Part 1

THE DEAD-LINE

by W. C. Tuttle

Author of “Sun-Dog Loot,” “Rustler’s Roost,” etc.

Jack Hartwell’s place was not of sufficient importance in Lo Lo Valley to be indicated by a brand name. It was a little four-room, rough-lumber and tar-paper shack, half buried in a clump of cottonwoods on the bank of Slow Elk Creek.

The house had been built several years before by a man named Morgan, who had the mistaken idea that a nester might be welcome on the Lo Lo range. He had moved in quietly, built his shack, and—then the riders from Marsh Hartwell’s Arrow outfit had seen his smoke.

Whether or not Marsh Hartwell legally owned the property made no difference; he claimed it. And few men cared to dispute Marsh Hartwell. At any rate, it was proved that a nester was not welcome on the Arrow.

It was an August afternoon. Only a slight breeze moved the dry leaves of the cottonwoods, and the air was resonant with the hum of insects. Molly Hartwell, Jack Hartwell’s wife, stood on the unshaded front steps of the house, looking down across the valley, which was hazy with the heat waves.

Mrs. Hartwell was possibly twenty years of age, tall, slender; a decided brunette of the Spanish type, although there was no Spanish blood in her ancestry. She was the kind of woman that women like to say mean things about; and try to make themselves believe them.

The married men of the Lo Lo mentally compared her with their women-folk; while the single men, most of them bashful, hard-riding cowpunchers, avoided her, and hoped she’d be at the next dance.

Jack Hartwell did not wave at her as he rode in out of the hills and dismounted at the little corral beside the creek. He unsaddled, turned his sweat-marked sorrel into the corral and hung his saddle on the fence.

Jack Hartwell was a few years older than his wife; a thin-waisted, thin-faced young man with an unruly mop of blond hair and a freckled nose. His wide, blue eyes were troubled, as he squinted toward the house and kicked off his chaps.

He could not see his wife, but he knew that she was waiting for him, waiting for the news that he was bringing to her. After a few moments of indecision he shrugged his shoulders and walked around the house to her.

She was sitting down in the doorway now, and he halted beside her, his thumbs hooked over the heavy cartridge belt around his waist.

“It’s hot,” he said wearily.

“Yes, it’s hot,” she said. “There hasn’t been much breeze today.”

“Water is gettin’ kinda low, Molly. Several of the springs ain’t runnin’ more than a trickle.”

“We need rain.”

Neither of them spoke now, as they looked down across the valley. Winged grasshoppers crackled about the duty yard, and several hornets buzzed up and down the side of the house, as if seeking an entrance. Finally the woman looked up at him and he moved uneasily.

“Yeah, it’s him—Eph King.”

There was bitterness in Jack Hartwell’s voice, which he did not try to conceal.

A flash of triumph came into the woman’s eyes, and she turned back to her contemplation of the hills. Her husband looked down at her, shaking his head slowly.

“Molly, it’s goin’ to mean —— in these hills.”

“Is it?”

She did not seem to mind.

“They’ve drawn a dead-line now,” he said slowly, “and there has been some shootin’. They’ve sent for the outfits down in the south end, and they’ll be here tonight.”

“Well, we won’t be in it,” she said flatly. “It means nothing to us.”

“Don’t it?”

Jack squinted hard at her, but she did not look up.

“No. The law has decided that a sheep has the same right as a cow. The cattlemen of the Lo Lo do not legally own all this valley.”

“Mebbe not—” Jack shook his head wearily—“but they hold it, Molly.”

“Well,” she laughed shortly, scornfully, “you are not a cattleman. You’ve got nothing to fight for.”

“No-o-o?”

She sprang to her feet, her eyes flashing.

“Well, have you?” she demanded. “Your own people have turned you down. Your own father cursed you for marrying a daughter of Eph King. You wasn’t good enough to even work for him; so he gave you this!” She flung out her arms in a gesture of contempt. “Is this worth fighting for?”

Jack Hartwell bit his lip for a moment and the ghost of a smile passed his thin lips.

“It ain’t worth much, is it, Molly? Still, it was worth so much that——”

“That they killed the man who took possession of it,” she finished angrily.

“Yeah, they killed him, Molly. Morgan was a fool. He had a chance to go away, but he would rather fight it out.”

“He was a friend of my father.”

“Yeah, I know it, Molly. But that has nothing to do with us.”

“Did you see the sheep?”

“Yeah. I went as far as the dead-line, Molly. The hills are full of sheep. They were comin’ down the draws like the gray water of a cloud-burst, spreadin’ all over the flats. As far back as yuh can see, just sheep and dust.”

“Are they on Arrow range?”

“On the upper edge. The punchers threw ’em back about half a mile, but I dunno.” Jack shook his head. “There’s so many of ’em.”

“Dad has thirty thousand head,” she said slowly. “Or he did have that many before——”

“Before yuh ran away to marry me,” finished Jack.

“I went willingly, Jack.”

“Oh, I know it, Molly.” He turned and threw an arm across her shoulder. “You’ve had a rotten deal, girl. I wish for your sake that it could be undone. I didn’t know that there was so much hate between your dad and mine. I knew that they were not friends, but—well, I know now.”

“Your father drove my father out of this valley.”

“But that was years ago, Molly.”

“And branded him a thief,” bitterly.

“Yeah, I reckon that’s right. It never was proved nor disproved, Molly. We’ve known for years that he was goin’ to try and shove sheep across the range into Lo Lo. He swore that he would sheep us out. There ain’t been a time in two years that men haven’t ridden the upper ranges, watchin’ for such a thing.

“There’s a man livin’ in Kiopo Cañon, whose job is to watch the other slope. I dunno how it was he didn’t warn us; and I dunno how your father ever found out that we were goin’ to hold the roundup two weeks ahead of time. He sure picked the right time. If we’d ’a’ known it, he’d never got his sheep up over the divide.”

“You say ‘we,’” said Molly slowly. “Are you one of them? After they have turned you out, are you still one of them?”

Jack turned away, shading his eyes with one hand, as he studied the hills.

“I’ve always been a cowman,” he said slowly. “I’ve been raised to hate sheep and yuh can’t change a man in a day.”

“What have the cattlemen done for you, Jack?”

Jack did not reply.

* * * * *

A man was riding out of the hills on a jaded horse. He rode slowly up to them, a bronzed, wiry cowboy, with sun-red eyes and a sweat-streaked face.

“Hello, Spiers,” said Jack.

“G’d afternoon, folks. Hotter’n ——, ain’t it.”

“Crawl off and rest your feet,” invited Jack.

“No, thank yuh. I jist rode down this-away to tell yuh that there’s a meetin’ at the Arrow t’night. The boys from the other end of the range’ll be there by evenin’.”

“Did my dad send yuh after me, Spiers?”

“No-o-o, he didn’t,” Spiers shifted in his saddle nervously. “But I’ve always liked yuh, Jack; and I kinda thought yuh might want t’ come. It’s a cattlemen’s meetin’, yuh know.”

“And he’s a cattleman,” said Molly dryly.

Spiers flushed slightly and picked up his reins.

“Well, I’ll be ridin’ on. S’long, folks.”

He swung his horse around and rode on into the hills, without looking back.

“Oh, I hate that man!” exclaimed Molly angrily.

“Spiers is all right,” defended Jack calmly.

“All right! He’s a gunman, a killer.”

“Prob’ly. He’s dad’s foreman; been his foreman for years.”

“And does your dad’s dirty work.”

Jack sighed deeply and shook his head.

“There’s no use arguin’ with yuh, Molly.”

“Spiers killed Jim Morgan.”

“Well, Morgan had an even break. He—Say, how did you know that Spiers killed Morgan?”

“I didn’t.”

Molly turned away and went into the house.

Jack went back to the corral, where he leaned on the fence and tried to decide what to do. Naturally his sympathies were with the cattleman. He had been born and raised in the Lo Lo Valley, steeped in the lore of the rangeland; a top-hand cowboy at sixteen.

He had known Molly King when they were both attending the little cow-town school at Totem City, when the fathers of both were struggling for supremacy in the valley. Then came a day, when accusations were hurled at Eph King and his outfit. He was accused of wholesale cattle stealing, but no arrests were made. The cattlemen, headed by Marsh Hartwell, bought him out at a fair price and sent him out of the country.

But whether through his ill-gotten gains or through his own ability, Eph King became the sheep king of the Sunland Basin, a vast land to the north of Lo Lo, a land that was a constant threat to Lo Lo.

But there was one thing in the cattlemen’s favor: The sheep would have to come through the pass at the head of Kiopo Cañon, where old Ed Barber kept daily watch of the slopes which led off into Sunland.

Jack Hartwell again met Molly King in Medicine Tree, which was the home town of the King family. It was circus day. The recognition had been mutual and old scores were forgotten. They spent the day together, like a couple of kids out of school, drinking pink lemonade and feeding peanuts to the one elephant. It was not a big circus.

For several months after that Jack Hartwell found excuses to go to Medicine Tree. Then one day he came back to the Arrow ranch with a wife. They had eloped. Big Marsh Hartwell listened to their explanations, his face blue with suppressed anger, while Mrs. Hartwell, a frail little, gray-haired woman, with pleading blue eyes, clutched her apron with both blue-veined hands and watched her husband anxiously.

“So that’s it, eh?” Marsh Hartwell nodded slowly, his eyes almost shut. “You went over there and married her, did yuh. You married Eph King’s daughter.”

“Father!”

Ma Hartwell put a hand on his arm, but he shook it off.

“And yuh brought her back here, eh? Now what are yuh goin’ to do?”

“Why, I thought—” began Jack.

“No, yuh didn’t think! That’s the trouble. You know —— well that a King ain’t welcome in this valley. You’ve put yourself on a level with them. The son-in-law of a shepherd! You can’t stay here. Don’t you know that for years we’ve spent money to keep the King family out of this valley? And here yuh bring one in on us.”

“All right,” Jack had replied angrily. “We’ll go back to ’em.”

“No, yuh won’t. You move your stuff over to the old Morgan place. I’ll make yuh a present of it. Mebbe yuh can live it down—I dunno; but yuh can’t stay here on the Arrow.”

Jack thought all this over as he leaned on the corral fence. They had lived there less than a year. People avoided them. Molly had no women friends. To them she was the sheep woman, although they were forced to admit that she did not contaminate the air. Jack took her to dances and tried to make her one of the crowd, but without success.

And the men were not friendly to Jack. He had been one of them; one of a crowd of wild-riding, rollicking cowboys, who drank, played poker and danced with reckless abandon. In fact, Jack had been a sort of ring-leader of the gang.

He missed all this more than any one knew. But most of all he missed the home life of the Arrow ranch.

His sister and her husband, Bill Brownlee, lived at the Arrow. Brownlee hated the sheep even worse, if such a thing were possible, than did Marsh Hartwell. There were three cowboys employed:

Three gunmen, as Molly had called them.

“Honey” Wier, a wide-mouthed, flat-faced cowboy, who hailed from “Alberty, by gosh,” “Cloudy” McKay, a dour-faced, trouble expecter from Arizona, and “Chet” Spiers, the foreman, composed the hired element of the Arrow. And Lo Lo Valley respected them for their ability. Marsh Hartwell knew cowpunchers, and in these three men he had ability plus.

And Jack Hartwell, as he leaned on the corral fence, knew down deep in his heart that he could not remain neutral. It would be impossible. He must decide quickly, too. If he did not attend that meeting, the cattlemen would take it for granted that he was against them. Spiers had given him no chance to vacillate.

* * * * *

Far back in the hills sounded the report of a rifle. Jack lifted his head, and as he did so he thought he caught a flash of color back on the side of a hill. For several minutes he watched the spot, but there was nothing other than the sage brush and the dancing haze.

“Seein’ things,” he told himself, but to make sure he walked back up the brush-lined stream, keeping out of sight of that certain spot. But he found nothing, and came back to the corral, where he busied himself for an hour or so, putting in a couple of new posts.

He needed physical action, and he worked swiftly in the blazing sun. Then he flung himself down in the shade and smoked innumerable cigarets, still wrestling with himself. The sun went down before he walked back to the house. Molly was putting their supper on the table, but he had no appetite.

“I heard a shot a while ago,” she told him, and he nodded grimly.

“You’ll prob’ly hear a lot more before it’s over, Molly.”

He sat down at the table, but shoved his plate aside.

“I’m not hungry,” he said slowly. “I’ve fought it all out with myself today, Molly. It’s been a —— of a fight.”

“Fought out what?”

She swallowed dryly, almost choking.

“Just what to do. I’m goin’ to that meetin’ at the Arrow tonight.”

She got to her feet, staring down at him.

“You going to that meeting? Why, you won’t be welcome. Don’t be a fool, Jack. They know you won’t be there.”

“I’ll be there,” Jack nodded slowly, but did not look at her. “Molly, you married a cowpuncher, not a sheepherder. This is my country. I—I reckon I hate sheep as bad as anybody around here, and I’ve got to help keep ’em out.”

“You have?” She sat down and stared across the table at him. “After what they’ve done to us?”

“Yeah—even after that.”

“You’d fight against—me?”

“You? Why, bless yore heart, Molly; it ain’t you.”

“It’s my father, my folks. He never did you any harm.”

“Well,” Jack smiled grimly, “he never had a good chance. Yuh must remember that I haven’t seen him since I was a kid. I had to steal yuh, girl. He’d ’a’ prob’ly killed me, if he knew.”

Molly shook her head quickly.

“I think he knew, Jack. In fact, I’m sure of it.”

“How do you know?” He squinted closely at her. “We didn’t know it was goin’ to happen until we met that day, the day we ran away to get married. And you never seen him since.”

“Oh, I don’t know.”

She got to her feet and walked to the kitchen door. He watched her for a while, and then got up from the table, picking up his hat. Quickly she turned and walked back to the table.

“Jack, I forbid you to go there tonight.”

“Well,” he smiled softly at her, “I’m sorry yuh feel that way about it, Molly, but I’m goin’, thassall.”

“Are you?” Her eyes blazed with anger.

“Well, go ahead. I may not be here when you come back.”

“Uh-huh?”

He turned his sombrero around several times, as if trying to control himself.

“Well,” he looked up at her wistfully, “I may not come back, yuh know.”

“Why—why do you say that, Jack?”

“Well, I don’t want to come back, unless I’m sure you’ll be home.”

She stared at him as he went past her and walked down to the corral, where he saddled his horse, drew on his chaps and rode away toward the Arrow. She had not told him whether or not she would be home when he returned, and he had not told her good-by.

Jack rode out over the trail that led to the Arrow ranch house three miles away. He was in no hurry, and drew up his horse after he was hidden from the house. He wondered if Molly would be foolish enough to ride back into the hills to her father. Her horse and saddle were at the corral.

He knew that it might be dangerous for her to ride across the dead-line at night. She wore men’s garb for riding purposes. He turned his horse around and rode back to where he could watch the house. It was not his nature to spy upon his wife, but he did not want her to run into danger foolishly.

He did not have long to wait. A man came through the fringe of brush along the creek, going cautiously. Once he stopped and looked intently at the spot where Jack was hidden. Then he went swiftly toward the house, coming in at the opposite side.

Jack mounted his horse and spurred back along the trail. He could not recognize this man, but his very actions stamped him as dangerous. Jack dismounted at the rear of the house and went around to the front, where he stopped. Voices were coming from the other side of the house. Silently as possible he went to the corner. Molly was standing with her back to him, looking at something in her hands, while the man stood beside her, looking down toward the corral.

“Company came, eh?” said Jack softly.

Molly and the stranger turned quickly. With a quick intake of breath, Molly flung her hands behind her. The stranger was a middle-aged man, unkempt, with a face covered with black stubble. His clothes were dirty, torn. The butt of a six-shooter stuck out of the waistband of his overalls.

He merely squinted at Jack and looked at Molly. It was evident that he did not know Jack, who came closer, holding out his hand to Molly.

“Give me that letter, Molly,” ordered Jack.

“I will not!”

Her teeth clicked angrily, as she faced him.

He walked up, ignoring the man, grasped her by the shoulder and whirled her around. The action was unlooked for and she threw out one hand to catch her balance. Quick as a flash Jack grabbed at the hand which held the letter, but all he got was a corner of the paper.

“Quit that!” snapped the stranger, grasping Jack by the arm. “Don’tcha try ——”

He whirled Jack around and got a left-hand smash full in the jaw, which sent him to his knees, spitting blood. But the blow was not heavy enough to do more than daze him, and as he straightened up he jerked the six-shooter from his waist.

But Jack was looking for this, and his bullet crashed into the stranger’s arm between elbow and wrist, leaving the man staring up at him, unable to do more than mouth a curse.

Molly had been leaning back against the side of the house, her face white with fright, but now she sped into the kitchen, slamming the door behind her. The stranger got to his feet, holding his arm with his left hand, and looked around.

“Yo’re from the sheep outfits, ain’t yuh?” asked Jack.

“That’s my business.” The stranger was not a bit meek.

“It’s a —— of a business,” observed Jack. “Who was that letter from?”

“Mebbe yuh think yuh can find out, eh?”

“All right. Now you mosey back where yuh came from, _sabe_? If I ever catch yuh around here again, I’ll not shoot at yore arm. Now vamoose _pronto_.”

The man turned and went swiftly back past the corral, where he disappeared through the brush. A few moments later he came out on to the side of a hill, where he lost no time in putting distance between himself and the ranch.

Jack watched him disappear and went to the kitchen door. It was locked. For a while he stood there, wondering what to do. He had lost the piece he had torn from the corner of the letter, but now he found it on the ground.

It had torn diagonally across the corner, and on it were only three words, written in lead-pencil:

Find out what——

Just the three words. For a long time he studied them, before the full import of them struck him. He walked to the front door, but found it locked. Then he went back, mounted his horse and rode back toward the Arrow. It was growing dark now, and he felt sure that the stranger would not come back. He was in need of medical attention, and Jack felt that he would lose no time in getting back to his own crowd.

Jack took the tiny piece of paper from his pocket and looked it over again.

“It’s from her father,” he told himself. “Find out what? Find out somethin’ about the cattlemen, I wonder? My ——, is my wife a spy?”

He straightened in his saddle, as past events flashed through his mind. Molly had known that there was a lookout in Kiopo Cañon. He remembered that Honey Wier had spoken in her presence of old Ed Barber, the keeper of the Kiopo Pass, who drew a salary for sitting up there, watching for sheep.

She also knew that the fall roundup was to be held at this time. Had she written this to her father, he wondered? She had plenty of chances, when she went for the mail. And she had intimated that her father knew she was going to marry him.

“Is she standin’ all this for her father?” he asked himself. “Did she marry me just to give her father a chance to get even with the Arrow?”

He tried to argue himself out of the idea, but the tiny, triangular piece of paper, with the three written words, was something that he could not deny. It was after dark when he rode in at the Arrow. There were twelve horses tied to the low fence in front of the ranch house. A yellow glow showed through the heavy window curtains of the living room.

Jack did not stop to knock on the front door, but walked right in. The room was full of men, hazy with smoke. They had been arguing angrily as he entered, but now they were still.

His father was sitting at the back of the room, in the center, while the others were facing him. There were Cliff Vane, owner of the Circle V, and his two cowboys, Bert Allen and “Skinner” Close; Sam Hodges, the crippled owner of the Bar 77, with Jimmy Healey, Paul Dazey and Gene Hill; Old Frank Hall, who owned the 404, his son Tom and three punchers.

“Slim” De Larimore, the saturnine-faced owner of the Turkey track brand, a horse outfit. Three of his punchers were scattered around the room. Seated near Marsh Hartwell was “Sudden” Smithy, the sheriff, who owned the Lazy S outfit. Near him sat “Sunshine” Gallagher, his deputy, the prize pessimist of Lo Lo Valley.

Near the dining-room door, Spiers sat hunched against the wall, and near him was Brownlee, Jack’s brother-in-law. Jack closed the door behind him and looked quickly around the room. Marsh Hartwell squinted closely at Jack. It was the first time that Jack had been in the Arrow ranch house since his father had told him he would not be welcome any longer.

De Larimore had evidently been talking, as he started in again to explain something, but Marsh Hartwell silenced him with a motion of his hand, looking intently at Jack.

“Was there somethin’ yuh wanted?”

Marsh Hartwell’s voice was cold and impersonal. He might have been speaking to a total stranger instead of to his own son.

“Somethin’ I wanted?” said Jack puzzled. “I came to the meetin’, thass all.”

“I asked him to,” said Spiers. “I didn’t think he’d come.”

“Yuh can’t never tell about some folks.” Thus Sunshine Gallagher, grinning.

“Thank yuh, Sunshine,” said Jack easily.

“Oh ——, yore welcome, I’m sure.”

“What did you expect to do at this meetin’?” queried Marsh Hartwell.

“For one thing,” said Jack coldly, “I didn’t expect to be insulted. I know I’m an outsider, but I own a few cattle.”

Some one laughed and Jack turned his head quickly, but every one was straight faced.

“Oh, ——, you fellers make me tired!” roared old Sam Hodges, hammering his cane on the floor. His white beard twitched angrily. “Why don’tcha let the kid alone. What if he did marry the daughter of a sheepherder? By ——, that ain’t so terribly awful, is it?”

He glared around as if daring any one to challenge his argument.

“Are any of you fellers pure? Ha, ha, ha, ha! By ——, I could tell a few things about most of yuh, if I wanted to. I’ve seen Jack’s wife, and I’ll rise right up and proclaim that they raise some —— sweet lookin’ females in the sheep country. Set down, Jack. Yo’re a cowman, son, and this here is a cowman’s meetin’. We need trigger fingers, too, by ——! And if m’ memory don’t fail me, you’ve got a good one.”

“But—” began the sheriff.

“But ——!” snorted the old man.