IN PUNISHMENT GULCH.
"Smiling Dick" Murdock, range boss on the Gallegher ranch, was not
looking up to his sobriquet when he rode back to the group with a
reluctant cayuse in tow. Childress noted a handsome man of about his
own age and weight, although probably a trifle shorter when out of
the saddle. He was dark, almost to a point of swarthiness, but his
frown was not unbecoming.
"Lucky morning for us, boys," he said to his punchers. "We've got
the White Horse King and got him with the goods two ways from the
ace."
"Two ways?" asked the florid horseman, called Rust by his stirrup
brother.
Murdock nodded. "The cayuse is one of that bunch they ran off last
fall. They've tried brand-blotting, but you can still trace the mark
of the Lazy G. And the other count is a hide stripped from one of
Miss Flame's steers. The brute's not beyond a bog-skinning job,
judging by the size and shape of the evidence."
"What we going to do with him?" asked Roper. "There's rope and to
spare for a nice little four-in-hand necktie."
The foreman swung in his saddle for a searching inspection of the
prairie. Because of the rolling nature of the region the visibility
was not great, but as far as the eye could cover they were alone. He
turned to the captive.
"You've got a powerful nerve, hombre, riding this range in daylight,
leading a stolen hawse, packed with a butchered hide. Don't you
think we're ever on the job, looking after our own? What you got to
say for yourself?"
"Nothing until this rope trick is unwound and you take me before your
owner. I'll talk to him, one ranchman to another. I was headed for
the Lazy G home ranch when you stopped me."
The sergeant's calm speech seemed greatly to amuse Roper and Rust.
Smiling Dick's facial muscles were too engaged in a sneer even to
trace a smile.
"Having pulled wool on the daughter, you think you can do the same on
the old man," he said with heat. "If ever you see Sam Gallegher,
which I doubt, you'll find him a different proposition."
So they knew at the home ranch that Flame had seen and talked with
him. That much was easily deduced from Murdock's outburst, which
seemed tinctured with jealousy. But which of their meetings had she
discussed--the one in the railroad land office at Strathconna or that
memorable occasion when she had visited so briefly the Open A? That
she had said nothing of their experience on the range the previous
day seemed likely, else the foreman would not have made so much of
the hide which the led horse was carrying.
"I'll take my chances with any honest man," returned Childress
shortly.
"You're going to take chances with three and that in short order,"
snapped Murdock, and he turned to his companions, "Let's get down
into Friday Gulch, where there's small chance of our being disturbed.
Flame will be riding somewhere and we don't want her to be stumbling
into the party. We'll give him a regular trial--settle the whole
thing without any fuss or feathers."
Rust nodded approvingly. "Yuh be judge, Dick; I'll be jury, and
Roper the cheerful executioner. Lead on!"
Short as it was, the ride across and down into the gulch fringed with
cottonwoods was not a pleasant one for the sergeant. He did not
doubt that the foreman already had in mind a punishment--one probably
that would be humiliating rather than life-taking, and one that would
leave the perpetrators comparatively safe from penalty. His keen
mind went over every possibility of escape, and found none that would
answer. He was hopelessly bound, his revolver was empty and his
mount under rope. As a last resort he might declare himself and his
mission, threatening them with the wrath of the Scarlet. But
scarcely would they believe him under the circumstances, even if they
found the black badge of the Mounted which he carried in a secret
pocket. If they gave him the slightest chance, he would lay into
them and inflict as much damage as he could. But if there was no
opening, he felt sure he could endure the punishment without a
whimper. In that belief lay his chief consolation. They never would
have the fun of hearing him plead for mercy.
"Get him out of the saddle, boys, and put hobbles on him," ordered
Murdock, when they had reached the bottom of the small canyon which
nature had cut into the hillside at a sharp right angle. "We'll hold
this court in style."
Childress felt that the time had arrived for protest and warning.
Had he been making an arrest in his official capacity he would have
been required to offer caution that whatever was said might be used
against the prisoner. If these three persisted, he one day would be
called upon to proceed against them. His calmness was icy when he
began; his entire manner should have served as a warning.
"You're making a sorry mistake, men. I'm as honest as any of you.
Never stole a horse nor lifted a hide in my life. I own a small
ranch in this region, as I guess you've heard. I'm raising and
breaking some horses on my own. Yesterday I decided to ride over and
make the acquaintance of the Lazy G outfit. I came upon a
bogged-down steer that just had been skinned alive. I fired a mercy
shot and took up the trail. Lost my man in the rough of a ridge the
other side of the line. Got his horse and the hide, though, and was
bringing them in when came this uncalled for attack by ropes. All I
ask is that you take me to your home ranch and let Gallegher decide.
Otherwise----"
"Can the talk," cut in Murdock. "The old man's too damned merciful
in his old age. He won't have any stock left unless we curb this
rustling. You're going to haye some he-men decide your case and I'll
bet when the verdict's in you'll keep to the States where you belong."
Childress had made no mention of the fact that Flame Gallegher had
been with him when he put the bogged steer out of its misery or that
she had undertaken one angle of the pursuit where the trail had
seemed to fork. It was evident that she had said nothing at home
about meeting him, a silence for which she doubtless had excellent
reasons of her own. He would respect that silence, come what might.
The three Lazy G riders drew off a bit for consultation, leaving him,
thoroughly trussed, seated on a fallen log. They were not beyond
earshot, although their conversation did not seem to be intended for
him.
At first, the two punchers were for employing old-time methods: a
lynching and be done with it, "the way they manage hawse thieves over
in Montana where he's from," as Roper put it.
But this the foreman vetoed as too drastic, too likely to bring
unnecessary trouble upon themselves and to the ranch in case they
were found out.
"Suppose we give him twenty or thirty lashes, carry him to the border
and set him on foot?" This brilliant idea came from Rust who seemed
to have a Nero-like enjoyment of the prospective situation. "The
cayuse belongs to us and we can empound the stallion for trespassing.
With all his nerve, boggin' in broad-day, the big gent won't come
back this way if yuh let me play the quirt."
Evidently Murdock had more sense of responsibility than the two
punchers. This had begun to work, blunting somewhat the jealousy
aroused in his breast by the interest expressed in the stranger by
his employer's daughter. He felt that they had caught the rider of
the silver horse red-handed; yet the captive's calmness was
disturbing. Besides there was no telling how Flame, long the object
of his adoration, might look upon the affair. Suppose he took
Childress to the home ranch and the plausable scoundrel lied himself
out of their ropes. The situation would be worse than before. If
only they had a confession made before the three of them and so
convincing that Gallegher would turn him over to the authorities
despite pleas from any source whatsoever!
"You two hobble the talk for a minute," he said to Roper and Rusty.
"I've had an idea."
"Heavenly horizon, Dick!" cried Roper. "Don't let her bite yuh."
"Iders are hell on adnoids, my old ma always said," added Rusty.
Evidently the pair feared that the "party" was slipping. Whatever
happened the responsibility scarcely would be theirs and both were of
the sort who count the frolic before the cost. They knew loyalty,
these riders of the Fire Weed, better than did many city employees;
but from the very nature of their work ahorse, with its constant
dangers, its exposure to all sorts of weather, its broken bones and
near-death hemorrhages in the "busting" end of their game, they were
somewhat hardened and keen for any diverting excitement.
Smiling Dick Murdock strolled across to Childress, whose clean-shaved
lips--service habit--set tightly, rather than curled over the
three-to-one odds.
"One or two small raids we might have stood for, Silver," the foreman
began. "But when you come into our own range and start to build a
ranch house, as if you hoped or intended to live in our midst, it's
too much. A rustler's shack in the Fire Weed! That's something that
can't be stood. And already you're presuming on a few acres bought
from the railroad company, a fragment we all overlooked until it was
too late!
"We've talked it all over, and the verdict is plum' against you.
Punishment has got to be inflicted for violating the law of the
range. But we're humane gents, we are, and willing to be some
merciful. If you care to sign a confession that you are a rustler
and a skinner of bogged cows and let the three of us witness it,
we'll let you off some. What about it, rustler?"
For a moment Childress seemed to be considering the proposition. A
confession of the sort demanded would probably save him much
humiliation, but it would end his activities in the region and leave
the mystery of the Fire Weed robbers unsolved. Any document he might
sign under the circumstances would bring no penalty to him. The
commissioner at Ottawa would see to that. But never had he yielded
in the face of danger, and he was not ready to do so now.
"I'll sign nothing under duress!" he answered decisively.
"You'll think duress a hell of a more serious proposition before
we're through," said Murdock quietly, and returned to his men.
"Yore ider didn't seem to be no good," said Rust, as the troubled
foreman neared the punchers.
Roper was grinning. "But I gave birth to one of my own while yuh was
gone. Why not brand the son of a butcher as if he was a maverick? A
horseshoe on the forehead with the Lazy G inside! I've got a running
iron."
"Whoah, boy! There is an ider," congratulated Rust. "Once he gets
that burned into his classic brow he'll keep out of the province or I
don't know who's what."
Childress heard every word. He hated to think what some artist in
live-stock pyrotechnics might do to him in his present defenceless
condition. It was evident that foreman Murdock controlled the
situation; he watched the handsome stockman closely.
For a time--several minutes, although they seemed longer--Murdock
considered. Then: "Build a fire, boys. That's the best idea yet.
I'll take the responsibility."
The preliminaries were brief. Roper went to his horse and from
somewhere about the saddle produced an iron resembling a poker. It
was a tool of the range long outlawed in the United States because of
the service it performed for brand-blotting rustlers of both horse
and cattle stock. On most ranches the punchers whose duty it is to
brand the strays which have escaped the round-up carry an iron that
plants the entire brand at one pressure, embosses it, as it were, in
the hair with the least possible pain and disfigurement to the animal.
Rust seemed to take diabolical glee in building a small fire of the
driest twigs he could find. So expert was he at this that Childress'
suspicion was aroused. Doubtless both Rust and Roper had been
brand-blotters in their time. But small service did suspicion do him
in the present emergency.
Horrible to think of was the punishment which Murdock, as foreman and
obvious chief of the trio, seemed to have accepted. That they would
not burn him deep enough to endanger his life he felt certain. There
was some doubt in their suspicions or they would have shot him down
at sight. But to go through life with a horseshoe scar on his
forehead, even though later he brought prison punishment to all
concerned in the operation, seemed insupportable. The certain pain
of the branding did not trouble him so much. In the service he had
suffered as much as a man can suffer and live to remember in his
nightmares. The resultant trace of a bullet wound would not have
been so bad; he had several tucked around his exceedingly vital body
and at least one leaden slug bedded down where surgeons of the Royal
did not care to probe for it. But a brand! He remembered the
Scarlet letter of the old Puritans and the crime brands which certain
nations of Europe put upon particular criminals. The situation was
insupportable; yet he would not weaken--he'd be damned if he would.
Preparations went on apace, with him watching every move. As if
nothing more important than the frying of morning bacon had been on
the bill, he heard Roper give Rust a "call" for not building a hot
enough fire and making so much smoke about it that some of the Silver
Horse gang might get wise and take a pot shot at them. Rust flared
at the aspersion and told Roper to go "plum'" to where it was
"hotter," on the theory that he was going there anyway.
While they were quarreling, the sergeant called to Murdock. The
eagerness with which the foreman responded possibly indicated that
the foreman was losing his nerve and his desire for the particular
punishment which the box canyon was to cloak. An average man would
have taken a tip from this alacrity, made the confession under demand
and denied it when again able to fight his own battles. But Sergt.
Jack Childress was not an average man. Never had he compromised, and
he was not ready to do so now. They could burn him if they dared,
but they could not make him weaken and they could not force him to
give up his quest in the Fire Weed.
"Mind lighting my pipe for me while they're heating the iron?" he
asked, as casually as he might have asked for a match in the
Strathconna Club. "The pipe's in my breast pocket and it don't need
to be filled."
Dick Murdock took a startled backward step. The nerve of the man!
And he was not thinking of nerve in the derisive sense. He had that
same sort of nerve, to a degree; but he doubted if it would have
carried him through such an impossible situation as that in which the
horse thief--and he honestly believed the rider of the silver beast
to be one--now found himself.
"Don't you ever weaken?" he asked.
"Why weaken, when there's nothing to be weak about?"
"We're going to brand you."
"That don't kill, and even if it did, death's only an experiment into
something no one knows anything about."
"You're not afraid?"
Childress laughed at him heartily. "Of death or of pain; neither.
I've near suffered both; never died and always came back to pay up
those who had caused the pain."
"Good Lord, I'd hate to play poker with you." This sort of sprung
from Murdock's lips without his intent.
"Maybe you will--some day, Murdock; but it won't be when you deal all
the cards and look into my hand while my shuffling fingers are
crippled. Anyway, light my pipe, if you don't mind."
Murdock got the pipe from the breast pocket of the sergeant's trail
coat, a non-uniform one he had purchased in Ottawa against the time
of casting the uniform behind him.
"Have some of my tobacco, even if you are a pest."
"No, thank you. By the time they get through with that branding iron
I'll be cussin' you so hard that you'll wonder why you ever were
born. The core of the pipe will be enough for me."
Murdock seemed troubled; took off his soft brimmed Stetson and combed
his black hair with his fingers.
"I don't make you, stranger," he said slowly, as if his thoughts
troubled him. "I've put up a hawse thief in my day--two of 'em. But
they never----"
"They never were horse thieves the two you led the lynching party on,
and you know it. Do you think you're ever going to get away from
that? Do you think that I'm the only one who is coming up here after
you? And the others won't come alone or be roped--_roped_!"
"Now, I'll sure have to get you!" Murdock was white about the lips
and blue about the nose, as men get when suddenly confronted with a
past they had thought forgotten.
"Now's your chance," said Childress.
"If you'd left Flame alone----" began the foreman.
"Here come the boys, tell them to put the brand as neatly as they
can. Long as these ropes are about me, I've as much chance as that
bogged steer----"
"Don't call yourself names," inserted Murdock.
Then interruption came from the two cheerful punchers who had the
iron red hot. There was a moment of fortune for Childress, because
Rust and Roper were scrapping among themselves. The question was
which one could do the best and most artistic job upon the forehead
of the captive.
Before this matter of artistry was settled, the clatter of a speeding
horse struck their startled ears. All turned to look down the gulch
as a mounted figure came into view. There were muttered exclamations
from the Lazy G trio when they recognized the rider as Flame
Gallegher.
She pulled up her horse at the edge of the group, and for a moment
gazed about her with an incredulous expression.
"What is the meaning of this, Dick Murdock?" she at last demanded, a
note of authority in her voice.
"We're just having a little fun with this here hawse thief," mumbled
Murdock lamely.
"A little fun?" she repeated scornfully. "That man is tied up as
though he were a criminal and that running iron is all aglow. What
were you going to do with it?"
"It's a branding party, Flame," said the handsome foreman. "Caught
the white-hawse king with the goods at last."
She flared angrily. "Then it's over before it begins or three Lazy
G's look for other jobs. Even if he was all you say, you'd have no
right to take the law into your own hands. Rust, if you have any
respect for your rope, untie Mr. Childress instantly! If you don't
I'll cut it into so many calf-size lengths you'll never get it
together again."