they found it out. I got orders tuh watch out fer
him, Hank. Yuh see, they figger he’ll be showin’ up around these
parts.”
“Look here, Joe Kipp,” said Ma Basset firmly, her eyes still wet, “I
don’t intend to sit by with my hands in my lap while you or any
other man is gunnin’ fer my Pete. Yo’re a law officer and there’s no
way to keep yuh from hangin’ around here, but I’m givin’ yuh warnin’
here and now that no man kin take Pete while I kin hold a gun.”
She turned to her husband.
“Hank, I’m glad the boy’s loose and a breathin’ good clean air
again. He ain’t goin’ back if I kin help it. Are you standin’ by
yore wife and son er do you line up on the side uh the law that
sends innocent boys tuh prison? Are yuh——”
“Hush, Ma, yo’re excited,” interrupted Hank. “Uh course, I’m stayin’
by Pete, right er wrong. But there’s no need tuh——”
Ma Basset sent him a withering glance and whirled on the
uncomfortable sheriff.
“If you was as eager tuh git back them stolen cattle as yuh are tuh
shoot our Pete boy, we’d not be facin’ poverty in our old age. It’s
a wonder tuh me that you got the nerve tuh show yore face on this
ranch, Joe Kipp.”
The sheriff winced as if struck. Shoulders sagging, eyes fixed on
the ground, he made no reply. Tad and Shorty, unwilling spectators,
were heartily wishing themselves elsewhere.
A mother cat will face a dog fifty times her size in defense of her
young. Face him without fear. Men call it mother instinct and there
is in this life no more courageous, more self-sacrificing, nor more
beautiful trait. Not a man there but respected Ma Basset for the
stand she took, Joe Kipp included.
“Ma’am,” he said, his eyes still fixed on the ground, “I don’t
reckon I blame yuh none fer the way yuh feel. But yo’re plumb wrong
about me gunnin’ fer Pete Basset. No matter how the play comes up. I
ain’t drawin’ no gun on him if I should cut his trail. If I was as
onery as you figger I am, I’d uh kept my mouth shet and laid low
till Pete showed up. My idee in ridin’ over was tuh kinda let yuh
know it in time tuh warn him. In doin’ that I’m violatin’ my oath uh
office.”
Kipp turned abruptly and swung into his saddle. Before Hank Basset
or his wife could say a word, he had ridden through the pole gate
and was lost to sight in the trees.
“I’d orter have my tongue cut out,” said Ma Basset contritely.
“Talkin’ to the pore ol’ feller thataway when he was doin’ us a good
turn. Hank, git on yore hoss and ketch him. Tell him I was jest a
fool woman talkin’ a lot uh fool nonsense.”
Hank shook his head.
“I reckon ol’ Joe savvys, Ma. He ain’t holdin’ no grudge. Supposin’
we tackles some grub? It’s past sundown and we kin talk this thing
over better after we’ve took on a bait uh beef and beans.”
He jerked the saddle off his horse and followed his wife to the
house.
“Holler when supper’s ready, Hank,” Tad told him. “Me’n Shorty wants
tuh tack a shoe on one of our hosses.”
Hank nodded appreciatively. He knew that there was no horse to shoe
and he thanked Tad with a look for the kindly lie that gave him and
his wife a chance to discuss in private the escape of their son.
When Hank had gone in the house, Tad turned serious eyes on his
partner.
“Shorty, I got a hunch that Joe Kipp’s a worryin’ over somethin’
besides this Pete gent. He’s sick inside as if he was gut shot and I
aim tuh find out what’s eatin’ on him. Yuh seen how he flinched when
Miz Basset lit on him?”
“Yuh don’t think the ol’ feller’s playin’ a double game do yuh,
Tad?” Shorty’s voice dropped to a whisper.
“I hate tuh be thinkin’ he’s that ornary, but dang me if there ain’t
some things about this deal that has me guessin’. I’m goin’ tuh
foller Kipp and see what comes uh it. Tell Hank and Miz Basset some
durned lie er another about why I rode off. Look fer me when yuh see
me ride through yonder gate, _sabe_? This may be a hour’s job, er on
the other hand, mebbe so it’ll take a week.”
“Why can’t we both go?”
“Because, my well-meanin’ but plumb onsenseless _amigo_, it’s a one
man job, this trailin’ business. Stick around here, keep yore eyes
peeled, and if the Pete boy shows up, tell him not tuh quit the
flats till I show up and kin make a medicine talk with him. This
deal has my curious bump a-itchin’ and we’ll see ’er through, no?”
“I’d tell a man. Taddie, ol’ war hoss, I’m rearin’ tuh tackle that
river from yon side and——”
“Of all the plumb dehorned, knee-sprung, narrer-foreheaded idiots
that ever dealt his pardner misery, yo’re the wust! We ain’t here
tuh do no fightin’, dang it. And I don’t want tuh put in the rest uh
the summer hangin’ around them sand bars waitin’ fer yore fool
carcass tuh come floatin’ along. Haze that fool idee plumb outa yore
system and start all over on some plan that listens sensible.
“A man ’ud think yuh had more lives than a tom cat. Fork yore
geldin’ and come down the pasture with me while I ketches me my
Yaller Hammer pony. And git this here idee circulatin’ through yore
system, son: We’re peaceful cow hands, me and you. This ain’t our
scrap that’s goin’ on and the best we’ll git is the sharp end uh the
prod-pole if we cuts in heavy.
“Leave the thinkin’ parts tuh yore pardner. If I hollers fer he’p,
come a runnin’ but not lessen I hollers. We want tuh be all in one
piece and enjoyin’ health and prosperity, as the sayin’ goes, when
we presses our ponies fer Arizony this fall. Keep yore tongue
between yore jaws and yore gun in the scabbard and we stand a fair
tuh middlin’ show uh makin’ our home range, come Christmas. Go
rearin’ and fightin’ yore head and like as not we’ll winter in a two
by four hoosegow somewheres in Montana.”
Ten minutes later, Shorty watched his partner ride his fresh horse
out the pole gate and along the trail Kipp had taken. A wide grin
spread across the little cow puncher’s weather-tanned face.
“Yuh long-legged preacher,” he muttered good humoredly. “Yo’re
plumb —— on givin’ forth wise words, ain’t yuh? Yuh give more danged
advice than a Jersey cow gives milk. Then yuh rides away tuh hog all
the fun whilst I hangs around the kitchen door like a dad-gummed
blowfly and whittles sticks till yuh chooses tuh come back. Now I
gotta go in there and lie tuh cover yore trail, dang yuh. We’ll see
about swimmin’ that river, big ’un.”
“Grub pile!” called Hank from the kitchen door, thus putting an end
to Shorty’s muttered tirade against the tyranny of his big partner.
A wicked look gleamed in his eyes as he made his way to the cabin.
“Where’s yore partner?” asked Ma Basset.
“Gone,” said Shorty, shaking his head sadly.
“Gone? Gone where?”
“Tuh town, I reckon, ma’am. I done the best I could tuh stop him but
’twan’t no use. Yuh see, Miz Basset, he’s one uh these here habitual
drunks. Goes fer months without tetchin’ a drop. Then, sudden like,
he jest busts out. He’ll swim rivers, climb pinnacles, go afoot if
he has tuh, till he locates licker. Then he bogs down till he’s
soaked up enough tuh kill ary ten men, forks his hoss and comes
back. And the queer part of it is, he looks cold sober all the time.
I bet a new hat yuh won’t be able tuh tell he’s had a drink when he
gits back.”
“Land sakes! The pore, diseased critter. Who’d uh thunk he was
inflicted thataway, Hank? I hope he gits home safe.”
Hank gave Shorty a suspicious look and when Ma Basset’s broad back
was turned, the little puncher winked broadly. Hank chuckled.
“Hank Basset!” Ma whirled at the sound. “Shame on yuh. Makin’ fun uh
that pore, diseased boy. If that ain’t like a man. Cow punchers is
the most cold-hearted humans livin’, I do believe.”
“Yes’m,” agreed Hank. “Shorty, if yuh’d crave the use of a brush and
comb, I’ll herd yuh to it.”
He led the way into the living room and to the bed room beyond. As
he passed the cupboard, his hand slipped behind the curtain and when
the two gained the bed room, Hank uncorked the bottle of snake bite
cure.
“Happy days, Hank.”
“Drink hearty, Shorty,” came the reply, soft whispered, barely
audible above the ensuing gurgling noise.