Part 1

The Lovable Liar

By W. C. Tuttle

Tecoma consisted of a little depot, a saloon and a restaurant. Inasmuch as the saloon and restaurant were in the same building, it made Tecoma a two-house town. The railroad time table showed that Tecoma had an elevation of five thousand feet, and that certain trains would stop there on a flag.

There was a wagon road of sorts from Tecoma down into the Moolock cattle country, and this alleged road also wound its way from Tecoma back to the mines of the Bearpaw district. The main street of Tecoma was this road, if it might be termed a street. In front of the saloon and restaurant was a long hitch-rack, where a horse might have the privilege of standing at an angle of about forty-five degrees.

Just now it was after dark. The restaurant was closed, as was the depot; but from the open saloon door a shaft of yellow light illuminated part of the rough porch. Inside the saloon, five men sat at a poker table, playing rather indifferently. The stakes were not high enough to make it interesting for a tall, raw-boned cowboy, who yawned wearily and shoved back from the table.

“I wish there was a hotel here,” he said. “Ain’t even a stable where yuh can feed a horse.”

“And that’s whatever,” agreed the proprietor. “Tecoma ain’t no town, pardner. ’F I had a bed I’d offer it to you and your pardner; but all I’ve got is a cot t’ sleep on.”

“It’s about twenty miles to Moolock,” offered the man who owned the restaurant. “The road ain’t none too good, but yuh can get a bed in Moolock.”

The tall cowboy yawned again and squinted at his partner, “Sleepy” Stevens. Sleepy was slightly below the average in height, with broad shoulders, slightly bowed legs and a pair of perfectly innocent blue eyes. His face was angular, almost serious in repose, but at the slightest provocation it would break into a mass of grin-wrinkles, like the ripples from a stone cast into a quiet pool.

“What do yuh think about it, Sleepy?” asked “Hashknife” Hartley, the tall one. “Shall we gird up our broncs and hie away for this Moolock town?”

“Jist so well as not, I reckon,” said Sleepy. “Might as well be ridin’ as settin’ here. I ain’t held better than a pair of jacks since supper.”

“You fellers come in from the Bearpaw?” asked the saloon man.

“Yeah,” said Hashknife. “We came in over the Grayling trail. Some darned liar told us that there was a lot of unlocated land up there--land that was pretty rich; but he lied, as usual. What kind of a country is this Moolock?”

“Cows, mostly. Lot of good outfits. Frank Allenby owns the Half-Circle Cross, the biggest outfit.”

Hashknife looked curiously at Sleepy, who regarded him innocently. They cashed in their few chips, bought a supply of tobacco from the saloon keeper, and went out to the hitch-rack.

As they started to untie their horses, Sleepy grunted wonderingly. He had ridden a roan horse into Tecoma, but the horse he was looking at now was decidedly gray. Its head was hanging low with fatigue and its coat was drying rough with lather.

He called softly to Hashknife, who was doing a little swearing over his own discovery.

“I’ve got a pinto,” grunted Hashknife, as Sleepy blurted out the fact that he had drawn a gray.

There were only two horses at the rack, and only one rack in the town. Sleepy scratched a match and discovered that whoever had made the substitution had changed saddles too.

“We’ve still got our saddles,” he declared. “Now what in ---- do yuh know about that?”

Hashknife untied his pinto and led it into the light from the saloon door, where he appraised the animal closely. It was sore-footed and weary. Sleepy walked in beside him, leading the gray, and was about to call to those inside the saloon to come out and help them wonder over it all, when a voice yelled out from the darkness--

“Put up yore hands, doggone yuh!”

A revolver flashed and the bullet bit a splinter out of the sidewalk. With an almost automatic movement, Hashknife drew and fired at the flash; and at the same moment he darted out of the light and flung himself flat on the ground. Sleepy went headlong out of the illumination, rolled down the hill and came to rest behind a big rock.

“Gosh dang yuh, what did yuh do that for, ‘Forty’?” wailed a voice from the gloom. “Who in ---- told yuh to shoot, anyway?”

“Don’t walk into that light, ‘Swan River’!” cautioned another voice. “They didn’t go far. I’ve got to fix that gun of mine. It’s too easy on the pull. Don’t git in that light, you darned fool!”

The three men had come to the saloon door, wondering aloud what it was all about. The saloon keeper carried a sawed-off shotgun, and at sight of him, the one called Swan River spoke quickly--

“Hey, Pierson! This is the sheriff.”

“Hello, Swan River,” called the saloon keeper. “What’s all the ruction about?”

“Don’t git in that light!” warned the deputy, “Forty Dollar” Dion, whose gun was easy on the trigger. “I tell yuh they didn’t git far away.”

“Who yuh lookin’ for?” asked one of the men in the saloon doorway.

“The men who own them two horses,” replied Swan River Smith, the sheriff. “They stuck up a train this afternoon, and we’ve been on their trail ever since. That’s their gray and pinto.”

“Hey, sheriff!” called Hashknife.

“Listenin’.”

“Then listen close. Them ain’t our horses. I reckon the three men in the doorway can tell yuh that we rode a roan and a bay into this place late this afternoon, and that we’ve been in there ever since. We jist found that somebody traded horses with us, and was admirin’ ’em in the light.”

“That’s the truth,” said the saloon keeper. “They sure did ride a roan and a bay, sheriff.”

“Well--” the sheriff seemed a bit dubious--“if yuh say so, Pierson, I’ll take yore word. C’mon in, gents.”

* * * * *

Hashknife and Sleepy sauntered back into the light and looked at Swan River Smith and his elongated deputy. Swan River was small, gray as a rabbit, and with a pair of eyes as hard as granite. Forty Dollar Dion was almost as tall as Hashknife, sad of face, and walked with a loose-jointed shamble that would cause one to suspect that he might fall apart at any time.

“I’m the sheriff of this county,” said Swan River, after a close scrutiny of the two cowpunchers. “Name’s Smith.”

Hashknife introduced himself and Sleepy, and they adjourned to the bar.

“You danged near killed me,” declared Forty Dollar mournfully. “My gun went off accidental. I had sense enough to sidestep; and yore bullet poked a hole in the air just after I left. And it ain’t like me to think fast, either.”

“Well,” grinned Hashknife, “yuh can’t blame me, pardner. One of yuh yelled for us to put up our hands and the other one shot at us.”

“Excuse him, if yuh can,” said the sheriff, “I can’t. Here’s happy days and a blanket at night.”

They drank and rattled their glasses on the bar.

“Didja take a good look at them horses, Forty?” asked the sheriff.

“Uh-huh. I was right, Swan.”

The sheriff accepted Hashknife’s tobacco and cigaret papers, which were also passed to Forty Dollar.

“The question is--where did they go from here?” observed the sheriff.

“I’ll betcha forty dollars they headed for Bearpaw,” said Forty Dollar. “They’ve got fresh horses now.”

“And good horses,” added Sleepy mournfully.

“I never heard of a lost horse that wasn’t a good one,” grinned the sheriff. “Nobody ever lost a bad one. Ha, ha, ha! Well, there ain’t no use tryin’ to foller them two fellers now. Our horses are plumb whipped; so we might as well go home, I reckon.”

“How much did they get?” asked Hashknife.

“I dunno. They blew the safe on the express car and took what was in it. Cut the train in two and made their getaway near where they had the horses staked out. But the engineer got a look at the horses they used, and as soon as the train got to Moolock he told me about it. Me and Forty cut straight across the hills and are lucky enough to spot ’em.

“Since then we’ve sure burnt up horseflesh. Comes night and we kinda loses track of ’em; so we heads for here and finds that pinto and gray, standin’ plumb in the light. Yuh can’t blame us for the mistake, can yuh?”

Hashknife laughed and shook his head. It was all clear to him now, and he did not blame the sheriff.

“I reckon we’ll go to Moolock with yuh,” he said. “Mebbe them two horses are as fresh as yours, sheriff.”

“Yeah, sure. Let’s go. It’s a long ride back there; but there ain’t no accommodations in Tecoma. You know anybody down there, Hartley?”

“Nope. Me and my pardner rode into Bearpaw from over the Grayling trail. We kinda had an idea we’d like to do some gold minin’, and we was told that there was plenty of good ground left up there; but there wasn’t an inch. By golly, a moose bird has to keep in the trees to keep from bein’ a trespasser.”

“Pshaw, that’s all been located long ago. Well, let’s have one more drink and pull our freight, gents.”

They told Tecoma good-bye, mounted the jaded horses and headed for Moolock.

“Seems to me that I’ve heard of Moolock,” observed Hashknife, as they jogged along over the dim road through the pines. “The name is kinda familiar. You spoke of a feller named Allenby.”

“Frank Allenby,” said the sheriff. “He’s the biggest man in Moolock county.”

“To hear him tell it,” amended Forty Dollar, “Allenby thinks that his family is responsible for the risin’ and settin’ of the sun. ’S a fact. He tells it when to come up and when to go down.”

“Didn’t Allenby send some young feller to the pen a while ago?”

“Yeah. A young feller by the name of ‘Bud’ Bell. Allenby didn’t exactly send him to the penitentiary; but he was responsible for it. Bud’s out now. I ain’t seen him yet. Mebbe he hates me for what I done, but I had to do it. The Bell family are kinda strong on hate.

“Allenby bought the Half-Circle Cross from Henry Christman about three years ago. Allenby is from Philadelphia. Never seen a cow ranch until he hit this country. Hank Bell nested in on what Christman claimed as his own ranch; but Christman didn’t own it.

“There was bad blood between Christman and old Hank. Christman tried in every way to oust old Hank. Hank’s cows turned up missin’; some of ’em had their throats cut. But old Hank stuck. One day him and Christman met on the street in Moolock and shot it out. Christman got a bullet through one lung and old Hank got his right arm crippled for life.

“It kinda put a crimp into old Hank, as a gunman; so he spent all his time givin’ his son Bud a six-gun education. And Bud was a danged good pupil. Then Christman sold out to Allenby, who tried to oust old Hank, but the old boy had a title to his ranch. It’s a sore spot to Allenby, ’cause Hank’s place has the best spring in the Moolock range.”

“Did they quit killin’ off Hank’s cattle?” asked Hashknife.

Swan River Smith chuckled audibly.

“Yeah, yuh might say they did. The Bible says somethin’ about an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. Anyway, Allenby got the deadwood on Bud Bell and sent him up for five years; but the law let him out in two years and a few days. Now I reckon Allenby is shakin’ in his boots for fear Bud will make him pay for that two years.”

“Allenby is rich, ain’t he?”

“Yeah, I suppose he is pretty well fixed.”

“And I’ll tell yuh why,” said Forty Dollar. “Allenby is so stingy that he wouldn’t pay two bits for a front seat at the Custer battle, if the original actors would come back and play it. It’s an honest fact. To my way of thinkin’, Allenby is a big jughead, with too much money and a soul so danged thin that it squeaks in the wind like a fiddle string. He wants everybody to know that he’s from Philly-del-fee.”

“That ain’t nothin’ agin’ him,” said the sheriff.

“Not that part,” agreed Forty Dollar. “I admire him for gettin’ out that place. I’ve been there----”

“You mean you’ve heard about it,” corrected the sheriff.

Forty Dollar subsided.

“I’ve heard that men don’t value their lives very highly in Moolock,” said Hashknife.

“Thasso?” The sheriff seemed surprised.

“Some as cheap as five thousand dollars.”

“Cheap?” blurted Forty Dollar. “My ----, I could point out a lot that wouldn’t be worth that much per bale. Five thousand! Say, if I was Saint Peter I wouldn’t even accept souls from Moolock, unless they came prepaid.”

“Forty Dollar is a pessimist,” explained the sheriff quickly.

“Yeah and I’m a good democrat. M’ folks was Baptists. Tried to make me one, but the water was too cold that winter; and by spring I was all out of the notion.”

“I think we’ll like Moolock,” said Sleepy.

“Everybody does,” said Forty Dollar. “I know at least a hundred that couldn’t even think of leavin’ there.”

“Love their little city, eh?”

“No--they’re stuck on the little cemetery,” chuckled the deputy. “Ha, ha, ha, ha! I’ll drink with yuh in Moolock.”

They laughed and rode down the last of the steep grades into the valley of the Moolock. The moon had lifted above the timbered slopes of the mountains, bathing the hills and valleys in a blue haze. Far off to the left a light twinkled from a window.

“That’s the 27A ranch,” said the sheriff. “Joe Bass owns it. Joe’s part Nez Percé; quarter-breed, I reckon. Minds his own business. Been here a long time. Ships quite a lot of stock.”

“Moolock is the shippin’ center, ain’t it?” asked Hashknife.

“Most of it goes from there. It’s kinda in the center of the valley; so mostly everybody trades there. I was just wonderin’ what you meant about human life bein’ cheap in Moolock.”

“Nothin’ much,” laughed Hashknife. “I heard that a man--a certain man--only put that much value on his life.”

“Well, I dunno,” said the sheriff thoughtfully. “I s’pose that some folks feel thataway about money. I’d hate to sell mine for that.”

“And yet yuh take a chance every day for so much per month.”

“Yeah, that’s a fact. You fellers aim to get jobs over here?”

“Mebbe. Feller’s got to eat.”

“They sure do. Yuh might see Allenby. Jim Merton might need a man. He runs the Arrowhead brand, and his iron is on lots a cows. Them two are the biggest outfits. You’d like Jim. He’s young and full of ambition.”

“Do yuh think we’d like Allenby?”

“Mm-m-m, well, yuh might. It takes all kinds of folks to make up a world. What’s meat for one man is poison for another.”

It was about one o’clock in the morning when they rode into the town of Moolock, stabled the horses and got a room at the one little hotel. They were too tired to investigate the town, and even the hard mattress of their bed felt like downy feathers.

“It’s funny how things work out,” observed Hashknife, as they stretched out in bed. “We never had any idea of runnin’ into this place.”

“It’s the same Allenby, ain’t it?” asked Sleepy.

“Sure. Bob Freeman said in his letter that it was Allenby of Moolock; so it must be the same feller. He spoke about the feller that Allenby sent to the penitentiary; and about the old man.”

“They are the ones that are stealin’ Allenby’s cows, eh?” Thus Sleepy, with interest.

“The ones he said he’d pay us five thousand for, if we could convict ’em. If we could.” Hashknife laughed. “Allenby wants his detective work done on commission, Sleepy. He’s afraid of his life, that’s what’s the matter with him. And he values it at five thousand.”

“Prob’ly all it’s worth,” laughed Sleepy.

In a different environment Hashknife Hartley might have been a famous detective. His mind was quick to grasp the important points of a case, and that, combined with what a gambler would call a “hunch,” had enabled him to solve some of the mysteries of cowland, which had baffled even the best operatives of the Cattle Associations.

Both he and Sleepy Stevens were top-hand cowboys; but fate had always thrown them into troubled ranges where their detective ability was of more demand than their ability to handle cattle. It was a hazardous calling, and of little remuneration.

Their fame had spread from range to range; and the repeated telling in cowtown, bunkhouse and around the camp-fires had exaggerated their ability until they became a bugaboo to those outside the law on the ranges. But there was nothing superhuman about either of them. There was nothing marvelous about their gun-play; neither could they whip their weight in wild-cats. Yet they had left behind them a trail of righted wrongs, and a memory of two big-hearted cowpunchers, who fought with a grin, asking no favors of anyone; riding away ahead of thanks or remuneration, if possible.

There were homes on the ranges where these two men were mentioned in the evening prayer, and there were places where their names brought forth a curse and the hope that they would never come back. Still they rode on with a grin on their lips, knowing that fate had marked them for certain duties. And they were both confirmed fatalists--facing death with a grin, because they felt that they would never die until the moving finger on the big book wrote _Finis_ after their names.

* * * * *

It was just breaking day the following morning, when “Chet” Hoban, foreman of the Half-Circle Cross, and “Omaha” Olsen, one of the Half-Circle Cross cowboys, rode through the main street of Moolock, which was the only street in the town.

It was a crooked street as well as a narrow one, bordered with false-fronted buildings, of which the livery stable was the most pretentious. The next building in size was the Elk saloon and gambling house, with its spacious hitch-rack crowding close to the narrow sidewalk.

Next to the Elk saloon was the Blue Front Café, with only the name to indicate that at some remote time it might have been painted. Adjoining this building was the White Horse saloon. Across the street from the Elk saloon was the sheriff’s office. On this side of the street were more saloons, a general merchandise store, post-office, stage station and other small business necessary to the comfort of rangeland humanity.

The Moolock hotel was neither of great size nor elegant in appointment, but it served. Its sign read--

MOOLOCK HOTEL FROSTY WELCOME PROP.

Which, as a cowboy had said, “If yuh don’t git treated well, you’ve been warned ahead of time.”

But “Frosty” Welcome was only frosty by nickname and not by nature.

The two cowboys rode through town and cut across a flat toward the big loading corrals near the depot. A string of cattle cars were being shunted onto a spur track by a freight engine, as they rode up to the corral fence and tied their horses.

Chet Hoban was a thin-faced, raw-boned man, whose hair was plentifully dusted with gray, and whose humped shoulders and bowed legs gave him the appearance of one who bears a mighty burden on his back. His boot heels were run-over on the outer side, which caused him to walk jerkily lest he sprain his ankles.

Omaha Olsen was taller than Hoban, and even leaner of frame. His eyes were sad; in fact his whole mien bespoke a great sadness, and his long nose, slightly twisted at the bridge, showed blue veins, as though it might be perpetually damp and cold.

The engine uncoupled and went puffing back toward the depot, while Hoban and Olsen crossed the track, circled the corral and stopped. For a space of several moments they surveyed the empty corral and then, as if by mutual consent, they climbed to the wide plank of the top and gazed across the different pens, their faces filled with an expression of wonderment.

Then Hoban circled to the main gate, where he sat down and looked at the broken padlock, which dangled from a twisted staple. Omaha Olsen came up and peered down at it. Then he produced his tobacco and papers and began calmly rolling a cigaret, while Hoban turned and gazed off across the rolling hills.

“They done busted the lock,” said Omaha. Hoban squinted at him, but did not reply. The busted lock needed no explanation.

“Three hundred of ’em, too,” observed Omaha.

“You keep on and there won’t be nothin’ to tell about,” said Hoban a trifle sarcastically.

“And Allenby will jist about bust a gizzard.” Thus Omaha, ignoring Hoban. “I c’n see him commencin’ to git red and swell up like a carbuncle. My ----, this’ll sure ache him all over.”

“You’d ache if somebody stole three hundred two-year-old Herefords from yuh,” retorted Hoban.

“----, I’d ache if I ever had that many. Now what in ---- will we do with these cars?”

Hoban got to his feet, shaking his head.

“Let Clayton worry about that. C’mon.”

They climbed down and went to their horses, which they mounted and rode back into town. The sheriff was still asleep, but Hoban hammered on the office door and woke him up.

“Last night we had three hundred two-year-old Herefords in the loadin’ corrals, sheriff. They were to be loaded this mornin’. Somebody smashed the padlock on the main gate and swiped the whole herd.”

Swan River scratched his head thoughtfully.

“Well,” he said slowly, “that was worth takin’. Smashed the padlock, eh? That’s a penitentiary offense. Took three hundred Half-Circle Cross Herefords, eh? Gosh! Somebody held up the train yesterday, too, Chet. Danged country is goin’ to the dogs. Allenby know?”

“Not yet. We just found it out.”

“We better find Clayton,” said Omaha. “He’ll likely want to see about them cars.”

“I’ll git on some clothes right away and see what I can find out,” offered the sheriff, turning back into the office.

Hoban and Omaha walked up to the hotel, where they found Ed Clayton, the cattle-buyer, just ready to leave for the loading pens. Clayton was a big man, without an ounce of fat on his huge frame. He was not unhandsome, dressed well, and was not over thirty-five years of age. Clayton was an inveterate gambler, a plunger; and his eyes were still heavy from a long session of poker at the Elk.

In a few short words Hoban told him what had happened.

“Sounds like a ---- fairy story,” said Clayton, but quickly corrected himself with, “You know what I mean, Hoban; it don’t seem possible.”

Hoban relaxed and nodded shortly. He and Clayton had never been very friendly.

“Mebbe it don’t sound possible,” said Hoban slowly, “but they’re gone. What about your cars?”

“And nothing to put in ’em,” muttered Clayton. “Well, I’ll have to see what can be done. Want to walk up to the depot?”

“All right. Allenby will be here pretty soon.”

The freight was still at the depot and Clayton immediately explained the situation to the agent.

“I’ll tell yuh what we can do,” suggested the agent, “We can send ’em up to Bluejoint. Old Sam Bass has been yelling for cars for three days. He’s got some stock to ship. Shall I take that chance?”

“Go ahead,” urged Clayton. “I don’t want the darned things. If Bass can use ’em, he’s sure welcome.”

Bluejoint was merely a siding and a loading corral about ten miles from Moolock. It was sometimes used by the ranchers of that side of the valley in making small shipments, and was located about two miles from the 27A ranch.

The train crew grumbled audibly, but added the cattle cars to the train, took their orders and steamed away across the valley, while Clayton, Hoban and Omaha went back to wait for Allenby, who rode into town in a buckboard drawn by a pair of cream-colored horses.

* * * * *

Frank Allenby was about fifty years of age, portly and important. When Forty Dollar Dion had declared that Allenby thought the sun arose and set because of the Allenby family, he was not so far wrong. Allenby had a square, protruding jaw, which accentuated the flatness of his cheek-bones, and beneath a slightly hooked nose he wore an aggressive, brush-like, gray mustache.

His suit was of black broadcloth, his boots of finest leather, and his hats were made to order. But he wore an old-fashioned, stiff bosomed shirt, sans collar, but with a huge onyx button; while his cuffs were fastened together with big cameo cuff-buttons. He wore no vest. From a suspender stay dangled a solid gold watch chain, each link at least an inch long.