Part 1

THE MEDICINE-MAN

By W. C. Tuttle

Bud Daley sat humped over on his wash-bench near the kitchen door of his unpretentious little ranch-house, staring with moody blue eyes across the hills. The wash-bench was sloppy with soap-suds, plain evidence that Bud had performed his ablutions in a violent manner.

And as he sat looking moodily into space, he dangled a none-too-clean towel in his hands. Just behind him, leaning against the side of the kitchen door, stood Mrs. Daley, a thoughtful frown on her pretty face. She was dressed in a plain calico dress, faded from many washings; a girlish looking woman, whose crown of glorious auburn hair tumbled in unruly fashion about her face.

Bud’s visible attire consisted of a battered sombrero, a thin blue shirt, wide open at the neck, a pair of bat-winged chaps, boots and holstered gun. His thin face was decorated with several days’ growth of beard. Down in the little corral, which was hooked to the long, low barn, a roan horse, sweat-marked, rolled wearily.

Bud’s eyes turned from the panorama of low hills, which swept away across the Modoc ranges, and his fingers searched his pockets for tobacco and cigaret papers.

“Bud, are you sure?” Mrs. Daley spoke softly, a trifle hopefully.

“Yeah,” Bud nodded and licked the edge of the paper, “I reckon it’s a fact, May.”

“Then it means that we’re--broke?”

“Broke?”

The match burned Bud’s fingers, and he snapped it away as he turned and looked at her.

“May, we’re worse than that. I still owe Cleve Lavelle five thousand dollars.”

“As much as that, Bud?”

There were tears in her voice. Bud laughed shortly and got to his feet.

“Just that much, May.”

“But--but where have the cattle gone? Surely----”

“They’ve been stolen!” said Bud savagely. “Somebody has rustled every head of Triangle-D stock in the Modoc country. By ----, we haven’t even got a hide nor a horn to show.

“I told Cleve Lavelle. He was at the round-up, May. They were all there; every puncher in this country. I tell you, we combed every inch of the county, and there wasn’t a cattleman there, except me, that wasn’t satisfied.”

“Was Uncle Jimmy Miller there, Bud?”

“Yeah, he was there. He exploded over it. Just the same as told me I was a ---- liar. But he found out that I was right. Oh, we’re broke; that’s a cinch.”

Bud threw the towel aside and backed against the wall.

“But, Bud, we must have had close to five hundred head,” said Mrs. Daley. “Why, you can’t lose five hundred head of cattle.”

“Can’t we?” Bud laughed bitterly. “I wish you was right, May. I kept sayin’ the same thing--until I had it proved to me. Somebody just--well--” Bud shrugged his shoulders wearily--“they took ’em, thassall.”

“Well--” Mrs. Daley sighed deeply and patted him on the shoulder--“we’re not very lucky, Bud. Dinner is ready.”

“I’m not hungry, May. It kinda hits me in the pit of m’ stummick.”

“Starving won’t help you any, dear.”

“I s’pose not.” Bud grinned and shook his head. “I reckon I’ve got to keep m’ head up and m’ stummick full. I wish----”

Two riders swung around the corner of the cottonwood clump beyond the barn and came toward the house, causing Bud’s wish to go unfinished.

“It’s Uncle Jimmy Miller and ‘Sody’ Slavin,” said Mrs. Daley.

“Two of the toughest old pelicans that ever wore a boot,” remarked Bud as they rode up and dismounted.

Uncle Jimmy Miller was only five feet four inches tall, thin of frame, thin of voice, with the whiskers of a gray old bob-cat and an explosive disposition.

Sody Slavin was nearly six feet tall and so fat that he could hardly find a saddle-horse strong enough to carry him more than half a day at a time. Sody talked in a counter-tenor voice and panted at all times. He was of a nervous temperament and so ticklish that everything annoyed him. Uncle Jimmy owned the JM outfit--one of the big cattle outfits of the Modoc--and Sody was his foreman.

“’Lo, Mrs. Daley,” called Sody. “Nice weather we’re havin’.”

“Hello, Mr. Slavin,” she answered, smiling.

“Mister!” he snorted indignantly.

“Mrs.!” she shot right back at him.

“All right, May. I didn’t want to call you May right in front of yore husband; but if you ain’t scared of him, I ain’t.”

“That’s what polite folks calls ‘small-talk’, I reckon,” observed Uncle Jimmy. “Anyway, it’s too ---- small to pay for the wear and tear on yore teeth.”

Uncle Jimmy spat dryly and turned to Bud.

“Well, whatcha know about it, Bud?”

“Not any more than I did before.”

“Uh-huh.” Uncle Jimmy scratched his mustache violently.

“Aw, they must ’a’ strayed,” said Sody. “Dog-gone it, yuh----”

“They did, like ----!” snorted Uncle Jimmy. “Sody, you ain’t got---- My ----, you make me mad, Sody! Must ’a’ strayed! Since when did one brand of cows all git together and vamoose? Mebbe they didn’t like to associate with the other brands, eh? Sody, you do think of the dangdest, craziest answers to questions.”

“Mebbe I’m wrong,” said Sody contritely.

“Mebbe!”

“You ain’t got no better answer,” grinned Sody. “They’re all gone, ain’t they? They must ’a’ went away together.”

“Yeah! With some range-burglars fannin’ their south ends with a lariat.”

Bud grinned in spite of his loss. To Uncle Jimmy and Sody Slavin, life was just one argument after another. At times the arguments grew so personal that Uncle Jimmy would fire Sody. He was known to have discharged Sody three times in one day, and Sody was known to have quit his job three times in one day. And the majority of their arguments were over things that neither of them knew anything about, which neither would admit.

“Well, let’s not fight over it,” said Bud. “They’re gone, thassall.”

“I know it,” nodded Uncle Jimmy. “I know they’re gone, Bud; but that--that----”

“Your Mister Slavin,” suggested Sody sweetly.

“Yea-a-a-ah!” snorted Uncle Jimmy. “My mister!”

“What’s the joke?” asked Bud.

“Joke, ----!” exploded Uncle Jimmy. “When Sody took that trip to Frisco he went out to a packin’ plant. I s’pose he lied to ’em about the cows we’ve got out here, and all that. You know how a danged half-wit like him would talk. Anyway, I got a letter from the packer, and he says:

“‘Regardin’ a conversation with your Mr. Slavin.’

“My Mister Slavin! He ain’t mine, Bud. That’s the only thing that saves him. If he was mine, I’d----”

“You wouldn’t have to,” interrupted Sody. “If I belonged to you, I’d ’a’ grieved m’self to death long ago. There is things that flesh and blood can’t stand.”

“And you’re one of ’em,” declared Uncle Jimmy.

“If the argument is over, we might eat,” smiled Mrs. Daley.

“It never was no argument, as far as I was concerned,” said Uncle Jimmy. “I--I-- Now, Sody, if you open your danged mouth, I’ll----”

“Who’s openin’ their mouth?” demanded Sody. “You took exceptions to a statement I made, didn’t yuh? Yeah, yuh did, too. I’ll bet you don’t even know what I said that started the argument.”

“Don’t I? The ---- I don’t! Huh! Do you?”

“Nope,” said Sody honestly.

Uncle Jimmy stared at him for several moments, his mustache working violently. Then he turned his head and looked at Mrs. Daley, his face breaking into an expansive smile.

“May, you sure do look fine,” he observed sincerely. “If I was thirty years younger, I’d sure steal yuh away from that good-for-nothin’ husband of yours.”

Mrs. Daley laughed lightly, but Bud’s laugh was bitter, as he unbuckled and kicked off his chaps.

“They’ve stole everythin’ else from me, Uncle Jimmy.”

“Yeah, that’s true, I reckon.”

Uncle Jimmy turned and squinted reflectively at the sunswept hills of Modocland.

“Yeah, they’ve plumb cleaned yuh out, Bud. ’S far as I can see, yuh ain’t got hide nor horn in this county. We’ve been free of rustlin’ for a long time in the Modocs; but every once in a while they steps out and starts in where they left off. But I don’t sabe it yet--nossir. Mebbe I’ve lost a few head--I dunno.”

“May jist said that dinner was waitin’,” reminded Sody.

“Well, who said she didn’t?” demanded Uncle Jimmy. “You’re always tryin’ to start an argument, Sody.”

“No such a danged thing!” Sody shook his head violently. “I never start arguments, Jim. You start ’em, and then----”

“Let’s eat,” suggested Bud.

Thus ended another argument that might have lasted several minutes--and ended nowhere.

* * * * *

The Fall round-up of the Modoc country had just been completed, and in all those thousands of cattle there was not a single one bearing Bud Daley’s Triangle D brand. It was unbelievable, but true. An army of cowboys had ridden for days, combing the hills so thoroughly that hardly an animal had escaped them.

And all of them knew that Bud Daley owned at least five hundred head of cattle, outside of possible increase. Bud had been foreman for Uncle Jimmy Miller for a year; a top-hand cow-man, who had gained the respect of every one during that one year.

But Bud was not content with a salary. He had married May Lloyd, the prettiest girl in the Red Hills range country, and he wanted to make good for her sake. For a few hundred dollars he had acquired the Triangle ranch and iron, which he had had registered as the Triangle D. Bud had a little money, which he invested in stock, starting his little herd.

Then he had gone to Cleve Lavelle, the political and cattle power of the Modoc country, and borrowed five thousand dollars, which he invested in cattle--or rather, all except two hundred dollars. Bud was a gambler. As soon as his cattle buying was over he went into the Rest Ye All gambling-house, which was owned by Cleve Lavelle, and won ten thousand dollars at roulette.

But, instead of paying Lavelle the borrowed money, he went out and bought cattle with every cent of it. This gave him a respectable-sized herd, and, barring the unforeseen, Bud Daley was destined to become a regular cattleman.

Cleve Lavelle came in for a great amount of good-natured joking over the fact that Bud had cleaned out the gambling-house, but Lavelle was a cool-nerved gambler and merely smiled. It was all in the game. Perhaps he felt that Bud should have paid his debts, but did not say so. Lavelle was close-mouthed, and his square, deep-lined face, thin lips and level gray eyes told nothing.

Lavelle owned the 76A cattle outfit, located about six miles from the town of Modoc, where he employed a big crew of cowboys and broncho-riders. Lavelle broke many horses for the Eastern markets and took pride in the fact that he had the hardest riding crew of punchers in the county.

And Lavelle was the political power in Modoc County. He was a mixer, known as a square-shooter, but the political pot of the county was mixed in Lavelle’s private office at the rear of the ornate Rest Ye All gambling-house in Modoc. Whether or not the ingredients were according to the pure political ideas of some of the people, they were according to Cleve Lavelle.

Bud Daley had not the slightest idea of who had taken his stock. If he had, he would not have gone to see Dug Breed, the sheriff, the day after the close of the round-up. Bud did not like Dug Breed. He had opposed Dug at the election of the year before, and Dug had not forgotten it. He was a square-built man, about forty years of age, with harsh features, narrow lips and eyes that flashed green in anger.

Breed was a competent officer, saying little, drinking none and paying strict attention to running the sheriff’s office. To him went Bud. He had heard of Bud’s loss. Every one in the Modoc range knew of it. Breed had little to say, but Bud felt that he did not believe that the stock had been stolen.

“You ain’t sold any stock lately, have you, Daley?” he asked.

“Sold any?” Bud shook his head, and it suddenly dawned upon him that the sheriff was hinting that he had sold his stock and was trying to claim that he had been robbed. For a moment he had difficulty in holding his temper.

“Mebbe,” said the sheriff suggestively, “they were herded out through the Crooked Cañon country and shipped from Black Wells.”

The Crooked Cañon country lay to the West of Bud’s ranch, and Black Wells was a small shipping-point thirty miles from Modoc. Before the advent of the railroad into Modoc, Black Wells had been the shipping point for all of the Modoc range.

“That’s probably where they went,” admitted Bud slowly. “And Black Wells ain’t a place where yuh can get reliable information.”

“No, it’s a pretty safe place,” said the sheriff thoughtfully. “Folks over there mind their own business. This kind leaves you in a bad shape, don’t it, Daley?”

“Well,” Bud smiled a trifle, “I’ve still got my health and the Triangle D ranch.”

“I mean--you’re kinda left in debt, ain’t yuh?”

“Am I?” Bud’s lips shut tightly for a moment. “Where did yuh get that idea, Breed?”

“It ain’t an idea, Daley. In fact, it’s none of my business; but everybody knows that you couldn’t accumulate a herd of that size in a year and not be in debt. I hope you’re not. And if you are, I hope that yuh won’t be stuck for the payment.”

“Stuck for it?”

“You know what I mean--have the ranch taken away from yuh.”

Bud laughed softly as he rolled a cigaret. The ranch-house, brand and the water-rights to a few springs had cost him less than five hundred dollars. The repairs would not amount to more than two hundred more.

“You were just gettin’ a good start,” observed the sheriff.

Bud threw away his match and looked quizzically at the sheriff.

“Breed, I didn’t come here for sympathy,” he said slowly. “If that’s what I wanted, ---- knows I’d never come to you. I’ve been robbed, dontcha understand? Ain’t it kinda up to you to do something besides settin’ there and feelin’ sorry for me?”

Breed frowned heavily for a moment, looking down at the toes of his boots. Bud turned away and moved over to the open door. He had not expected much from Breed; so he was not disappointed.

“Did you think I was offerin’ you sympathy?” asked Breed.

“I hoped you wasn’t,” said Bud, without turning his head.

“Well, I wasn’t.” Breed laughed shortly and turned back to some papers on his desk.

Bud turned and looked at Breed, but the latter did not look up. For a moment Bud’s lips curled with anger, and he rubbed an itching palm across the brass heads of the cartridges in his belt. He knew that Breed was a fighter, a dangerous man to provoke; yet every drop of fighting blood in his body cried out against the injustice of an officer refusing assistance because of a personal grudge.

But he fought down the desire to tell Breed what he thought of him and to back up his opinions with hot lead. Bud knew that one of them would probably never walk out of the place--possibly both. If the sheriff killed him, it would be easy to explain; but if he killed the sheriff--that would be a difficult situation.

* * * * *

So he turned, stepped out on the sidewalk and crossed the street to the Rest Ye All saloon. It was the slack time of the day, and he found Cleve Lavelle in his private office, reading a newspaper.

Lavelle put the paper aside, motioned Bud to a chair and waited for him to speak.

“You heard what happened to me, didn’t yuh, Lavelle?” asked Bud.

Lavelle nodded curtly. He did not seem greatly concerned.

“I’m broke, I reckon,” continued Bud. “Somebody has cleaned me out as slick as a rifle-barrel.”

“I heard about it,” said Lavelle. “Well?”

“Well?” Bud swallowed hard and shifted his position. “Well, I’m broke, thasall. I owe you five thousand dollars, Lavelle.”

“You do.”

“Due next month,” said Bud.

“The first of the month, Daley.”

“All right. It looks to me like it was just too bad, thasall.”

“You can’t pay it?” Coldly.

“What with?”

“Mm-m-m.” Lavelle rubbed his chin with a hand that was just a trifle over-decorated with diamonds. Bud estimated that just one of those white stones would cost more than his debt.

“What’s your ranch worth, Daley?” asked Lavelle.

“That’s a question,” replied Bud thoughtfully. “It ain’t for sale.”

“Possibly not,” smiled Lavelle, “but under the present situation, I might have to take it over.”

“I reckon I get yore idea,” nodded Bud, “but I didn’t come with that idea in mind a-tall, Lavelle. Yuh see, it’s like this: yo’re a gambler, Lavelle. You ain’t got a ghost of a chance to ever get that five thousand. My ranch ain’t worth a fifth of that amount.”

“I understand that!” snapped Lavelle.

“You’ve set into big games,” continued Bud, ignoring the interruption. “You’ve been stuck for five thousand dollars lots of times. Did you quit, Lavelle?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did you quit the game, when you was five thousand in it?”

“No.” Lavelle shook his head. “No, I never quit, but----”

“Yo’re into my game five thousand dollars, Lavelle. If you quit now, you lose five thousand; if you back me again, you’ve got a chance to get yore money back.”

“Like ---- I have!” Lavelle threw back his head and laughed. “Daley, you’ve got more nerve than a bank-robber. Do you think I’d gamble at those odds?”

Bud did not laugh. His blue eyes bored into Lavelle’s face, and his jaw was set tight.

“You sure make me laugh,” declared Lavelle.

“Ten thousand dollars would put me on my feet, Lavelle,” persisted Bud. “Inside of three years----”

“They’d clean you out again,” finished Lavelle. “No, you’ve got me all wrong, Daley. On the first of next month, you be here with five thousand dollars.”

Lavelle dropped a heavy fist on the polished surface of his desk.

“In the first place, I don’t think that anybody robbed you. It isn’t reasonable, Daley. Look at the thing right.”

Bud got to his feet and stood looking down at Lavelle.

“Just what do you mean by that remark, Lavelle?”

“Figure it out for yourself, Daley.”

“You mean that I----”

Bud leaned forward, his hands clenched tightly, as he stared down at Lavelle.

“Hold your temper,” advised Lavelle. “You’re not a good bluffer, Daley.”

“I’m not goin’ to bluff,” said Bud slowly. “I’m goin’ to mean everythin’ I say to you, Lavelle. Yo’re ----”

“Wait a moment,” interrupted Lavelle. “You are going to say something that you’ll be sorry for, Daley. You already owe me more than you want to pay, and you are sore because I won’t lend you more. Your opinions of me are of no interest to any one except yourself; so tell them to yourself and save trouble.”

Bud relaxed slowly and a grin wreathed his lips. Then he laughed and turned to the door.

“All right, Lavelle. I reckon that’s good advice. I’m sorry I acted like a fool, and I’ll try to have that money for yuh.”

Bud crossed the gambling-room and entered the bar, where he found Sody Slavin and “Dinah” Blewette. Dinah was a little dark-skinned cowpuncher from the JM ranch, with an impediment in his speech, bow-legs and a totally bald head.

They greeted Bud effusively and expansively. Between them they owned the world and were perfectly willing to cut their share to thirds. Would he accept?

“I ain’t a bit dry,” protested Bud. “Not a danged bit, boys.”

“Bud’s had grief,” explained Sody, while Dinah listened attentively. “He’s sure had flocks of grief, Dinah.”

“Sh-sure,” agreed Dinah, nodding violently, which caused his sombrero to shift in a circle on his bald dome.

“I--I--I--I--I----”

“That’s all from you,” interrupted Sody. “Me and Bud will do all the talkin’, Dinah. Thasall right, we’ll excuse yuh from participatin’ in conversation. You nod or shake, thasall.”

Dinah’s lips worked convulsively for a moment, as if trying to frame a protest; but he broke into an expansive grin and turned to the bar, signaling frantically for the bartender to show more speed.

Bud could not resist their invitation. It had been a long time since he had taken a drink, and the potent liquor lifted him out of his blue haze and transported him into a world which was filled with rose-tinted atmosphere.

Lavelle came through the barroom a little later, but none of the three cowboys paid any attention to him. Other cowboys, with their round-up stakes in their pockets, were invading the place, anxious for their drinks and a chance to woo the Goddess of Luck.

“She’s goin’ to be a big night,” declared Sody. “A big night.”

“Yuh--yuh--yuh--yuh--” choked Dinah.

“Yuh betcha,” said Sody, anticipating what Dinah was trying to say. “Now, you stop that, Dinah. Yo’re a good cowboy and I like yuh fine; but you never was intended to talk.”

“Tha--tha--tha--tha----”

“That’s right,” prompted Bud, nodding violently. “We know all about yuh, Dinah.” And then to Sody, “I’ll make yuh a little bet that Dinah can’t say ‘Piper Heidsick’ inside of five minutes.”

“Not with me yuh don’t,” grinned Sody. “The last time he tried to say it, he was plumb unconscious for an hour. My gosh, he jist chokes plumb to death. Uncle Jimmy wanted him to bring some chewin’ tobacco one day. Uncle Jimmy chaws Piper; so he tells Dinah to bring him some. ‘Shorty’ Ryan was workin’ out there at that time, and he chaws Star. He wanted some, too.

“Well, Dinah comes down to the store and horns up to the counter. He was goin’ to order the Star first. They tells me that he started to siss-s-s-- You know what I mean? Well, he keeps it up for so long that everybody thought he was loaded to the gills with sody water. Dinah sees that it ain’t goin’ to be no success; so he decides to buy the Piper Heidsick first.

“Well, I reckon the change didn’t do Dinah no good, ’cause he collapsed before he ever got past the pup part of it.”

* * * * *

Dinah took it good-naturedly, but tried for the next fifteen minutes to tell Bud that Sody’s story was a ---- lie. Bud knew what Dinah wanted to say, so everybody was satisfied. Things were going along fine, until some of the 4-A cowboys came in, loaded for bear.

Among them was “Short-Horn” Adams, a fat-faced, blear-eyed puncher, who had in some way incurred the displeasure of Dinah Blewette. Dinah was getting all tuned to sing a song, when he happened to see Short-Horn. Dinah proceeded to swing his heavy beer-glass overhanded and threw it with all his strength at his enemy.

It was a good shot--except that Dinah threw it at Short-Horn’s reflection in the back-bar mirror, causing the big mirror to radiate cracks in every direction and creating havoc among the stacks of glittering glassware on the back-bar.

Dug Breed happened to be among those present and proceeded to collar the luckless Dinah, who was but a handful for Breed. As a result of his reverse-English marksmanship Dinah would have probably spent the night in the Modoc jail but about that time Sody Slavin accidentally tangled his feet with those of Dug Breed, and the sheriff sat down hard.

And Dinah ducked like a rabbit, although a trifle uncertain of gait, while the cowpunchers cheered everybody concerned.

Breed got to his feet, blazing with wrath, only to be met with words of apology and regret from Sody Slavin.

“My gosh, that was awful,” explained Sody. “I dunno how in ---- m’ feet ever got over there.”

Sody seemed very sincere and serious. Breed glared at him, his fists clenched tightly at his sides. There was no doubt that the sheriff was fighting mad.

But Sody ignored the sheriff’s attitude as he kept on explaining:

“I must ’a’ slipped, dontcha know it? I’m sure-footed, too. I must ’a’ stepped on somethin’ with m’ left foot, and m’ right swung like this.”

Sody’s exaggerated slip caused him to lose balance and his swinging right foot caught Breed on the shin-bone of his right leg. It was a painful thing. Sody was badly off balance; so he grabbed at the yelping sheriff and they both went down, half-under a table, with Sody on top.

The fall half-stunned Breed, but did not affect Sody, who got to his feet, still apologizing, and dragged his spurred heel across the sheriff’s knee-cap as he stepped away. Breed struggled to his feet and leaned on the table, panting and cursing painfully. He was so mad that his eyes were shut.