Part 3
“I’m like a Injun,” he explained. “I know that there’s a Big Spirit somewhere--somethin’ that keeps us tickin’ along. Somehow I can’t look up at the sky and figure that the Big Spirit is up there any more than it’s down here, and as far as there bein’ a punishment for sin after death, I can’t see what’s the use of it.
“It’s like tryin’ to scare a kid by tellin’ him goblin stories. I reckon that the Big Spirit made us intelligent critters, and He never meant us to be scared to die. No sir! I never did believe in threatenin’ folks, and I don’t reckon that the Big Spirit ever intended for us to scare anybody into bein’ good. I don’t need no preacher to tell me right from wrong, and if I do wrong I’ll get all my hell right here, y’betcha.”
“Saleratus” Smith, the cook of the Cross L, disliked church for the simple reason that he had to get an early breakfast for Jess and her father. Saleratus was an old chuckwagon cook before he took over the culinary duties of the Cross L. But Saleratus could cook. Rheumatism had unfitted him for anything except kitchen work and had caused his soul to sour against everything and everybody. He rolled voluminous cigarets out of wrapping-paper and plugcut tobacco of great strength; cigarets that were forever coming unwrapped and spilling their contents in a smoking mass. And, in case they did burn to a successful end, they scorched his scraggly mustache and caused him to emit a flow of profanity that only a lifetime on the ranges could have acquired.
Jim and Bert did not come back to the ranch until early Monday morning, and they had little taste for breakfast. They were sadder, but no wiser than when they left on Saturday. Tarp City had their month’s salary, but that was as usual and no more than they expected.
Peace was saddling his horse at the corral, and Jim and Bert were arguing in the kitchen with Saleratus, when Blackie Erne rode in and tied his horse to a corner of the porch.
Cross L Marshall was sitting on the porch and merely grunted as Erne climbed the steps and came up to him. Jim Horn looked out of the kitchen door and watched Erne leave his horse. He motioned to Bert to come out.
The horse, a Roman-nosed buckskin, had swung around until its body was hidden from those on the porch, and Jim Horn grinned gleefully as he picked up a few feet of baling-wire and motioned frantically to Bert.
Old Cross L looked quizzically at Erne, waiting for him to make known his mission.
“Is Miss Marshall to home?” asked Erne.
“I hope she is,” grunted Marshall. “Ain’t seen her this mornin’, so I’d say she was still in bed.”
Erne reached in his pocket and drew out an envelop, which he tendered to Marshall.
“Will yuh see that she gets this here note?”
Marshall squinted at the unsealed envelop, turning it over and over in his hands.
“I reckon I will,” he nodded slowly. “Ain’t nobody been took sick nor nothin’ like that, has there?”
Erne squinted back at him and shook his head, as he said:
“Not yet. Much obliged.”
“Uh-huh.”
Erne went back to his horse and swung into the saddle. He whistled unmusically between his teeth, as if glad that his mission was over. The buckskin jerked around nervously and from its hind legs came a metallic sound.
Erne turned to look back as the horse buck-jumped quickly, and caught a flash of a large tin-can hanging to the buckskin’s tail. Came the _tunk!_ as it struck the horse’s heels, and Mr. Erne began riding high and handsome in order not to part from his saddle.
Down past the corral and out of the gate went the buckskin, bucking and bawling in a cloud of dust, while Jim Horn hugged Saleratus hysterically and Bert Hart sat down on the ground, howling with unholy mirth.
Marshall watched the unceremonious leaving of Blackie Erne and walked to the side of the porch, where he could look back at the three at the kitchen door. Marshall did not know just what was the matter with the horse, but he did know that Jim and Bert were responsible. Peace stopped saddling long enough to watch Erne disappear in a cloud of dust, shook his head sadly over the misdeeds of his men and went back to his task.
Cross L Marshall smothered a grin and turned back, looking at the unsealed envelop. He cocked one ear toward the open door as if listening. Satisfied that Jess was nowhere in sight, he proceeded to show that he was entirely without shame.
Cautiously he perused the note several times. Then he put it carefully in his pocket, bit an enormous chew of tobacco off his plug and exploded an oath that would have galvanized a dead mule into life.
He squinted down toward the corral at Peace Parker who was looping up his lariat rope, and hesitated for a moment over just what to do, made his decision and clumped down the steps.
Peace turned to him as he approached.
“What did Erne want?” he asked.
Marshall spat explosively and handed Peace the envelop.
“Brought yuh a note,” he mumbled.
“Me? Why didn’t he bring it to me, Cross L?”
Marshall cleared his throat with difficulty, as Peace drew out the missive and scanned it.
My Dear Jessie:
In a fit of anger, caused by jealousy, I think, Peace Parker took occasion to damage me to a certain extent, which accounts for my absence. But physical wounds heal quickly and I shall count the hours until I am presentable again.
Yours, Frank.
P. S.--Please say nothing to Parker. I can appreciate his feelings in this matter. F.
Peace lifted his eyes and looked at Cross L who was still having throat trouble.
“Cross L, this note wasn’t intended for me?”
“Huh! Wasn’t intended for yuh? Then--lemme see it, Peace.”
Peace folded it slowly and put it back into the envelope.
“That note is for Jess--not me.”
“The ---- it was! Well, I’ll be darned! Huh!”
Cross L squinted at the note and up at Peace.
“Well, sir, I must be gittin’ hard of hearin’, Peace. I thought I distinctly heard that jasper say that it was for you. Yuh know, I wondered why he didn’t give it to you. Huh! Well, I’ll have to give it to Jess.”
He walked swiftly back toward the house; anxious to get out of range of Peace Parker’s accusing eyes. Marshall was not a gifted liar. Peace looked after him, a queer expression in his eyes. A smile flitted across his wide lips and he shook his head slowly.
“Cross L, yo’re an awful poor liar,” he reflected, “but yuh mean mighty well.”
Jess had come out on the porch and met her father, who handed her the envelope.
“Mister Erne brought it for yuh, Jess.”
He bit off a fresh chew and scratched his shoulders against a porch-post, while Jess read the missive, a slight frown between her eyes.
“Ain’t nobody sick, are they, Jess?” he asked seriously, but avoiding her eyes.
“No, I don’t think so.”
“I was just wonderin’.”
Cross L sat down on the porch and rubbed his hands on his thighs nervously.
“I was just wonderin’ why that Erne feller come here. I don’t like him, Jess. He ain’t bringin’ yuh poetry, is he?”
“Poetry?”
Jess laughed shortly and shook her head.
“Tha’sall right then, Jess. I ain’t got a bit of use for them poets. Fellers--” He reflected a moment--“Fellers that vas-leen their hair--might write poetry.”
Jess studied the back of his head for a while, and then--
“Dad, why do you dislike Frank Campion?”
“Dislike him? I never said I did.”
“But you do dislike him?”
“No, I don’t dislike him, Jess. That word’s too soft. I hate him to beat ----!”
“Why?” softly.
“Why!”
Cross L got to his feet and tried to glare at Jess.
“Yes, why, dad?”
“’Cause I don’t like him and ’cause he’s a ---- liar and--and everythin’.”
“Why do you call him a liar? Did he lie to you?”
Cross L began to have throat trouble again. He felt that Jess knew he had read that note. He walked to the corner of the porch and proceeded to cough rackingly. When he turned, his eyes were filled with tears from his efforts and his voice was husky.
“Gotta do somethin’ for my cold,” he told her. “Be in m’ grave, if I don’t. Must ’a’ set in a draft. Cough m’ fool head off once in a while.”
“Especially when you don’t want to answer a question, dad.”
“What question?” Cross L fairly bristled, but started for the steps. “What’s questions got to do with runnin’ a cattle-ranch, I’d admire t’ know. Think I’m goin’ t’ stand around and let m’ business go to rack and ruin, just ’cause a fool woman wants t’ ask questions? Huh!”
He humped his head between his shoulders and headed for the corral, where Jim and Bert were leaning on the fence, still laughing over what they had done to Erne.
“Didja see what happened to that Erne feller?” asked Jim, still chuckling.
“What did yuh do to him?” asked Cross L.
“Tied a tin-can to his bronc’s tail. Man, man, but didn’t that animal respond to treatment. Ha, ha, ha, ha!”
Cross L glared at them and masticated violently.
“That’s a ---- of a thing to do! Do I have t’ muzzle you pelicans to make visitin’ safe at this ranch? That was a danged mean thing t’ do, and I don’t want t’ see yuh do it ag’in; _sabe_?”
“All right,” said Jim seriously, “yuh won’t. And yuh won’t have to muzzle us either, old timer. There’s other ranches where they hire cow-hands.”
“M’yah!” grunted Cross L explosively, and then to Peace--
“Tell me about that scrap yuh had with Campion.”
Peace shook his head slowly--
“No, it ain’t worth tellin’.”
“Like ---- it ain’t!” snorted Jim, and proceeded to tell the whole story in detail, while old Cross L masticated thoughtfully and squinted at him.
“Shot the gun out of his hand, eh? Knocked him upside down and then busted his gun-hand.”
“Well, my gosh, he had to do it!” yowled Jim.
“Didn’t have t’ shoot him in the hand, did he?”
“Well, he had to stop him.”
“Was he runnin’ on his hands?”
“Aw, you make me sick!”
“Yeah, and you fellers make me sick,” retorted Cross L. “Shoot ’em in the hands! ----’s delight! What’s a man got a body for, if it ain’t t’ shoot at? Yuh make me sick, takin’ a chance on shootin’ at his hands!”
Cross L spat viciously and glared at Jim Horn.
“How long do yuh reckon that tin can’ll stay on that bronc’s tail, Jim?”
“Quite some period,” declared Jim. “It was put on with twisted balin’-wire.”
“That’s,” Cross L squinted down the road, “that’s what I call bein’ thorough. But if yuh ever try it on that black race horse----”
He glared wickedly for a moment and then a smile wrinkled his face.
“Be careful. I’ll betcha that bronc could kick a fly out of a gallon can of axle grease and never spot his hoof.”
Cross L grunted softly to himself, tightened up his belt and went back toward the house. The three cowpunchers looked at each other and grinned widely.
“My ----, but old Cross L is plumb human!” exclaimed Jim Horn. “He’s reg’lar home folks.”
Which was not a compliment, but a statement of fact.
* * * * *
Three days passed without anything happening, except the usual routine of the cattle-ranch. None of the Three Dot outfit came to the Cross L. Peace and the other two punchers were busy moving a bunch of Herefords from the Bar X Bar and throwing them back into the ranges nearer the pass, but they saw nothing of Campion nor his men.
Peace avoided the ranch-house as much as possible. He had been in the habit of spending his evenings in the living-room with Jess and her father, but now he played seven-up for mythical stakes with Jim and Bert, or listened to Jim play an everlasting Spanish fandango on his guitar.
He had not changed in any way, except this. He did not sigh over his misfortunes. On the contrary, his smile seemed wider and he plunged into the ranch work with a will. Jess said nothing to her father, but she knew he missed Peace Parker at the interval between supper and bedtime.
But Cross L would not admit it except on the second night, when Peace did not join him, he flung aside his newspaper at eight o’clock and got to his feet.
“---- any man that vas-leens his hair!” he exploded and clumped off to bed, talking in an undertone to himself.
On Thursday Gus Sinks rode in at the Cross L and met Peace at the barn. Gus was a thin, wiry, wry-necked sort of an individual with the face of a ferret. There was nothing good about Sinks. He was a gun-man, ex-horse-thief and several more things. But, for the first time in his life, he was shooting square with one man--Peace Parker.
“Hello, Gus,” greeted Peace, shaking hands with him. “I been wonderin’ when you’d come in. How’s everythin’?”
“Aw right. I’d ’a’ been in before this, but I couldn’t find a honest man to leave with the sheep. I got a Basque herder, and he _sabes_ enough United States to know that I’ll massacree him if any of them ----ed animated underwears are missin’ when I get back.”
Peace laughed and shook his head.
“I dunno how yuh stand it out there, Gus. How’s the feed?”
“Feed’s fine. I dunno how I stand it either, Peace. The other day I got to thinkin’ about it. I says to myself:
“‘Sinks, yo’re a ---- fool. Why don’t yuh sell these lousy woollies and pull yore freight with the money. Nobody would be the wiser.’
“I could do it, too, Peace. There’s buyers out there that don’t care who owns the sheep. But--” Gus hooked one leg around his saddle-horn and drew out his tobacco and papers--“but I jist shut my eyes and remembered back to that night in Tarp City, when they had the rope all ready for my neck, and you stepped in and claimed that my life belonged to you. I’ll betcha--” Gus shut his eyes tight for a moment--“I’ll betcha I don’t forget that, Peace.”
“Well,” Peace smiled softly, “mebbe they wouldn’t ’a’ hung yuh, Gus.”
“The ---- they wouldn’t! I had it comin’ to me, didn’t I? Don’tcha try to fool yoreself, Peace; I know Tarp City.”
“How are yuh fixed for money, Gus?”
“That’s why I came in, Peace. I don’t need no salary, but the grub’s runnin’ low.”
“You’ve got to have some salary, too, Gus.”
“Aw, I’ll get along. You forgit the salary until yuh sell them sheep. All I need is grub money.”
“Well, go right down to Pasiooks,” declared Peace. “I’ve got money in the bank down there.”
“Pasiooks, eh? I never seen that town. Have they got a bank down there?”
“Y’betcha. Yuh didn’t think that the Chinookers packed their money to Tarp City, didja? Our bank is the richest little old bank in the state, if anybody asks yuh.”
“Yeah? Oh, I’ll betcha that’s right, too. These cattlemen sure do make money over here.”
Peace got his horse and they headed for Pasiooks which was five miles away. It could hardly be called a town. The one street was hardly a block long. There was the Pasiooks bank, general store, post-office and blacksmith shop on one side of the street, and on the other was a little restaurant, two saloons and a feed store.
On the east side of the settlement was the little frame schoolhouse and at the south end of the town was the church. The schoolhouse and the church had been painted within two years, but the rest of the buildings were unpainted, or had been painted but time had worn off the color.
There were several horses tied to the saloon hitchracks as Peace and Gus Sinks rode into the town, and as they dismounted in front of the bank, Frank Campion and Tiny Bender came out of a saloon and went out to their horses.
Sinks turned and watched them mount their horses. Frank had a little trouble with his black horse, which carried him over near the bank. He looked at Sinks and his brows drew together in a quick frown. Quickly he jerked the horse around and galloped off up the road after Bender. Sinks continued to look after him, and his face registered wonderment as he turned to Peace.
“Who’s the fussy cowpuncher, Peace?”
“Feller by the name of Campion. Bought out the Three Dot outfit over here.”
“Ye-e-eah?” Sinks seemed slightly amused. “Cow-man, eh?”
“Well, I dunno about his ability, but he owns the ranch.”
“Well, that’s kinda flossy,” remarked Sinks. “Let’s go and get the _dinero_.”
As they entered the bank they met Chris Sorensen, the owner of the Bar X Bar. Chris was a big Norse cow-man with a mustache that looked like a pair of inverted buffalo horns, and the voice of a bull.
“H’lo, Peace,” he boomed. “I was just goin’ to ride out and see you. The boys just brought in some more of them white-faced cows and I was wonderin’ if Cross L wanted any more of them. Look fine.”
“All right,” grinned Peace. “I’ll ride back with yuh as soon as I get through with a little business.”
Sorensen waited until Peace had drawn some money and paid it over to Sinks who seemed interested in the interior of the bank. Few strangers ever came to Pasiooks and Mark Clayton, the cashier, made a memory photograph of Gus Sinks.
They went outside and Gus mounted his horse.
“I’ll see yuh ag’in in a couple of weeks, Peace. If yuh want to sell out there’s plenty of buyers goin’ through the Sun Prairie, but they don’t offer much. If we get one more rain pretty soon we’ll be all fixed and can thumb our nose at ’em. Whatcha think?”
“Well, I dunno,” confessed Peace. “I don’t want to give ’em away, Gus. Suppose we wait and take a chance, eh? If you don’t mind stickin’ out there.”
Gus spat dryly.
“Aw, I’ll stick. S’-long, Peace, and thanks for the _dinero_.”
Peace waved at him and went to join Sorensen at the hitch-rack. He had had his doubts about Gus Sinks, and would not have been surprised to know that Sinks had sold out the sheep and skipped the country, but since Sinks’ confession of guilty thoughts he felt that his sheep were well protected.
Somehow he had the feeling that Gus Sinks and Frank Campion knew each other. He had seen the expression of Campion’s face when he saw Sinks, and Sinks had shown too much interest for one stranger in another. But it was none of his business, he decided. It was a small world, and there was no reason why they shouldn’t know each other.
He walked over to Sorensen, where they mounted and rode out the opposite end of town toward the Bar X Bar.
* * * * *
Figuratively speaking, Peace Parker exploded a bombshell under Cross L Marshall the following day. Jim and Bert had ridden toward the upper end of the valley and Peace and Cross L were sitting on the porch, looking over some figures that Peace had got on Bar X Bar yearlings.
Cross L had been arguing over the prices and swearing at Sorensen for being a pirate when he happened to notice that Peace was paying no attention. The big cowboy was staring off across the hills, his mind wandering far from the business at hand.
“When yuh come back we’ll talk some more,” said Cross L humorously.
“When I come back,” repeated Peace slowly. “Yeah, that’s it, Cross L.”
“What’s the matter with yuh, Peace?”
“Nothin’; I was just thinkin’.”
“Yeah? But yuh wasn’t thinkin’ about white-faced cows.”
“No-o-o--not about cows.”
Peace turned and put his hand on Marshall’s shoulder, a whimsical smile on his homely face.
“I’m goin’ away, Cross L--goin’ to take a trip.”
Marshall eyed him closely, while he drew out his plug of tobacco and bit off a quarter-section.
“Thasso? How long will yuh be gone, Peace?”
Peace smiled and shook his head.
“I dunno. The Injuns used to say, ‘When the wind blows out through Poncho Pass, who can say when that same wind will return?’”
“----!” exploded Marshall. “Yuh don’t mean that yo’re goin’ for good!”
“For good?”--Peace rubbed his chin thoughtfully--“Mebbe. The only trip I ever had was to the penitentiary and I’d kinda like to see somethin’ beyond the hills.”
“Uh-huh,” Cross L squinted narrowly into space. “To see somethin’ beyond the hills, Peace. Yuh know, I was thataway once. I wanted t’ see the other side of the hill. But I’m old now, and I don’t care what’s over there. Right now and right here is all that interests me.”
“You ain’t old, Cross L.”
“Mebbe not, Peace. I’m sixty. And when yo’re sixty yuh don’t climb hills just to look over the other side.”
For several minutes they sat silent, each busy with his own thoughts. Then:
“I always wished I had a son,” said Cross L slowly. “Our first baby was a girl and she died when she was a little thing. Then Jess came along. Her mother didn’t live long after that, Peace.
“I had t’raise Jess m’self, and I reckon I made a ---- of a mess of it. She ain’t got the sense that the Lord gave geese in Ireland. If she was a boy I could cuss him out and hammer some sense into him--but she ain’t no boy.”
“Jess,” said Peace softly, “Jess is a wonderful girl.”
“M’yah!” Thoughtfully. “Didja tell her yuh was goin’ away, Peace?”
“No-o-o. Yuh see I just made up my mind.”
“Uh-huh. When yuh goin’, Peace?”
“Tomorrow, I reckon. I’ll go to Sun Prairie and sell out them sheep and then I reckon I’ll go down into Arizona. I ain’t made up my mind just where I’ll go.”
“Uh-huh,” Cross L got slowly to his feet and sighed deeply. “I--I hope yuh have luck, Peace Parker. We’ll be kinda thinkin’ about yuh and wonderin’--I s’pose.”
“I’ll write to yuh, Cross L.”
“Yeah, I s’pose so.”
Cross L reached for his plug of tobacco, but his hand stopped short of his pocket.
A man was riding swiftly in through the ranch gate and coming toward them, while several other men, who had been with him, kept on up the main road, heading toward the upper end of the valley.
The rider jerked to a stop near the porch and dropped to the ground. It was Perry Hazelton, the blacksmith from Pasiooks. He dropped his reins and trotted up the steps.
“The Pasiooks bank has been robbed!” he panted, as he pointed up the road, where a cloud of dust still hung.
“Some of the boys have headed for the Pass, but he’s likely got away by this time.”
“Pasiooks bank!” exclaimed Cross L. “Who done it?”
“Whew! I’m all out of wind!” puffed Hazelton, “I reckon I worked harder than the horse did. We don’t know who done the job. It was about an hour ago, I think.
“There wasn’t nobody in the bank, except Clayton, when I went in and found him. He’d been hit over the head with somethin’, and was layin’ half-in and half-out of the vault. There was loose money scattered all over the floor.
“I yelled for help and we got Clayton on to a cot. He kinda roused up long enough to tell us that he’d been robbed by one man. We turned him over to Doctor Glover and then went huntin’ for the robber. If he ain’t made his getaway straight for the Pass he’s still here in the valley.”
“How much money did he get?” asked Cross L.
“We dunno. From the looks of things he’s got a lot.”
“I’ve expected this,” said Cross L quickly. “Yuh see, this bank belongs to us cowmen. We’re a queer lot, I guess. We didn’t trust the banks at Tarp City; so we started one of our own.
“We didn’t do a regular bankin’ business--much. It was more of a place to store money. And like a lot of fools we didn’t think that anybody would bother it.”
“Must ’a’ been a lot of money in there,” observed Hazelton.
“A lot? I dunno how much, but about all the money there is in Chinook Valley, except what’s wearin’ a hide and runnin’ around on four legs.”
“It probably won’t take Clayton long to find out how much is gone,” stated Peace. “Let’s go down there.”
“One of the boys will ride to Tarp City and tell the sheriff,” said Hazelton as they went after the horses. “There was Dud Le Page, Baldy Hyatt, Jud Smith and Campion.”
“Where did you find Campion?” asked Cross L.
“At the Three Dot. There wasn’t no use of everybody goin’ to the Pass; so he sent his three punchers to town to help search the South end.”
Pasiooks was a busy little place when they rode in. Bad news travels swiftly, and the robbery of the bank was mighty bad news to the Valley of the Chinook. Several groups of cowboys had already left town, searching for a sight of the robber.
Clayton, his head swathed in bandages, was in the bank, trying to check up the extent of the loss while several cattlemen stood around and annoyed him with questions.
Peace and Cross L Marshall came in and joined the group. Clayton looked up at them. His face was very white and his eyes showed that he was suffering from a raging headache.