‘We can’t do a thing for you, Dave. You ought to know we’re carrying you
for every cent your ranch is worth to us. This is not a personal matter.
I know you’re good for it; but I merely represent the directors, and the
stockholders of this bank.’
John Harper, president of the Mesa City Bank, leaned back in his
swivel-chair, and looked at Dave Morgan, who was seated across the table
from him. Harper was a small, wiry, grizzled man, smooth-shaven, neatly
dressed. He had been with the Mesa City Bank since the day it opened.
Dave Morgan twisted his lips seriously. He needed a shave, and, judging
from his bloodshot eyes, he needed sleep.
‘All right,’ he said slowly. ‘I reckon I could get along, John. I just
wanted to see about a loan. How about buyin’ the Flyin’ M?’
Harper shook his head quickly.
‘No, Dave. Say, why don’t you get Peter to take a second mortgage? He’s
pretty well fixed.’
Dave smiled crookedly, shaking his head. ‘Not Pete. If I was anybody,
except his cousin. He thinks I’ve got damn poor judgment in business.’
‘You haven’t done so well, Dave.’
‘Oh, that’s all right; I’m not kickin’. I get more fun out of my money
than Pete does. He’s been goin’ around like a bear with a sore head ever
since them nesters moved in on him. They’ve got him bluffed.’
‘The nester’s son had a fight over at the Oasis to-day,’ said the
banker. ‘I happened to be out in front about the time it was over. I
don’t know who got whipped, but I saw young Lane get on his horse and
ride out of town. In a few moments Ben Leach followed him, I think.
Several of the boys stood around the hitch-rack for a few minutes, and
then they all rode away.’
‘Wasn’t a gun-fight, was it?’
‘No, there wasn’t any shooting.’
‘Young Lane is a tough _hombre_,’ laughed Dave. ‘Some of Pete’s punchers
probably rubbed him the wrong way. I guess the old man is kinda salty,
too. Well, I’ve got to be movin’.’
‘I’m sorry about that loan, Dave; but business is business.’
‘That’s all right, John. I’m pretty near busted, but I’ll pull through.’
He laughed bitterly and hitched up his belt.
‘Mebby somebody will die and leave me a fortune.’
‘Have you any rich relatives?’
‘Only Pete--and he’s healthy.’
Dave laughed and walked out of the bank. But there was little mirth in
his laugh. He stopped in at the post-office to get the ranch mail, and
the clerk handed him a telegram, along with the rest of his mail.
‘I’m not sure about that telegram,’ he said. ‘It is either D. Morgan or
P. Morgan, and I can’t tell which.’
Dave tore it open and glanced quickly at the telegram.
‘It’s mine,’ he said shortly, and walked out, stuffing the mail in his
pocket. The telegram read:
MRS MORGAN PASSED AWAY SUDDENLY AND WAS BURIED LAST
SUNDAY STOP TRACED SON TO DEPOT WHERE HE PURCHASED
TICKET TO CANONVILLE. J. E. BLAIR
Dave Morgan halted at the edge of the wooden sidewalk, a puzzled
expression on his face.
‘Mrs. Morgan!’ he exclaimed to himself. ‘So old Pete had a wife and a
son, eh?’
He started to laugh, but checked it quickly. When had Pete married, he
wondered. He had been on the same range with Peter for over twenty
years. Of course, Peter had taken trips East with cattle, and it had
been said that Peter was a wild devil in those days, but no one had ever
mentioned the fact that Peter had been married.
Probably got drunk, married in that condition, and had been forced to
support the woman away from Mesa City. And there was a son, too; a son
who would inherit the 6X6 and the Oasis. And Dave had thought he was the
only living relative of Peter Morgan.
Dave had been married. It had been so long ago that he could hardly
remember what the woman looked like. But their nuptial bliss didn’t last
long. Dave was too wild. He remembered that Peter had remonstrated with
him, tried to get him to straighten up, but it was no use. Anyway, it
was none of Pete’s business, he had decided. And one morning, when he
awoke from a drunken spree, the woman was gone.
He wondered what had caused Pete and his wife to separate. As he stood
there, thinking over the situation, Peter Morgan rode into town with his
three men, the sheriff and deputy, and the body of Ben Leach.
Their arrival caused plenty of excitement in Mesa City. A crowd gathered
quickly around the livery-stable, where Lem Sheeley had hired a vehicle
in which to take the body to the coroner at Cañonville. Indignation ran
high when the crowd heard that Leach had been killed by Long Lane, and a
number volunteered to form a posse.
But Lem Sheeley, the sheriff, was deaf to their offers.
‘Keep yore hands off,’ he requested them. ‘This job belongs to the
law--not to a lot of damn fools with a rope.’
‘Then you better do somethin’ right quick,’ said Peter Morgan. ‘Either
you do yore duty, Lem, or----’
‘Or what?’
‘You’ll see.’
Shortly after the sheriff and deputy drove away with the body of Ben
Leach, old Paul Lane rode in to Mesa City. He had been to Cañonville,
but had stopped at home on his way back, where he heard what had
happened. Now he wanted more information than Nan was able to give him.
He met Peter Morgan in front of the bank. Dave Morgan and Joe Cave, the
stage driver, were there. For several moments the big cattleman and the
nester eyed each other closely. Then--
‘That’s what yuh get for stayin’ where yuh ain’t wanted,’ said Peter
coldly.
‘Yea-a-ah?’ Lane gritted his word through clenched teeth.
‘That’s what I said, Lane. You better move quick.’
‘I’m not movin’, Morgan. To-day I filed a homestead.’
‘Yuh did, eh? I suppose you know yore son is a murderer.’
‘I don’t know any such a damn thing! If he killed Ben Leach, it was in
self-defense.’
‘Men who kill in self-defense don’t usually run away.’
‘When everybody’s ag’in’ ’em, they do.’
‘You’re crazy.’
Morgan turned his back and started away, but stopped and came back to
Lane.
‘We’re through fooling with you, Lane,’ he said. ‘We’ll find your son
and make an example of him and it won’t take us long to do it either.
And if you’re wise, you’ll pull out of this country as fast as you can.’
‘If you’re through, I’d like to say a few words, Morgan,’ said the old
man coldly. ‘That ranch belongs to me now. The line runs about two
hundred yards this side of the ranch-house. And when you or yore men
ride my way, yuh better estimate distance pretty close.’
‘Drawin’ a deadline, eh?’
‘Agin’ the 6X6. And another thing, Morgan; yesterday I found an
_orejano_ with my brand on it. I brand on the left hip, but this calf
was branded on the right hip. I suppose yore punchers, or you, forgot
where I branded. They tell me you got yore start by pickin’ up
_orejanos_, Morgan; so I just heated an iron and run the 6X6 on its left
shoulder, passin’ it back to you.’
For a moment Morgan glared at the old man, who was little more than half
his size, and then lashed out with his right fist, catching Lane just
above the left eye and knocking him flat. But the old man was not
knocked out; the blow had landed too high for that. For a moment the old
man sprawled on his side, dazed, hurt. Then his hand jerked back to his
holster.
But Joe Cave stepped in front of him, blocking him from using the gun.
Morgan laughed shortly, turned his back, and strode over to the Oasis
saloon, while Joe Cave helped Lane to his feet.
‘That shore was a dirty punch,’ said Joe.
The old man brushed off his clothes, turned and went back to his horse,
while Dave Morgan and Joe looked at each other and laughed.
‘I’d hate to be in Pete’s boots,’ grinned Joe. ‘That old jigger will
kill him if he don’t look out.’
‘That’s no lie, Joe. Let’s go and have a drink, eh? No, not to the
Oasis.’
Joe had worked for Dave before driving stage, and they knew each other’s
business fairly well. Joe was a colorless sort of person, with
tow-colored hair and buck-teeth. He had been fired from the 6X6 for
playing a crooked game of poker in the bunk-house, and naturally had no
love for Peter Morgan.
‘Mebby I was a fool for blockin’ the old man,’ said Joe Cave.
‘Mebby Pete will give yuh a reward for savin’ his life,’ grinned Dave.
‘He ought to pay yuh for that, Joe.’
‘Any time!’ snorted Joe. ‘He wouldn’t pay a nickel for a front seat at
the Battle of Waterloo, with the original folks doin’ the fightin’.’
‘Why, I thought you loved old Pete.’
‘That overbearin’ old badger? What are yuh drinkin’?’