Part 6

“Boy, yuh shore did,” said Buck Rainey. “You done just the right thing at the right time. If there’s goin’ to be any adoptin’ done, I’d like to have a chance at it.”

“I reckon I come first,” said old Eph Wyatt quickly.

Speck looked at them, a half-grin on his face.

“I’m much obliged to yuh,” he said. “I’ve got to think about it.”

“Well, he gets the Bar S all back, don’t he?” queried Sad. “It looks to me like you’d have to pick out all them changed brands and turn ’em back to the Bar S.”

“Y’betcha,” nodded the sheriff. “Speck gets ’em all.”

“Snipe Lee says he’d kinda like to talk,” stated Wheezer.

“I jist wanted to say,” said Snipe, “that me and Abe didn’t have nothin’ to do with shootin’ at the old man. Bill never told us that he did that, but he was awful sore to think that old Eph was goin’ to adopt the kid. Bill had an idea of combinin’ the Diamond W with the Box 8. I reckon Bill done the shootin’, ’cause he rode away that day with a rifle.”

“What about the cattle stealin’?” asked Buck Rainey.

“We done it, Buck. When Bill registered that Box 8 brand, he had the idea of stealin’ Bar S cattle. It was plumb easy to change the brand to a Box 8. Then Bunty O’Neil came to Oreana. Him and Bill were old friends.

“Bunty pointed out that he had a better scheme to get the Bar S ranch, and he said it would be safer; so we quit pickin’ up the Bar S cattle. Bunty and Bill had trouble and kinda busted up. It kinda looked like Bunty was goin’ to hog the whole works; so we tried to spoil his game by stealin’ all the cattle.

“We branded what we could in the length of time we had, but the bulk of the cattle are back in a box canyon behind the Box 8, where we were goin’ to finish the job. Me and Abe plead guilty right here. We never got a cent for our work, and we didn’t steal because we expected to be paid—but to help Bill git even with Bunty O’Neil.”

“They’re both even now,” said Sad. “I reckon there ain’t much left for anybody to do. The sale is all off, unless Speck wants to sell somethin’.”

“I ain’t sellin’,” grinned Speck. “I reckon I’ll raise cows.”

They packed the two dead men on their horses and prepared to take them to Oreana. One of the boys opened the corral gate and let the cattle drift. Speck went back and picked up the scattered notes and the big book, which had proved Bunty’s duplicity.

“Are you goin’ to town with us, Speck?” asked the sheriff.

Speck shook his head quickly. “No, I reckon I’ll stay home, Mr. Rainey. I thought mebbe Mr. Sontag and Mr. Harrigan might stay all night with me and kinda help me git started.”

“Speck, you’ve got the whole town of Oreana to help yuh, if yuh need help.”

“Mebbe I have now.” Speck was wise beyond his years. “These two men helped me when Oreana wouldn’t.”

Buck rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “That’s right, Speck. They shore ruined yuh for bein’ an orphan.”

The crowd all shook hands with them, and the cavalcade moved back down the road. Old Eph Wyatt was the last to go.

“I’m glad it turned out the way it did,” he said. “I lose a son—mebbe. If we could combine the two ranches, it might be a good thing for both of us. I’m gittin’ old, and I need a young man around the place.”

“I’ll be over,” said Speck. “Mebbe we might work out a deal.”

The old man laughed and rode away. Speck led the way to the porch of the ranch-house, still carrying the book and notes. He sat down and the two cowpunchers sat down on each side of him, while he looked over the papers.

“I can’t read much,” he confessed sadly. “Yuh see, I never had much chance to go to school. Dad worried a lot about it. He said that education was somethin’ I needed pretty bad.” He opened the book at the fly-leaf and squinted at the penciled writing.

“What does that say?” he asked.

Sad squinted curiously at the boy and shot a quick glance at Swede.

“It says, ‘To my little son on Christmas Eve, from his father, James Steib.’”

“Uh-huh.” Speck grew thoughtful as he looked at the notes. “Is my father’s name written on these, too?”

“Sure. They forged his name, Speck.”

“Yuh mean that they wrote it on without him knowin’ it?”

“That’s the idea. Yuh see, Bunty knew he was in bad when I showed him the name in the book. I had an idea that he was a crook, but it took a lot of schemin’ to prove it.”

“Uh-huh.” Speck hardly understood. He pointed at the writing on the fly-leaf. “Who wrote that?”

“Well, I—uh—your father must ’a’—” Sad shifted his feet and looked appealingly at Swede, whose eyes widened humorously.

“That’s kinda funny,” mused Speck. “Yuh see, my dad never knew how to write. He was ashamed of it and never let folks know. That’s why he always wanted me to learn.”

A short lead-pencil in Sad’s pocket seemed to grow warm and he shifted nervously.

“But—but his name was spelled S-t-e-i-b,” said Sad. “I seen it on an old letter I found in the house.”

“Mebbe,” nodded Speck. “Ma could read. After she went away, me and Dad had a hard time. I don’t sabe who wrote that stuff in the book, ’cause Dad couldn’t.”

“Let’s figure it was fate, Speck,” said Sad softly.

“Who is fate, Mr. Sontag?”

“He’s the guy who tied the tin can on Boze.”

“Aw, that was Bill Wyatt.”

“Yuh can’t see fate, Speck.”

The kid nodded, got to his feet and walked into the house. Sad tore the flyleaf from the book, wadded up the notes, put them in his pocket and got to his feet.

He and Swede looked at each other and grinned knowingly.

“Will we head for Sundown, or stay a while and see that the kid gets started out right?” asked Sad.

“Mebbe,” grinned Swede, “we better leave it to fate.”

So fate nodded and they decided to stay.

Transcriber’s note: This story appeared in the January 10, 1925 issue of _Short Stories_ magazine.