Part 2

“Liquor. He spent most of his time at the Oreana saloon. It was too danged bad. Jim Steeb wasn’t a bad sort of a feller. His wife died a year ago, and it kinda ruined him. This ain’t exactly a sheriff’s sale. Yuh see, ‘Bunty’ O’Neil, who owns the Oreana saloon, has enough of Steeb’s notes to probably cover everythin’ on the Bar S.”

“Steeb just drank up his ranch, eh?” queried Sad.

“Uh-huh. There may be a little over, after O’Neil gets paid, but I doubt it. I’ve got three men in the hills now, roundin’ up the Bar S stock.”

“What sort of a person is Bill Wyatt?”

“Bill Wyatt? Well, he’s all right, I reckon. Bill’s kinda touchy, and ain’t noways honey-flavored, yuh know. He owns the Box 8 outfit and runs quite a lot of stock. That old Eph Wyatt is his uncle. Old Eph is a cantankerous old reptile, but he’s good-hearted. I dunno how him and the kid will hit it off together.”

“Is Bill Wyatt married?”

“Naw.”

“Owned the Box 8 very long?”

“Couple of years.”

“Buy out a brand, or register his own?”

“Registered his own. Used to be the 8 outfit; so he changed it to the Box 8. Say, what’s the idea of all these questions?”

“Curiosity, thasall, Sheriff,” laughed Sad. “Nice weather we’re havin’.”

“Uh-hu-u-uh.” The sheriff walked down the street toward his office, where three men were dismounting, while Sad and Swede went in the opposite direction, looking for a place to call home for a few days.

II

Bunty O’Neil of the Oreana saloon was not what you would call a lovable character. He was of medium height, thick of neck and broad of shoulder. His face was blocky, expressionless, swarthy; a hard-headed individual, whose bunting practice in a fight had given him his nickname. He would grasp an opponent with his huge hands, yank him forward and butt him with his head. Only in rare cases did Bunty fail to put his opponent _hors de combat_. It was an unlooked for move, except where Bunty’s system was well known.

Bunty had once worked it successfully on Bill Wyatt. Bill had wakened up about fifteen minutes later and found that both of his eyes were of a purple tint and did not admit much light. He had waited for the swelling to go down, had walked up behind Bunty in the Oreana saloon and crowned him with the barrel of a six-shooter.

Bunty had had six stitches taken in his scalp, and had sent word to Bill Wyatt to keep out of the Oreana. Bill did. This had happened six months prior to Sad and Swede’s coming to Oreana, but Bill had never been in the place since. Yet Bill had known Bunty in the northern part of the state, and it was Bill who had induced Bunty to come to Oreana and buy out the Oreana saloon and gambling house.

Just now Bunty and the sheriff were standing on the porch of the saloon, talking seriously. It was the day after Sad and Swede had come to Oreana.

“You say they brought in three hundred and ten head?” asked Bunty. The sheriff nodded.

“Yeah. They’re in the old pasture at the Bar S. The boys have gone down into the lower ranges now, but they won’t be able to round up everythin’ for a couple days. There’s enough feed in the pasture for a few days.”

“That’s good.” Bunty smiled contentedly. “Three hundred and ten head, eh? Mebbe I’ll get my money after all, Buck.”

“I reckon yuh will, Bunty. For gosh sake, how much money did Jim Steeb owe yuh, anyway?”

Bunty grinned widely and shook his head.

“Jim plunged quite a lot, Buck. His whisky bill ain’t more than a few hundred, but his faro and poker playin’ sure cost money. I reckon the notes he gave me will come close to ten thousand.”

The sheriff whistled his amazement.

“As much as that, Bunty? Huh! Yuh know,” the sheriff squinted thoughtfully. “Yuh know, it seems too darned bad Jim went through all that money and didn’t leave a darned thing for the kid. Old Eph Wyatt is goin’ to adopt him, I think.”

“Old Eph?” Bunty laughed. “Goin’ to adopt him, eh? Well, well!”

Just then Sad and Swede came out of the hotel and sauntered toward the general store.

“They tell me that one of them fellers took a fall out of Bill Wyatt,” said Bunty thoughtfully.

“The skinny one. They’re down here to buy some stock at the sale. The skinny one’s name is Sontag and the other is Harrigan. Seem like a salty pair of fellers. Sontag tells me that they own a ranch in the Sundown country.”

“Well, all I care about it is to get my money out of the deal, Buck.”

They went into the saloon, as Sad and Swede crossed the street, following them inside. The sheriff greeted them warmly and introduced them to Bunty as the owner of the Oreana. There was little activity in the place and the day was warm.

“You interested in the Bar S sale?” asked Bunty.

Sad nodded. “Kinda. We’re lookin’ for some stock, and thought this might be a chance to buy some reasonable. Course we don’t want a lot of runts.”

“We might take a ride out to the Bar S this evenin’,” suggested the sheriff. “The boys threw three hundred and ten head into the pasture last night, and it might help yuh some to look ’em over.”

“We’d sure appreciate the chance,” agreed Sad.

* * * * *

They spent the rest of the day, loafing in the shade, and did not start for the Bar S until late in the afternoon. It was five miles to the ranch, located northeast of Oreana. The ranch buildings were badly in need of repair, but it was easy to see that at one time the Bar S had been considerable of a ranch.

There was no one at the place, and the sheriff explained that there had been no one in charge since the death of Steeb. They rode out past the corrals and on to a knoll that furnished a view of the Bar S pasture, which contained about a hundred acres.

But there were no cattle in sight. The sheriff gnawed his mustache and squinted around wonderingly.

“’S funny,” he muttered. “They were here last night.”

“Are yuh sure this is the place?” asked Swede.

“Am I sure? I’m jist as sure as anythin’,” replied the sheriff and spurred his horse off the knoll.

They rode to the lower end of the pasture, and it did not take them long to find where the barb-wires had been cut, and about a hundred feet of them ripped off the posts.

“They knowed how to do it,” observed Sad. “They cut the wires, bunched the ends, tied ’em to a rope and jist rode ’em loose.”

“And let the whole herd drift,” observed the sheriff. “Well, that’s jist plumb meanness, I’d say.”

Sad looked at the sheriff and grinned softly.

“Sheriff, do you think that they just turned them cows loose?”

“Eh?” The sheriff’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Yuh don’t think that anybody would try to rustle a herd like that, do yuh?”

“Why not?”

“Well, I dunno. Yuh can’t git away with that many. Anybody would be a fool to try and steal a herd like that.”

“All right,” Sad grinned widely and turned his horse. “You know the morals of this country better than we do.”

They rode back to Oreana and stabled their horses. The sheriff was very thoughtful during the ride, but could hardly bring himself to believe that anyone would try and steal three hundred and ten head of cattle in one herd.

“I think that someone is jist doin’ it to be mean,” he declared.

“And I think they’re doin’ it for profit,” laughed Sad.

It did not take the sheriff long to impart the story to Bunty O’Neil, who swore under his breath and questioned them closely. The sheriff told Bunty what he thought about it, but Bunty did not agree.

“They’ve had about twenty-four hours start,” observed Bunty. “And yuh can move a big herd a long ways in that length of time. It’s so dry in the hills that yuh couldn’t trail a herd; so the best yuh can do is to trust to luck.”

“It kinda looks like we might as well go home,” observed Swede. “No use of us stayin’ here, if there ain’t no cows for sale.”

Bunty’s eyes grew hard as he leaned on the bar and toyed with his glass. The sheriff cleared his throat and sent his glass spinning down the bar.

“Bunty has got a lot of notes against the Bar S,” he explained. “And if there ain’t no cows—Bunty loses.”

“That’s the how of it, eh?” said Sad.

“Yeah, that’s the how of it,” said Bunty angrily. “And I’ll get them cows—or get somethin’.”

“You’ve got sort of an idea who took ’em, ain’t yuh?” asked Sad.

“How would I?” snapped Bunty.

“I dunno how yuh would—I’m no mindreader,” and Sad walked away from the bar and grew interested in a poker game.

Bunty looked after him, an angry glint in his eyes, but said nothing until Swede walked away.

“What did he mean, Buck?” he then asked.

The sheriff shook his head. “I dunno. I hope the boys show up tomorrow, but I’m scared they won’t. We’ve got to try and find them missin’ cattle, that’s a cinch. I don’t believe yet that anybody had the nerve to try and steal a herd that big.”

The sheriff left the saloon, but Bunty remained at the bar, drinking his own liquor. It was not often that Bunty drank heavily. Liquor made him quarrelsome. Several patrons steered clear of the bar and had their drinks served at a table, when they realized that Bunty was on a spree.

Bunty leaned across the bar and motioned the bartender closer.

“What did that skinny puncher mean?” he demanded.

“The skinny one? I dunno what he said, Bunty. Personally, I think he’s crazy. The damn fool fell off the bar yesterday, tryin’ to hit a horsefly with his hat. And they said that there was whisky in the drinks we served here. What are they—e-vangelists?”

Bunty grunted an oath and reached for the bottle. Sad and Swede were coming toward the bar, heading for the door. Bunty stepped in front of Sad and motioned them to stop and drink with him.

“Yuh ain’t in no hurry, are yuh?” he growled.

“Not a bit,” grinned Sad.

“I’m glad yuh ain’t—’cause you’d stop anyway.”

Sad glanced keenly at Bunty. He realized that the other was angry over something, and that he might be a hard man to handle.

“I’m not buyin’ yuh any drinks,” Bunty informed them harshly. “I only buy drinks for my friends.”

“Then have a drink on me,” grinned Sad.

“No, I won’t do that, either.” Bunty moved in closer to Sad.

“I want to know what wuh mean by that remark a while ago—about yuh not bein’ a mind reader.”

“Oh!” Sad squinted thoughtfully. “Well, I’m not, Bunty. I’ll leave it to Swede if I am.”

“You’ll leave nothin’ to nobody! C’mere!”

Bunty grasped Sad by the shoulders, sinking his powerful fingers deeply into the flesh. It was the prelude to crashing the top of his head into Sad’s face—and Sad realized it.

But Bunty did not work fast enough. With a sudden shift of his feet, Sad kicked Bunty in the shins so hard that the hotelman forgot everything except the excruciating pain. His hands jerked loose and he reached for his shins just in time to get Sad’s fist square in his nose, with the full swinging weight of the wiry cowpuncher behind it.

The blow straightened Bunty back onto his heels, and before he could catch his balance Sad was into him, smashing with both hands to the head, and Bunty went reeling across the room to crash into the back of a poker player’s chair and go flat on his back.

At least a dozen men had seen the whole affair. They had expected Bunty to butt the face almost off this thin cowpuncher and end the fight to suit himself. But they had reckoned without Sad Sontag, who now was standing against the bar, blowing on his sore knuckles and grinning widely.

There was little commotion. A couple of men picked Bunty up and half-dragged him to the rear of the room, where they could wash him off, the poker player adjusted his chair and the games went on.

Sad and Swede went back to the hotel, where Sad procured some hot water in which to bathe his swollen right hand. Swede became pessimistic.

“Aw, let’s go home,” he argued dismally. “You’ve whipped both of their best fighters. This here town kinda palls upon me, Sad, and I’d crave to ride home.”

“I’ve had a pretty fair time,” said Sad seriously, examining his knuckles. “I s’pose Bunty was aimin’ to butt me in the face, wasn’t he?”

“That’s his style,” agreed Swede wearily. “There ain’t no cows to be bought; so we might as well start home t’morrow.”

“It’s a funny thing about them stolen cows,” observed Sad, as he stretched out on the bed and began rolling a cigarette. “I’ll betcha anythin’ that Bunty knows who stole ’em. Somebody knows that Bunty has notes against the Bar S; so they crimped his chances to collect by stealin’ the whole danged herd.

“There’s somebody who hates Bunty quite a lot, Swede. It ain’t no little job to steal three hundred head of cattle. Mebbe they just done it to aggravate the sheriff, or Bunty.”

“Then yuh think they’ll have enough stock for us to wait for the sale?”

“Yuh never can tell.” Sad blew smoke rings at the dingy ceiling. “I’ve got a hunch that they won’t. Tomorrow we’ll find out more about it, and if it don’t look more promisin’ we’ll rattle our hocks out of Oreana. I’ve had all the fightin’ I want, y’betcha.”

“We might ride out past old Eph Wyatt’s place,” suggester Swede. “I’m kinda curious to know how the old man and the kid are comin’ along.”

“Yeah, we’ll do that, Swede. I’m curious about that kid myself. Somehow I’ve got a hunch that the kid ain’t had a square deal.”

“Just how do yuh mean, Sad?”

“Aw, just kinda mind readin’, I reckon.”

III

It was the following morning at Eph Wyatt’s ranch-house that Speck Steeb, the freckle-faced boy, leaned against the doorway and rubbed a sore jaw. Sitting on the edge of the step was old Eph Wyatt, busily engaged in cleaning a Winchester rifle; while the dog, Boze, chased a rooster across the yard, his mouth filled with feathers.

The old man stuffed cartridges into the loading gate, levered a shell into the chamber of the rifle and handed it to Speck, who took it gingerly and squatted down on the step.

“Pull a little finer, son,” advised the old man. “Them last two shots went six inches high.”

Speck cuddled the stock against his shoulder, resting the heavy barrel between his knees. The old man’s eyes squinted closely at Speck’s trigger finger, which tightened slowly, surely; and the big caliber rifle shook Speck from head to heels.

From down back of the stable, a tin can flipped off a corral post and went spinning into the brush. Speck blinked painfully, but a grin wreathed his lips, when he noted that the can was not on the post.

“Pretty good!” chuckled the old man. “Pretty good!”

“Pretty good, hell!” snorted Speck indignantly. “That’s perfect.”

“Yeah, I’ll betcha it is,” agreed the old man. “Any old time a little kid can hit a tin can at a hundred yards with a 45-90, it’s jist a little better than perfect. How’s the shoulder?”

“Jist’ like a blamed boil. Geemighty, I never knowed a rifle could kick thataway.”

“And yuh squeezed the trigger, too,” applauded the old man. “Yuh knowed it was goin’ to kick, but yuh had the nerve to pull slow. Speck, me and you are goin’ to git along, y’betcha. Well, that ends the first lesson.”

The old man put the gun in the house and came back to the porch.

“We’re goin’ to town,” he decided. “We’ll hook onto a lawyer feller and have him fix up the papers—if yuh don’t mind, Speck.”

Speck rubbed his shoulder reflectively.

“Yuh mean the papers that make me your son?”

“Yeah.”

Speck squinted up at the old man thoughtfully.

“Why are yuh doin’ this, Mr. Wyatt? I ain’t nothin’ to you.”

“Why?” The old man looked out across the hills, shading his eyes from the sun. “Well, mebbe it’s ’cause I kinda like yuh, son. I’m gittin’ old, I s’pose. And livin’ alone don’t make yuh stay young. I ain’t got no livin’ relation, except Bill Wyatt, and,” he hesitated for a moment before he looked down at Speck, “I’ve allus been quite a hand for relatives.”

“And that’s all the reasons yuh got, Mr. Wyatt?”

“Well, that’s all I care to speak about.”

“Uh-huh.” Speck bobbed his head wisely. “Well, I can stand it, if you can.” He got to his feet and held out his hand. “Shake, pardner.”

They shook hands gravely. It was a solemn pact between two old men; two of the fightenest sons-of-guns in the Oreana country.

They went to the stable, harnessed the mismated horses to the old buckboard and drove up to the house, where the old man got the rifle and leaned it against the seat between them.

As they drove away the old man looked back at the house and said, “Speck, I reckon we’ll have to fix up the old place a little now. I’ve kinda let her drift for the last few years ’cause there wasn’t no object in havin’ it handled right. I’ve got a right smart of cows in them hills. It ain’t took much for my keep. When I needed money I’d sell a handful of critters.

“This here Diamond W has got the best water-holes in this country, and it shore could be made into a fine ranch. The old house needs fixin’ a lot, and the barn’s swaybacked. Some day a wind will come along and blow the corral away, I s’pose. But we’ll fix her all up now.”

The old man chuckled and slapped Speck on the back.

“By golly, son, we’ll show ’em, eh?”

“Danged right,” nodded Speck.

They drove down through a brushy swale and around the point of a ridge, where a long line of cottonwoods angled up through a narrow canyon. The road was rutty and the horses were traveling at a slow walk, when the larger of the two beasts lurched sideways and went down in a tangle.

Almost at the same moment the report of a rifle broke the stillness. The other horse reared wildly, swung over the body of its mate and fell back against the buckboard, squealing and kicking. The shock of it all caused Speck to stand up, clinging to the back of the seat, and the next moment he was picked up by the old man and hurled bodily into a clump of brush beside the road.

And while Speck was still in the air the old man grasped the rifle and started to jump, but a bullet shocked him heavily and he went down sideways, falling just outside the wheels. Boze had jumped from the rear of the buckboard and scuttled into the brush, as though he knew what was taking place.

Speck landed in the brush head-first, but managed to extricate himself quickly and crawl back to the old man, whose hair and beard were already dyed with crimson. Speck’s eyes were wide with fright, but his jaw was clenched tightly, as he clawed the rifle from between the wheels and ducked back into the brush.

“Gosh a’mighty!” he panted. “Bushwhacked, by jing!”

He remained quiet long enough to calm his breathing. One horse was dead, the other down in a tangle of harness, unable to get up. Speck rubbed his nose and considered his predicament. From where he squatted he was unable to see anything of the surrounding country, so he crawled back through the brush until he could get on higher ground.

He felt reasonably sure that the shooter had been hidden in that line of cottonwoods, and that they, or he, would try and get a close view of the buckboard to see just what they had accomplished.

Working further up the side of the swale, he found a good spot to wait. It gave him a fairly good view of the surrounding country, although he could not see the buckboard. He could see Boze far down the road, hunting for gophers.

Suddenly he saw two riders emerge from a thicket on the right-hand side of the cottonwoods. They were going cautiously, and it seemed to Speck that they were intent on seeing what was down the road. The brush was horse-high; so he was unable to identify their horses.

They were about three hundred yards away, when Speck raised the sights on his rifle and rested it across a limb. It did not occur to him that he was about to shoot at a human being. They were the ones who had shot his benefactor, and he was going to repay them in kind. He flinched from the pressure of the rifle butt against his sore shoulder, but he gritted his teeth and muttered, “Squeeze, dang yuh—don’t yank!”

The big rifle crashed the silence and the black powder fumes drifted back into Speck’s wide open mouth. He coughed slightly and dropped lower, his lips grimacing disgustedly.

“Yuh yanked!” he said aloud in self accusation. “Yuh darned fool, yuh yanked. Why didn’t yuh squeeze? Yanked, and jerked the sight plumb off to the right.”

He could not see the two riders now, but he felt sure that the smoke from his shot had disclosed his hiding place; so he began crawling further up the canyon, going toward where he had seen the two riders.

Speck was wise enough to feel that they would not expect him to come toward them. He gained the cottonwoods and waited. There was not a sound, except the rustling of the trees. Far up the canyon a magpie squawked, sounding almost human.

Speck ducked low and followed the trees, stopping every few yards to listen. Then he left the cottonwoods and made his way around through the brush. He, too, wanted to get a view of what might be down at the buckboard.

Suddenly he stopped short, his mouth open in amazement. He had found the two horses. They had been left in a choke-cherry thicket, almost in the same spot where they had been when Speck shot at the riders. He spoke softly to the horses, worked his way past them, but was unable to get a glimpse of the road.

“Ding dang such luck!” he grumbled. “Feller never knows what will happen next in this Western country.” He had heard his father use that expression many times, and it seemed applicable to his present predicament.

“Well,” he decided philosophically, “the least I can do is to git help.”

He went back to the horses, selected the smaller of the two, a blaze-faced roan, and managed to get into the saddle, but lost his rifle in the attempt. Cautiously he worked the horse back through the brush, swung along the side of the hill for about a quarter of a mile before turning back toward the road.

He managed to get his feet hooked in above the stirrups, which gave him a secure seat in the saddle, and in this manner, with his rusty hair standing almost on end and his skinny elbows beating a tattoo on his ribs, he headed swiftly toward Oreana.

Meanwhile down at the buckboard stood Sad and Swede, looking down at old Eph Wyatt, propped against a wheel. The old man’s face and beard were well streaked with gore, which he mopped away with Sad’s handkerchief.

“Think it’s deep enough to amount to anythin’?” asked Swede.

“Don’t hurt much,” said the old man. “I feel kinda numb, that’s all. By gosh, that shore was a close call, gents. It bumped me so darned hard I never even knowed when it hit.”

“Where do yuh reckon the kid went?” queried Sad.

“I dunno. I throwed him into the brush after the team went down.”

“Prob’ly high-tailed it for parts unknown,” laughed Swede.

“Not that kid.” The old man spoke with conviction. “Speck ain’t the runnin’ kind. And he took the rifle. Say, I don’t think I’m hurt much.” He got to his feet and clung to the wheel. “Kinda dizzy and m’ head aches a little. Gittin’ too old to stand many tunks on the head like that.”

“Got any idea who shot yuh?” asked Sad.

“Nope.”

“Uh-huh,” Sad nodded seriously. “We can start by eliminatin’ yore friends. Who hates yuh the worst?”

“The worst?” Old Eph squinted painfully. “Well, I dunno. Yuh see, I ain’t got no friends; so yuh don’t need to eliminate anybody. I wish I knowed where that kid went. If anybody hurts him I’ll shore make ’em run fast and jump high.”

“You’ve got two good little assistants, old timer,” grinned Sad. “We kinda like Speck, too. Do yuh want to find out who shot yuh?”

“Do I?” The old man laughed wearily. “Yo’re danged right I do.”

“All right,” grinned Sad. “Mebbe we can find out, if we work real fast. Swede, you go and collect the horses.”

And while Swede went after the horses Sad untangled the uninjured horse and helped it to its feet. But he did not unhitch it from the buckboard. In a few minutes Swede came back, riding Sad’s bay horse, and carrying Eph Wyatt’s rifle.

“My bronc was gone,” he told them, “and they left this here rifle in its place.”

Sad grinned and rubbed his nose violently.