Quick on the Draw
Sandy rode up to the house, threw himself from the saddle and went into
that room of the ranch that served as Mr. Melton's library and business
office combined.
His employer looked up from some accounts he was going over and motioned
the foreman to a seat.
"Well, Sandy," he said, as he noted the worried look in the latter's
eyes, "what seems to be the matter? Out with it and get it off your
chest."
"It's about them derned rustlers," said Sandy, with his usual directness
coming straight to the point. "I'm afraid they're gettin' away with a
good many of our beeves."
Mr. Melton's brows met in a puzzled frown.
"What makes you think so?" he asked.
"A heap of things," was the reply. "In the first place, the boys have
found a lot of motherless calves galloping around and bleating for their
mas. Of course, we always look for a few of those, but lately the
number's been beyond all reason. Then, too, there's been quite a bunch of
ornery fellers that the boys has caught sight of hangin' round where they
didn't seem to have no business to be. Of course, that doesn't prove
anything against them, and aside from givin' them a pretty sharp lookin'
over, we couldn't do nothin' just on suspicion."
He took another bite from his plug of tobacco and hitched his chair a
little closer.
"But yesterday," he went on, "Buck was riding herd up in the north
section, and he saw a place leadin' up a gully where the ground was
trampled down in a way that made it look almost as if there had been a
stampede. He could see that a big drove had passed through there and that
it must have been goin' in an almighty hurry. He thought at first they
might have got scared of a grizzly or somethin', but if that had 'a' been
so, some one of them would 'a' been caught and pulled down and there
wasn't any sign of anything like that. Then he looked a little closer at
the trail and he could see the track of hosses. Somebody was drivin' that
herd.
"He come in a flyin' with the report, but it was after midnight and I
didn't want to wake you up.
"But there's one thing more," he added, "that makes me dead sure. Chip
meandered in from town last night, a little the worse for wear. He'd
been celebratin' some and lookin' upon the likker when it was red, and he
was so far gone that I guess he'd have slept somewhere on the road if his
broncho hadn't had more sense than him and brought him home. He was too
soused to know his name, and he didn't need no urgin' to tumble into his
bunk and sleep it off. He's got an awful head this mornin', too, but when
he heard Buck talkin' at breakfast about what he seen, he called to mind
somethin' that one of his pals that works on the Bar Y Ranch off toward
the east told him about, when he was a boozin' with him last night.
"It seems that this feller was comin' back from a round-up to his ranch
the other day, and he saw the body of a steer, a little off to the right.
He rode over to look at it, and, lookin' close, saw that the first brand
had been burned over by another one. Of course, he knows most of the
brands in this section of the country, and after he studied it over a
spell, he knew for sure that the first brand was ours. Knew it by the
little curlicue in the top corner of the O. The second brand had been put
on kinder careless, in a hurry, as if the fellers that did it wanted to
mosey along right quick. Then, too, he could see that the steer had died
from bein' overdriven."
Mr. Melton rose and paced the floor in growing anger as he pondered the
situation.
Like all Westerners, he hated cattle rustlers only less than he hated a
horse thief. In years past he had had frequent battles with them when
they had tried to raid his stock, and the dire punishment that he
inflicted had made them willing of late to leave his ranch alone. For
several years he had had immunity and had been inclined to think that he
would be henceforth free of that particular pest. When Sandy had first
begun to speak, he had thought there might be some mistake, and that
the depletion of his stock might be traced to other causes. The last
incident, however, had furnished positive proof and it was evident that
the miscreants were due for another lesson at his hands.
"Was there any clue on that steer, outside of the changing of the brand?"
he demanded.
"No," replied Sandy, "except just this. Chip's pal said that he thought
the feller that did the branding was left-handed. The edge that was
deepest burned was on the other side from what it usually is when a
right-hander does it. Course, on account of the brands bein' mixed up
like, he couldn't say for sure, but that's the way it looked to him."
"Do you know of anybody round these parts that is left-handed?" asked his
employer.
"Can't say as I do," replied Sandy after a little meditation, "leastways,
on any of the ranches around here. I know some of the boys that is almost
as good with their left hand as the right, but not what you could call
p'intedly left-handed. And anyway them fellers is as straight as a
string, and I know they wouldn't mix up with any dirty work like that."
"Who had been riding herd on that north range before Buck saw the trail
of the drove?" asked Mr. Melton abruptly.
"Let me see," answered Sandy, cudgeling his memory. "Why," he said after
a moment, "it was Pedro. He had been up there three days before Buck
relieved him."
"Ah, Pedro," echoed Mr. Melton.
There was a significance in his voice that caused Sandy to look up
quickly, and, as he caught the look in his employer's eyes, a sudden
suspicion leaped into his own.
"What!" he exclaimed. "Do you mean that Pedro was in cahoots with the
gang?"
"I don't mean anything--yet," replied Mr. Melton slowly. "I don't want to
do any one an injustice, and I haven't a particle of evidence that Pedro
isn't as innocent as a new-born babe. He's a good rider and a good
herder, and we've never had any fault to find with the way he does his
work. But you know as well as I do that we didn't know a thing about him
when he came riding along looking for a job. We were short-handed then
and needed men desperately, and so we hired him, but I made up my mind
that as soon as things got slack, and we had to lay some of the men off,
he'd be the first to go. There may be good Indians and good Mexicans,
and it may be my misfortune that I never met them. But Pedro is a
half-breed--half Mexican and half Indian--and I've always noticed that
that kind is apt to have the worst qualities of both. I've never liked
him, but I've set that down to prejudice, and always tried to treat him
exactly like the rest of the men. Now, as I said, I may be entirely
wrong, but somehow I've got the notion in my head that those rustlers
knew just who was to be riding herd on that section when they made their
raid. But don't breathe a word of this to any one till we've got
something more to go on. Keep your eyes wide open and see too if you can
pump anything more out of Chip about that steer. I'll think it all over,
and after dinner we'll get together and fix on some plan to get after
those infernal scoundrels."
Sandy took his departure, and Mr. Melton was left alone with his problem.
That it was a perplexing one was evident from his knitted brows and air
of intense concentration.
With the exception of Mrs. Melton and Bert, he was alone in the house.
The other boys were absent, having started out soon after breakfast.
Dick and Tom had gone off with Buck to have a little experience in
"riding herd." Bert, who had intended to go with them, had found it
necessary to go to town to make some purchases. He had just finished his
preparations and brought his horse to the door, in order to say good-by
to his host before starting. At the first glance he saw that something
had disturbed Mr. Melton's usual composure.
To his anxious inquiry as to whether anything was wrong, the latter
responded by telling him the news Sandy had brought, carefully
refraining, however, from mentioning his suspicions about the half-breed.
"Of course, it's nothing very important in one way of looking at it," he
said. "The mere fact that I've lost a few head of cattle doesn't worry
me at all. They might take a thousand and I wouldn't miss them. But those
rustlers are the rattlesnakes of the West, and no man steals from me and
gets away with it until I'm weaker and older than I am now. I suppose the
fact is that my pride is hurt more than anything else," he smiled grimly.
"I'd rather flattered myself that I'd built up a reputation in these
parts that would keep those vermin at a distance. It galls me horribly
that they should have the nerve to come up and rustle my stock right
under my very nose. But if they think that they are going to get by
with it, they have another guess coming," and into the eyes of the old
warhorse came the look that Bert had learned to know in Mexico.
"Are you going to organize a force and go after them?" asked Bert
eagerly.
Mr. Melton's eyes twinkled.
"Hit it right the first time," he said. "I suppose I ain't far out in
guessing that you'd like to go along."
"You bet I would," replied Bert emphatically.
"Well, we'll see about it," answered his host. "But you'd better get
along now if you expect to be home before dark. You've got a long way to
go, and you'll have to give your horse a good breathing space before you
start back. I promise that we won't start out for the rustlers without
you, if you're really bent on going."
Bert thanked him, touched his horse with the spur, and, with a last wave
of his hand was off on his journey.
In due time he reached the town, hitched his horse to the rail in front
of the general store, and went in to make his purchases. This consumed
some time, and when he was through, his vigorous appetite reminded him
that it was time for dinner. There was only one place in that primitive
town where it could be obtained and that was in a little annex to the
leading saloon. Drinks of course were the things chiefly dealt in, but a
meal also could be obtained at any time desired, and Bert went in, seated
himself at a table in the corner, and ordered steak and eggs and coffee.
While this was being prepared he had ample time to look about him. The
building was a mere shack of the roughest kind. The bar took up one whole
side of the room, and the bartender was kept busy most of the time in
serving drinks to the crowd lined up before it. At a number of small
tables, miners, prospectors and cowboys were seated, with piles of poker
chips heaped up before them. Some of the men were already drunk and
inclined to be ugly, but most of them at that early hour were sober
enough, though drinking freely. All without exception were armed, and
the weapons peeped from their holsters within easy reach. Among these
reckless and, in many cases lawless, dwellers on the borderland of
civilization, the difference of a fraction of a second in offense or
defense might mean the difference between life and death.
Still, matters were proceeding peaceably enough at the moment, and there
was no indication of impending trouble. Bert's food was brought to him
after a considerable wait, and he "waded" into it with characteristic
vigor. The cooking was none too good nor was the food itself of
superlative quality. But "hunger is the best sauce," and he was not
inclined to be critical. He had, moreover, been too much of a traveler
not to be able to adapt himself philosophically to any condition in
which he found himself.
He was about to pick up his hat and go to the bar to pay for his meal,
when he was struck by the tones of a familiar voice. He looked about
quickly and saw Pedro, the cowboy employed at the ranch. He was surprised
at this, as he was sure Pedro was supposed at the time to be on herd
duty. Had Mr. Melton intended that he should be in town, he would have
suggested to Bert that the half-breed might do his commissions for him
and save him the long journey.
Bert's first thought, therefore, was that Pedro was "lying down on his
job" and shirking duty for the sake of a day's debauch in town. It roused
his indignation, as he always hated anything that savored of sneaking or
disloyalty. Still, it was not his affair and Pedro was safe as far as he
was concerned. He would not act as talebearer.
He had never liked the half-breed from the moment that he had met him.
There was a sullen reticence that checked advances, and although he had
always tried to be friendly, Pedro had held him at a distance. He was
tall and swarthy, and, for one of his mixed race, not bad looking. But
there was a furtive shiftiness in his eyes that were set too close
together, that awakened distrust, and although Bert reproached himself
for it and never revealed it by word or look, he could not help an
instinctive aversion.
His first impulse was to approach and speak to the man, who had not seen
him as he came in and was now standing with his back partly toward him,
tossing down a drink that he had poured out generously from the bottle
the bartender placed before him.
Bert checked himself, however, as he saw that Pedro had just greeted a
man who had risen from a table where he had been sitting apart from the
others, as though waiting for some one. An almost imperceptible sign
passed between them that aroused Bert's curiosity. Nor was this lessened
when the newcomer took from his pocket a pouch, such as gold dust is
usually carried in, and slipped it over to Pedro, who placed it carefully
in the breast of his buckskin shirt.
Here was the beginning of a mystery. Why should this man be giving money
to the half-breed? To be sure, it might be in payment of a loan or a
gambling debt. But, if so, why the air of secrecy?
The conversation with Mr. Melton that morning recurred to him. He pulled
his hat over his eyes, half turned in his seat, and, picking up a greasy
pack of cards that lay on the table began to lay them out before him as
in solitaire. But under the brim of his sombrero, his keen eyes stole
frequent glances at the two, who had now adjourned to a table in the
farther corner and were engaged in a low and earnest conversation.
The stranger had before him what seemed to be a diagram, drawn on the
back of an old envelope, and both studied it with care, Pedro especially,
as though seeking to engrave it on his memory. Then he nodded assent to
what the other had been saying, and they shook hands, evidently in
confirmation of a bargain. Once more they adjourned to the bar, gulped
down several glasses of the fiery liquor that masqueraded as whiskey,
and then Pedro, with a gesture of farewell, went outside. A moment later
Bert heard the clatter of hoofs as he rode away.
There was no further need of concealment, and with exceeding care Bert
studied the features of the man who he felt sure was involved in some
plan that boded no good to Pedro's employer.
The fellow was tall and heavily built, and dressed in a more gaudy style
than that usually affected by the cowboys. Bert could not remember having
seen him among the employees of the neighboring ranches. His face bore
traces of drink and dissipation and was seamed with evil passions. There
was a lurid glow in his eyes that brought back to Bert the memory of the
men who had tried to hold up the train. He seemed naturally to fall into
that class. Instinctively Bert felt that in some way he was to be ranked
with the outcasts that war upon society. A cruel mouth showed beneath a
hawk-like nose that gave him the appearance of a bird of prey. To Bert he
seemed a living embodiment of all that he had ever heard or read of the
"bad man" of the Western frontier.
The stranger stood a little while longer at the bar. Then he strolled
over to a table where four men were playing, and watched the game with
the critical eye of an expert.
Soon one of the men kicked his chair back and rose with an oath.
"Busted," he growled. "Not a dinero left. That last hand cleaned me out."
"Aw, don't go yet, Jim," protested one of his companions. "Your credit's
good and you can play on your I. O. U.'s."
"Yes," agreed another. "Or you can put up that Spanish saddle of yourn.
I've allers had a kind of hankerin' fur that. It's good fur eighty plunks
in chips."
"Nuthin' doin'," announced the first emphatically. "Any time I hold four
kings and still can't rake in the pot, it shore is my unlucky day. But
I'll be here with bells on next pay day. So long," and he strode out of
the room, slamming the door behind him.
The others were preparing to go on three-handed, when the stranger
intervened.
"If it's an open game, gents, and you've no objections, I'll take a
hand," he said.
As no one demurred, he slid into the vacant chair, bought a hundred
dollars worth of chips and the game proceeded.
For a time Fortune seemed to divide her favors impartially, and the chips
before each player remained about the same. Then the luck changed and the
stranger began to win heavily. He raked in one pot after another, losing
only occasionally, and then, generally, when the stakes were small. The
atmosphere about the table became tense and feverish, and gradually most
of the others in the room gathered about the players and watched the
progress of the game.
It was the newcomer's deal. The pack had been cut, and he was dealing out
the cards, when suddenly one of the players leaped to his feet.
"Foul play," he shouted. "You dealt that last card from the bottom of the
pack." And at the same instant he threw over the table and reached for
his gun.
But quick as he was, the stranger was quicker. Like a flash his revolver
spoke, and his opponent fell to the floor. But the others now had started
shooting and there was a fusillade. The spectators dropped behind
anything that promised shelter and the bartender went out of sight under
the counter. Only after the revolvers had been emptied did the firing
cease.
When the smoke lifted, three were lying on the littered floor, one dead
and two desperately wounded. The stranger was not to be seen, but the
pounding of hoofs outside told of his escape. He had gone, but not till
Bert had seen one thing that registered itself indelibly on his mind.
The stranger had drawn and shot _with his left hand_.