Part 1

BLIND TRAILS

W. C. Tuttle

Author of “Reputation,” “The Misdeal,” etc.

“Peace River” Parker turned from unsaddling a sweat-marked gray horse and picked up his saddle. He was a tall, gaunt-looking cowpuncher. His bat-winged chaps were polished from much usage, his thin cotton shirt indefinite of color was topped by a black muffler and atop his head rode a high-crown sombrero.

“Peace” Parker was not handsome by any manner of means. His hair was an unruly mop of almost roan color, his nose much larger than necessary and a mouth all out of proportion. But his eyes were a clear gray and set wide apart.

Now he stood in the shade of the tall, pole corral, holding the saddle by one hand, while he squinted toward the Cross L ranch-house a hundred yards away. It was a low, rambling sort of a building, with a wide veranda running across the front. It had been originally a one-room affair, painted white, with blue trimmings. But, as each addition had been built, it seemed as though the taste in decorations had changed, and each addition had a color all its own.

Behind and on the opposite side of the house grew several tall cottonwoods, while in the front yard there had been some attempt to grow a flower garden and some rose bushes, but the effort of water-bucket irrigation had been too much and the garden did not thrive.

There was a black horse tied to a corner of the veranda; a racy-looking animal, surmounted by a silver-decorated, swell-forked saddle, which flashed in the sunlight, as the black moved impatiently.

Peace Parker looked at this horse for a long time, but no hint of his thoughts was depicted on his face. He turned his head slowly and looked down at his saddle. It was as if he were trying to remember just what he was going to do with that saddle.

A slight twitch of his head, which might have been a negative answer to one of his unspoken questions, and he went slowly toward the bunk-house, a long, one-room structure, facing the same way as the ranchhouse, but farther back toward the tall barn.

As he stopped at the bunk-house door, a man came out of the kitchen, slammed the door and stood on the narrow step, looking around. He saw Peace Parker and greeted him with an upward jerk of his hand and arm as he strode down toward him.

This man was “Cross L” Marshall, owner of the ranch. He was a smaller man than Parker; a typical old-time cattleman. He was slightly bow-legged and walked with elbows bent at his sides. An enormous hunk of tobacco deformed one side of his face and caused one of his mustaches to assume a belligerent angle. His lips were slightly compressed and his blue eyes seemed to reprove Peace Parker.

“What’s achin’ yuh?” Peace smiled slightly at the older man.

Marshall did not speak for several moments. He turned and squinted toward the house, spat explosively and scratched his shoulders against the bunk-house wall. Then he shifted his tobacco and squinted at Peace.

“Achin’ me? Huh!”

He jerked his thumb toward the house.

“Whatcha think? More candy. Uh-huh. ---- it, he uses vas’leen on his hair!”

“They tell me,” said Peace slowly, “that it’s good for the hair. Looks kinda slick and pretty.”

“Yeah?” A shift of the tobacco made the mustache assume a more belligerent attitude.

“Does, eh?”

“You don’t hate vaseline, do yuh?” queried Peace.

“No, but by ----!”

Cross L Marshall glared at Peace and shook his head violently.

“I don’t sabe you, Peace. Yo’re what Jim Horn used to call a en-ig-maw. Yeah, yuh are. Yo’re like some of the race horses them slickers brought here last Summer. One of ’em had a stifle, two ringbones and a broken nose.

“Couldn’t run. ’Course they couldn’t run. How in ---- could that kind of a critter run, I ask yuh? Jim Horn said it was a en-ig-maw, whatever that is. I bet agin’ it and lost five hundred dollars and a span of work horses.”

Peace Parker smiled softly.

“But I ain’t got no ring-bones nor----”

“Yes, yuh have,” interrupted Marshall, “Yours are inside yore head, where they don’t show open-like. Them is the worst kind t’ have.”

Marshall spat thoughtfully and nodded his head.

“As a cow-hand, yo’re first-class, Peace. Yeah, I’d go so far as to say that you sabe the cow business, but when it comes to anythin’ else, you qualify as a first-class ---- fool. What do yuh think of that?”

Marshall squinted quizzically at Peace and waited for him to speak.

“Maybe,” said Peace softly, “if I wasn’t a first-class ---- fool, I might be somethin’ better than a first-class cow-hand.”

“Aw-w-w ----, I didn’t mean it that-away.”

Marshall’s tone was contrite and he grasped Peace by the arm.

“You make me so ---- mad, Peace! I say things that I don’t mean, don’tcha know it? Yo’re the best danged----”

Marshall stopped and glared toward the porch.

“Peace River Parker, I--I dunno.”

Peace smiled at Marshall’s serious face.

“What do yuh reckon I better do, Marshall?”

“Do?”

The mustaches bristled again.

“By grab, if it was me, I’d go up there and--uh----”

“No, yuh wouldn’t.”

Peace shook his head.

“Now let me tell yuh about me, Cross L. Jess is of age. She can do about as she pleases. If Frank Campion comes to see her, what right have I got to object?”

Peace smiled softly and shook his head.

“He ain’t comin’ to see me.”

“My gosh, you two are engaged, ain’tcha?”

“Ye-e-es, but we ain’t married, Cross L.”

“All right, all right! None of my ---- business, eh? Ain’t got nothin’ t’ say about who I git for a son-in-law, eh? This is gittin’ to be a fine country. Feller can’t have nothin’. When that Campion leaves, I’m goin’ t’ give Jess a little ---- of a good talk, y’betcha.”

“You let her alone,” advised Peace coldly.

“Thasso?” Marshall squinted closely at Peace.

“Say, what in ----’s the matter with you? Don’tcha want her?”

Peace stared at Marshall for a moment and then stooped over to unbuckle one of his spurs. It took several moments to remove the two spurs, which gave him time to evade the direct question.

“That gray bronc bucked half-way to End-Gate Creek this mornin,’ Cross L. Dang near made me grab leather. Ain’t been shook up thataway for quite a while. Ought to sell him to Barney Edwards, I reckon. Barney is pickin’ up broncs for some of the Eastern rodeos, and that gray would make some of them contesters ride high and handsome, y’betcha.”

“Uh-huh,” uninterestedly. “You do it. Didja hear anythin’ new in Tarp City?”

Peace shook his head.

“No-o-o. I kinda thought I’d hear from Gus Sinks, but there wasn’t no word. Feller from Sun Prairie said that the feed was pretty good agin. They had a good lot of rain up there, he said.

“I told Gus to let me know if he got any kind of an offer for them sheep, but I don’t reckon there’s been any buyers through there lately. I’d sure like to get them off my hands.”

Cross L Marshall grunted explosively and Peace turned. Frank Campion had vaulted the porch-rail and was preparing to mount the black horse. Jess Marshall, dressed all in white, leaned across the railing and talked to him.

From his raiment, Frank Campion was either a range dandy or a “dude cowboy,” just out of college. He was dark complexioned, thin-faced and sported a tiny mustache. His hair was so sleek that it glistened in the sun like patent-leather and was of the latest approved cut.

His clothes, patterned after the range fashion, were of the finest quality, but he mounted his horse with the ease and grace of a top-hand cowpuncher.

Cross L Marshall was swearing softly to himself, as Campion galloped away toward the main road, and Peace River looked curiously at him. Jess had turned away from their sight.

“What you got against Campion?” asked Peace.

“Not a danged thing! I just hate the name, Peace. Once upon a time, I knocked ---- out of a Campion. It was down in Wyoming a long time ago. I reckon it was a dirty deal, but I was kinda young and wild in them days.

“I know yuh won’t repeat it so I’ll tell yuh how it was. Me and Joe Campion was bunkies in them days. It was a lot easier to lift a bunch of cows than to work at forty a month; so we kinda helped ourselves.

“We was around the town of Searchlight, if I remember right. Anyway, me and Joe got stuck on the same girl. We had a bunch of cows tucked away on a branch of Lost Cow river, waitin’ for the right time to drift ’em across the divide.

“Then we proceeds to git stuck on this girl. I reckon we made love jist like we stole cows--kinda fast-like. If that girl had been twins, everythin’ would ’a’ been fine, but one girl ain’t enough for two gunpackin’ lovers. Anyway,” Marshall spat reflectively, “we settled it out of court and I hammered ---- out of Joe.”

“Bein’ a pair of danged fools, I reckon we thought that settled which one was to get the girl. Anyway, Joe had a danged mean disposition and he goes to the sheriff and has a talk with him about me.

“’Course I don’t know this until the sheriff asks me to rattle my hocks out of town. He says that I’m suspected of covetin’ my neighbor’s property and that I’d better high-tail it out while the gate is open.

“Me and him kinda talks things over and I finds that this danged Campion is responsible. Joe decides to set the law on my trail. Then I asks the sheriff how he’d like to put the deadwood on a rustler and I finds him plumb willin’.”

Marshall laughed shortly.

“I was mad then and I’m mad yet. I told the sheriff where to find that bunch of cows, and if he watched long enough he’d find the man who put ’em there. Then I went to Joe and told him I was foggin’ out that night, ’cause the sheriff was onto me. Joe sure sympathized a heap with me and promised to split the cow money with me later on.

“And that was the last time I ever heard of the dirty pup. I never heard what happened. He sure tried to frame me into the penitentiary and beat me out of the girl I had won with m’ bare hands.”

“Didja go and tell the girl good-by?” asked Peace.

“---- no! She was the sheriff’s daughter.”

Marshall chuckled and bit off a fresh chew, while Peace leaned against the bunkhouse door and grinned at Marshall.

“I’ll bet you was a tough rooster when you was young, Cross L.”

“Dang right! Play ’em high and sleep in the street--that was me. But I had brains when it come to wimmin.’”

Peace smiled softly and shook his head.

“I don’t s’pose I have,” he admitted, “but I’ll likely tell somebody that I did have--when I get older. Lookin’ back kinda gives folks a wrong impression of what they’ve done.

“I ain’t never got the combination, Cross L. Women, to me, is a heap like a roulette wheel. I guess red and she comes black. I’ll bet on a horse, but never on a woman. I reckon that God A’mighty made ’em thataway on purpose, so that a fool man won’t get so smart that he thinks he knows it all.”

“Meanin’ that I don’t know wimmin, Peace River?”

“Yeah. And meanin’ that you know ---- well yuh don’t. Want me to bring them Herefords up from the Bar X Bar tomorrow?”

“Always want to change the subject, when it’s somethin’ I know all about,” complained Cross L. “Talk cows! You don’t know nothin’ but cows, Peace River Parker. I wish t’gosh yuh knows more about wimmin. I hope that Campion gits bucked off on his vas-leen hair and skids plumb out of Chinook Valley, that’s what I wish. But--” quickly--“he sure does _sabe_ wimmin’, y’betcha.”

* * * * *

The Valley of the Chinook was practically a mountain-locked stronghold of the cattlemen. It was about thirty miles in length with an average width of seven miles. At the north end of the valley several glacier-fed streams met to form the Chinook River, which wound its crooked way southward, feeding from more tributaries until it roared its formidable way out through a snake-like box cañon at the extreme south end and joined with the Fossilshell River twenty miles beyond.

Poncho Pass, a V-shaped notch in the cliffs which encircled the valley, was the only well-known entrance and exit. The road was a succession of narrow grades, climbing out of the valley to where it sloped sharply off to the shipping center, Tarp City.

Pasiooks was the only town in the valley and was situated nearly midway. At one time it had been an old French trading post, and the Indians named it with the Chinook word which meant French. Pasiooks was about thirty miles from Tarp City, which was the county seat of that particular county.

The Chinook was a cattlemen’s paradise, and many a stock-man looked with envious eyes upon the rolling hills, the many cottonwood lined streams which furnished an abundance of water and the encircling, impassable range of mountains which precluded any chance of cattle-stealing and served to break the force of Winter storms.

With Poncho Pass as the only outlet, horse and cattle thieves left Chinook severely alone. The sheep-men grumbled at the name. Their only range, the Sun Prairie country, was sheeped out and dotted with the bones of blizzard and drouth victims. To the south of them was the Fossilshell cattle range, where cowpunchers rode the dead-line, that no sheep might stray across.

But the cattlemen of the Chinook lived secure in their own tight little valley, herded their fat cattle over Poncho Pass to the loading pens at Tarp City, banked their checks at Pasiooks and waited for the next herd to fatten on the rich bunch-grass.

Bart Severn had owned the Three Dot outfit for several years and was rated as a rich man, but he hated the narrow confines of the Chinook, and when Frank Campion offered a big price for the Three Dot, Severn sold out to him.

The price was almost prohibitive, but Campion paid it willingly. He proved himself to be a plunger; a gambler who played money instead of his cards. Instead of keeping the Three Dot cowpunchers he brought in “Tiny” Bender, a giant of a man, Gus Mehl and “Blackie” Erne.

They were all capable looking men and minded their own business. Once a month they went on a “bust” in Tarp City, and Frank Campion went with them. Bender, Mehl and Erne did not associate with any of the Chinook punchers, but seemed to hold themselves aloof.

But Frank Campion was a “mixer.” He drank hard, rode wildly and was belligerent in his cups but he also danced well, sang in a ringing baritone voice and never seemed to lack for something to say. There was no denying the fact that Frank Campion was fast becoming the most popular young bachelor in the Valley of the Chinook.

Peace River Parker had been foreman for the Cross-L for a long time, and was respected by every man and woman in the valley. A few months prior to this time, Peace had just finished a prison term although innocent of the charge.

His return had stopped a sheep invasion of the valley, and ended in the death of the invaders after Peace’s innocence of the former charge had been proven.

And Peace Parker had inherited the sheep, as a payment for the years he had lost in the prison. One of the guilty parties, a weasel-faced outlaw, Gus Sinks, whom Peace had saved from the enraged citizens of Tarp City, had been sentenced by Peace to herd that particular band of sheep.

And Gus Sinks went gladly. He would have walked through burning brimstone for Peace River Parker. Sinks was a one-idea man and that idea was to serve Peace Parker regardless of what it might entail. Thereupon he trailed the big herd of bleating sheep into a land which was cursed by all cowpunchers and became a sheepherder.

And to a cattleman or cowpuncher, “Greater love hath no man shown than to turn shepherd through friendship.”

Peace Parker was engaged to Jess Marshall, but, as Peace told Cross L Marshall, they were not married yet. Jess Marshall’s mother was dead, but she had left Jess a sweet disposition and capabilities beyond those of the average girl. Jess was not a beautiful girl, as beauty standards are measured, but she was attractive and worth looking at more than once.

Peace Parker had worshiped her for years, and she had confessed her love for him, but still he hesitated over the marriage problem.

“Yuh gotta be sure, Peace River,” he told himself time and again. “I’m sure about me, but can she look across the table three times a day at this face of mine and still keep her sweet disposition? I’d hate to think she can’t, but I’d rather find it out ahead of time.”

He did not show by word or deed that he resented the visits of Frank Campion which were becoming more frequent. He did not mention it to Jess. Jim Horn and Bert Hart, the other two cowpunchers, resented it openly. They were loyal to Peace River and agreed that Frank Campion was breeding a lot of trouble for himself.

They knew that Peace Parker would fight a buzz-saw with his bare hands and that no man in that country was as swift and deadly with a six-shooter.

“I tell yuh, Campion’s goin’ to arrive home without his top-knot some of these days,” declared Jim Horn, “and old Peace River’ll be wearin’ a vaseline-slicked scalp on his belt. Yuh can jist push the old Peace feller so far and then somethin’ rips.”

“I’ve got a danged good notion to say somethin’ to Jess,” said Bert Hart. “She ought to know that she’s smokin’ her pipe in a niter-glycerin’ fact’ry.”

“You lay off that kinda stuff,” advised Jim. “She’s plumb enamored by that slickear and if you start any argument she’ll think Peace sent yuh.”

“Yeah, I reckon that’s right, Jim. I dunno what in ---- Campion wants a cowranch for. If I had his money, I’d be danged if anybody could sell me a ranch. I’d go to Helena and buy me three suits of clothes, three shirts, three pairs of socks and some neckties. Yessir, I’d go plumb hawg-wild on clothes. I’d get me a derby hat; one of them flat-topped jiggers, and some heel-yuh-trope per-fume. Mamma mine, I’d sure hang on the dog! That’s the way to do when yuh got money.”

“I wouldn’t.”

Jim stretched out in the shade of the bunk-house and began rolling a cigaret.

“I’d buy me a ---- of a good bronc and I’d hit for the South Sea Islands. I’m plumb sick and tired of wearin’ flannel underclothes and buckin’ blizzards in the Winter. They say that folks don’t have to wear flannels down there in the Winter, and that’s the range I’m headin’ for when I get rich.”

“You’ve got a ---- of a idea of how to spend money!” snorted Bert. “Yuh don’t need money down there.”

“Tha’s all right, Bert. Anythin’ to get rid of wearin’ them danged woolly shirts. I can go there if I want to, can’t I? You ain’t tryin’ to stop me, are yuh?”

“Go ahead,” magnanimously. “Don’t let me stop yuh, cowboy. I’ll take mine to Helena and buy out a clothing store. I’ve allus wanted one of them flat-topped derby hats.”

All of which serves to give an idea of the lofty ambitions of Bert Hart and Jim Horn. In appearance they were as unlike as their ambitions. Jim was thin, dark of features and with a crooked nose, while Bert was fleshy, blond, and his fat face was decorated with a stubby nose, almost bridgeless. His eyes were set far apart and almost Oriental in contour.

But they were both top-hands in the rangeland and had been with the Cross L for more than two years.

* * * * *

The visits of Frank Campion annoyed Cross L Marshall. He spluttered and ----ed everybody for everything, but did not speak about it to Jess. He knew her too well for that. She was a chip off the old block, as far as resenting interference was concerned, and Cross L knew that a word from him would not be well received.

Which accounts for the fact that Cross L did not keep his word and “give her a little ---- of a good talk, y’betcha.”

Peace was in his usual good humor that evening and several times he caught Jess watching him from across the supper table. He felt that she was comparing him to Frank Campion and it made him conscious of the fact that, as far as facial and tonsorial beauty was concerned, he was hardly a match.

But he felt no anger against Campion; none against Jess. Perhaps, down deep in his big heart he felt a bitter ache against an unkind fate, but he was big enough to keep it hidden.

“It’ll all come out in the wash,” he assured himself that night. “I reckon I’m playin’ for the Double O on this old human roulette wheel and there’s a lot of odds agin’ me. Mebbe the old dealer has got the thing fixed, but I’m still hopin’ to win out. If I don’t, I’m just a homely old cowpuncher, and I’ll get along--kinda.”

The next day was Saturday and pay-day, which was the big day for the cowpuncher. Hart and Horn both decided to go to Tarp City; so Peace, needing a new pair of overalls and boots, decided to go with them. Peace decided to leave the Bar X Bar Herefords until Monday, as both of his cowpunchers were eager for a fling at the Tarp City games. Just before they saddled their horses, Frank Campion, Mehl, Erne and Bender rode past, heading toward the Pass. They did not even wave toward the Cross L boys, but swept past at a gallop, looking straight ahead.

“Them jaspers need a curryin’,” growled Hart. “You’d think they was the four kings of Calcutta.”

Hart knew nothing of kings and less of Calcutta, but no one disputed his statement.

“They sure are uppity as ----!”

Jim Horn grunted an agreement as he shook out his rope.

“Mebbe,” thoughtfully, “somebody will curry ’em.”

Peace swung his saddle off the peg and looked back at Jim.

“Keep clear of that gang, if yuh know what’s good for yuh, Jim,” he said slowly. “Bender looks like he could whip a dozen men at once, and they’re all slickers with a gun, if yuh can judge by the way they wear ’em.”

“Sa-a-ay!” drawled Jim in astonishment. “You ain’t scared of that outfit, are yuh, Peace River?”

“Well,” Peace grinned softly and unfolded a gaudy saddle-blanket, “I ain’t scared--no. You fellers might drink quite a lot tonight, and whisky kinda makes a feller cover too much territory in his remarks. Whisky sure spoils yore sense of distance, direction and discretion, and I don’t want no cripples loafin’ around here.”

“We’ll get a lunch while they’re gettin’ a feast,” said Hart meaningly, but added quickly, “we ain’t startin’ no trouble, yuh understand, but we’ll be Johnny at the rat-hole if it does start.”

Peace smiled softly and led the way out to the corral. He knew that the two cowboys, after a few drinks, would not wait for trouble to start and he hated to think that they might tangle with the Campion gang.

With practically all of the cowboys from Chinook and those from the Fossilshell in Tarp City, there was no chance that a trouble hunter would not be accommodated. He knew that Buck Houston, the sheriff, would keep order as long as possible to salve his own conscience and then go home, trusting in the Lord that nothing serious would happen.

Barney McManus, the deputy, would dog Houston’s footsteps until Houston went home, and then Barney would proceed to forget that he was the sole representative of law and order and become an ordinary cowpuncher again with a cowpuncher’s idea of things as they should be.

Tarp City was a he-man’s town on payday, and Peace Parker found the hitch-racks already filled when they rode in dusty and tired from the trip. Hart and Horn immediately stabled their horses, but Peace tied his to a hitch-rack, along with a nondescript lot of broncos from the Fossilshell.

Across the street in front of the Royal saloon he saw the four saddle-horses from the Three Dot. Campion had ridden the racy-looking black, which was salty with dried sweat and looked leg-weary. Peace frowned slightly. He loved a good horse and he knew that Campion had given the black a grueling run to Tarp City and had left it in the chill winds of the street, instead of giving it a blanket and a stall in the livery-barn.

Peace and his two men had taken the trip easy and, in range parlance, had not laid a hair, but Peace had insisted on Hart and Horn stabling their horses for the night.

Peace met Sheriff Houston at the door of Carney’s General Merchandise Store and shook hands with him. Houston was a portly man, middle-aged and serious of mien.