The winter that followed the coming of Bill Cassidy to the Bar-20 ranch
was none too mild to suit the little outfit in the cabin on Snake Creek,
but it was not severe enough to cause complaint and they weathered it
without trouble to speak of. Down on the big ranges lying closer to the
Gulf the winter was so mild as to seem but a brief interruption of
summer. It was on this warm, southern range that Skinny Thompson, one
bright day of early spring, loped along the trail to Scoria, where he
hoped to find his friend, Lanky Smith, and where he determined to put an
end to certain rumors that had filtered down to him on the range and
filled his days with anger.
He was within sight of the little cow-town when he met Frank Lewis, but
recently returned from a cattle drive. Exchanging gossip of a harmless
nature, Skinny mildly scored his missing friend and complained about his
flea-like ability to get scarce. Lewis, laughing, told him that Lanky
had left town two days before bound north. Skinny gravely explained
that he always had to look after his missing friend, who was childish,
irresponsible and helpless when alone. Lewis laughed heartily as he
pictured the absent puncher, and he laughed harder as he pictured the
two together. Both lean as bean poles, Skinny stood six feet four,
while Lanky was fortunate if he topped five feet by many inches. Also
they were inseparable, which made Lewis ask a question. "But how does
it come you ain't with him?"
"Well, we was punchin' down south an' has a li'l run-in. When I rid in
that night I found he had flitted. What I want to know is what business
has he got, siftin' out like that an' makin' me chase after him?"
"I dunno," replied Lewis, amused. "You 're sort of gardjean to him,
hey?"
"Well, he gets sort of homesick if I ain't with him, anyhow," replied
Skinny, grinning broadly. "An' who 's goin' to look after him when I
ain't around?"
"That puts me up a tree," replied Lewis. "I shore can't guess. But you
two should ought to 'a' been stuck together, like them other twins was.
But if he 'd do a thing like that I 'd think you would n't waste no time
on him."
"Well, he _is_ too ornery an' downright cussed for any human bein' to
worry about very much, or 'sociate with steady an' reg'lar. Why, lookit
him gettin' sore on me, an' for nothin'! But I 'm so used to bein'
abused I get sort of lost when he ain't around."
"Well," smiled Lewis, "he's went up north to punch for Buck Peters on
his li'l ranch on Snake Creek. If you want to go after him, this is th'
way I told him to go," and he gave instructions hopelessly inadequate to
anyone not a plainsman. Skinny nodded, irritated by what he regarded as
the other's painful and unnecessary details and wheeled to ride on. He
had started for town when Lewis stopped him with a word.
"Hey," he called. Skinny drew rein and looked around.
"Better ride in cautious like," Lewis remarked, casually. "Somebody was
in town when I left--he shore was thirsty. He ain't drinkin' a drop,
which has riled him considerable. So-long."
"Huh!" grunted Skinny. "Much obliged. That's one of th' reasons I 'm
goin' to town," and he started forward again, tight-lipped and grim.
He rode slowly into Scoria, alert, watching windows, doors and corners,
and dismounted before Quiggs' saloon, which was the really "high-toned"
thirst parlor in the town. He noticed that the proprietor had put black
shades to the windows and door and then, glancing quickly around,
entered. He made straight for the partition in the rear of the
building, but the proprietor's voice checked him. "You needn't bother,
Skinny--there ain't nobody in there; an' I locked th' back door an hour
ago." He glanced around the room and added, with studied carelessness:
"You don't want to get any reckless today." He mopped the bar slowly
and coughed apologetically. "Don't get careless."
"I won't--it's me that's doin' th' hunting today," Skinny replied,
meaningly. "Him a-hunting for me yesterday, when he shore knowed I was
n't in town, when he knowed he could n't find me! I was getting good
an' tired of him, an' so when Walt rode over to see me last night an'
told me what th' coyote was doing yesterday, an' what he was yelling
around, I just natchurly had to straddle leather an' come in. I can't
let him put that onto me. Nobody can call me a card cheat an' a coward
an' a few other choice things like he did without seeing me, an' seeing
me quick. An' I shore hope he 's sober. Are both of 'em in town,
Larry?"
"No; only Dick. But he's making noise enough for two. He shore raised
th' devil yesterday."
"Well, I 'm goin' North trailin' Lanky, but before I leave I 'm shore
goin' to sweeten things around here. If I go away without getting him
he 'll say he scared me out, so I 'll have to do it when I come back,
anyhow. You see, it might just as well be today. But th' next time I
sit in a game with fellers that can't drop fifty dollars without saying
they was cheated I 'll be a blamed sight bigger fool than I am right
now. I should n't 'a' taken cards with 'em after what has passed. Why
didn't they say they was cheated, then an' there, an' not wait till
three days after I left town? All that's bothering me is Sam: if I get
his brother when he ain't around, an' then goes North, he 'll say I had
to jump th' town to get away from him. But I 'll stop that by giving
him his chance at me when I get back."
"Say, why don't you wait a day an' get 'em both before you go?" asked
Quigg hopefully.
"Can't: Lanky 's got two days' start on me an' I want to catch him soon
as I can."
"I can't get it through my head, nohow," Quigg remarked. "Everybody
knows you play square. I reckon they're hard losers."
Skinny laughed shortly: "Why, can't you see it? Last year I beat Dick
Bradley out with a woman over in Ballard. Then his fool brother tried
to cut in an' beat me out. Cards? H--l!" he snorted, walking towards
the door. "You an' everybody else knows--" he stopped suddenly and
jerked his gun loose as a shadow fell across the doorsill. Then he
laughed and slapped the newcomer on the shoulder: "Hullo, Ace, my boy!
You had a narrow squeak then. You want to make more noise when you turn
corners, unless somebody 's looking for you with a gun. How are you,
anyhow? An' how's yore dad? I 've been going over to see him regular,
right along, but I 've been so busy I kept putting it off."
"Dad's better, Skinny; an' I'm feeling too good to be true. What 'll
you have?"
"Reckon it's my treat; you wet last th' other time. Ain't that right,
Quigg? Shore, I knowed it was."
"All right, here's luck," Ace smiled. "Quigg, that's better stock; an'
would you look at th' style--real curtains!"
Quigg grinned. "Got to have 'em. I 'm on th' sunny side of th'
street."
"I hear yo 're goin' North," Ace remarked.
"Yes, I am; but how 'd you know about it?"
"Why, it ain't no secret, is it?" asked Ace in surprise. "If it is, you
must 'a' told a woman. I heard of it from th' crowd--everybody seems to
know about it. Yo 're going up alone, too, ain't you?"
"Well, no, it ain't no secret; an' I am going alone," slowly replied
Skinny. "Here, have another."
"All right--this is on me. Here's more luck."
"Where is th' crowd?"
"Keeping under cover for a while to give you plenty of elbow room," Ace
replied. "He's sober as a judge, Skinny, an' mad as a rattler. Swears
he 'll kill you on sight. An' his brother ain't with him; if he does
come in too soon I 'll see he don't make it two to one. Good luck, an'
so-long," he said quickly, shaking hands and walking towards the door.
He put one hand out first and waved it, slowly stepping to the street
and then walking rapidly out of sight.
Skinny looked after him and smiled. "Larry, there 's a blamed fine
youngster," he remarked, reflectively. "Well, he ought to be--he had
th' best mother God ever put breath into." He thought for a moment and
then went slowly towards the door. "I 've heard so much about Bradley's
gun-play that I 'm some curious. Reckon I 'll see if it's all true--"
and he had leaped through the doorway, gun in hand. There was no shot,
no sign of his enemy. A group of men lounged in the door of the "hash
house" farther down the street, all friends of his, and he nodded to
them. One of them turned quickly and looked down the intersecting
street, saying something that made his companions turn and look with
him. The man who had been standing quietly by the corner saloon had
disappeared. Skinny smiling knowingly, moved closer to Quigg's shack so
as to be better able to see around the indicated corner, and half drew
the Colt which he had just replaced in the holster. As he drew even
with the corner of the building he heard Quigg's warning shout and
dropped instantly, a bullet singing over him and into a window of a
near-by store. He rolled around the corner, scrambled to his feet and
dashed around the rear of the saloon and the corral behind it, crossed
the street in four bounds and began to work up behind the buildings on
his enemy's side of the street, cold with anger.
"Pot shooting, hey!" he gritted, savagely.
"Says I 'm a-scared to face him, an' then tries _that_. _There_, d--n
you!" His Colt exploded and a piece of wood sprang from the corner
board of Wright's store. "Missed!" he swore. "Anyhow, I 've notified
you, you coyote."
He sprang forward, turned the corner of the store and followed it to the
street. When he came to the street end of the wall he leaped past it,
his Colt preceding him. Finding no one to dispute with him he moved
cautiously towards the other corner and stopped. Giving a quick glance
around, he smiled suddenly, for the glass in Quigg's half-open door,
with the black curtain behind it, made a fair mirror. He could see the
reflection of Wright's corral and Ace leaning against it, ready to
handle the brother if he should appear as a belligerent; and he could
see along the other side of the store, where Dick Bradley, crouched, was
half-way to the street and coming nearer at each slow step.
Skinny, remembering the shot which he had so narrowly escaped, resolved
that he would n't take chances with a man who would pot-shoot. He
wheeled, slipped back along his side of the building, turned the rear
corner and then, spurting, sprang out beyond the other wall, crying:
"Here!"
Bradley, startled, fired under his arm as he leaped aside. Turning
while in the air, his half-raised Colt described a swift, short arc and
roared as he alighted. As the bullet sang past his enemy's ear he
staggered and fell,--and Skinny's smoking gun chocked into its holster.
"There, you coyote!" muttered the victor. "Yore brother is next if he
wants to take it up."
* * * * *
As night fell Skinny rode into a small grove and prepared to camp there.
Picketing his horse, he removed the saddle and dropped it where he would
sleep, for a saddle makes a fair pillow. He threw his blanket after it
and then started a quick, hot fire for his coffee-making. While
gathering fuel for it he came across a large log and determined to use
it for his night fire, and for that purpose carried it back to camp with
him. It was not long before he had reduced the provisions in his
saddle-bags and leaned back against a tree to enjoy a smoke. Suddenly he
knocked the ashes from his pipe and grew thoughtful, finally slipping it
into his pocket and getting up.
"That coyote's brother will know I went North an' all about it," he
muttered. "He knows I 've got to camp tonight an' he can foller a trail
as good as th' next man. An' he knows I shot his brother. I reckon,
mebby, he 'll be some surprised."
An hour later a blanket-covered figure lay with its carefully covered
feet to the fire, and its head, sheltered from the night air by a
sombrero, lay on the saddle. A rifle barrel projected above the saddle,
the dim flickering light of the green-wood fire and a stray beam or two
from the moon glinted from its rustless surface. The fire was badly
constructed, giving almost no light, while the leaves overhead shut out
most of the moonlight.
Thirty yards away, in another clearing, a horse moved about at the end
of a lariat and contentedly cropped the rich grass, enjoying a good
night's rest. An hour passed, another, and a third and fourth, and then
the horse's ears flicked forward as it turned its head to see what
approached.
A crouched figure moved stealthily forward to the edge of the clearing,
paused to read the brand on the animal's flank and then moved off
towards the fitful light of the smoking fire. Closer and closer it drew
until it made out the indistinct blanketed figure on the ground. A
glint from the rifle barrel caused it to shrink back deeper into the
shadows and raise the weapon it carried. For half a minute it stood thus
and then, holding back the trigger of the rifle so there would be no
warning clicks, drew the hammer to a full cock and let the trigger fall
into place, slowly moving forward all the while. A passing breeze
fanned the fire for an instant and threw the grotesque shadow of a stump
across the quiet figure in the clearing.
The skulker raised his rifle and waited until he had figured out the
exact mark and then a burst of fire and smoke leaped into the brush. He
bent low to look under the smoke cloud and saw that the figure had not
moved. Another flash split the night and then, assured beyond a doubt,
he moved forward quickly.
"First shot!" he exclaimed with satisfaction. "I reckons you won't do no
boastin' 'bout killin' Dick, d--n you!"
As he was about to drop to his knees to search the body he started and
sprang back, glancing fearfully around as he drew his Colt.
"Han's up!" came the command from the edge of the clearing as a man
stepped into sight. "I reckon--" Skinny leaped aside as the other's
gun roared out and fired from his hip; and Sam Bradley plunged across
the blanket-covered log and leaves.
"There," Skinny soliloquized, moving forward. "I knowed they was
coyotes, _both_ of 'em. Knowed it all th' time."
Two days north of Skinny on the bank of Little Wind River a fire was
burning itself out, while four men lay on the sand or squatted on their
heels and watched it contentedly. "Yes, I got plumb sick of that
country," Lanky Smith was saying, "an' when Buck sent for me to go up
an' help him out, I pulls up, an' here I am."
"I never heard of th' Bar-20," replied a little, wizened man, whose eyes
were so bright they seemed to be on fire. "Did n't know there was any
ranches in that country."
"Buck 's got th' only one," responded Lanky, packing his pipe. "He's
located on Snake Creek, an' he 's got four thousand head. Reckon there
ain't nobody within two hundred mile of him. Lewis said he 's got a
fine range an' all th' water he can use; but three men can't handle all
them cows in _that_ country, so I 'm goin' up."
The little man's eyes seldom left Lanky's face, and he seemed to be
studying the stranger very closely. When Lanky had ridden upon their
noon-day camp the little man had not lost a movement that the stranger
made and the other two, disappearing quietly, returned a little later
and nodded reassuringly to their leader.
The wizened leader glanced at one of his companions, but spoke to Lanky.
"George, here, said as how they finally got Butch Lynch. You did n't
hear nothin' about it, did you?"
"They was a rumor down on Mesquite range that Butch was got. I heard
his gang was wiped out. Well, it had to come sometime--he was carryin'
things with a purty high hand for a long time. But I 've done heard
that before; more 'n once, too. I reckon Butch is a li'l too slick to
get hisself killed."
"Ever see him?" asked George carelessly.
"Never; an' don't want to. If them fellers can't clean their own range
an' pertect their own cows, I ain't got no call to edge in."
"He 's only a couple of inches taller 'n Jim," observed the third man,
glancing at his leader, "an' about th' same build. But he 's h--l on
th' shoot. I saw him twice, but I was mindin' my own business."
Lanky nodded at the leader. "That 'd make him about as tall as me.
Size don't make no dif'rence no more--King Colt makes 'em look all
alike."
Jim tossed away his cigarette and arose, stretching and grunting. "I
shore ate too much," he complained. "Well, there's one thing about yore
friend's ranch: he ain't got no rustlers to fight, so he ain't as bad
off as he might be. I reckon he done named that crick hisself, did n't
he? I never heard tell of it."
"Yes; so Lewis says. He says _he 'd_ called it Split Mesa Crick, 'cause
it empties into Mesa River plumb acrost from a big mesa what's split in
two as clean as a knife could 'a' done it."
[Illustration: There was a sharp report]
"The Bar-20 expectin' you?" casually asked Jim as he picked up his
saddle.
"Shore; they done sent for me. Me an' Buck is old friends. He was up
in Montana ranchin' with a pardner, but Slippery Trendley kills his
pardner's wife an' drove th' feller loco. Buck an' him hunted Slippery
for two years an' finally drifted back south again. I dunno where
Frenchy is. If it wasn't for me I reckon Buck 'd still be on th'
warpath. You bet he 's expectin' me!" He turned and threw his saddle
on the evil-tempered horse he rode and, cinching deftly, slung himself
up by the stirrup. As he struck the saddle there was a sharp report and
he pitched off and sprawled grotesquely on the sand. The little man
peered through the smoke and slid his gun back into the holster. He
turned to his companions, who looked on idly and with but little
interest. "Yo 're d--d right Butch Lynch is too slick to get killed. I
ain't takin' no chances with nobody that rides over my trail these days.
An', boys, I got a great scheme! It comes to me like a flash when he 's
talkin'. Come on, pull out; an' don't open yore traps till I says so.
I want to figger this thing out to th' last card. George, shoot his
cayuse; an' not another sound."
"But that's a good cayuse; worth easy--"
"Shoot it!" shouted Jim, his eyes snapping. It was unnecessary to add
the alternative, for George and his companion had great respect for the
lightning-like, deadly-accurate gun hands. He started to draw, but was
too late. The crashing report seemed to come from the leader's holster,
so quick had been the draw, and the horse sank slowly down, but
unobserved. Two pairs of eyes asked a question of the little man and he
sneered in reply as he lowered the gun. "It might 'a' been you.
Hereafter do what I say. Now, go on ahead, an' keep quiet."
After riding along in silence for a little while the leader looked at
his companions and called one of them to him. "George, this job is too
big for the three of us; we can handle the ranch end, but not the drive.
You know where Longhorn an' his bunch are holdin' out on th' Tortilla?
All right; I 've got a proposition for 'em, an' you are goin' up with
it. It won't take you so long if you wake up an' don't loaf like you
have been. Now you listen close, an' don't forget a word": and the
little man shared the plan he had worked out, much to his companion's
delight. Having made the messenger repeat it, the little man waved him
off: "Get a-goin'; you bust some records or I 'll bust you, savvy?
Charley 'll wait for you at that Split Mesa that fool puncher was
a-talkin' about. An' don't you ride nowheres near it goin' up--keep to
th' east of it. So-long!"
He watched the departing horseman swing in and pass Charley and saw the
playful blow and counter. He smiled tolerantly as their words came back
to him, George's growing fainter and fainter and Charley's louder and
louder until they rang in his ears. The smile changed subtly and
cynicism touched his face and lingered for a moment. "Fine, big
bodies--nothing else," he muttered. "Big children, with children's
heads. A little courage, if steadied; but what a paucity of brains!
Good G--d, what a paucity of brains; what a lack of original thought!"
Of some localities it is said their inhabitants do not die, but dry up
and blow away; this, so far as appearances went, seemed true of the
horseman who loped along the north bank of Snake Creek, only he had not
arrived at the "blow away" period. No one would have guessed his age as
forty, for his leathery, wrinkled skin, thin, sun-bleached hair and
wizened body justified a guess of sixty. A shrewd observer looking him
over would find about the man a subtle air of potential destruction,
which might have been caused by the way he wore his guns. A second look
and the observer would turn away oppressed by a disquieting feeling that
evaded analysis by lurking annoyingly just beyond the horizon of
thought. But a man strong in intuition would not have turned away; he
would have backed off, alert and tense. Nearing a corral which loomed
up ahead, he pulled rein and went on at a walk, his brilliant eyes
searching the surroundings with a thoroughness that missed nothing.
Buck Peters was complaining as he loafed for a precious half hour in
front of the corral, but Red Connors and Bill Cassidy, his "outfit,"
discussed the low prices cattle were selling for, the over-stocked
southern ranges and the crash that would come to the more heavily
mortgaged ranches when the market broke. This was a golden opportunity
to stock the little ranch, and Buck was taking advantage of it. But
their foreman persisted in telling his troubles and finally, out of
politeness, they listened. The burden of the foreman's plaint was the
non-appearance of one Lanky Smith, an old friend. When the second herd
had been delivered several weeks before, Buck, failing to persuade one
of the drive outfit to remain, had asked the trail boss to send up
Lanky, and the trail boss had promised.