Part 4

Tex had dismounted and was inside the corral, rope in hand, when Crane and “Slim” Whelan, his cowpuncher, rode up. Tex had noticed that the animals were covered with sweat and were weary from a long run; but gave it no thought.

He was also unaware that just outside the little corral were the preparations for a branding-fire, which had been recently put together. There was also the rod from the end-gate of a wagon, which, in all probability, was to be used as a running-iron to change the brands.

In range parlance--Tex was caught with the goods. Crane and Whelan covered him with their guns, disarmed Tex and took him to the sheriff. There had been too much horse-stealing in the Antelope country for the law to deal lightly; so Tex had been convicted.

Bill Smith, erstwhile Tex, loafed around the saloon until the poker game broke up, and then approached Big Jim Mott. Luck had smiled upon Big Jim and his grin was expansive.

“Want a job, eh?” he asked jovially. “What can you do?”

“Anythin’ from wranglin’ broncs to runnin’ the ranch,” replied Bill Smith.

“Well, you’re not a bit modest,” laughed Big Jim. “Where are you from and what is your name?”

“Are you hirin’ pedigrees or punchers?” asked Bill.

Big Jim laughed and turned to Crane--

“You can use another man, can’t you, Crane?”

“I might.” Crane was not enthusiastic.

“I’m filled up at my ranch,” explained Big Jim. “Got more punchers than I know what to do with; so I’ll let Crane have you. He needs another man. Got a horse?”

“I’ve got somethin’ with four legs and a tail,” grinned Bill. “It ain’t a bronc.”

They walked outside and he pointed out his gray at the hitch-rack across the street. Big Jim laughed and went toward the bank, while Bill Smith and Crane crossed to the rack and got their horses.

Crane was not strong on conversation, and Bill wondered why Big Jim had hired him to work on the XO-Bar-5. He did not know that Big Jim owned that outfit, but he was beginning to think so.

“Does the big feller own your ranch?” he asked.

Crane nodded jerkily.

“Yeah. That’s Big Jim Mott. Didn’t yuh ever hear of him?”

“What did he ever do?”

“Oh, ----! I dunno. He owns most of this country.”

“Got lots of money?”

“Yeah. Owns the bank in Antelope and helps run the State.”

“Looks like a fighter.”

Crane laughed grimly, but did not express any opinion. He had heard of Big Jim’s fight with old Rory McPherson.

“I came in from that direction,” said Bill, pointing northeast, “and I ran into the Lightnin’-brand ranch. Had a talk with the jeezer that owns it. That is, I tried to have a talk with him. He sure is short on conversation.”

“That was Paint Pablo,” said Crane. “---- Injun!”

“He ain’t very ornamental, that’s a cinch,” grinned Bill.

“No, and yuh don’t want to trust him too far, either. Say, I don’t even know your name.”

“William H. Smith.”

Crane spat dryly and nodded.

“Bill Smith, eh? You don’t look like none of the Smith family I’ve ever seen. Where yuh been workin’, Smith?”

“You don’t expect me to answer that, do yuh?”

Crane grinned and bit a corner off his plug of tobacco.

“All right. If anybody asks me, I’ll say yuh hails from Oklahoma, or from some other seaport. Yuh look honest.”

“Since when did cow-ranches require a puncher to look honest, Crane?”

“All right, all right, Smith. You ain’t no mail-order puncher, that’s a cinch. You’ll bunk with Slim Whelan. He’s a forked gent, with a salty disposition, and kinda addicted to solitaire. I hate two-handed games; so I don’t play with Slim. Mebbe he’ll take exceptions to your looks; but I reckon yuh can take care of William H. Smith.”

“I’ve raised him ever since he was born,” grinned Bill.

“And that wasn’t yesterday,” agreed Crane warmly.

“Nope--it was several weeks ago.”

“I betcha.”

Slim Whelan met them at the gate, which sagged on its hinges so badly that Slim fairly had to carry it open. He squinted at the newcomer and waited for Crane to introduce him.

“I used t’ know a Smith,” he said innocently, “and I wonder if you’re related to him.”

“He was my brother,” said Bill seriously. “Kind of a queer sort of a jigger, with two legs, two arms and a head on top of his neck.”

“By ----, that’s him!” exclaimed Slim. “You shore described him in a few words. And I’ll bet yo’re jist like the cowboy in the story-book--you love your horse.”

Bill looked at the weary-legged gray and nodded slowly--

“Yeah, I think so much of that animal that I wouldn’t even try to sell him.”

“And that saddle, too!” said Slim, “Didja win that at a rodeo?”

“That,” said Bill seriously, “that was the saddle that George Washington used when he crossed the Delaware. It’s a heirloom.”

Crane laughed loudly and slapped Slim on the back.

“I’ll match him agin’ yuh any old time, Slim. Bill H. Smith ain’t no pandowdy puncher. He’s hired to help yuh run the legs off our cows; _sabe_? Be good to him--cause I want yuh to keep your health, Slim.”

“My ----, yuh talk like I wasn’t kind to everybody!”

Slim seemed aggrieved to think that Crane would even question his sweet disposition.

“I never seen yuh bitin’ the legs off yaller-jackets nor ticklin’ the teeth of a rattler--if that’s what yuh mean, Slim. You show Smith where to lean his horse, will yuh? I’ll give yuh some blankets for that other bunk, and Smith can fill the tick with fresh straw.”

Crane went to the ranch-house, while Slim led Bill down to the stable and pointed out an empty stall. As they came outside Slim squinted at Bill and said:

“Dog-gone it, yore voice reminds me of somebody I’ve heard talkin’. I dunno who it was, but it’s familiar.”

“Prob’ly that other Smith you knowed, Slim.”

Slim looked at him quizzically and laughed shortly--

“Yeah, I reckon that’s who it was. Do they all talk alike?”

“All I ever knowed, except one, Slim.”

“How’d he talk?”

“Through his nose.”

Slim’s face was very serious as he digested this mentally.

“Well, there’s exceptions to all cases, I reckon. I’ll show yuh where to fill that straw-tick. I’m glad yuh come to work here, Smith. We sure need another man here.”

“Plenty of work, eh?” queried Bill Smith.

“No-o-o, not much work. But we’ve got twenty hens that are layin’ every day, and the ---- aigs are spoilin’ on us.”

* * * * *

It was near closing time at the bank on the following day. Della’s head was aching from trying to absorb knowledge of the banking business, and she was almost ready to slam down the top of her desk and run away into the hills. It was all so complicated, and Eddy had tried to teach her the whole system in one day. Consequently her mind was awhirl.

Big Jim came in and leaned on her desk, puffing away at his cigar, a grin on his lips.

“Learning the game, Della?” he asked.

“Oh, I don’t know what I’ve learned,” she said nervously. “It is all Greek to me yet. I don’t think I’ll ever understand what it is all about.”

“I don’t understand it,” he laughed. “Too much for me.”

“Why did you give me this position?” she asked.

Big Jim laughed and squinted at his cigar thoughtfully.

“Well, I thought you needed a good job, and,” he lowered his voice and leaned closer, “I wanted to have you around, Della.”

“Wanted to have me around?” Wonderingly.

“Sure. I wanted to have the prettiest girl in the State working for me. You are pretty, Della.”

She looked down at her desk and began arranging papers. It was clear to her now that Big Jim Mott did not hire her because of her ability. She knew that he was looking down at her, but she did not look up.

“I suppose those papers were not sufficiently shuffled,” he laughed softly. “You’ve got pretty hair, Della.”

Still she did not look up; so he laughed and went back to his private room. Eddy, the cashier, was locking the vault, and now he came up to her.

“Closing time, Miss Marsh,” he said pleasantly. “You may go now. I suppose it has been a hard day.”

“Rather a confusing day,” she said wearily, as she put on her hat. “I shall dream of banking terms, I suppose.”

“I have,” he confessed. “But later on it will be all in a day’s work.”

She went out and he locked the door behind her. A man was coming down the sidewalk toward her, and she recognized him as the one they called Tucson Charley. She merely gave him a glance as she started across the street. He was more Indian than white in looks and garb.

As she reached the sidewalk and started up the street, she happened to glance back and saw that Tucson Charley was following her. Perhaps, she thought, he was merely coming up to one of the stores. But he turned down a side path, following her straight to the home of the little milliner.

Della was not afraid of him, but she was curious to know why he was following her. On the steps of the little house she stopped and waited for him to come up. He glanced around, as if wondering if any one was watching him, before coming up to her.

“What do you want?” she asked.

He dug inside his dirty shirt and brought out a begrimed envelope, which he passed to her. There was no name on the envelope. She looked at it curiously, noting that it was sealed.

“What is it?” she asked.

“You open,” he said shortly.

Wonderingly she tore one end off the envelope and drew out a folded piece of paper. The writing on it had been done with a soft lead-pencil and was barely legible. Quickly she glanced at the signature on it and gave a gasp of surprise. It was signed--

_Tex._

“Where did you get this?” she asked hoarsely.

Tucson Charley shook his head and looked blankly.

She stared at him for several moments then read the note,

Dell I want to see you but I’m afraid to show myself. I have been hurt but am able to travel again. I need money to get me out of the country and don’t know where I can get it. I need about $500. Don’t tell anybody about this because the officers are close on my trail. You can trust the man who brings this. Just sign your name on this so I will know you got it. You will hear from me again. Tex.

She crushed the letter in her hands. Never for a moment did she question the authorship of the note. She had never seen any of Tex Rowland’s writing. But she did know that Tex Rowland, the man she loved, was hiding away in that country, recovering from injuries, and badly in need of money.

“Where is he?” she asked hoarsely.

Tucson Charley shook his head. Either he did not know, or would not say.

She read it through again before taking a pencil from her little bag. He had only asked her to write her name, but above the name she wrote:

_Tex, I love you in spite of everything._

Quickly she put the message into the envelope, gave it back to the half-breed and watched him walk back toward the main street. She wanted to follow him and ask more questions about Tex; but she knew that Tucson Charley would not talk. She knew that Tucson Charley worked for Pablo, at the Paint Pot ranch, and wondered if Tex were hiding out there.

It was not like Tex to ask her for money. But under the circumstances she was about the only one he could ask for help. Her pocket-book revealed the fact that she had just twelve dollars. It was out of the question for her to get the five hundred dollars for him.

She did not confide in Miss Freeland that night. It would be like trusting the news to a reporter. Miss Freeland’s tongue was of the hinged variety, and no secret was sacred to her. The next morning she went back to the bank, still wondering what she could do to help Tex.

It was difficult for her to get interested in the work. The room seemed hot and stuffy, and her head ached slightly. Some men were talking to the cashier about some accident, and she heard the name of Tucson Charley used several times.

As soon as the men went away she asked the cashier about it.

“One of Pablo’s cowboys,” he said. “They call him Tucson Charley, I think. Anyway, he got drunk last night and his horse kicked him in the head. He likely went out to the hitch-rack and fell into the horse. They found him there this morning.”

“Dead?” she asked breathlessly.

“Yes.”

The cashier went back to his work, while Della slumped back in her chair, her mind awhirl. They would find that letter on Tucson Charley, and it would lead them to Tex Rowland. She knew that Tucson Charley had never delivered that letter to Tex.

It was some time before she could control her nerves sufficiently to ask the cashier more details. But he knew no more than he had told her, except that the body had been turned over to old Paint Pablo for burial.

“Didn’t they notify the sheriff,” she asked, “or the coroner?”

“I don’t think so, Miss Marsh. You see, it was an accident; so there was nothing to interest the law. Doctor Sibley examined him, and they all decided that the horse kicked him.”

“But why don’t they bury him here at the town cemetery?” she asked.

“Nobody wanted to assume the responsibility, I suppose. He has no relatives around here. Some of the boys have taken him out to Pablo’s ranch in a wagon.”

The cashier went to attend to a customer’s wants, and Della made a pretense of working. She felt that there was a bare possibility of no one finding that letter on Tucson Charley. As long as the sheriff or coroner had not been notified, it was hardly likely that any one would search the corpse.

It was nearly noon when Big Jim rode into town and came to the bank. Della was suffering from a severe headache and he noticed that she did not look well.

“You look awful pale,” he told her. “Don’t you feel well?”

“Just a bad headache,” she told him wearily. “The figures get all tangled up in my brain somehow.”

“Say, you sift out of here and go home,” he ordered. “You ain’t in shape to work, Della.”

He walked over and explained it to the cashier, who apologized to Della for not sending her home earlier in the day. She was more than glad to leave the bank. Big Jim went outside with her, offering advice in the cure of headaches.

“You ought to take a ride into the hills,” he said. “You’ve been working too hard. I tell you what to do: You go to the livery stable and tell ’em I said to let you have a good saddle-horse. Pick out the best one there for today, and after this I’ll see that there’s a good horse kept there for you.”

“But I couldn’t do that,” she protested.

“Yes, you can, too. It’s the least I can do for you, Della. If I wasn’t so busy today, I’d ride with you. I’ll try and ride with you once in a while, after today. Now you run along and get that horse. Tell Johnny Harris to put it on my bill. No, don’t tell him anything, Della. You get the horse, and I’ll see Johnny later.”

The temptation was too great for Della. For years she had ridden the hills; riding as wild and free as any cowpuncher, and it had been as much a part of her life as eating and sleeping. She took the horse down to Miss Freeland’s house, where she made a swift change into her riding clothes.

But her clothes were hardly conventional according to riding academy standards. A pair of overalls, light flannel shirt, boots and a sombrero completed the outfit. She owned a .30-30 Winchester carbine, a gift from old Rory McPherson, but decided against taking it with her. On account of its recoil, she had never quite mastered it although she shot fairly well.

At a short distance away she could easily be mistaken for a slim, young cowpuncher, as she rode out of Antelope, heading north into the rolling hills. She was taking the shortest distance to the Paint Pot ranch, and intended to keep away from the road for fear of meeting those who had taken the remains of Tucson Charley to Pablo’s place.

V

The XO-Bar-5 was sort of a rundown place, and Martin Crane seemed to expend little effort in keeping it going. A half-breed woman, Alice Spotted Horse, did the cooking--or what passed for cooking. Alice was very fat, slow of foot and heavy of hand, and expressed every emotion with the same exclamation:

“I be ----!”

“She’s a elocutionist,” declared Slim, after Alice had used up her vocabulary on acknowledging her introduction to Bill Smith.

Alice grinned blandly and repeated herself. Bill praised her cooking and asked her why in ---- she ever put flour in her soda-biscuits. They were as yellow as saffron and fairly sizzled with their soda content. Alice thought Bill was praising her cooking and it pleased her mightily.

“You jiggers let Alice alone,” ordered Crane. “She’s all right.”

“But not for cookin’,” declared Slim. “She’s too danged thoughtful.” And then to Bill:

“About six months ago she seen Crane take a spoonful of soda for indigestion. He was sufferin’ quite a lot and it fixed him up fine. Since then she’s dumped soda into everythin’ she cooked. By golly, I stirred my coffee the other mornin’ and it blew up in my face. She’d loaded it with soda, I reckon.”

Crane laughed and called to Alice:

“Never mind what they say, Alice. Yore cookin’ keeps me in shape.”

“I be ----!” said Alice blankly.

“Aw, she appreciates praise all right,” said Slim laughing. “When yuh goin’ to get married, Alice?”

“Huh!” Alice snorted and turned her back.

“She’s got a sweetheart,” grinned Slim, “Tucson Charley. You don’t know Tucson Charley, Smith. He works for Pablo. Him and Annie are goin’ to get married some day. I dunno what she can see in that cock-eyed breed; but love beats ----, don’t it?”

“It sure does,” said Bill Smith slowly. “I reckon a cock-eyed half-breed can love. He sees things different than me and you, Slim; so we hadn’t ought to laugh at him.”

“Aw, I ain’t laughin’ at him,” protested Slim. “I _sabe_ that he thinks Alice is as cute as a hair-trigger on a cannon. I’ve been in love, and I sure appreciate the feelin’, Smith.”

Slim leaned back in his chair and gazed at the ceiling:

“She was a village maiden, Smith. Her eyes were like jet and her hair was like----”

“Oh, for ----’s sake, don’t tell it!” exploded Crane. “You make me itch for a gun every time yuh start it.”

“Does he tell it often?” queried Bill Smith.

“Every time he finds somebody that’ll listen.”

Slim laughed and fumbled for his cigarette-makings.

“I’ll slip it to yuh sometime when Crane ain’t around, Smith. It sure is a dinger of a recitation. Yuh can make it fit any girl.”

Bill Smith nodded seriously and got up from the table.

“You scare that gray bronc into the hills and help yourself to a decent animal,” said Crane, as they went outside. “There’s a tall roan down there that’s broke to everythin’ except a rope and a gun. Yuh might teach him a few things.

“There’s a good saddle down in the bunkhouse, too. That hull you rode in here is liable to fall apart and leave yuh settin’ down. You might as well go with Slim over to the Paint Pot and see Pablo today. Pablo’s got about a hundred white-faced cows, which Big Jim wants, and I’ve got to try and buy ’em cheap. If Pablo knows that Big Jim wants ’em, he’ll jump the price; _sabe_?”

“All right,” agreed Bill Smith, “but if he don’t talk more than he did yesterday, we’ll never know whether we’ve bought somethin’ or not.”

“He’ll talk to Slim.”

“Yeah, he’ll talk to me,” laughed Slim. “But I’ll betcha we’ll never get a short price on them white-faced cows. Pablo thinks they’re pintos.”

They saddled and rode off across the hills toward the Paint Pot ranch. Bill Smith had taken the tall roan, a half-broken, hammer-headed brute, which wanted to hurdle everything in sight. Slim grinned in appreciation of Bill’s horsemanship.

“That roan made me do a hoolihan,” he confided. “Crane thought he could fork it, and he ate his meals standin’ up for a few days. If he ever starts doin’ his wormfence, you’ll know you’ve been well-mounted; but I reckon you’ve forked ’em before.”

It was about eight miles to the Paint Pot, and by the time they had covered that distance the roan was willing to take its time.

They found Pablo and Mike John sitting against the shady side of the old ranchhouse, hugging their knees. Both of them squinted at the two cowpunchers but did not get up. Mose Dickey came around the corner of the house, halted at sight of Slim and Bill, and leaned heavily against the corner.

Slim squatted on his heels in front of Pablo and rolled a cigarette. He had not spoken; neither had Pablo nor his men. The Indian blood predominated in their actions, and Slim knew them well enough to appreciate this fact. Bill Smith squatted down and offered his tobacco to Pablo, but it was refused.

“Well, what do yuh know, Pablo?” queried Slim, after a long interval of silence.

Pablo spat and rubbed his chin. Then--“Tucson Charley dead.”

“Huh?”

Slim removed his cigaret slowly, wonderingly.

“Deader’n ----!” said Mike John.

“Tucson Charley dead?” grunted Slim.

“---- right!” grunted Pablo nodding violently.

“Pretty ---- dead,” observed Mose Dickey without emotion.

“Sounds like a settled fact,” observed Bill Smith.

“What killed Tucson Charley?” asked Slim.

“Horse kick ’m,” said Pablo.

“Men say horse kill ’m,” corrected Mose Dickey.

“Um-m,” said Pablo.

“’Pears to be a difference of opinion, Slim,” observed Bill.

Pablo got to his feet and motioned for them to follow him. They filed into the house where they viewed the remains of Tucson Charley, laid out on a sagging cot, covered with a gaudy blanket.

“He’s dead,” said Pablo softly.

“Deader’n ----!” said Mike John, with finality.

“Where did it happen, Pablo?” asked Slim, as Bill Smith made a close examination of the dead man’s head.

“Antelope.”

Pablo hooked his thumbs over his belt and nodded slowly: “Charley he go town yesterday. Men say he got ---- drunk. I guess that right, too. Find ’m this morning by hitch-rack.”

“Pretty ---- dead,” added Mose Dickey.

“Got drunk, fell into the bronc and got kicked in the head, eh?” said Slim.

“Men say so,” agreed Pablo.

“His horse?” asked Bill Smith.

“---- right,” nodded Pablo. “Men bring horse, too.”

“Where’s the horse?” asked Bill Smith.

“Jus’ pinto horse,” said Mose Dickey.

“Down by corral.”

He jerked his thumb in that direction.

Slim and Bill walked outside and looked down toward the tumble-down corral, where the pinto horse was still tied to the fence.

“Let’s take a look at it, Slim,” suggested Bill.

Pablo and Mose Dickey followed them down and watched Bill Smith throw his sombrero at the pinto’s heels. The animal jumped ahead, whirled and pulled back, but did not kick. Bill spoke softly to the animal, moved in close and soothed it. After working around it for a while he was able to examine its hoofs.

“That’s a pretty good horse, Pablo,” said Bill after he had finished his examination.

Pablo grinned and nodded quickly. There were four more pinto horses inside the corral and Bill looked them over.

“You like pinto horses?” asked Pablo.

“Yeah, I like ’em--in a circus,” replied Bill seriously.

“I sell you good one--mebbe,” said Pablo.

“Mebbe,” grinned Bill.

They went back to the house and squatted in the shade, but this time Pablo accepted Bill Smith’s tobacco.

“You got plenty white-faced cows, Pablo,” said Slim. “Market bad now. Meat not much good, skin small price. How much you want for white-faced cows?”

Pablo thought this over for quite a while, alternately squinting at Slim and looking down at the ground. Then, his decision: “No trade now. Too sad, you _sabe_? Gotta bury Tucson Charley.”

“Sure,” agreed Slim. “We talk ’nother time, eh?”

“Um-m.”

“Goin’ to have a preacher, ain’t yuh?” asked Bill Smith.

“What for preacher?” queried Pablo blankly.

“They don’t _sabe_ that,” said Slim before Bill had a chance to explain. “Let’s go home before they wish a shovel on to us.”

They got on their horses and rode away, without even saying good-by to the Paint Pot outfit.