WESTERN SOLDIERS OF FORTUNE.
On the way to Denver, Bertram began to find out something concerning
the nature of the enterprise with which he had become identified.
The train was divided into two sections, the first consisting of three
passenger and two baggage cars. A hundred men rode in the coaches, and
the baggage cars were filled with a miscellaneous assortment of tents,
saddles and general camp equipment.
“There’s a train follerin’ right behind,” said Archie Beam, a
cowpuncher, into whose seat Bertram had dropped. “It’s a stock train,
and it’s got enough hosses for all us and more. I hear that every
other train along the line has to give our two trains the right of
way. You might think we was goin’ for the doctor, or somethin’ instid
of bein’ on a stunt that prob’ly will make a lot of other fellers call
for the doctor.”
“Think we’re in for a scrap, do you, Arch?” asked Bertram, looking out
of the window at the sagebrush that flitted by in a never-ending
stream, as the train whirled through the desolate plateau country,
where many an emigrant train had met a sad fate.
“Boy, I know it!” said the cowpuncher, delighted to air his superior
knowledge. “We’re goin’ to be jumped right in the middle of that
northern Wyomin’ cattle trouble, and we’re goin’ to be told to begin
shootin’ right and left, and never to let up till there ain’t a native
hombre, left alive.”
“Where’d you get your information, Arch?”
“Don’t josh me, Milt. You know as well as I do that there’s been a
heap of trouble in Wyomin’, for the last few years, don’t you?”
Bertram signified assent. Along the great cattle trails, stretching
from Texas to the Canadian line, there had come news of serious and
long-standing troubles in northern Wyoming. Rustlers and big cattle
interests were almost at a point of open war. The cattle interests
claimed that the rustlers had been carrying on wholesale operations.
Every small rancher was under suspicion. The great herds were being
depleted, it was claimed, and numerous small herds were being built up
at the expense of the heavily capitalized interests. Men who had
counted themselves millionaires were faced with ruin, owing to the
melting away of their herds.
“These single cinchers all tell the same story when they come down to
this part of the country,” said Archie, alluding to the single rig of
the northern cattlemen, as opposed to the double cinch of that
district. “They say there’s been much trouble all over the northern
part of the State. The thing has got so bad that the little cattlemen
have took to pottin’ the big ones. A cowman, who don’t belong with the
rustlin’ majority, is takin’ chances every time he throws his leg
over a saddle and starts out to git a little fresh air.”
“Which side is right?”
“What’s the difference which side is right?” said Archie, asking a
question in answering one. “We’re out to play the game for the side
with the most money, which is the big cattlemen, of course. I ain’t
constitutionally opposed to rustlin’ cattle. I’ve packed a runnin’
iron in my boot so long that it’s made me a little stiff-legged, but a
man in that game’s got to take his own chances. I took mine, and these
Wyomin’ rustlers have got to take theirs. I guess they’ll think
somethin’ popped when this gang cuts loose on ’em. There ain’t a
hombre in this crowd that ain’t got his man, I guess, all but you,
Milt. Old Two-bar Ace must have thought you had gone far enough lately
to be part and passel with us. You sure have been hittin’ it up, boy,
to be classed in with a fightin’ gang like this. Well, so long, and a
short war and a merry one.”
Bertram’s grip on the seat in front of him tightened, as the cowboy
departed, called by some riotous members of the gang.
The young Texan knew that the cowboy had spoken the truth. Bertram had
been traveling a fast pace, even for the great outdoor land, where
restrictions were few. He had been brought up on a ranch on the
Brazos, where he had spent as much of his time as he could induce his
devoted mother to let him subtract from school. He had even attended
college at Austin, but his mother’s death, before he had graduated,
had brought to light the fact that the ranch had been mortgaged to pay
for Bertram’s education.
Before Bertram realized what had happened, the ranch had passed from
his control. He sought to drown in wild companionship his sorrow at
his mother’s death and the poverty he had unwittingly brought upon
her. At last he had been offered a job as cowpuncher on the big ranch
of his uncle, one of the large landowners in the southern part of the
State. He had accepted, but he had found no consolation in the change,
as his uncle was an utterly uncompanionable man. Bertram tried to put
up with the old fellow’s caprices for a while, but soon they became
unbearable. There were open disagreements between the men. Bertram did
his work well, as there were few who could equal him in the saddle,
but nothing could stop the old man’s harsh complaining. Finally the
old attractions began to summon the youth. There were wild excursions
to near-by frontier towns. Bertram became a leading spirit among the
daredevils who frequented the bar and the gambling tables. His name
became known along the trail for its owner’s wild exploits.
One day there came an open break with his uncle. Laughing at the old
man’s senile anger and turning his back upon the reproaches which his
uncle hurled at him, Bertram rode to the big town, where, in just the
right mood for any adventure, he had been picked up by Asa Swingley
and had been enlisted in the adventure which Archie Beam had
foreshadowed as something desperate in character.
“He’s right. I’d gone farther than I ever imagined,” declared Bertram,
as he glanced about him and made a mental note of those in the car.
There was Tom Hoog, who killed for the love of killing. Hoog had been
a figure in much range warfare. He had played a part in a cattle war
in that country, which had assumed such proportions, that the governor
of the State had intervened. It had been said that Hoog had fought on
both sides in that war, putting his services at the disposal of
whichever side happened to bid the higher at the moment. He had fought
men single-handed and in groups. He had been captured and had escaped,
generally leaving a trail of death behind him. Yet his killings had
always gone unpunished, because the fear of the man even extended to
officers of the law.
Others in the party were the possessors of reputations only a shade
less evil than Hoog’s. A few, like Archie Beam, were merely wild and
irresponsible, and they had joined the expedition for a lark.
Swingley passed among the men, loudly solicitous of their welfare.
Food was brought in, and there was some drinking. Several of the men
were maudlin before Denver was reached. Others were at the quarrelsome
stage. Swingley stopped several incipient gun fights, but otherwise
let the men behave as they pleased. Bertram took no part in the
drinking, though he joined an occasional game of cards. He was not
inclined to depart from the letter of his bargain with Swingley, but
he was thinking hard, as the train pounced over the desert, beside the
long, blue chain of the Rockies.
Noticing his abstraction Swingley rallied Bertram about it. “Things’ll
be more lively, soon after we leave Denver,” he said, pausing at the
young Texan’s seat. “We’ve got some more people to meet there, and
we’ll be tied up several hours. I want you to help me keep an eye on
some of these drunken punchers, to see that they don’t wander away
where we can’t get ’em.”
At Denver the motley crew piled off the special and swooped down upon
the station. Swingley’s orders against “seeing the town” were strict,
but some of the cow-punchers attempted to slip away and were turned
back. It was evening, and, in the half-light on the station platform,
Bertram thought he recognized a woman’s figure, as it flitted around
the corner of the building. A few hasty steps brought him to the side
of the young lady whose ticket he had purchased.
“I see that the ticket we got wasn’t counterfeit, and you arrived
here, all right,” observed Bertram delightedly. He saw that she had
smiled, as she greeted him, and she seemed genuinely pleased, in spite
of the evident perturbation under which she was laboring.
“Yes,” she said, “but I’m afraid all your generosity has been in
vain.”
“What’s the trouble? Is there any way I can help you further?”
Bertram was looking at her, as he spoke. Her face was pale, but
evidently owing to the mental strain. Her eyes just now were clouded
with sadness, and her voice trembled with agitation.
“You’ve done enough as it is,” she answered--“more than any other
stranger has ever done for me. I’ve met friends here, and now I can
pay you the money for my ticket.”
“I didn’t want you to bother about that,” said Bertram, as she opened
her pocketbook and counted out the bills into his reluctant hand.
“Settling this thing deprives me of a chance of meeting you again,
unless you’re going to be kind enough to let me meet you, anyway.”
Even in the semidarkness Bertram could see the girl’s quick blush, as
he went on speaking. “I’m going to be honest enough to say that I
admire you a whole lot. I’ve been counting on hearing from you later
on. Won’t you tell me your name?”
“It would do no good,” said the girl. Then, with an earnestness that
startled Bertram, she added: “but, if you want to please me and do the
right thing by yourself, you will go no further on this expedition.”
“I can’t do that, because it would be going back on my word,” replied
Bertram. “But why should I leave the expedition?”
“If you don’t, there will be the death of honest men on your hands,”
said the girl. “Why did you promise to go with a man like Swingley,
anyway?”
“Just plain foolishness, I guess, the same as any other soldier of
fortune shows.”
“Those men are not soldiers of fortune--they are soldiers of murder,”
exclaimed the girl. “If you go on with them you’ll be one with them.”
“Then it means something to you?” asked Bertram triumphantly.
“Yes,” said the girl, with another quick flush. “It means just what it
would if I saw any young man on the wrong road.”
“Well, even if you put it that impersonally, still I’m glad,” replied
the young Texan. “I’ve got to go on with the outfit, but I promise
you one thing--that, if there’s any murder done, my hands won’t be
red.”
Just then, from around the corner of the station, came the sound of
men’s voices, in a cowboy song.
“They’re coming,” said the girl. “I don’t want them to see me. I’m
going to be on the northbound train that goes just ahead of yours.”
“But your name, and where can I see you?” persisted the cowboy,
clinging to the soft little hand which he found in his big fist.
“If you’ll let go my hand, I’ll give you a card,” said the girl, with
a nervous laugh. Bertram reluctantly released her hand. He felt a card
thrust into his fingers, and an instant later the girl had disappeared
around the end of the station. He followed her swiftly moving form
with his glance, as she passed along the dimly-lighted platform and
vanished through the gate leading to the tracks. Then he stepped to a
light and read the card eagerly.
“Alma Caldwell!” he exclaimed, repeating the name several times.
“Pretty name for a prettier girl! I wonder why a girl like her knows
about Swingley’s little expedition, and why she’s so anxious to keep
ahead of us.”