Part 1

POWDER LAW

By W. C. Tuttle Author of “Law Rustlers,” “The Sheriff of Sun-Dog,” etc.

When the Evil Spirit was very young, he desired to live upon the earth. Being an Evil Spirit, the land was too fair for his abode; so he builded himself a land upon a land.

Being very young, his dwelling pleased him for a time, but like a child he soon tired of it, after which he destroyed it with a sweep of his hands. The tale is true. This place was surely made by a spirit, and would the Great Spirit build such a place as this?--_Indian Legend_.

* * * * *

As proof of this legend they point to the Mauvaises Terres, the Bad Lands of eastern Montana; mute evidences of the one-time devil’s playground. White men call it a freak of nature, this desolate region; peopled with shadow-ghosts, grotesque architecture, not made by human hands, where the blizzards of Winter howl and shriek through cave and column, and where the heat gods dance through the short Summers. Freak of nature, it may be--devil’s playground, it is.

It was the Summer of 1880, nine years before Montana was admitted to the sisterhood of States; a time when the laws of God and man were but vague shadows of the future or of a forgotten past; a time when right and wrong were but an individual point of view.

History does not touch this period of the West, except to tell briefly of troubles with the Cheyenne and Sioux, who merely fought to repel the invader. But this tale is not of the Indian, but of another menace of that day, which is not mentioned in history.

* * * * *

Skirting the border of the Bad Lands came two mounted men, leading a pack-horse. The man in the lead, riding a tall gray horse, drew rein at the top of a small butte. He removed his sombrero and wiped the perspiration from his brow, with the sleeve of his shirt.

“Blaze” Carlin was a striking figure of a man, as he sat his horse with the ease attained by none except men who live their lives atop a horse. His hair was long and as black as the proverbial raven’s wing, except for a strip, at least two inches wide of snow-white hair, which began at the center of his forehead and ended at the crown of his head. From this peculiarity he received his nickname.

His forehead was broad, his cheek-bones prominent, and a generous mouth smiled from beneath a high-arched nose. He was as bronzed as a savage. In fact, at first glance, one would have called him a Sioux, but there was a hint of Celtic blood in his upper lip and mouth, and his eyes, a slaty-gray, did not fit the rest of his features nor coloring. It was as if an artist had used a Sioux model; painting in an Irish smile and blue-gray eyes and finished it off by drawing a full brush of white through the center of the hair.

The other man was small and wiry, bearded to the eyes, which were as black and luminous as jet beads. His nose was hooked, like the beak of an eagle. While Blaze Carlin was dressed in the height of cowboy fashion, this little man, “Frenchy” Ditteau, wore an old, half-fringed buckskin shirt, plaid, blanket pants and short boots. Across the fork of their saddles, both men carried Sharp’s rifles.

Frenchy Ditteau rode up beside Blaze, took out a plug of tobacco and a heavy clasp-knife and began to cut a pipeful of tobacco.

“Bimeby we strike de town, eh, Blaze?”

Blaze Carlin nodded, but continued to stare ahead. He brushed his hand across his eyes and turned his head.

“I reckon so, Frenchy. This heat kinda makes things look queer and this danged country makes yuh see things what ain’t; but I thought I seen seven men riding toward the sun. Maybe they was buffalo, but I don’t think so.”

“You got de good eye,” nodded Frenchy. “I’m mak’ de bet that she’s not be de buffalo.”

Blaze smiled at his companion. He had first met little Frenchy Ditteau in a saloon near Deadwood; a saloon filled with powder-smoke and struggling men. He had seen Frenchy empty his pistol and then fling himself headlong into the muzzles of spouting pistols, slashing with his knife and yelling like a Comanche.

The odds were sadly against Frenchy; therefore Blaze accepted part of the battle. Frenchy had been scored in several places, but Blaze managed to get him to the hitch-rack, where they got mounted and rode out of the town.

“Where yuh headed for?” Blaze had asked.

“Some place,” said Frenchy vaguely. “I’m t’ink dis town she’s not be friend to me and you, pardnair. Where you go?”

“Some place,” grinned Blaze and they galloped out of town, headed north.

Blaze Carlin was a gambler, but an honest one. He had no visions of making a big stake. Gambling to Blaze was an obsession rather than a profession. He knew the cattle business, knew that his riding and roping ability would earn him a job in any cow-country. Money meant nothing to him except a chance to pit his judgment against other men.

He had ridden away with Frenchy Ditteau for the simple reason that he knew the town would be against him for his part in the battle and partly because he admired the heart of a man who would pit his knife against pistols. He did not ask Frenchy the reasons for the fight, because it was none of his affair, and Frenchy did not explain. It was merely an incident. Frenchy was utterly indifferent as to his destination. Blaze suggested Medora.

“Ba gosh, dat’s de place!” declared Frenchy.

“How about headin’ up into Montana where the new railroad is comin’ through?” asked Blaze.

“We go dere sure!” exclaimed Frenchy. “I’m lak’ to see de railroad.”

Blaze laughed.

“Ain’t you got no choice, Frenchy?”

“To go wit’ you,” grinned Frenchy and the partnership pact was sealed.

For miles they had skirted the Bad Lands, seeking to strike into the big cattle-ranges, but as yet they had found no signs of human habitation. Frenchy lighted his pipe and they rode on. About half a mile farther on they came to a brushy coulée, and partly hid away in the brush they could see the half-log, half-mud cabin of a squatter.

“Hittin’ closer to civilization,” observed Blaze pointing at the cabin.

Frenchy drew slowly at his unlighted pipe, his eyes squinted in a steady focus on some object.

“What do yuh see?” asked Blaze.

Frenchy did not reply, but spurred his horse down the edge of the coulée. Blaze, after another look, followed him, driving the pack-horse ahead of him. A trail, hammered hard by cloven hoofs, led straight down through the brush to the rear of the cabin.

Near the side of the cabin grew a stunted cottonwood tree, and hanging to a large branch by a noosed rope was the figure of a man. Blaze and Frenchy dismounted and walked around the tree. The body was tightly bound with ropes, and pinned to the breast of the dead man’s shirt was a square of paper on which was crudely printed--

A WARNIN TO ALL

It was signed with a large V. Frenchy folded his arms and puffed loudly on his pipe while Blaze read it aloud.

“You spik true,” nodded Frenchy. “We are close to de civilize folks, Blaze.”

“That V would be for vigilantes,” mused Blaze. “Did yuh ever hear of them, Frenchy?”

Frenchy shook his head.

“They’re a bunch of fellers who takes the law in their own hands,” explained Blaze. “When the law can’t or won’t do the job right, then the vigilantes steps in.”

“Mm-m-m,” mumbled Frenchy. “She’s hang de bad-man, eh? All de time she’s do no-ting to de good man?”

“I don’t reckon they’re supposed to,” said Blaze.

“When de vigilante she’s hones’ man, she’s only tak’ away de bad-man, eh? Me, I’m mak’ t’ink she’s bad t’ing if de bad-man mak’ himself vigilante. W’at you t’ink, Blaze?”

The crude wisdom of Frenchy had picked out the flaw of the vigilante system--a system which was efficient in bringing terror to outlawry in the old West, but which went beyond its intention and became the weapon of unscrupulous men, who used it to further their own ends.

“I reckon you’re right, Frenchy,” admitted Blaze, after thinking over Frenchy’s words. “Maybe they won’t thank us for buryin’ their victim, bein’ as they kinda leaves ’em hangin’ around as a warnin’; but we’ll take a chance.”

They cut the rope. The man was well past middle-age, his hair and beard almost white. Blaze examined him closely. One of his legs lay in an unnatural position, and Blaze discovered that the man was a cripple. He examined the man’s hands and got to his feet as Frenchy appeared with a shovel and a pick.

“Why you t’ink dey string him up for?” asked Frenchy. “Bad-man, you t’ink?”

“He was a cripple, Frenchy.” Blaze spoke softly, as if afraid the dead man might hear. “His knee is all crooked and his hands are tied in knots from rheumatism. He couldn’t neither run nor hold a gun.”

Frenchy turned away and began digging. Blaze watched him for a time and then picked up the shovel.

“I’m mak’ t’ink,” observed Frenchy leaning on his pick, “I’m t’ink I’m mad like ---- for de vigilant. Mebbe she’s de law, but jus’ de same----”

“He couldn’t run nor hold a gun,” said Blaze.

“Me and you t’ink alike, mos’ always,” nodded Frenchy.

Neither of them knew anything of the burial service. The victim of the vigilantes was rolled in an old blanket and buried beside the old cottonwood tree. The interior of the cabin did not disclose the man’s identity. It was crudely furnished and did not show long occupancy. There was no sign of any firearms and the food supply was low. They fastened the door and rode on.

The sun was an hour high when they reached a large stream of water flowing down a small valley. The stream was lined with willow and cottonwood, which cut a green gash through that sun-baked country. Several head of range cattle whirled out of the willows at their approach, wild as partridge.

“We’re into the cow-country at last,” smiled Blaze, as they rode into the willows.

Frenchy nodded. They followed a trail through the brush and drew up at the bank of the stream.

“Somebody mak’ de sign,” observed Frenchy, pointing at a sign on a big cottonwood, which grew near the bank.

Blaze rode in close to the tree and read the notice aloud.

WARNIN THIS LAND BELONG TO BLACK MORA NO BODY ALLOW HERE

Frenchy snorted his disgust.

“Shall we move on?” asked Blaze.

“I’m mak’ de wet camp today,” declared Frenchy. “I’m no want Black Mora’s land--I’m jus’ want to camp. We stay.”

“I’ve heard of him,” said Blaze. “A man in Deadwood told me something about him. Big cattleman, I reckon. Wants to run the country.”

“Mebbe de countree she’s no run,” grinned Frenchy, taking the swing-rope off the pack. “We tak’ chance.”

Both of the men owned camp-broke horses and there was no need of hopple or picket-rope. The three horses moved up the stream, cropping at the green grass, while the men prepared camp. Blaze happened to glance across the creek just in time to see a rider disappearing over a ridge. He was close enough for Blaze to see that the man was looking at their camp.

“One of Black Mora’s spies,” said Blaze pointing him out to Frenchy, but the man disappeared before Frenchy could locate him.

“We’ll give the horses an hour on the grass and then tie ’em up,” stated Blaze. “Yuh never can tell what kind of a hornet this Mora is and we might need a horse under us real quick.”

“Ba gosh, I’m prepare for de night!” Frenchy’s beard and mustache seemed to fuzz out like the whiskers on an angry bobcat.

He patted his pistol butt.

“I’m hard man for mak’ move, but jus’ as you say, Blaze. Mebbe she’s de good idea for have de horse handy, for de reason dat mebbe we have to chase dis Black Mora, eh?”

Blaze laughed, but Frenchy was serious. In anything except a fight the little Frenchman had the heart of a child, but the prospect of trouble seemed to add inches to his height and his black eyes became bead-like in their intensity.

They cooked and ate their supper and then Blaze caught the horses, tying them near camp. Blaze had been keeping a close watch across the creek, expecting trouble to come from that direction, if at all. Suddenly he heard Frenchy grunt softly. Two men had ridden in from the rear, making no sound on the soft trail, and were almost to the fire before Frenchy saw them.

One was a tall, swarthy, black-mustached person, with an arrogant expression. The other was a trifle smaller, with mouse-colored hair, one empty eye-socket and a badly scarred face. Both men carried rifles and wore pistols.

Blaze looked them over carefully. The tall man, after staring hard at Blaze, pointed at the sign, his long, bony forefinger quivering as he seemed to put his soul into the gesture.

“You see that sign?” he grunted.

“Still havin’ my sight,” nodded Blaze.

The man seemed shocked to think that Blaze had seen it and still disregarded its warning. His hand dropped to his side and he frowned at Blaze. Frenchy was standing near the other rider, his legs braced far apart, his unlighted pipe between his lips.

“This here land belongs to Mora,” stated the tall man.

“Who is Mora?” asked Blaze easily.

“Black Mora? You don’t know?”

“Nigger?” asked Frenchy.

The man turned his head and shot a withering glance at Frenchy, but Frenchy’s glare was just as deadly and the man turned back to Blaze.

“You git off this land! Mora don’t allow nobody here. I’ll give you--” he glanced around at the meager outfit and turned back to Blaze--“I’ll give yuh half-hour to git off this ranch.”

Blaze rubbed his chin and considered the order.

“You work for Black Mora?” he asked.

“I shore do.”

“Know him well enough to take a message to him?”

“I shore do.”

“Then tell him that Blaze Carlin told him to go to ----.”

“Mak’ de message from Frenchy Ditteau, too,” added Frenchy. “Mak’ her read de same.”

The tall man’s eyes narrowed for an instant and his shoulder seemed to hunch. Blaze Carlin’s hand crooked at the wrist and his Colt .44 split the stillness of the creek bottom. The tall man’s arm swung forward, seemed to crumple at the elbow and his pistol fell to the ground.

At the first motion of the draw, Frenchy had sprung forward and upward, grasping the other man by the belt and yanking him off his horse. The man drew a gun as Frenchy tore him loose from the saddle, but the gun went spinning into the bushes.

Blaze paid no attention to Frenchy and the other man. The tall man’s rifle slid to the ground, and his frightened horse backed until its rump struck a tree, which made it jerk forward, almost unseating its rider, whose arm seemed to occupy all his attention. Frenchy had flung his man to the ground and pinned his arms.

“Ba gosh, I’m hope for de good fight, but I’m mak’ mistake,” grunted Frenchy.

“You’ll have a chance to use your left arm for a while,” stated Blaze, but the tall man did not reply.

Frenchy let his man get up, but kept a hand twisted in his collar.

“You heard the message we sent to Black Mora, didn’t yuh?” asked Blaze. “Now, maybe you’re tamed enough to carry it to him.”

“You goin’ to turn dem loose?” asked Frenchy. “Ba gosh, you got sof’ heart. Whoa!”

Frenchy yanked his man backward and proceeded to administer the toe of his boot to the spot designated by precedent for such a proceeding and alternately yanked and booted the man all the way to his horse, which the man managed to mount.

“Vamoose!” snapped Blaze.

The men rode away; one of them hugging a shattered right arm, and the other standing high in his stirrups and trying to keep his frightened horse to a comfortable walk.

Frenchy proceeded to shave a pipeful of tobacco, and lighted it from the fire embers. He turned and looked at Blaze who was leaning against a tree, watching in the direction of the disappearing horsemen.

“Blaze,” Frenchy puffed furiously, “Blaze, I’m t’ink dem two feller get sore from us. You mak’ ---- good shot for break hees arm. Eh?”

“Good shot! Lucky shot, Frenchy--lucky for him. I never shot at his arm. You had a lot of nerve to yank that other feller plumb off his horse.”

“Nerve--me?” Frenchy laughed heartily. “Why, Blaze, I’m so ---- scare dat I’m forget my gun. Ho, ho, ho!”

They both laughed. Frenchy had seen Blaze shoot the heads off sage-hens, and Blaze had seen Frenchy fighting with a knife against roaring pistols, but neither was seeking glory in the other’s eyes.

“We’ll move back a ways as soon as it gets dark,” stated Blaze. “This ain’t the end of it, Frenchy. Maybe we better pack up and pull out.”

“_Non!_” Frenchy shook his head vehemently. “I’m back up a little, but no pack de horse and run away. We got two rifle an’ two pistol more den we have biffore dey come. Ho, ho, ho!”

Frenchy collected the four guns, which were loaded. The rifles were Sharp’s, the ammunition of which fitted their rifles, but the two pistols would be useless to them after the rounds were fired, as they both used smaller caliber than those carried by Blaze and Frenchy.

Blaze kept a close watch until dark and then they moved their blankets farther back from the creek after throwing more wood on the fire. But there was no further sign of Black Mora or his men that night.

They were up at daylight. Blaze started to get breakfast, while Frenchy climbed up into the branches of a cottonwood where he perched like an owl with his rifle across his lap.

Blaze laughed at Frenchy, but Frenchy was serious.

“I’m mak’ t’ink,” said Frenchy, “I’m mak’----”

He broke off, rose a little higher and swung the heavy rifle to his shoulder. A moment later the big rifle bellowed. Blaze sprang across the fire and picked up his rifle.

“What yuh shootin’ at?” he demanded.

Frenchy extracted the empty cartridge and blew into the breech of his rifle before replying.

“De sonn of a gonn go creep, creep along to git behin’ de big rock. Ho, ho, ho! I’m push de dirt in his face. He turn over lak----”

Frenchy threw up his rifle and fired as it leveled. He waved the cloud of smoke away with a sweep of his hand.

“Dat’s anodder one, Blaze. I miss him pretty close, I tell you dat. Whoa!”

Frenchy shifted excitedly.

“Blaze, you pack de cayuse ---- quick! I’m mak’ t’ink dat sonn of a gonn has de army work for him. I hol’ dem off, I tell you.”

Bullets began to whiz through the foliage and thump into the tree trunks. Blaze hurriedly packed the horse and then threw on the two saddles, while Frenchy swore alternately in English and French and punctuated his oaths with lead from his old Sharps.

“All set, Frenchy,” called Blaze, swinging into his saddle.

Frenchy fired again and swung down to the ground.

“Go straight down dis side,” ordered Frenchy. “I’m have dem stopped.”

They rode away as swiftly as possible, keeping in the willows. For a while it looked as if they had thrown off the attackers, but as soon as they crossed the creek and struck into more open country they found that there was a strong possibility of more trouble.

One bunch of horsemen were behind them, while another bunch had circled into the hills to head them off. They pulled up and considered the matter. A long-range bullet dusted the ground at their horses’ feet, fired from the bunch in the hills. They could see the riders across the creek as they checked up at the edge of the stream.

“W’at we do now--fight?” asked Frenchy.

Blaze considered. The horsemen in the hills were still swinging around as if to join forces with those at the creek.

“They’ve headed us off in that direction,” observed Blaze, “and it appears to me that they’re danged awful sure that we want to go thataway. Well, we’ll take a chance and go up the creek instead. We may have to lose our pack-horse.”

“My blanket she’s on de pack, and I stay wit’ my bed,” declared Frenchy. “De pack-horse run lak ----. Come on.”

* * * * *

They turned and spurred into a gallop, traveling parallel to the creek, but in open country. There were six men in the bunch which had circled them, and five more in the crowd at the creek. Now they joined and came racing up the same side of the creek.

Both Blaze and Frenchy were well mounted, but the pack-animal, seeming to sense the need of haste, passed Frenchy, who was leading it.

“Go so fas’ as you like!” yelled Frenchy and threw the rope across the pack, turning the animal loose.

They swung over a knoll and around the side of a steep slope, jumping mesquite and greasewood, and found themselves a short distance from a rambling ranch-house, which stood in the center of a clearing about three acres in extent. A long low stable and a big pole corral were between them and the house, and a pole fence surrounded the house and barn. The center pole of the bars was in place and the pack-animal tried to jump it, but the horse was not built for hurdling and came to grief.

Blaze’s horse cleared the bar and the struggling pack animal, and Frenchy’s horse barely clicked the rail as it went over. The pack-animal struggled to its feet, kicked at a loose rope and galloped after its master. Blaze and Frenchy swung down at the door of the ranch-house, turning the horses loose, and then went straight toward the open stalls of the barn, as if they had lived there all their lives.

Came a whirl of dust and the panting horses, as the pursuers clattered up to the bars. Blaze threw up his rifle and sent a bullet past their heads and they spurred to one side out of sight. Blaze kicked open the door, almost in the face of a fat Indian squaw, who was coming to the door to see what was going on. She stared blankly at the two men.

“Whose place is this?” asked Blaze.

“Black Mora,” replied the stolid aborigine.

“Where is he?”

“I dunno. He ride away with men.” The squaw spoke in halting English.

“This is going to be a hard place to leave,” observed Blaze, but Frenchy was chuckling as he leaned over a rough table.

“Look, Blaze!” he called. “Here’s plenty shell for de rifle. Fill up de belt and use de pocket for de rest. She’s good place to fin’.”

Blaze stepped over to the table and filled his belt from fresh boxes. Frenchy stuffed his pockets full and then put more inside his shirt.

“Ba gosh, she’s goin’ to be wan good fight, I’m tell you, Blaze.”

Blaze stepped to a window and saw a man running to get behind the barn. Another was stooped low, running farther to the left where another old building would give him cover. Blaze looked around the room, which was about twenty by thirty feet in size. There were four doors, two opening outside, and the other two were connected with the rooms at each end. All the doors were fitted with heavy bars.

It was only a moment’s work to throw the bars into place. The squaw watched Blaze, but her fat face expressed no emotion. The strange doings of the white men did not cause any wonder in her one-idea brain. Blaze grinned at her lack of interest.

“You like Black Mora?” he asked.

The squaw glanced at Blaze and then spat disgustedly.

“Either she hates him or she don’t like my question,” grinned Blaze.

The windows, of which there was one at each side of the room, were composed of two small panes of glass set in crude frames. Frenchy dumped the extra cartridges onto a shelf near the rear window, placed his pistol beside them, and calmly knocked one of the panes of glass out. Then he produced his plug of tobacco and clasp-knife and then grinned at Blaze, who was looking at the squaw.

“Blaze, you better knock out de little window and git ready for fight. Plenty time for de love-mak’ after de wil’ man she’s went away. Ho, ho, ho!”

Frenchy chuckled heartily over his crude joke.

Blaze went back to the window and poked out one of the panes, only to have a bullet ricochet off the barrel of his rifle and buzz across the room like an angry bee.

“Ho, ho, ho!” chortled Frenchy. “De dance she is begin, Blaze. I’m hope she don’t all dance from your side, biccause my feet she’s itch for git busy.”

Blaze fired and was rewarded by a yell from the barn.

“Ba gosh, you don’t miss dat feller,” chuckled Frenchy. “I’m can tell de yelp from de ol’ Sharp’s bullet. She’s----”