BERTRAM MAKES A GO-DEVIL.
The men detrained at a little northern Wyoming town, the terminus of
the railroad, after an all-night journey from Denver.
Swingley was everywhere, asserting his leadership. There was none of
the jocularity about him now, which he had assumed during the long
journey. His orders were sharp and imperative. They were accompanied
by blows, on two or three occasions, when cowpunchers did not move
quickly enough to suit him. One of the men, who had made a move to
draw his gun, was knocked bleeding and insensible before he could drag
the weapon from its holster.
Evidently things were moving according to a prearranged program. There
were chuck wagons on hand, into which food and cooking utensils were
piled. Also there were wagons for the bedding.
Twenty or thirty additional men had joined the outfit at Denver, and
these were reinforced by as many more, who were waiting at the station
when the special train arrived, followed in an hour or two by the
train carrying the horses.
The new men were apparently of the same ilk as those who had joined
from the start--sunburned, hardy-looking fellows in cowboy garb, and
every one of them was heavily armed. There were greetings between some
of their number and a few of the new arrivals, as the long trails
abounded with men who were accustomed to drifting from one ranch to
another, and whose circle of acquaintances was correspondingly large.
The only accident preparatory to getting the cavalcade under way was
one that was destined to affect Bertram strangely.
“Milt,” called Swingley, reining his sweating horse in front of
Bertram, who was smoking a cigarette and wondering what had become of
the girl whose card had been taken out and scanned many times. “Milt,
I know you’re handy at blacksmithing. Old Jim Dykes, the only
horseshoer we’ve got along, has got himself kicked in the arm, and he
won’t be any more good to us on this trip. Come and help us out.”
Bertram accompanied Swingley to the improvised forge, where the
groaning blacksmith was having his injured arm set by an amateur
surgeon. The young Texan had often been called upon to shoe fractious
bronchos on his uncle’s ranch, the work presenting little difficulty
to him on account of his exceptional skill in managing the wildest
horses.
Seeing that the old blacksmith was incapable of further work, Bertram
took off his coat and rolled up his sleeves, disclosing a pair of
muscular arms, and in an hour he had completed the tasks necessary to
set the caravan moving.
“It sure was lucky that I remembered seein’ you blacksmithin’ on your
uncle’s ranch,” said Swingley, reining his horse beside Bertram’s,
shortly after the start was made. “You may have to help us out a
little more before we git through, but, anyway, mebbe you’ll have
pleasanter work mixed in with the blacksmithin’--a little shootin’ at a
mark, for instance.” Swingley had grinned meaningly, as he spoke.
“I’ve heard there might be some shooting,” observed Bertram dryly,
“but I might as well let you know right now that I always get an awful
attack of buck fever when I’m shooting at men.”
“You’ll forget it when we hit into the thick of the fightin’,”
returned Swingley, not catching the sarcasm in Bertram’s voice, or
deliberately overlooking it. “I don’t mind tellin’ you that we may be
in for a little ruction inside of another twelve hours. We’ve come up
here to put an end to cattle rustlin’ in this part of the State. The
rustlers are so strong that they’ve been runnin’ things as they
wanted. But, when they see what they’re up against now, it may be that
they’ll quit without a fight. If they don’t--so much the worse for
them.”
Swingley turned in his saddle and looked proudly back at his little
army. The sight would have inspired pride in any captain. Here was a
grim company of tanned, resolute-looking horsemen, riding with that
easy grace peculiar to the saddlemen of the Western plains. The loud
jests that had been heard on the train were not in evidence. The men
rode quietly. Pistols were ready to the grasp, as were the guns in the
scabbards at the horses’ sides. Behind the command rumbled the camp
wagons.
“Cattle rustlin’ is goin’ to be a lot less popular than it has been,
before this outfit is through,” observed Swingley, “and there’ll be
some old scores that’ll be paid off in full, too.”
The cattleman’s voice was thick with passion. His heavy brows were
drawn together in a frown, and the muscles of his powerful jaws worked
spasmodically as he clenched his teeth determinedly.
“I hope this crowd ain’t been brought up here just to settle some old
personal scores,” answered Bertram, his voice bringing Swingley back
with a start.
The cattleman, darting a quick glance at Bertram, realized that he had
said too much. Muttering something about picking a camping place for
the night he spurred ahead, leaving Bertram plodding with the column
at the moderate pace which had been prescribed.
The young Texan’s thoughts went back once more to the girl whom he had
met at the station. He paid scant attention to the talk of Archie
Beam, who had taken Swingley’s place at his side. He was wondering
about the girl--who she was, and the mission which had sent her on her
long journey. Evidently it was a mission of some danger, for she had
hinted at enemies who had sought to interfere with her progress. And
her apparent knowledge of the purpose of the expedition was a puzzle.
How much did she know of Swingley’s invasion of Wyoming, and what
interest could it hold for her?
“Well, if nothin’ else’ll wake you up, pardner,” said Archie
good-naturedly, after many ineffectual attempts to arouse Bertram to
conversation, “mebbe the smell of a little bacon and coffee will help.
It looks as if we’re goin’ to camp right ahead, and them chuck
wagons can’t come up too soon fer me. I could eat everything in them
wagons and then chase the hosses.”
Swingley had picked an admirable camp site in a grove of cottonwoods,
beside an alkali-lined stream. Several springs near by afforded plenty
of pure water for cooking purposes. Soon the wagons rattled up. Tents
were put up, beds were unrolled, and the cooks had supper started. The
men lolled about at ease, but there was no drinking, nor was there any
card playing. Conversation was carried on in low voices. As soon as
supper was over and the night herders were told off most of the men
turned in and were sound asleep in a few minutes. They might be called
on to fight before the night waned, but these men, used to the
arbitrament of firearms, were not to be robbed of their sleep.
Bertram was aroused, apparently before he had more than dropped off to
slumber. Swingley was shaking him by the shoulder, and Hoog was
standing in the entrance to the tent. The moon was high, and Bertram
could see the faces of both men distinctly.
“Come on out,” said Swingley gruffly. “We’ve got some special work
for you.”
As he dressed hurriedly, the young Texan saw that it was only a little
past midnight.
“We’ve had your hoss brought in,” said Swingley briefly. “Saddle quick
and come on with us.”
Without any questions Bertram saddled his horse. The three men mounted
and rode out of camp silently. As soon as they struck the road
Swingley and Tom Hoog took the lead, Bertram riding close behind them
at an easy gallop. Nothing was heard for an hour or more but the
pounding of hoofs on the hard road. Then Swingley and Hoog turned in
at a long, one-story building, which was set a short distance back
from the road. Bertram followed, and the three men dismounted.
Swingley and Hoog, dropping their reins, entered the wide doorway of
the building. After they had lighted two lanterns, that were bracketed
in the wall, Bertram saw that the place was a fairly well-equipped
blacksmith shop. There was a pile of old horseshoes in one corner, and
in another was considerable farm machinery of various sorts.
“Can you take something out of that pile of junk and make up a sort of
fort on wheels?” asked Swingley of Bertram. “I might as well tell you
that we’re goin’ right on to Wild Horse, the county seat, forty mile
from here. Before we reach the town we may have to do some purty stiff
fightin’, and I figger that somethin’ armored may come in handy. Old
Jim, the blacksmith, was outlinin’ somethin’ that he had in his head--a
kind of go-devil on wheels he called it--but now he is useless, and I
want you to help me out.”
Bertram showed no surprise. In fact no development of this strange
adventure, in which he found himself cast, could surprise him. He
looked the pile of machinery over carefully.
“There are the wheels and frame of a hayrake,” said Hoog. “And there
are a couple of road scrapers. Take the bottoms of those scrapers and
fasten them to the hayrake frame, and you’ve got something that you
could walk right up to a nest of rifles with. Ain’t that right,
Bertram?”
The young Texan nodded. “I reckon it might work out that way,” he
replied, “but I didn’t know that you were accustomed to getting your
men from behind things like that, Hoog.”
The gunman darted a murderous glance at Bertram, and his hands moved
toward his hips, but Swingley stepped quickly between the two men.
“Hyar! No fussin’!” he commanded. “We ain’t got more’n two hours start
of the gang, and we’ll have to work fast. Let’s have that go-devil
fixed ’fore the boys git here.”
Bertram knew that to refuse outright would be equivalent to a
declaration of war. Yet he was far from having so detached a viewpoint
regarding the expedition as he had at the start. Previous to his
meeting with the girl he had been ready for most any adventure. As an
alien gunman--a Hessian in cowboy traps, as he bitterly called
himself--he would have cared little about any harm he might bring to
those concerned in this range war, so remote from his home. Cattle
interests or rustlers--it had made no difference to him until he had
met Alma Caldwell. Since then a growing distaste for the whole
business had come upon him. Yet he could not very well drop out. He
would be a marked man in a strange country, and somebody would be
certain to slay him as one of the invaders.
Working so leisurely that he made Asa Swingley curse fervently under
his breath, and deepened the glitter of hate in Tom Hoog’s eyes,
Bertram started the forge fire and performed the comparatively simple
task of attaching the scraper bottoms to the wheels.
When the work was completed Swingley crouched behind the contraption
and pushed it about with an enthusiasm that was almost boyish.
“You’ve been slow enough about it, Milt,” he said to the young Texan,
who stood with bare arms folded over the leather apron Swingley had
provided, looking at the cattleman in undisguised contempt. “But it’s
a good job, all right. If anybody holes up in front of us, they ain’t
goin’ to stay holed up very long, now that we’ve got this go-devil.”
It was as Swingley said. The machine would afford protection for two
men, who might push it with their hands under the very muzzles of
rifles and revolvers. Bullets might rattle against that thick shield
of iron, but the men behind it would be safe.
“Old Jim had the right idea!” exclaimed Swingley, “and you’ve worked
it out in good shape, Milt. It’s time for the crowd to be comin’ up,
and, if I ain’t mistaken, you can see this go-devil tried out, purty
quick after daylight.”
As Swingley spoke, the advance guard of the command could be heard
coming, and soon the road by the blacksmith shop was filled with
mounted men, none too good-humored at being routed out before sunup
and without breakfast.
“There’ll be plenty to eat after a little work that’s mapped out
first,” said Swingley, haranguing the crowd. “The first rustlers we’ve
got to git are not more’n a mile ahead of us, in a cabin to the left
of the road, toward the foothills. You can’t miss the place. I want it
surrounded. If any man from the cabin shows his face after daybreak,
he’s to be shot--and shot dead. But I don’t want any noise and no
firin’ till you see somethin’ to shoot at. Tom Hoog will take half the
men this side of the cabin, and I’ll take half around on the other side.
Be careful shootin’ across, so we don’t hit each other.”
Hoog and his division started up the road. The moon was beginning to
pale, and there were bird noises from the prairie, indicating that
dawn was not far away.
Bertram had not put on his coat, but still stood in his leather
apron, a sledge hammer in his hand.
“That’s right, Milt,” said Swingley, reining his horse beside the
young Texan, “you stay here and be ready to bring up this go-devil
when I send for it. Arch Beam, you stay here with him.”
Bertram knew that Swingley was suspicious, that he had detailed
Beam as his guard. He smiled grimly, as the leader of the expedition
clattered away at the head of his half of the command.
“Arch,” said Bertram, as the last echo of hoofs died away, “let’s see
your gun.”
“Sure,” said the cowboy, handing over his six-shooter, with a grin.
Bertram put the weapon in his own belt, beneath the blacksmith’s
apron. Then he stepped to the cowboy’s horse, which was standing
riderless in the doorway. Drawing Beam’s rifle from its scabbard
Bertram extracted the cartridges from the magazine. Then he put the
weapon back where he had found it.
“Now Arch,” said Bertram calmly, “consider yourself held up. Both guns
are useless, and I’ll ask you to step back in the shop and not move,
while I undo a little piece of work I’ve had to do for Swingley.”
“Sure,” replied the imperturbable Arch, with a grin, “I’ve seen so
many queer things on this queer picnic that nothin’ is goin’ to
surprise me--I’ll give you warnin’ of that.”
Bertram swung the sledge and with half a dozen strokes destroyed the
wheels of the go-devil, past all fixing. Then he flung the hammer into
one corner of the smithy and, rolling down his sleeves, put on his
coat.
“Arch,” he said, “I’m quitting this expedition right here. Want to
desert with me?”
“I don’t guess I do,” replied Arch, surprised in spite of himself.
“The people in this country will scalp you alive when they learn that
you came in here with this gang. You’d better stay on and chance it
with us, Milt.”
“I’d have to fight Swingley when he saw that,” replied Bertram,
pointing grimly to the destroyed go-devil. “Between the two camps of
enemies I seem to have made, there’s nothing for me to do but take to
the brush. Good-by, Arch, and sorry to have had to hold you up.”
Bertram flung down the cowboy’s empty gun and, swinging into his own
saddle, cantered down the road, with a backward wave of his hand to
the puzzled cowboy in the doorway of the blacksmith shop.