CHAPTER IV

THE FOREMAN OF THE DOUBLE Y

Buck cinched up his saddle on Allday and led him out of the stable. "Ned, this is shore one scrumptious hotel," he observed as he swung into his seat.

"It certainly is. Nothin' to beat it in Montany, I reckon," was Ned's hearty endorsement.

Buck shook his head as they passed through the gate together. "Most too good," he suggested.

"I dunno," Ned doubted, "th' branch from Wayback 's shore to come down th' Jones' Luck, an' then Sandy 'll rake in."

They had just turned into the trail when a rider passed them at speed, causing Ned's cayuse to shy and buck half way to the Jill. The evener-tempered Allday only pointed his ears and pulled on the bit. "Reckon you could catch that feller, eh? Well, you could n't," was Buck's careless insult. "If Hoppy could see that horse he 'd give all he 's got for him--bar Mary."

The horse merited his criticism. A powerful black, well over fifteen hands, he showed the sloping thigh bones and shoulder of a born galloper, while the deep chest gave promise of long-sustained effort. His rider had pulled up at the general store just beyond the hotel and Ned joining him, Buck expressed his admiration. A moment later he added to it: "By th' Lord, Ned, that 's a woman." The rider had dropped from the saddle and paused to wave her hand to Ned before she entered the store. Buck caught the glance from a pair of beautiful dark eyes that rested on him a moment before it fleeted past to his companion. The grave smile was well suited to the wonderfully regular features and when she turned and entered the store it was with the swinging step of perfect movement. Buck faced about with a jerk when he realized that he had actually turned in his saddle to gaze after her.

"Best horse in these parts an' th' finest woman," agreed Ned, "an' honest," he added, gruffly.

Buck stared at him, surprised. "Why, o' course! Anybody says different?" He unconsciously stiffened at the thought.

"Um--no, not as I knows of. Her daddy 's a nester; got a quarter-section 'tother side o' Twin River, off th' trail a piece. Rosa LaFrance--pretty name, ain't it? Th' boys calls her the French Rose."

"Yes, 'tis pretty," drawled Buck. "What I'm askin' about is this recommendation o' character to me."

It was Ned's turn to feel surprised. He pondered as he looked at Buck. "I reckon I warn't exactly speakin' to you, Cheyenne," he explained; "more to myself, like. You see, it's this way: Dave Owens, he won that horse from McReady of the Cyclone, one night in Wayback. I was n't there but I hears it's a regular clean up. McReady was in a streak o' bad luck and would a' lost ranch an' all but his friends hocussed his liquor an' Mac, he drops out of his chair like somebody hit him with an axe. Next day Rose rides into Twin River on that same horse. John, that's her daddy, he never bought him; he could n't. Then how did she come by it? That's her business, I says. That's one thing. For another, Dave Owens travels that way considerable, an' Dave ain't no company for the French Rose. I 'm too old to interfere or I durn soon would."

Buck brooded on this situation for some time and then burst into a laugh. Ned eyed him with stern disapproval. "I was thinkin' of a cow-punch I know," explained Buck, in apology. "He 'd interfere so quick, there would n't be time to notify th' mourners."

Ned smiled in sympathy. "That 'd do," he admitted, "but you can't jump in an' shoot up a fellow if a girl's sweet on him, can you? It 'd be just nacheraly foolish."

"That 's so," agreed Buck, "but if the French Rose can look at that son of a thief and like him, then Hopalong Cassidy has no call to be proud o' _his_self."

"Eh?" questioned Ned.

"Th' name slipped out. But now 's as good a time as any to tell you. Did you ever hear o' Frenchy McAllister?"

"Owner o' the Double Y?"

"Half owner--leastways, he was. Frenchy 's dead. You was cussin' his brother last night. I want to tell you about Frenchy."

Buck told the story in terse, graphic sentences, every one a vivid picture. He painted the scene of Trendley's crime to the accompaniment of a low-voiced growl of lurid profanity from Ned, who was quite unconscious of it. The relentless hunt for the criminals, extending through many months; the deadly retribution as one by one they were found; the baffling elusiveness of Slippery Trendley and the unknown manner of his fate when run to earth at last--one scene followed another until Buck left the arch devil in his story, as he had left him in fact, bound and helpless, looking up at the pitiless face of the man he had injured beyond the hope of pardon, their only witnesses the silent growths of Texas chaparral and the grieving eye of God.

It was a terrible story, even in the mere telling of it. Buck's level voice and expressionless face hid the seething rage which filled him now, as always, when his thoughts dwelt upon the awful drama. Ned's judgment was without restriction: "By the Eternal!" he swore, "that h--l-hound deserved whatever he got. D--d if you ain't made me sick." They rode in silence for several minutes and then: "Poor fellow! poor fellow!" he lamented. "Did you say he's dead?"

"Yes, Frenchy's gone under," answered Buck gravely. "You 'd 'a' liked him, Ned."

"Yes, I reckon I would," agreed Ned. He looked at the other, considering. "Where do you come in?" he asked. Buck's narrative had failed to connect the new-born "Cheyenne" as "Frenchy's pardner."

"I 'm Buck Peters," was the simple explanation.

Ned pulled his horse back onto its haunches and Buck wheeled and faced him. So they sat, staring, Ned inarticulate in his astonishment, Buck waiting. The power of coherent thought returned to Ned at last and he rode forward with outstretched hand. "Th' man as stuck to Frenchy McAllister through that deal is good enough for me to tie up to," he declared, and the grip of their hands was the cementing of an unfailing friendship. "An' I 'd like for Buck Peters to tell Frenchy's brother as I takes back what I said agin' him."

Their way led through an excellent grass country. The comparatively low ground surrounding Wayback rose gradually to Twin River and more rapidly after leaving that town. The undulating ground now formed in higher and more extensive mounds, rising in places to respectable-sized hills; usually the sides reached in long slopes the intervening depressions, but not infrequently they were abrupt and occasionally one was met which presented the broad, flat face of a bluff. The air was perceptibly colder but the bunch grass, hiding its wonderfully nourishing qualities under the hue it had acquired from the hot summer sun, was capable of fattening more cattle to the acre than any but the best lands of the Texan ranges with which Buck was familiar. Snow had not yet swept down over the country, though apt to come with a rush at any time. Even winter affected the range but little as a general rule; disastrous years were luckily few and far separated, so that the average of loss from severity of weather was small. The talk of the two naturally veered to this and kindred topics and Buck began stowing away nuggets of northern range wisdom as they fell from the lips of the more experienced Ned.

Studying the trail ahead of him, Buck broke the first silence by asking: "Ain't we near the boundary of the Double Y?"

"You 'll know, soon enough. Th' first big butte we come to, some cuss 'll be settin' there, hatchin' out trouble."

"That's him, then," and Buck pointed to the right where a solitary horseman showed dark against the sky-line.

"Yep, that's one of 'em. Reglar garjun, ain't he?"

"Beats me how you let 'em stand you off, Ned," wondered Buck.

"Well, when we made good and sure you owned the range, Buck, there were n't no use in fighting. That McAllister would 'a run in th' reglar army next, d--d if he would n't."

Buck chuckled. "He 's sure a hard man to beat. I don't mind fighting when I have to, but I 'm mighty glad it looks peaceful."

"We 'll have fightin'. When I was turned off my ranch, it just about foundered me. I sold th' stock, every head, an' you saw where th' last o' th' cash went. But don't forget Smiler Schatz. He 's a bigger man an' a better man nor I ever was, an' he 's a-layin' low an' a-waitin'. He calculates to get you--I dunno how."

"An' I dunno how," mused Buck. "Say, Ned, I thought th' stage line ran through to Big Moose: there ain't no tracks?"

"'Cause it crosses th' ford at th' Jack an' goes to th' Fort; then it swings round to Big Moose, an' back th' same road. Wonder who 's that pointin' this way?"

Buck glanced ahead to see a moving speck disappear behind a knoll far along the trail. "Dunno; maybe another deputy," he suggested.

The distant rider came into sight again and Ned stared steadily at him. "No," he declared, "think I know that figger. Yessir! It's Smiler. I kin tell him 'most as far as I kin see him."

"That's the feller gave us the fight, ain't it?"

"Did his share--some over, mebbe. He 's a hard nut."

"Well, I 'm not bad at a pinch, myself, Ned; mebbe I can crack him." Ned smiled grimly at the jest and hoped he would be cracked good. Evidently there was no great liking between the quondam owners of the Double Y.

However, this was not apparent in their greeting. The steady approach had been uninterrupted and Buck looked with interest at the "hard nut" as they met.

In a land of dirty men--dirty far more frequently from necessity than from choice--Schatz was a by-word for slovenliness nearly approaching filth. If he washed at all it left no impression on the caked corrugations of his smiling countenance. His habit of smiling was constant, so much a part of him that it gave him his name. And it had been solemnly affirmed by one of his men that he never interfered with his face until the dirt interfered with his smile; then he chipped it off with a cold chisel and hammer. This must have been slander: no one had ever seen him when it looked chipped. A big man, with a fine head, he sat in his saddle with the careless ease of long practice. "Hello, Ned!" he called, with a gay wave of the hand. "_Wie geht's_?"

"Howdy, Karl!" replied Ned. "How's sheep?"

"Ach! don't say it, der grasshoppers. Never vill dey reach Big Moose. Also, I send East a good man to talk mit dat McAllister to lease der range yet. Before now he say a manager come from Texas, soon. Vat iss Texas like Montana? Nodding. Ven der snow come--"

"Hol' on! This is th' manager, Mr. Buck Peters, half owner o' the Double Y, an' he 's put me in as foreman."

"So--it pleases me greatly, Mr. Buck. Ned iss a good man. If you haf Ned, that iss different." He shook hands with Buck who took note of the blue eyes and frank smile of the blonde German, at a loss to discover where he hid that hardness Ned had referred to.

"Sorry I can't offer you a job," said Buck, matching the other's smile at the joke, "but from what I hear, one foreman will be a-plenty on the Double Y."

"It iss a good range--eggselent--und der iss mooch free grass ven you haf der Double Vy for der hard years; but dere iss not enough for you und for me, too, so I turn farmer. Also some of der boys, dey turn farmer. I take oud quarter-section alretty."

"Quarter-section! Turn farmer! You! Sufferin' cows! give me a drink," and Ned looked wildly around for the unattainable.

"_Donnerwetter_! Somet'ing I must do. To lend money iss good but not enough. Also my train vill not vait. So I say good-morning und vish you luck."

Ned wheeled his horse to gaze after the departing figure and Buck sat laughing at his expression. "Luck," echoed Ned; "bad luck, you mean, you grinnin' Dutchman. H--l of a farmer you 'll be. Now I wonder what's his little game."

"Aw, come on, Ned. 'Pears to me he 's easy," and Allday sprang away along the trail.

"Easy, eh!" growled Ned, when he caught up, "he 's this easy: him and me started even up here, 'bout th' same time. 'T was n't long before he begun crowdin' me. Neither of us had nuthin' at first but when we quit he could show five cows to my one. How 'd he do it?"

"Borrowed th' money and bought yearlin's," answered Buck.

"Yes, he did," Ned grudgingly admitted. "But I kep' a-watchin' him an' he allus branded more than th' natural increase, every round-up--an' I could never see how he done it."

"You--don't--say," was Buck's thoughtful comment, "Well, down our way when a man gets to doin' miracles on a free range we drops in on him casual an' asks questions--they don't do it twice"; and he unconsciously increased Allday's pace.

"Here, pull up," urged Ned; "this bronc 's beginnin' to blow. That's a bang-up horse you 've got there. No good with cattle, is he?"

"No," agreed Buck. "I got this horse because 'discretion is sometimes better than valler,' as Tex Ewalt said when somebody asked him why he did n't shoot Hoppy. Most times I finish what I start, but once in a while, on a big job, it's healthy to take a vacation. An' I naturally expected to leave some hasty an' travel fast."

"Ain't nothin' could catch you, in these parts, not if you got a good start, less'n it's French Rose an' Swallow."

"Well, I was n't aimin' to run far nor yet to stay long. That seems like it 'd be th' ranch."

"That's her," agreed Ned.

The ranch house, rectangular and of much greater dimensions than Buck expected to find it, presented two novel features, one of which he noticed at once. "What's th' idea of a slopin' roof, Ned?" he asked.

"That's Karl's notion. See that upside down trough runs along th' high part at th' back? There ain't a foot o' that roof you can't slosh with a bucket o' water. An' you can shoot along th' walls from them cubby holes built out at each corner. Th' house is a heap bigger 'n th' old one was; it used to set over yonder in that valley, but th' wipin' out o' Custer put th' fear o' God in Smiler an' he raised this place soon after. Five men could stand off five hundred Injuns."

"Where 's th' water?"

Ned chuckled. "Wait till you see it. There 's a well sunk at th' side an' you can pull it in without goin' out-door if you wants to. Karl is one o' them think-of-everything fellers. He put th' ranch house on a knoll an' th' bunk-house on another. Then, he figgers, if they wants to rush me they 'll be good an' winded when they gets here. My shack is a pig-pen 'long side o' this un', but I got it figgered out I need n't to stop if I don't want."

"How's that, Ned?"

"I could cut an' run any time--come night. I 'll show you when we goes over there."

Bare as was the interior, the ranch house gave promise of comfort and the bunk-house and the stable with its adjacent corral proved equally satisfactory. The fire-place of the bunk-house was built over the bare earth and there they repaired to make a fire and eat the food they had brought with them. The added warmth was a distinct comfort but the smoke brought company on the run. They had scarcely begun their meal when a faint sound led Buck to saunter to the door and look out. Down the steep side of a high butte dropped a horseman with considerably more speed and no more care than a dislodged boulder; arriving at the bottom, his horse straightened out into a run that showed he was expected to get somewhere right away. Buck gravely bit into a sandwich the while he admired the rider's horsemanship; an admiration that was directed into another channel when the object of it slipped rifle from holster, pumped a cartridge into the barrel, and threw it forward in business-like attitude. "'Spects to have use for it, right soon," mused Buck, and then, over his shoulder: "Better hide, Ned. Here comes a garjun an' he 's got his gun out."

"Th' h--l he has!" rumbled Ned. "Come an' push me up th' chimley, Buck; I 'm a-scared."

Buck strolled back to the fire and half a minute later the horse pounded up to the house, his rider sprang off and came through the door, gun first. He continued across the room with solemn countenance, set his gun against the wall, and went to the fire where he extended his hands to the blaze. "Howdy, Ned; howdy, stranger," was his easy greeting.

Ned, sitting cross-legged, smirked up at him. "Howdy, Jack. You were n't going to run me off'n th' range, was you?"

"Nope. Saw Cheyenne Charley headin' this way 'bout an hour since. Thought mebbe he 'd burn her up--Pipes o' peace!" His eyes widened as he gazed at Ned's upturned mouth. "Bottled beer, or I 'm a Injun. You lives high," and he swallowed involuntarily as the inspiring gurgle stimulated his salivary glands.

"I 'm taperin' off on beer," explained Ned. "Got three bottles, one for Buck and two for me. I 'm biggest. But you can have one o' mine. Buck, this is Jim's Jack, head garjun an' a right good sort. Buck Peters has come to take charge of his own ranch, Jack."

"Shake," said Jack. He glanced over the papers Buck handed him and passed them back. All three turned to look at the open door.

"Hang up a sign, Buck," advised Ned. "If we stops here long enough we can start a hotel. Come in, Charley."

The Indian stepped slowly in. "Cheyenne Charley, Buck," said Ned; "off the Reservation for a drunk at Twin River. You 'd think he 'd stop in Big Moose. Reckon he 's hungry, too; he--" Ned paused and his eyes sought the object of Charley's steady and significant gaze. "Oh, that be d--d!" he exclaimed, swooping onto the third bottle of beer beside him and holding it out to Buck. "He wants your beer. Charley is a good Injun--I _think_--but 'lead us not into temptation'"--and with the other hand he proceeded to put his share of temptation out of sight, an example that Jim's Jack emulated with dignified speed.

"Let him have it," said Buck, good naturedly. "I never hankered much for beer, nohow." He passed the bottle to the Indian, not in the least suspecting what "an anchor he had cast to windward." The other two exchanged a look of regretful disapproval.

Half an hour later they had separated, Buck and Ned going on to the more distant NM ranch, Jack to gather up his fellow deputies, and the Cheyenne hitting the trail for Twin River with a thirst largely augmented by the sop he had thrown to it.