Part 2

And McHague grinned to himself, as he visualized what he would do to Tex Rowland when Tex came back to Elk Lodge. He would surely pay Tex for that uppercut to the chin. It still hurt. Still he was glad that no one except Tex and Sherrill had seen it. McHague wanted to be known as a fighting man. And he had other reasons for wanting Tex back behind the bars.

II

Tex’s fall through space had not been unpleasant. At times he had heard voices, but was unable exactly to locate them. Now he seemed to have come out of the darkness. He remembered the wreck. It was like a dream. Some one bent over him, and he heard a voice say--

“Yes, I think he is awake, doctor.”

“Doctor, eh?” thought Tex disinterestedly.

Some one else leaned over him, jiggling the cot slightly. He tried to speak, but his jaw seemed set. He could only see out of one eye, too. The other was bandaged.

“Feeling better?” asked a masculine voice.

Tex tried to turn his head, which felt queer. He could move his feet and one hand. His nose hurt and his mouth was as dry as ashes.

“That bandage is rather tight,” observed a feminine voice.

“It must be tight,” laughed the man. “He hasn’t talked for a week; so a few days more won’t bother him. Hasn’t any fever now.”

Tex managed to turn his head enough to catch a one-eyed view of the room. There was a gray-haired man, with a short beard and kindly blue eyes, standing beside a white-clad woman. They were both looking at the sheet of paper which the man was holding.

He lifted his eyes and looked at Tex.

“Well, he’s able to twist around for a look,” he laughed as he came in closer.

Tex looked the man over with his one eye. There was an odor of ether about the place, and Tex knew that he was in a hospital. The doctor was looking down at him, smiling in a friendly manner, and Tex tried to smile in return, but the bandage prevented.

“You won’t be able to do much talking for a few days,” said the doctor. “But you will be as good as new. Perhaps you will be better than new--who knows?”

He turned to the nurse, gave her some instructions and went out of the room. Tex wanted to ask her some questions; wanted to find out where he was and how badly he had been hurt; but his jaw was in a vise.

He remembered it all now, and he wondered how close the law was on his trail. Possibly, he thought, they might know where he was at this moment. He found that he was pretty well bandaged all over, but there was little pain. His face felt stiff and hard, but he attributed it to the bandages.

Finally the nurse came over and sat down beside him. She was serious of face, as she said to him--

“No doubt you are wondering all about it.”

Tex blinked his one eye encouragingly.

“You remember the wreck?”

Tex moved his head a trifle and winked at her. She laughed softly.

“One doesn’t need more than one eye to talk,” she said, “but it makes a one-sided conversation. You have been here over a week.”

Tex blinked several times violently, and decided that he must have been pretty badly hurt.

“It was a bad wreck,” continued the nurse. “There were many killed. They thought you were dead. Your clothes were torn from your body, along with a lot of flesh and skin. It was a close call, I will assure you. But Doctor Ames is a wonder. He was here a few minutes ago, and is very much interested in your case. No one was able to identify you, and your clothes were in such a bad shape that even the maker’s name had disappeared.

“But the doctor says that the bandages can be removed in a few days, and you will be able to communicate with your friends. Won’t that be fine? I can well imagine that they have given you up for lost.”

Tex blinked several times. He wanted to know more. It was a relief to him to know that no one had identified him.

“Why we even had a dentist here to assist in the work,” she smiled. “You were quite a problem.”

“My gosh!” thought Tex. “I must ’a’ got my teeth knocked out, too.”

“Now,” she said, “I think that is enough information for today. Just be patient and everything will be fine.”

Tex winked thankfully and went back to sleep. At least he was safe for a while, because even McHague could not identify him inside that mass of wrappings which made him look like an Egyptian mummy. And it would give him a sanctuary while the interest in his escape dwindled.

The next few days were months to Tex Rowland. The doctor came in twice a day to look him over, and the nurse took keen delight in joking Tex about his one expressive eye.

Then came the day when the doctor told him that the bandages were coming off. Several other doctors came in to see the results of Doctor Ames’s handiwork, and assisted him in the unwrapping. It was a tedious job, and Tex was hardly aware that the bandages were off.

His face felt stiff and unnatural, but he was able to use his arms and legs. They were stiff and sore, but gave good promise of becoming useful again with a little exercise. The doctor’s expressions of satisfaction reassured Tex somewhat, but it was not until the nurse brought him a hand-mirror that he knew what had happened.

He looked closely at himself, squinted quizzically at the doctors and back at himself. Then looked at the back of the mirror; like a monkey which does not understand its own reflection.

“Well?” said Doctor Ames. “What is the verdict?”

Tex gazed into the mirror, flexing the muscles of his stiff-feeling face. Then he looked slowly up at the doctor and said, speaking with great difficulty--

“My ----, where did I get that face?”

Doctor Ames patted him on the shoulder.

“My boy, it was the best I could do. It would have been impossible to tell just what you did look like before you broke up half the mountain side with your face. Still, I do not think it is such a bad face.”

Tex squinted at himself again. It was not a face he had ever seen; it was a total stranger who looked him square in the eyes from the little mirror. In the place of that crooked, ill-shapen nose, was one of classic design. There was no evil expression about the eyes now, with their well-arched brows. The upper-lip was straight and his front teeth were very pearly and not at all prominent.

There was a considerable growth of beard, in spots, and the scars of the patchwork were plainly evident; but it was not the face of Tex Rowland. He laid the mirror down on the covers and his new face broke into a painful grin.

“I hope you will be able to identify yourself,” said the doctor.

Tex grinned and shook his head.

“Tha’s all right, doc,” he said slowly. “I reckon yuh done the best yuh could. Yuh must ’a’ just about made it all over, but I dunno how yuh pulled off the job.”

Doctor Ames smiled. He was professionally happy over it, and received the congratulations of the other doctors, who were sincere in saying that it was even greater than they expected. One of them slapped Doctor Ames on the back and said jokingly:

“Ames, it is just too good. You have made him a handsome man; but there is little character.”

“That will come,” assured Ames. “In a little while he will get back the lines. Perhaps I did try for an ideal face.”

Tex only laughed and looked into the mirror.

“Have you a photo of yourself?” asked the nurse.

Tex shook his head, although he felt sure that his picture had been broadcast after his escape. The nurse stepped to the door and held a low-toned conversation with some one for several moments before coming back and speaking aside to Doctor Ames. The other doctors were closely examining Tex’s face, when Doctor Ames’ voice broke into the conversation, speaking to Tex--

“Do you feel well enough to talk to a man, who has been waiting anxiously to have a few words with you?”

Tex’s heart sank. Was it an officer, he wondered. A dozen wild guesses shot through his mind as the well-dressed man came up to the bed and looked down at him. But the man was not wearing a badge of authority, and there was a smile on his lips.

“I am from the railroad company,” he explained briskly, as he took some legal-looking papers from his pocket. “Claim department, you know. The company is straightening out the claims as fast as possible. I have been here several times, but have been unable to see you.”

Tex squinted thoughtfully. It puzzled him. Doctor Ames moved in closer and looked at the papers, which the agent was arranging.

“No,” he said smiling broadly, “I am not encroaching upon your rights, Mr. Agent; but I have an interest in this patient, and I do not want him to get the worst of this deal.”

“I understand.” The agent nodded quickly. “Contrary to general belief, the company is not trying to dodge their responsibilities. We stand ready and willing to pay any reasonable claim. I have been empowered to close this claim for five thousand dollars. It is quite a sum of money, but we realize that this man has suffered greatly, possibly in more ways than one. Is that a fair price?”

Doctor Ames looked at Tex for an answer; but Tex was too stunned to answer. It was hard to realize that the railroad company was trying to pay him five thousand dollars for injuries received in the wreck. They did not know that he was stealing a ride.

“What do you think?” asked Doctor Ames.

Tex opened his mouth several times, but seemed unable to speak. The agent had unfolded the paper and was handing a fountain-pen to Tex. Between his finger and thumb he held a nice, pink check for five thousand dollars.

Tex shook his head and looked at Doctor Ames.

“I don’t want the money,” he said softly. “I want you folks to figure out yore bill for what you’ve done for me, and ask him to pay yuh. That might be real square. I’ll sign my name, but I don’t want any money.”

“My goodness!” exclaimed one of the doctors. “Ames, you have rebuilt the face of a millionaire.”

“Do you realize what you are doing?” asked the nurse. “This man wants to pay you five thousand dollars.”

“Yeah, and I don’t want it,” smiled Tex. “You have ’em fix it up, so you and the doctor gets paid for yore work, and I’ll sign the li’l old name.”

The agent turned to Doctor Ames, a grin on his lips.

“What about it, doctor?” he asked. “I can change this to fit an emergency. This man seems sincere; but in all my experience I have never before met a man who would not accept a five-thousand-dollar check. I am willing to fix it up in any way you wish.”

He and the doctor walked over by the door, conversing in low tones, while the agent altered the document with his pen. In a few moments they came back and one of the doctors held a book under the document, while Tex Rowland laboriously scratched on the dotted line--

_William H. Smith._

Doctor Ames squinted at the signature as he handed it back to the agent.

“William H. Smith, millionaire,” he said, laughing. “Not exactly an uncommon name. Bill Smith, philanthropist. Is the initial ‘H’ for Henry?”

“No,” said Tex slowly. “My middle name is Horse-shoes.”

“What a queer name,” said the nurse. “You ought to be lucky.”

“Mebbe yuh don’t think I am,” grinned Tex, as he sank back on his pillow and looked up at the white ceiling. He had a new face and a new name. Tex Rowland had died in the wreck.

III

Old Rory McPherson, with a cow-puncher riding on each side of him, came to Antelope town. It was an event, when Rory came to Antelope. He was past middle-age, a tall, thin man, with a thatch of flaming red hair, red whiskers and a fighting eye. His face was thin and almost as red as his whiskers, while his eyes were of an iceberg blue.

Rory had been a powerful fighting man in his youth, and woe unto him who might hint that Rory was not as young as he used to be! He swung off his big roan horse, tied it to a hitch-rack, and looked around belligerently, as if daring any one to contest his right to be in town.

None did. Rory knew that they would not; but he always waited for some one to try. With him was Dick Clarey and “Biddy” Toole, two of his cowpunchers. They wore their sombreros at an aggressive angle, swaggered in their walk and talked boldly.

Antelope was a town of about two hundred inhabitants; but it boasted a two-story brick building wherein was housed the bank. Two-story brick buildings were not common in that part of the range country, and Antelope had a right to be proud.

The rest of the business houses were of the false-front, one-story variety, with wind and sand-scoured signs, badly in need of paint. There were the inevitable board sidewalks, built well above the ground for no apparent reason, except, as one of the old timers said, “It makes ’em high enough t’ set on kinda good.”

Old Rory shoved his hands into his overall pockets and threw back his head as he stared at the brick building. It was not new. Rory had seen it many times; but he always stared at it, muttering a curse into his red beard.

He hated “Big Jim” Mott, the man who had built and owned that brick building; hated him with every drop of his Scotch blood.

Big Jim had said--

“---- you; I’ll sheep out Rainbow Valley one of these days!”

Old Rory McPherson owned Rainbow Valley and he replied:

“Ye will? Then that will be many a long year after the sheep have made a vile-smellin’ dust heap out of Antelope.”

And Big Jim Mott owned Antelope range. The feud between Rory and Big Jim had started before the advent of the branch railroad into Antelope. The railroad had made old Rory even more bitter.

The logical thing, according to Rory, would have been for the railroad to have come in through Rainbow Valley, leaving the main line at a point about three miles north of Claymore, the little village at the upper end of Rainbow, and following an easy grade down through Rainbow and into the Antelope country.

But instead, it came in from the town of Welcome, twisted in and out of the hills, barely touching the lower border of Rainbow and running due south to Antelope. And old Rory McPherson knew why the railroad did not come in through Rainbow. He knew that Big Jim’s political pull kept the railroad out of Rainbow Valley.

It had been of no advantage to Big Jim, and had not injured Rory McPherson, as far as that was concerned; but a railroad through Rainbow Valley would have been of decided advantage to Rory. And Rory knew that Big Jim had done all this with malice aforethought.

“You and your dir-r-rty buildin’!” muttered Rory.

“What did yuh say?” asked Dick Clarey.

“Nawthin’.”

Rory squinted across the street, jerking the brim of his sombrero a trifle lower, as he spelled out a faded sign--

MISS FREELAND, MILLINERY

He nodded slowly and turned to the two cowboys.

“Be cir-r-cumspect, will ye? I’ve an errand just now.”

He turned on his heel and crossed the street toward the little millinery store, while the two cowboys looked at each other. They grinned as they turned toward a saloon entrance.

“What in the ---- is he goin’ to do there?” wondered Dick.

“He’s not goin’ to buy hats, that’s a cinch,” laughed Biddy.

Old Rory rattled his spurs up to the door and knocked loudly. After a moment the door creaked half-way open and a faded-looking little woman stared out at him.

“I’m lookin’ for Miss Della Mar-r-rsh,” he told her. “She wor-rks here, I’ve been told.”

The little woman shook her head quickly. “She did work here,” she said, as if apologizing, “but they gave her a position over in the bank, Mr. McPherson. She has been there nearly a week now.”

Old Rory stared at her, turned his head slowly and squinted at the hated building.

“Over there?” He jerked his thumb in that direction. “Do ye mean to say that she’s wor-r-rkin’ in that building, ma’am?”

“Yes--for the bank.”

“Oh, ho-o-o! For the bank, ye say? Now what the ---- do ye know about that?”

The door shut quickly behind him. But he did not mind. In fact he had forgotten all about the little milliner lady. He clenched his freckled old hands until the knuckles looked like rows of white marbles, and his lower jaw jutted angrily. There was no question but what Rory McPherson was very angry.

He started across the street toward the bank, but changed his mind and went to the saloon, where he found Dick and Biddy at the bar.

“Have a little drink, Rory?” invited Biddy, moving aside to give the old man room.

But Rory shook his head angrily.

“I’ve no stomach for-r-r anythin’ in this town!” he snorted. “I’ve been insulted by me own flesh and blood. It may not be a Christian thing to tak’ the name of the Lord in vain, but right noo I’m gr-r-ropin’ for wor-r-rds that will fit the occasion.”

“What’s gone wrong?” queried Dick Clarey.

“Wrong? Did ye say wrong, Dick? Everythin’! Della has gone to wor-r-rk for that----”

Old Rory shut his lips tightly, and his beard lifted like the hair on the back of an angry dog.

Dick and Biddy understood what he meant. Biddy fingered his glass, his head cocked on one side thoughtfully.

“At the ranch, Rory?” he asked.

“In the bank, Biddy.”

“What doin’?” queried Dick.

“No matter what doin’!” snorted Rory. “It’s another of his dir-rty deals. I came here to take her awa’ from the makin’ of hats. No job is that for a bit o’ a lass; not while her uncle has a cent. And I find her wor-rkin’ for--that! Shamin’ me, he is.”

The old man’s voice trembled with anger, but he threw up his head and turned to the bar, which he thumbed with his clenched fist.

“Gi’e me whusky,” he ordered hoarsely. “When ye’r hear-rt tells ye to kill--drink whusky for ballast. Gi’e me the bottle, will ye? That glass is no sup for a sufferin’ mon.”

After a few big drinks Rory was well organized for anything. His Scotch brogue grew more broad, but the whisky softened his bitterness. A vacant chair at a poker table called to him; so he sat down to play, while Dick and Biddy slipped out of the place and went down to the bank. They knew that the old man was good for several hours and several more drinks, and that he was not liable to get into trouble while under the influence of liquor. It seemed that liquor softened his nature, although his conversation became so full of burs that no one could understand him.

They found Della Marsh in the bank; a slip of a girl, with an oval face framed in a mass of brown hair. There seemed to be a perpetual sadness about her wide, blue eyes, and she greeted them with a wistful smile.

“How long have yuh been here, Dell?” asked Dick.

“About a week, Dick. How is Rainbow Valley?”

“Fine. The old man came in with us.”

“Uncle Rory? Where is he?”

“Over in the Eagle saloon. Say, Dell, he’s sore as a boil.”

“Sore? What about, Dick?”

Dick lowered his voice:

“Because you’re workin’ here. You know this bank belongs to Big Jim Mott, don’tcha?”

“Why, yes, I know it. But I don’t see--”

“Listen,” interrupted Biddy. “He came in today to get yuh to go back to the ranch, Dell. He knowed that yuh was workin’ at that millinery store. He wants yuh to come back home. I reckon we all want yuh to come back, too, Dell.”

Biddy shuffled his feet nervously. Della looked at him, her eyes smiling. But she shook her head slowly:

“No, I don’t want to go back there, Biddy. I don’t want to be dependent on any one, don’t you see? I can make my own living.”

“That’s true,” nodded Biddy. “If it was anybody but Mott.”

“You didn’t ask for the job, did yuh, Dell?” asked Dick.

Della colored slightly, but shook her head.

“No, I didn’t, Dick. Mr. Mott asked me if I wanted to work in the bank. It is not hard work.”

“It’ll sure be hard for Rory McPherson,” declared Biddy.

“Oh, I’m sorry about that,” said Della wistfully. “I wish that Uncle Rory and Mr. Mott would be friends. Mr. Mott seems so big and generous; not at all as I had believed him to be.”

“A snake is slick,” muttered Biddy, “and a coyote ain’t no homely critter.”

“That is unkind, Biddy,” said Della softly.

“Ex-cuse me,” said Biddy quickly. “I was thinkin’ outloud. And we just found out the other day that Jim Mott owns the old XO-Bar-5.”

“The XO-Bar-5?” questioned Della wonderingly. “Why, I thought it belonged to Marvin Crane.”

“Well, it don’t,” declared Biddy. “He was just runnin’ it.”

“Then it was Mott who--”

Della stopped and stared out through the open door.

“Yeah,” nodded Dick seriously. “It was Big Jim Mott who sent Tex Rowland to the penitentiary, Dell. Of course, yuh can’t hold a thing like that ag’in’ Mott; but it was him--not Crane.”

The three were silent for several moments. Then Della looked at both men and spoke softly--

“Is there any news of Tex?”

Biddy shook his head:

“Not a word, Dell. Accordin’ to the papers they can’t find a trace of him. He made a clean getaway.”

“Will he ever come back here, do you think?”

Biddy shook his head slowly.

“No, I don’t reckon he will, Dell. It’s hard to tell where old Tex will hole-up. He’s been out almost a month. Well, I reckon we better be goin’, Dell.”

They shook hands with her and went outside, heading back to the saloon.

“She sure thinks a lot of old Tex,” observed Dick.

Biddy nodded:

“The old crooked-nosed son-of-a-gun. By golly, Dick, he was a danged good feller. They don’t make ’em better than Tex Rowland. He was homely as the ----, wasn’t he? Kinda like findin’ an old bent can, without any label; and when yuh open it up yuh find she’s full of peaches. That’s old Tex--a peach on the inside.”

* * * * *

At the doorway of the saloon they met Jack Lohman, the sheriff, whose office was at Welcome, the county seat. He was a tall, squint-eyed man, and as hard as the job he had been voted into.

“Hyah, Lohman,” greeted Biddy, as they shook hands. “How’s the law and order comin’?”

“’Sall right,” grinned Lohman. “How’s crime?”

“Doin’ right well. Whatcha doin’ down in this neck of the woods?”

“Electioneerin’.”

“Thasso?” Biddy grinned widely. “You’re startin’ early, ain’t yuh? You was only re-elected last Fall. I’ll bet you’re lookin’ for Tex Rowland.”

Lohman grinned, but grew serious, as he said:

“Kinda funny they never located Tex. Either he’s smarter than the law, or he’s lucky as ----. They were on his trail within ten minutes after he went out through the gate; but he sure faded complete-like. He don’t know nothin’, except punchin’ cows, and some day he’ll be picked up on some cow-ranch.”

“It won’t be in this end of the country,” said Dick. “He wouldn’t be fool enough to come back here.”

“Suits me,” said Lohman. “I ain’t got nothin’ against Tex. He always treated me fine, and as far as I’m concerned he can stay out of jail. I got a letter from McHague, the warden at the pen, the other day tellin’ me to watch out for Tex around here.”

“And you’d pick him up in a minute, too,” grinned Biddy.

“I wonder if I would,” said Lohman seriously.

“That calls for a drink,” said Dick warmly. “You ain’t on the wagon, are yuh, Lohman? Or mebbe the law don’t allow yuh to drink.”

“I never swore I wouldn’t,” laughed Lohman, and they went to the bar together.

Old Rory McPherson did not seem to be having any great luck at poker. He played a hard game, but not a scientific one. He did not bluff; but played every hand for what he thought it was worth.

“I’ll not lie,” he told them seriously. “’Tis the Scotch in me, I’m thinkin’.”

“It’s the rye in yuh, yuh mean,” grumbled a disgruntled player, who had tried to bluff the old man out of a good pot, only to find him holding a full-house.

“Rory don’t come down here very often, does he?” asked Lohman.

“Not any oftener than he has to,” assured Biddy. “He ain’t got much use for Antelope. Him and Big Jim ain’t friendly, yuh know.”

“Too bad,” said Lohman. “It kinda splits this country. I was over to the Lightnin’ ranch yesterday. Pablo acted like I wasn’t a bit welcome.”

“Nobody welcome around there,” grinned Biddy. “As far as I’m concerned, they don’t need to welcome me. ‘Paint’ Pablo is loco over pinto horses. I hear he sold a car-load to some circus.”

“He’s a breed, ain’t he?” asked Lohman.

“Nez Perce and French,” said Dick, “with the rattle-snake predominatin’.”

Lohman laughed and turned back to the bar.