Part 2

But what they found was a door closed against them. Never again did Jud Ault speak to his daughter. He drew back in his shell, like an old turtle, even refusing to go to town. And when it was definitely decided that Jud Ault had made his final decision, Jack Keene, gambler, former lawyer (according to Miles Lane, a local attorney, who had formed a friendship for Keene), disappeared from Oreana City--alone.

Not even then did Jud Ault relent and take back his daughter, who had no means of support. Men went to him and urged him to take care of her, even if he did not want to see her, and he cursed them out. There was no doubt in the minds of everyone that Jack Keene had had an eye on the Lazy A when he married Faith; but had sneaked away like a cur when he found that his marriage did not mean money.

Then came the Keene baby. Men said that old Jud Ault would relent now. But he never saw his grandchild. Faith Keene lived in a little shack of a house, which Jack had partly furnished. She tried to make a living by taking in washing, but the returns were too small compared to the physical labor involved. Also she was obliged to compete with a Chinese laundry--which some of the cowboys offered to put out of business and give her a clear field. But she declined their offer.

Things were breaking very badly for Faith Keene, when Miles Lane came to her with some money, which he told her came from Jack Keene. She did not wonder why he did not send her this money direct, because she was too thankful to get it. Lane would not tell her where Jack Keene was. Every month the Oreana City lawyer would bring her enough for her monthly wants, and she was able to struggle along and take care of her baby.

East of Oreana City, about four miles, were the tumbledown ranch buildings of the Cross Arrow, owned by “Badger” Hill and his son, known as “Shif’less.” They were veritable range derelicts, these two. Badger was a short, squatty, bewhiskered sort of a man, who greatly resembled his namesake. His vocabulary was limited to a few words--mostly profane.

Shif’less was a big hulk of a man, less than thirty years of age. He was not unhandsome, in his big, lumbering way. His features were strong, blocky, and his wistful gray eyes seemed to be continually wondering at the world from beneath a huge mop of blonde hair, which seemed forever to stand on end.

It was hinted that the Cross Arrow existed through the taking of oreanas--calves which had escaped the branding-iron of their original owners. Farther to the north, these animals were designated as mavericks. And it was also hinted that Badger Hill was not averse to forcing an oreana--taking a calf away from its mother, that he might later run it on the Cross Arrow and claim it for his own.

Shif’less Hill had, in a way, grown up with Faith Keene, and always admired her from afar. Jud Ault had detested Badger Hill and his big cowpuncher son--making it mutual, because both Badger and Shif’less hated the hard-faced owner of the Lazy A.

Eph Wheeler was a mild-mannered old man, thin-faced, keen-eyed; one of the old type of cattlemen, who cursed with no trace of emotion, and fanned the hammer of his six-shooter, when the need arose, with the air of a man who had a slightly disagreeable task to do, and wished to do it as quickly as possible.

“Dude” Wheeler, the son, was a tall, straight-backed young man, who walked so straight in his high-heeled boots that it seemed as though a gust of wind would blow him over backward. He was thin of face, with a wide mouth, showing excellent teeth when he smiled. His eyes were deep-set, black as India-ink, beneath heavy brows, while his nose was bony.

His love for gaudy clothes had won him his cognomen, and he was the flashiest cowboy in the Oreana country. But Dude Wheeler was a top-hand cowboy; ready to fight, drink, gamble or race. He had been taught to hate the Lazy A. But now there was no Lazy A, as far as the Ault family was concerned. Faith had been disowned, and no one ever heard Jud Ault speak of having any relatives. So, as long as there was no Ault family to fight, it seemed that the feud would, or had, died. No one considered that Faith Keene was an Ault.

The Lazy A was in the hands of “Idaho” Breen, who had been Ault’s foreman for years. Idaho was small of stature, as gray as a badger and with about the same disposition. Perhaps association with Jud Ault had caused Breen to become cynical, never smiling.

Cleve Sears, the sheriff, had well described Idaho Breen, when he said, “If I was goin’ to pick out a man to do a first-class job of murderin’ somebody, I’d pick Idaho Breen, ’cause he’d be sure that it was a neat job--and I don’t reckon his conscience would ever bother him at all.”

Not that Idaho had ever killed anybody--not in the Oreana country, at least. No one had ever heard him mention the feud between the Lazy A and the Star X, but for years he had ridden with a Winchester rifle in a boot under his saddle fender.

It had been hinted that Dude Wheeler had found Faith Ault rather easy to look upon, but, because she was an Ault, he had rarely seen her. Seldom did the Lazy A and the Star X outfits meet in Oreana City, but when they did both sides were coldly civil. They came to the same dances, thereby causing the sheriff much mental anguish for fear of trouble, as he wanted to play square with both sides.

But the Aults were gone now, and there were only Idaho Breen his three punchers, “Omaha” Woods, “Mex” Leone, and “Pie” Ide. But they were enough. In range language, a man had to be salty to work for the Lazy A. Omaha Woods was broad of beam, with the neck and shoulders of a wrestler and the mustache of a Viking.

Mex Leone was small, slender, almost as black as an Indian; possibly the best bronc rider in the country. Pie Ide was rangy built, tall, powerful. Men likened him to Abraham Lincoln in his facial aspect, but the physical likeness was the only way in which he resembled the great Emancipator. Pie Ide was as hard-bitted as a roundup bucker, but with a sense of humor, which neither Omaha nor Mex seemed to possess.

It was about a week after the funeral of Jud Ault. Shif’less Hill was on his monthly peanut spree. While the other cowboys spent their monthly salary, or a great part of it, for liquor and cards, Shif’less Hill consumed large quantities of peanuts and a sprinkling of peppermint candy hearts, chuckling to himself over the inane inscriptions thereon.

Just now he had strolled to the front gate of Faith Keene’s little place, where Faith was sitting on the porch with the little boy. She spoke to Shif’less, who opened the gate and came in, sprawling lazily on the steps.

He offered Faith some peanuts, but she declined, smiling at the boyish actions of the big cowboy, who poked a finger at the boy, who chuckled with delight.

“Hyah makin’ it?” he asked Faith.

“Oh, all right, Shif’less.”

“Uh-huh,” Shif’less crunched a mouthful of peanuts, his big hands hanging limply on his knees. “Tha’s good, Mrs. Keene. Glad to hear it. Say,” he looked up at her quizzically, “I heard that yore dad left a will.”

Faith looked blankly at him. “Why, I--I never heard----”

“Well, he did. I heard Idaho Breen tellin’ about it. Miles Lane helped him make it out. Idaho signed it, so he said. Some of the boys got to talkin’ about the Lazy A, and some of ’em seemed to think that you was agoin’ to git it. But Breen said there was a will. He didn’t tell much about it, except that there was a niece, or somethin’ like that, mixed up in it. I was a wonderin’ if Miles Lane had told yuh anythin’ about it, yuh know.”

“He didn’t, Shif’less,” Faith sighed deeply. “No, I didn’t know anything about it.”

“Uh-huh. I hear lotsa fellers goin’ around, kinda admittin’ that Jud Ault was all right. I suppose that’s the thing to do, after a man’s dead and gone, but they all knowed that----”

“He was my father, Shif’less.”

“That’s all right. Bein’ a father seems to be more or less of a responsibility, Mrs. Keene; but yore dad shucked his. Yeah, he’s dead and gone, and you get tears in yore eyes when folks talk about him. Mebbe yo’re right. I’ve got a dad,” Shif’less smiled slowly, his wistful eyes fixed upon the little boy on Faith’s lap, “and lotsa folks say he ain’t worth nothin’. He’s a mean voiced, hard-fisted old pelican. Yeah, I know him better than anybody else does.

“They say he steals cattle. But they ain’t never caught him at it. Mebbe he’s a thief, and he sure uses bad language. Sometimes he gets drunk and acts pretty rough. But as long as I can remember, Mrs. Keene, he’s never said a mean thing to me, except,” Shif’less smiled and filled his mouth with peanuts, “except the time he said that I shore as hell was a throw-back to my monkey ancestors. Dad hates peanuts.”

Faith laughed, and the boy chuckled, as though he understood.

“Yuh named him Jack, didn’t yuh?” asked Shif’less.

“Yes,” softly. “Jack Keene, Junior.”

“Uh-huh. Well,” Shif’less got to his feet, brushing the peanut shells off his lap, “I’ll be anglin’ along. Say, I was jist a-thinkin’. Out at the ranch I’ve got a little painted bronc. He ain’t bigger’n a minute. Been goin’ to break him to ride, but he’s so small that m’ feet hit the ground. I was jist a-wonderin’ if little Jack wouldn’t like him.”

“Oh, that’s thoughtful of you, Shif’less, but don’t you realize that little Jack won’t be able to ride a horse for a long time?”

“Uh-huh. Well, I--uh--tha’s all right, too. Yore welcome. I’ll give him the bronc, and keep it out at the ranch until yuh need it. Them painted ones shore live a long time. Well, good day, Mrs. Keene. I reckon I’ll git more peanuts, and head for home.”

Shif’less walked back to the main street, and was heading toward the New York General Merchandise Store, when he met Cleve Sears, the sheriff. Sears was short and fat, with a full-moon sort of a face. His idea of a good time was to sit in the shade and whittle.

“Hello, Shif’less,” he said jerkily. Too much fat had made him short of breath.

“’Lo, Cleve,” drawled Shif’less. “Whatcha know?”

“I know that Idaho Breen is sore as hell. Know what he done? This mornin’, so he says, he found fifty-three Lazy A cow hides in a prospect hole, somewhere between the Lazy A and the road to Welcome Creek. Said the damn’ hole was about fifty feet deep, and he didn’t know that them hides was there until he smelled ’em.”

“Smellin’ kinda deep, wasn’t he?” smiled Shif’less.

“Prob’ly the smell come out the mouth of the shaft.”

“Prob’ly. Still that ain’t so bad for him. Hides are worth good money right now.”

The sheriff breathed heavily. “I dunno. Idaho’s mad. Says he’ll show the Star X where to git off at.”

Shif’less cracked his few remaining peanuts, poured them into his mouth and began chewing complacently. “Didja hear that old Jud Ault wrote out a will before he died?”

“Somebody said he did. Left the Lazy A to a niece of his.”

“And left his daughter out in the cold.”

“Yeah, that’s true. I hear her husband is sendin’ her money every month. That’s how she gits along, Shif’less. He can’t be such an awful jigger, if he does that for her.”

“Must be all right,” mumbled Shif’less. “Don’t yuh reckon the feud between the Lazy A and the Star X is ended?”

“It ort to be, Shif’less. Still, yuh never can tell. They tell me that this niece of Jud Ault’s is named Ault--Mary Ault. Ordinarily I’d say that a woman ain’t got no business runnin’ a cow ranch, but if she keeps Idaho Breen there she won’t have to do much of the runnin’. Idaho’s been in charge ever since Jud Ault got shot.”

“Uh-huh. The Lazy A is worth a lot of money, Cleve. I had a talk with one of them minin’ engineers ’bout a year ago. He was pokin’ around the hills out near our place, and he told me that the surface showin’ on the Lazy A was worth a cold million.”

“Yeah, I heard it, too. Old Jud knowed it was there. But the Lazy A made him plenty of money--and he hated holes in the ground. I asked Miles Lane if the old man’s will stated that no minin’ was ever to be done on the Lazy A, but he said it didn’t.”

“I was jist wonderin’ if Faith Keene couldn’t contest that will, Cleve.”

“Miles says she can’t, because the old man left her one whole dollar. He says he disowned her and didn’t want to even leave her the silver dollar, but Miles showed him where she could bust the will, if he didn’t mention her at all.”

“Uh-huh,” Shif’less picked his teeth with a match. “It ’pears to me that them damn’ lawyers jist _has_ to be accurate, even if it wrongs the right folks. Well, I’m all out of peanuts. See yuh later, Cleve.”

“S’-long, Shif’less.”

Shif’less sauntered on up the street. He saw Idaho Breen in front of Miles Lane’s office, talking with Lane. They nodded coldly to him, as he went past and entered the store just beyond.

Miles Lane was above average height, slightly stooped. His sandy hair was thin and wiry; his eyes, close-set, were buried beneath beetling brows, which grew together over the bridge of his thin nose. The hinges of his wide jaws were knobby from incessant gum-chewing. But although the jaw was wide at its hinge, it tapered down to a weak chin, which gave his head the appearance of being top-heavy.

He invariably wore a winged collar and a stringy black tie, which no doubt gave him a judicial air. Lane was a bottle drinker. Perhaps so because of its economy. And as a result he was very often under the influence of liquor.

“You said she’d be here Wednesday, eh?” questioned Idaho Breen, his cold eyes studying the flushed face of the lawyer.

“Yes; Wednesday, Breen.”

“Uh-huh. When is the will to be read?”

“Oh, after she gets here. We’ll have the judge and the sheriff there to hear it. I suppose the best thing to do will be to take her right out to the Lazy A as soon as she comes.”

“That’s what I aim to do, Miles. I was just wonderin’ if Faith Keene will make any move to contest the will. It looks as though she could do that.”

“If she had enough money to make a fight of it, Idaho. I’m goin’ to have a talk with her and see how she feels about it. But she can’t do much. The will gives her one dollar. That’s a legal point. And everybody around here knows that Jud Ault wouldn’t let her in his house. He disowned her.

“No, I don’t think she’s got a chance to contest the will. In fact, I don’t think she ever thought of such a thing. She’s proud.”

“How much do yuh really think the Lazy A is worth, Miles?”

The lawyer smiled thoughtfully. “The mineral rights are easily worth a million. I talked with those engineers when they prospected it and they said it was so rich that they were afraid to estimate. One of ’em got drunk and talked. They were employed by Eastern capital, and I happen to know that Jud Ault was offered more money than he knew existed, just for the mineral rights.”

“I know that,” said Idaho. “I’ve had assays made, too. Oh, it’s there, Miles.”

“You bet it’s there. Now, what about those cow-hides?”

“Just what I told you. That prospect hole is full of Lazy A hides. That damn’ Star X outfit used that deep shaft to get rid of Lazy A hides. They’ve been eatin’ Lazy A meat for years, and I’ve wondered where they threw the hides.”

“Any proof?” asked Lane judicially.

“Proof? No! How can yuh prove who shot a beef? They’ve all been shot.”

“Then drop the subject until you’ve got proof, Idaho. There’s no use starting a battle with the Star X.”

“Just let ’em keep on eatin’ our meat, eh?”

“Have you ever eaten any Star X beef?”

“Yo’re damn’ well right, I have! But not that much.”

“The amount doesn’t matter. What I want you to do is to forget those hides. If you can get the goods on the Star X, I’m for it. But right now we don’t want to stir up any war. Get this girl established out at the Lazy A, Breen. I suppose every cowpuncher in the country will want to marry her.”

Breen laughed coldly. “I suppose. My own outfit have taken to washin’ their necks, ever since they heard she was comin’.”

“She’d be a good catch,” Lane laughed softly. “I might marry her myself.”

“You better quit drinkin’,” advised Idaho coldly.

“I don’t drink enough to hurt me.”

“Well, I don’t want yuh to drink enough to hurt _me_.”

Miles Lane laughed. “I guess you won’t get hurt much. Just forget those cow-hides, Idaho. We’ll deal with the Star X when we get the goods on ’em. Anyway, rustling is petty larceny beside what we’ll get.”

Something prompted Idaho to step over to the front window, which looked out on the crooked main street. Leaning against the wall, near the window, was Shif’less Hill, still eating peanuts. Idaho motioned to Lane, who came over to the window. Apparently Shif’less was merely engaged in eating more peanuts.

Idaho watched the big Cross Arrow puncher, who finally dusted the peanut shells off his shirt front, shoved the remainder in his chaps pocket and walked away. He did not even glance toward the window. Idaho stepped back, his eyes squinting narrowly.

“Do yuh suppose that big fat-head was listenin’ to what he might hear?”

“I don’t think so, Breen. Anyway, what could he hear?”

“Nothin’, I reckon. I don’t like him.”

“He’s harmless.”

“Yeah, I suppose he is. Except when it comes to stealin’ calves.”

“Anyway, our conversation was none of his business.”

But perhaps Shif’less Hill felt differently about it. He untied his horse at the New York Store hitch-rack, mounted and rode toward home. He had not stopped in front of Miles Lane’s office with the intention of listening. In fact, he had heard only the dull mumble of conversation, until Lane had raised his voice slightly and said:

“Just forget those cow-hides. What do we care? Rustling is petty larceny beside what we’ll get.”

“Beside what we’ll get,” muttered Shif’less. “Now, jist why did he say that, I wonder?”

* * * * *

Dear Al:

You heard about me getting shot? It was over a year ago. Since then I’ve been a cripple--paralysis. Bullet lodged against my spine, and the doctors are afraid to take it away. I’ve lost my nerve, Al. I’m as old as hell, and they say I’m as bitter as gall. Maybe I am. I haven’t a kindly feeling towards anyone. You don’t know how it is, Al; to be old, crippled, nothing to look forward to. I can’t get around. The damn’ doctor won’t tell me the truth. If you want honesty, don’t expect it after you’re old and crippled.

Al, I’m not appealing to the Association. I don’t want no cozy detective hanging around me. But I do want a man who can find out things. I’ll pay well. Maybe I’m crazy. I know they are saying I am. But I feel that everything is not right. The old Lazy A is worth a lot of money. I’ve made my will. But something makes me feel like an old bull, dyin’ out in the open, surrounded by coyotes and buzzards, waiting. I suppose they hate me. I don’t blame ’em. I’ve hated a lot in my time. See if you can find the right man, Al. The Lazy A can pay well for what it gets. Hope I’ll see you some day.

Yours truly, Jud Ault.

Cultus Collins looked up from reading the letter. A gray-haired man, with kindly blue eyes, was seated at a desk beside him, idly drawing circles on a desk blotter with a pencil. On the walls were detail maps of Arizona, a meat packer’s calendar, a framed picture of a longhorn steer. From the adjoining room came the clicking of a typewriter.

“I had a hard time locating you, Collins,” said the gray-haired man. “I got that letter nearly three weeks ago.”

“Yuh say this Lazy A is at Oreana City?”

“Yes. Have you ever been there?”

Cultus smiled grimly, but shook his head.

“No. Do you believe in fate?”

“In fate? Why, I don’t know, Collins. Do you?”

“I’m beginnin’ to,” Cultus smiled softly, as he folded up the letter. “That’s a queer sort of a letter, Al. There’s a lot in it; a lot of the soul of a bitter man. Mebbe I better see if I can help him. I dunno what he wants done, do you?”

“No. Perhaps it’s merely hallucinations, Cultus. I don’t know much about the place. If you take the job, it’ll be up to you to go there and see what you can find out. I’ll give you a note to Ault so he’ll know you’re on the job.”

“All right.”

The secretary of the Cattlemen’s Association penciled a note for Cultus, while the lean-faced cowboy grinned softly over the manufacture of a cigarette; grinned to himself, because he still had an hour to catch the same train that Mary Smith was taking to Oreana City.

Cultus had had no inkling that the Cattle Association was going to send him to Oreana City. He had told Mary Smith good-by, and had promised to join her as soon as possible to help carry out the deception. Neither of them knew what it meant, but there was no question that it was a crooked deal. And now the Association was sending Cultus to the same location.

“What seems so funny to you?” queried the secretary, as he folded the note. Cultus grinned widely, but did not reply. They shook hands and Cultus went back to the busy street of an Arizona metropolis. He headed for the depot, where he found Mary Smith.

Part of the hundred-dollar bill had been invested in a modest gray suit and a small hat. There were roses in her cheeks now, as she sprang up to greet Cultus.

“I’ve got to buy a ticket to Oreana,” he grinned.

“Oh, are you going with me?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“Oh, I’m so glad, Mr. Collins!”

“Well, that’s nice of yuh, Miss Janice Lee,” Cultus sobered quickly. “Don’t forget that’s who yuh are, little woman. Forget Mary Elizabeth Smith. And my name ain’t Collins. My name’s Jones, and I’m from Oklahoma. All you know about me is that yuh met me on the train, and yuh think I’m buyin’ cattle.”

“But--but what is the idea?”

“Strictly business. Miss Lee. Unless I’m mistaken, there’ll be someone to meet yuh in Oreana City. You don’t know, and I don’t know what the game is. But let ’em do the talkin’, and you’ll soon know. I can’t be with yuh. But don’t be scared. They won’t hurt yuh; that ain’t what they want yuh for. But I won’t be far away. Play the game, Mary Elizabeth.”

“Oh, I’ll do that, Mr. Jones of Oklahoma.”

“_Buena muchacho_,” smiled Cultus. “I have a feelin’ that yo’re goin’ to be a help in my business this time.”

“What is your business, anyway?”

“Bein’ Jones of Oklahoma--a cattle buyer.”

* * * * *

“Off that shirt! Off that shir-r-r-rt!” Pie Ide’s voice almost lifted the shingles off the Lazy A bunkhouse. Mex Leone stopped putting on a cerise creation, and stared at Ide, who had been shining his boots with Rising Sun stove-polish, which was smelling to high heaven.

“Ain’t this my shirt?” asked Mex softly.

“Yore shirt! Sa-a-a-ay, when did you own a shirt like that? I bought that shirt in Phoenix three years ago, Mex. I’m not dressin’ both of you jiggers. Omaha’s got on a pair of my socks, and if that ain’t my red tie he’s-- Hey, Omaha, that’s my collar!

“Yeah, it is, too! You never had none as high as that. My Gawd, if you ever set down hard, you’d slice off yore ears. Now, look at it! Why don’tcha polish yore boots _after_ yuh dress yore neck? Hell, I can’t wear that collar now! And there ain’t-- Wear one of yours, Omaha? That’s right neighborly of yuh, cowboy. I’ve got a fifteen and a half neck, and you’ve got a seventeen.”

“I’d rather have a phonygraft, wouldn’t you, Omaha?” asked Mex, searching his war-sack for another shirt. “Yuh can shut off a phonygraft.”

“I don’t pay no attention to the big scorpion,” said Omaha. “He thinks he can claim things by talkin’ louder than anybody else. That was my collar. Provin’ it to him jist ruined it for both of us. And this tie----”