On the plain slanting imperceptibly toward the Marias River, a herd
grazed south in loose formation, nearly a thousand head of mature
cattle. All these horned beasts bore on their ribs a freshly seared
brand--the Maltese Cross. Also, rather strangely, considering that the
Maltese Cross home ranch lay just out of sight in the valley, taken in
conjunction with this foreign brand, the four riders loafing on the
fringes of the herd rode horses with a Capital K gracefully curved on
each glossy shoulder.
A mile from the leaders of this herd, now occasionally sniffing at
water afar, the clustered buildings of the Maltese Cross stood beside
the river. In a stout log bunk house, with one door and two windows, a
group of sullen-faced men sat disconsolate. The door was shut. Each
window was boarded to the top, so that the interior lay in a sort of
gray gloom. And, outside, by the single door and by each window stood a
bored cowpuncher, doing sentry duty with a rifle in the crook of his
arm.
A pleasant, comfortably furnished house of several rooms stood apart
from the lesser buildings. In the center room, occupying an armchair,
Rock Holloway sat with an elderly, thin-faced gentleman, who stroked a
long mustache, while Rock talked.
“I would like to have got them both alive,” Rock was saying. “But Buck
must have gone loco when he saw what he was up against. I expect, he
concluded he would get me then and there, if it was the last act of his
life. Which, of course, it was. Wells fought ’em to the last, the boys
say. So we got what was left, who didn’t feel like shooting it out to
the last man. And while we were at it, we brought along all these
cattle they worked over--come home from the wars bringing our trophies,
you might say. If you know of any Indian fighting, going on anywhere,
Uncle Bill, I wish you’d tell me. I think I’d go mingle into it, so I
could lead a peaceful life for a while. This last two weeks has been
much too hair raising for my taste.”
“You done well,” Uncle Bill muttered. “You done damn well. My hunch was
right.”
“As it happens, it don’t matter whether Wells or Walters owned the
Steering Wheel,” Rock said thoughtfully. “We caught ’em red-handed,
with the goods on ’em. Funny, how things work out. If I hadn’t had
trouble with Mark Duffy, I’d never have seen the Steering Wheel or
known there was such an outfit across the Canada line. If Buck hadn’t
been so eager to shut Doc Martin’s mouth first, and then transferred
his attention to me, as soon as he found I’d been with this precious
outfit up North, I would not have tumbled to his game. I began to smell
a rat when I saw him and Wells together in Fort Benton. When I got
Stack to talk, of course, it was simple to put the whole thing
together, seeing that I’d wondered just where the Steering Wheel got a
whole herd of fresh-branded steers so early in the spring. All I had to
do was make a few marks, like those on a piece of paper to satisfy
myself. It’s an old trick--almost as old as the crime of forgery which
you bloated bankers are always hounding men for. But it was well
thought out, just the same. Buck was a pretty brainy man. He would have
stolen the Maltese Cross blind in two or three years.”
Uncle Bill stared at a piece of paper lying on the table. Rock had made
certain marks on it a few minutes earlier. To a range man the meaning
was as words of one syllable to an eighth-grade schoolboy. He had
demonstrated in four figures how easy it was to transform a Maltese
Cross into a steering wheel. The change was easy, as both men knew,
when it was a finished product on the ribs of a steer. It was a
suspicion-proof job, once the hair had grown out on the worked-over
brand.
“Yes, sir, you done well,” Uncle Bill repeated. “I can tell you how it
started--this Steering Wheel business. I found out before I left. Buck
borrowed twenty-five thousand dollars a year ago last winter on the
strength of his prospects as coadministrator of Snell’s estate. He used
that money to buy twelve hundred head of cattle in the Panhandle. But I
hadn’t connected him up with Dave Wells or the Steering Wheel brand.
The how of it, as you say, don’t matter so much now. We got to get them
cattle out of Canada. My idea would be to clean everything outa that
country. If Wells or Buck Walters has any kin or creditors to put in a
claim, we can settle with them. Eh?”
“I’d grab the Steering Wheel, lock, stock and barrel,” Rock advised.
“They may have stolen that herd in the South, for all we know. No,
hardly. I told you the brands, didn’t I? That’s how you found out he
bought ’em?”
Sayre nodded.
“There’s a heap to do,” he ruminated. “I have this whole darned thing
on my shoulders now. Say, Rock, will you take hold here for me? You can
name your own figure to run the Maltese Cross till this estate is
cleaned up? Will you?”
Rock sat thoughtful for some seconds.
“I’ll tell you ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ to-morrow, Uncle Bill,” he said. “Right
now, I don’t know----”
He relapsed into frowning silence. After a time he said:
“I wonder if there’s a buggy around this ranch? I am too darned stiff
and sore to fork a horse, and I want to go up to the Parke ranch.”
“There sure is,” Uncle Bill replied. “I drove one out from Benton. Say,
Alice is up there, one of the men told me. How’d it be if I come along
an’ drive you? I want to see that young woman.”
“Fine,” Rock agreed. “Kill two birds with one stone. Alice’ll be
wanting to pin medals on us, I expect. She was death against Buck
Walters. I don’t blame her much, seeing he killed off a boy she’d set
her heart on.”
“Yes, I heard about him soon after I got here,” Uncle Bill observed.
“They say he was a twin for you.”
“Quite a lot like. That resemblance got me into a heap of trouble.”
“Maybe you could console Alice,” Uncle Bill suggested hopefully. “She’s
a mighty fine girl, and she is going to be a mighty rich girl.”
“No, thank you, kind sir. I ain’t marrying for either good looks or
riches,” Rock murmured. “Let’s get that buggy hitched and be on our
way, Uncle Bill.”
Sayre, grinning, went to call a man.
“I think them boys around the ranch are all right,” he confided to
Rock, as they went rolling across the river flats. “I don’t think they
are the sort Buck would mix into his nefarious schemes. Swear they
didn’t know he was crooked, anyhow. So I expect we got to give ’em the
benefit of the doubt.”
“Probably,” Rock agreed, with more or less indifference. He had done
his job, and he was ill at ease in mind and body for the doing. Let
Uncle Bill or some one else fret about the welfare of the Maltese Cross
and the loyalty of its riders. He had other things on his mind just
then.
“Say, Uncle Bill, although there was not much mixed stock among these
stolen cattle, there was some,” Rock said, after a long time. “And this
girl I’ve been working for is shy sixty or seventy calves this spring.”
“We’ll brand a hundred for her on fall round-up,” Sayre said largely.
“A couple of hundred, if you say so. We’ll treat our friends right and
give our enemies their due. I listened to that towhead boy rave about
Nona Parke this morning. Always did admire a woman with brains to
undertake things and the spunk to see ’em through. You tell her I said
so.”
* * * * *
They fell silent. A breeze from the west played on their faces, killing
the sweltering heat in that valley. A little bunch of Nona Parke’s
horses tore out of a low place, snorted, and wheeled to stand, with
heads high, watching them pass. The river sang its ancient crooning
song, white on the riffles, dark and still in the pools that mirrored
overhanging willows. Beautiful, Rock thought, peaceful, tranquil beyond
words. The last time he had crossed that flat---- It made him shiver a
little to remember. He was still sick from building a fire at Stack’s
feet, and his head swam sometimes from pain. But that was past. The
bushwhackers and hanging squads would ride no more. There had been
close shaves. Yes. Perhaps the gods had flung a protecting mantle about
him so that he could come back and enjoy this in restful security. He
had no great pride or joy in his success; only a mild satisfaction, a
relief that it was over. And he found himself afflicted with a strange
mixture of eagerness and nervousness, as they drove in to the TL.
Uncle Bill drew his team to a halt by the kitchen door. A saddled horse
stood there--a Seventy Seven mare. Rock got out of the buggy. Perhaps
he had disposed of one enemy only to encounter another. He did not want
a feud with Elmer Duffy. But who could fathom another man’s moods and
tenses? And Rock was not organized for war. Still, a man must do the
best he could, always.
“I’ll drive this team down to the barn and tie ’em to the fence,” Uncle
Bill said. “I don’t see no ranch hands around to take hold of ’em.”
“What do you think this is? A livery stable?” Rock scoffed. Uncle Bill
grinned amiably and drove on.
Rock stood, uncertain. He suspected that was Elmer’s mount, and he
hadn’t come there to exchange either civilities or animosities with
Elmer. He was tempted to go on to the porch and the bunk house. He
could hear voices in the kitchen. But he was instinctively direct. He
hated subterfuge. If Elmer Duffy was there, what did it matter? He
granted the man common sense equal to his own.
He stepped, hobbled rather, to the kitchen door, for he had a very sore
leg, where Buck Walters’ frenzied horse had fallen across him. A stray
bullet had furrowed a streak under one armpit. He had been fortunate,
but these minor injuries crippled him and made his step uncertain. His
actions were slow.
As once before he had approached Elmer Duffy unseen, from the rear, so
it happened now. Elmer was talking. Rock didn’t catch the words--had no
wish to--but the note in his voice was pleading. And Nona’s expression
was of annoyance, even of worry. But her eyes lit up at sight of Rock.
And that swift change on her face warned Duffy. He swung on his heel,
just as Rock called: “Hello, people.”
A scowl formed on Duffy’s homely, angular face. He didn’t speak. His
countenance spoke for him. A storm gathered in that look, Rock felt.
What he could, he did, to ward that off.
“Like the cat, I came back,” he said easily. “Somewhat the worse for
wear. Say, Elmer, you should have been in on the big doings up in the
Sweet Grass with us. Did it ever strike you that Buck Walters was
making some queer moves around here lately?”
Duffy looked puzzled. After a moment he asked briefly:
“How?”
“Stirring up a lot of agitation over petty rustling,” Rock said
casually, “when he was stealing wholesale from his own outfit, the
Maltese Cross.”
“Buck Walters stealin’ cattle! What you talkin’ about?”
“They say you should never speak ill of the dead,” Rock went on, “but
what I tell you is a solemn fact. Some of his crowd went over the
divide with him. The rest of them are on their way to jail. We got them
dead to rights, working over the brand in a set of hidden corrals on
the slope of East Butte. There’s been some excitement, I wish to
remark. Uncle Bill Sayre, the other executor of the Snell estate, came
up from Texas. He’s tying up his buggy team down at the stable. You
know Bill Sayre from Fort Worth, don’t you? You’ve heard of him,
anyway.”
* * * * *
He addressed his remarks directly to Elmer who glanced out and saw a
tall figure approaching the house.
“Well, by heck!” he said in frank astonishment. “That’s the darnedest
thing I ever heard of. You say Buck is dead?”
Rock nodded.
“I was on his trail. He knew it, I guess. That’s why he was so anxious
to put me away. He started a war, and he got what was coming to him. He
had worked the brand on nearly two thousand Maltese Crosses that we
know of already.
“I’ll be darned,” Elmer said again feebly. “I wonder if that was why he
was sicking me onto you?”
“I expect,” Rock said coolly. “He made a dirty break that morning,
here. He was pretty deep, Buck was.”
Duffy shuffled his feet, then looked at Nona and at Rock.
“No hard feelin’s about that hangin’ expedition?” He inquired
diffidently.
“None whatever.” Rock shook his head. “You spoke for me like a man,
Elmer, when you were satisfied who I was. I thank you for that.”
“Well, shake on it.” Duffy suddenly held out his hand. “You never
bamboozled me, anyway. I respect you enough to admit I’d rather be
friendly than fight.”
“Same here,” Rock agreed heartily.
“Guess I’ll step out an’ say hello to Uncle Bill,” Duffy said quietly.
“Then I guess I’ll split the breeze. So long. So long, Nona.”
So he went. As he stepped out, Alice Snell from somewhere about the
house espied the elderly gentleman from Fort Worth and ran to meet him
with welcoming shrieks. The three of them stood in a knot talking.
“So it was you that Charlie went off with!” Nona exclaimed.
Rock nodded.
“Say, mind if I camp myself in a chair, Nona? I’ve got a game leg, and
I’m more or less caved in otherwise.”
“Goodness, yes. Here.” Nona came around the table, dragging a chair to
him against his protest. “What happened, anyhow?”
“Plenty.” Rock sank thankfully on the seat. “I went up to the Sweet
Grass with that outfit, looking for something, and I found a heap.”
“Trouble?”
“Lots of it. What I really came up here to tell you, Nona, is that
Charlie got shot,” Rock said wearily. “I’m sorry, because I partly got
him into the mix-up. He knew where these hidden corrals were, and he
went along to show us. But he has lived it out three days now, and he
seems strong. He’s a nervy, husky kid. I think he will be all right. I
sent him on to Benton in a wagon. He will have the best of everything
that can do him good. He helped us clean up a dirty mess.”
“Tell me about it,” Nona begged. “All about it, please.”
Rock began at the beginning and told her briefly, but clearly, all that
had happened since the day Uncle Bill Sayre called him into Fort Worth
and laid a mission on his shoulders, down to the present. She sat
staring at him, mute, impassive-faced, but with a queer glow in her
eyes.
“I am glad that man is dead,” she said at last. “Now we can all go
about our business, easy in our minds.”
“Can we?” Rock said. “I wonder? What was Elmer so earnest and so
eloquent about when I came in?”
Nona flushed.
“Oh, pestering me to marry him, as usual,” she said. “He makes me
tired.”
“Yes? And I have a sort of feeling in my bones that when I get all
right again, if I should come back to work for you again, I’d make you
tired like that, too,” Rock said dispiritedly.
“You?” Nona looked at him earnestly. “We-ll--you’re different.”
“Eh?” He stared at her unbelievingly. She was smiling at him. A bit
wistfully, it is true, but smiling. He couldn’t find any of that old
imperious disdain. A ripple of amusement crossed her face and vanished.
Rock disregarded his game leg. Impetuously he rose. So did Nona. He put
his hands on her shoulders and looked searchingly into the gray pools
of her eyes. He could read nothing there. It seemed to him that his
heart was coming up into his throat to choke him.
“Darn you!” he whispered. “Do you like me, or don’t you?”
She looked up at him with a smile, just the faintest quiver of a smile.
“To tell the truth,” she said, in a breathless sort of tone, “I like
you a heap--and that’s saying a lot--for me.”
A minute or so later, Rock tilted her head away from his breast, to
stare down at her with a strange misgiving. The gray eyes uplifted to
his own were wet, shiny and filled with tears.”
“Why, honey,” he asked, “what’s the matter? What’s gone wrong now?”
“You silly thing,” she murmured. “Don’t you know that there are two
times when every woman cries? When she’s very sad, and when she’s very
happy. And I’m certainly not sad!”
[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the July 7, 1927 issue of
The Blue Book Magazine.]