PLAIN TALK
Barney Owen had told Sanderson of his hatred for Alva Dale, but he had
not told Sanderson many other things. He had not told the true story
of how he came to be employed at the Double A--how Mary had come upon
him one day at a shallow crossing of the river, far down in the basin.
Owen was flat on his stomach at the edge of the water, scooping it up
with eager handfuls to quench a thirst that had endured for days. He
had been so weak that he could not stand when she found him, and in
some way she got him on his horse and brought him to the ranchhouse,
there to nurse him until he recovered his strength.
It had been while she was caring for him that she had told him about
her fear of Dale, and thereafter--as soon as he was able to ride
again--Owen took it upon himself to watch Dale.
In spite of his exceeding slenderness, Owen seemed to possess the
endurance and stamina of a larger and more physically perfect man. For
though he was always seen about the ranchhouse during the day--helping
at odd jobs and appearing to be busy nearly all the time--each
succeeding night found him stealthily mounting his horse to ride to the
Bar D, there to watch Dale's movements.
He had not been at the Bar D since the night before the day on which he
had left with Sanderson to go to Las Vegas, but on the second night
following his return--soon after dark--he went to the stable, threw
saddle and bridle on his horse, and vanished into the shadows of the
basin.
Later, moving carefully, he appeared at the edge of a tree clump near
the Bar D corral. He saw a light in one of the windows of the
house--Dale's office--and he left his horse in the shadows and stole
forward. There were two men in the office with Dale. Owen saw them
and heard their voices as he crept to a point under the window in the
dense blackness of the night.
The men Dale had sent to Tucson had not required the full two weeks for
the trip; they had made it in ten days, and their faces, as they sat
before Dale in the office, showed the effects of their haste. Yet they
grinned at Dale as they talked, glowing with pride over their
achievement, but the word they brought to Dale did not please him, and
he sat glaring at them until they finished.
"Gary Miller ain't been heard of for a month, eh?" he said. "You say
you heard he started this way? Then where in hell is he?"
Neither of the men could answer that question and Dale dismissed them.
Then he walked to a door, opened it, and called to someone in another
room. Dave Silverthorn entered the office, and for more than an hour
the two talked, their conversation being punctuated with futile queries
and profanity.
At ten o'clock the next morning Dale appeared at the Double A
ranchhouse. Apparently he was willing to forgive and forget, for he
grinned at Owen, who was watching him from the door of the bunkhouse,
and he politely doffed his hat to Mary Bransford, who met him at the
door of the ranchhouse.
"Well, Miss Mary," he said, "how does it feel to have a brother again?"
"It's rather satisfying, Dale," smiled the girl. "Won't you get off
your horse?"
The girl's lips were stiff with dread anticipation and dislike. Dale's
manner did not mislead her; his forced geniality, his gruff heartiness,
his huge smile, were all insincere, masking evil. He seemed to her
like a big, tawny, grinning beast, and her heart thumped with
trepidation as she looked at him.
"How's Nyland?" he asked, smiling hugely. "That was a narrow
squeak--now, wasn't it? For I found that Ben Nyland didn't brand them
cattle at all--it was another man, living down the basin. That nester
near Colby's. He done it. But he sloped before we could get a rope on
him. Had a grudge against Nyland, I reckon. Sorry it happened."
Thus he attempted to smooth the matter over. But he saw that Mary did
not believe him, and his grin grew broader.
"Where's brother Will this mornin', Mary?" he said.
Sanderson appeared in the doorway behind Mary.
"You could see him if you was half lookin'," he said slowly.
"So I could," guffawed Dale. "But if there's a pretty girl around----"
"You come here on business, Dale?" interrupted Sanderson. "Because if
you did," he went on before Dale could answer, "I'd be glad to get it
over."
"Meanin' that you don't want me to be hangin' around here no longer
than is necessary, eh?" said Dale.
"You've said a heap," drawled Sanderson.
"Well, it won't take a long time," Dale returned. "It's just this.
I've got word from Las Vegas that you've swore to an affidavit sayin'
that you're Will Bransford. That's all right--I ain't got nothin' to
say about that. But there's a law about brands.
"Your dad registered his brand--the Double A. But that don't let you
out. Accordin' to the law you've got to do your registerin' same as
though the brand had never been registered before. Bein' the only law
around here--me bein' a deputy sheriff--I've got to look out for that
end of it.
"An' so, if you'll just sign this here blank, with your name and
address, specifyin' your brand, why, we'll call it all settled."
And he held out a legal-looking paper toward Sanderson.
Sanderson's lips straightened, for as his eyes met Dale's he saw the
latter's glint with a cold cunning. For an instant Sanderson
meditated, refusing to accept the paper, divining that Dale was
concealing his real purpose; but glancing sidewise he caught a swift
wink from Owen, who had drawn near and was standing beside a porch
column. And he saw Owen distinctly jerk his head toward the house.
Sanderson stepped forward and took the paper from Dale's hand. Then he
abruptly strode toward the house, telling Dale to wait.
Sanderson halted in the middle of the sitting-room as Owen entered the
room through, a rear door. Barney Owen was grinning.
"Wants your signature, does he?" said Owen. He whispered rapidly to
Sanderson, and the latter's face grew pale and grim as he listened.
When Owen had finished he grinned.
"Now we'll give him Will Bransford's signature--just as he used to
write it. I've seen it more times than any other man ever saw it, and
I can duplicate it to a flourish. Give me the paper!"
He sat down at a table, where there was a pen and a bottle of ink and
wrote boldly: "Will Bransford." With a grin he passed the paper back.
Sanderson stared, then a smile wreathed his lips, for the signature was
seemingly a duplicate of that which had been written at the bottom of
the letter Will Bransford had written to his father.
On his way to return the paper to Dale, Sanderson paused to listen
again to Owen, who whispered to him. Sanderson stiffened, looked hard
at Owen, and then grinned with straight lips. In less than no time he
was out of the house and confronting Dale.
He watched while the latter looked at the signature; he saw the
expression of disappointment that swept over Dale's face. Then
Sanderson spoke coldly:
"Right and proper, eh, Dale? Now I'll trouble you for that letter that
my dad dropped about a year ago--the one you picked up. It was a
letter from me, an' dad had let you read it. Fork it over, or I'll
bore you an' take it from your clothes!"