Part 3
“You’d hate to take _that_ chance?” Hank Voigt looked at him in amazement. “You--uh--yo’re claimin’ the Lazy H, ain’t yuh?”
“Yeah, I am.”
“Huh! Gaggin’ on a fox-tail and tryin’ to swaller a stack of hay!”
“I don’t believe I understand, Mr. Voigt.”
“You run along and keep claimin’, my boy, and maybe it’ll dawn on yuh some day.”
“Well, thanks, anyway; you’ve been nice to me.”
“You paid and I ain’t cravin’ no cowranch.”
V
Ed McLean had his own horse and buggy. They tossed the valise into the back of the vehicle and headed for the Lazy H. Jim told the lawyer what Hank Voigt had said, but McLean only laughed.
“Hank is quite a joker,” he said.
“I _hope_ he was joking, McLean.”
“Of course he was. We’re all set now. Estabrook might have made trouble for us, but it is clear sailing from now on.”
“I hope you are right, but something tells me that everything is not right. These people, as I understand it, do not always depend on the law to settle their troubles. The court might accept me as the legal and lawful heir to the Lazy H, but some of these cowpokes, as they are called, might not.”
“Forget that part of it. They’re law-abiding people. Just because they carry guns and talk a queer lingo they are not necessarily killers.”
“Maybe not. I was thinking about that new man at the Lazy H. Skeeter Smith, I believe. He intimated that they hang a man for a doublecross in this country.”
Ed McLean shot a side glance at Jim Bailey.
“O-o-oh!” he exclaimed. “Just why did he say that?”
“Oh, we were talking about my claims. I intimated that perhaps the court might not accept my credentials. He said that if the court decided that I was a fraud the people would probably hang me.”
“Bosh!” snorted the lawyer. “My friend, you talk too blasted much! Let others do the talking, you listen.”
“Of course,” remarked Jim, “my life doesn’t mean anything to you, McLean. All you are interested in is using me for a cat’s-paw. You want the Lazy H. If this deal works out, very likely you will get it. We are a fine pair of crooks.”
“And we can’t afford to fall out, remember that, Jim.”
“Remember that yourself, McLean. I will not be bossed. You may suggest something, but don’t order. I’ve taken orders all my grown-up life and I don’t like it.”
“I’ll remember that, Jim. Sometimes you rub me the wrong way.”
“Sorry. I am going to need some overalls and boots. And if you know where I can get a gun--”
“What in the world would you do with a gun?”
“That,” replied Jim soberly, “is something that no man knoweth, until the experiment has been made. I want to be a man among men.”
“I see,” replied Ed McLean. “Well, I’d offer good odds that the first time you pull that gun, you’ll be the only horizontal one among the men.”
Mary Deal was the only one to greet Jim Bailey with a smile. Tex Parker turned and walked away, and Tellurium backed into the kitchen. There was an extra room in the ranch-house, which was turned over to Jim. Ed McLean talked quite a while with the foreman, and then came up to have a few words with Tellurium, out at the wood-pile.
“Listen t’ me, McLean!” Tellurium griped. “Do you think I’m going to cook good food for that anteloper?”
“The word is interloper,” corrected McLean.
“The word,” declared the cook, “is no!”
“You need a job, don’t you, Tellurium? Well, just remember that this young man is the heir to the Lazy H.”
“You don’t need t’ rub it in. As far as a job is concerned I can stretch m’ apron at any spread west of the Mississippi. Don’t tell me what I’ve got to do. You keep up this yappin’, and you won’t be hired to misquote law to a strange dog in this man’s country.”
“Look at it this way,” suggested McLean. “The young man can’t help that he was Clint Haverty’s nephew.”
Tellurium thought about that.
“All right. In mem’ry of Clint Haverty, I’ll feed him. But I ain’t goin’ to nurse him along. The boys won’t like it. He won’t be welcome, but if he can stand it we’ll try.
“That’s fine, Tellurium. You’re sensible.”
“You git out of here, before I split yuh with the axe. Sensible! Huh!”
* * * * *
McLean went back to Pinnacle City in a happy frame of mind. At least the expense problem was settled. He even decided to get Jim Bailey some boots and overalls. As far as the gun was concerned, he felt that Jim was a little too new for things like six-shooters.
Jim soon found that he was a pariah at the Lazy H. He ate with the cowboys and they snubbed him completely. The food was plentiful and very good. Archibald Haas was still sporting a discolored eye, and he looked daggers at Jim Bailey, remembering that Jim had helped Tellurium and Cactus drag him down the hotel stairs. Mary ate alone, and after supper that night, Jim went out on the porch, where Mary was sitting.
“Did you enjoy your supper?” she asked pleasantly.
“I enjoyed the food,” he replied, “but the company was entirely anti-me.”
Mary nodded sadly. “I’m sorry, Jim,” she said. “It isn’t a thing that I can help. I have talked with the boys, but they all have minds of their own.”
“I understand,” he said quietly. “They treated me the same way in town. Mary, let me ask you a question. If I left this country, gave up this inheritance, would you get the Lazy H?”
Mary shook her head. “No, I am not--was not, I mean--related to Clint Haverty. It would go to Ace and Dick Haverty because they are the next of kin--all his remaining relatives, as far as anyone knows.”
“I have seen them both,” said Jim. “I think I’ll stay.”
“I believe you are sensible, Jim. Your going away would not help me in the least.”
“Mary, tell me something about Clint Haverty. Didn’t he ever tell you that you might share in the estate?”
“He told me that I would have nothing to worry about.”
“I see. Was he all right physically and mentally?”
“The only thing on earth wrong with Clint Haverty, as far as anyone knew, was bad eyesight. He didn’t want anyone to know his eyes were bad; and he wouldn’t wear glasses. I read most of his letters to him.”
“He died a natural death, I suppose?” Jim asked.
“Oh, didn’t you hear?” asked Mary.
“Only that he died, Mary.”
“He was thrown from his horse, coming back from Pinnacle City, and had a skull fracture. He usually rode a bad horse, and the doctor says this one threw him and then kicked him in the head.”
“I didn’t know that,” sighed Jim. “I am afraid of horses.”
“You’ll get over that,” laughed Mary. “In a few months you’ll be wearing chaps and riding the hills with the rest of the boys.”
“It sounds very romantic, but I still don’t believe I will.”
Skeeter Smith finished supper and came around to the porch to enjoy a cigaret. After the customary greetings, he said to Jim:
“If yo’re goin’ to own and operate the Lazy H, here’s somethin’ you ought to know, Meade. The Lazy H is bein’ robbed. At least, this is the opinion of Tex Parker and the boys.”
“Tex has said that several times, Skeeter,” said Mary.
“I know. He says it shows up in the count. Tex has gone to town to talk with the sheriff. This is serious, Mary.”
“How does one steal a cow?” asked Jim.
Skeeter’s brows lifted slightly, and he glanced at Mary, who was smothering a smile.
“The methods,” replied Skeeter, “vary.”
“I see,” remarked Jim vaguely. “I really didn’t know.”
There was no conversation for a while. Then Skeeter said:
“How do you like the cattle country, Mr. Meade?”
“I am afraid of it,” replied Jim honestly.
* * * * *
Skeeter smiled. “The thing for you to do is to get on a bronc and learn it first-hand.”
“A bronc is a horse, isn’t it, Mr. Smith?”
“It is--and call me Skeeter.”
“Thank you. I have never ridden a horse, but I suppose I must learn. First I must get some overalls and boots, I suppose. Then I can get a gun and--”
“Wait!” Skeeter laughed. “Have you ever fired a six-shooter?”
“Never. But I supposed--”
“You won’t need a gun. The longer yuh can get along without a gun, the better off you’ll be. Take my advice, Jim, learn to ride and rope, brand, judge beef and all that. That six-shooter don’t brand yuh as a cowpoke--it brands yuh as a man, who, for some reason or another, expects trouble to cut his trail some day.”
“Thank you, Skeeter--you have been very kind to me.”
Skeeter laughed and got to his feet.
“My friend,” he said, “somewhere in the Bible, I believe it says somethin’ about being cautious about them who come bearin’ gifts.”
“But you haven’t brought me any gifts, Skeeter.”
“Friendship is a gift.”
“You mean that I should beware friendship?”
“Until it has been tried and proved--yeah.”
Skeeter went back to the bunk-house. Jim said:
“Mary, he is a queer sort of cowboy, don’t you think?”
“Yes,” replied the girl. “He is different. I believe he would make a wonderful friend, and I would hate to be his enemy.”
“I don’t believe I have ever had a real friend, Mary.”
“Few people ever do, Jim. Uncle Clint used to say that a friend was someone who knew all about you, but liked you in spite of it.”
“In my case,” said Jim slowly, “I could hardly expect it.”
“In the morning,” said Mary, “I’ll ask Archibald to saddle a horse for you, Jim. You might as well learn to ride as soon as you can.”
“You are too kind to me, Mary,” he said earnestly.
“Say that tomorrow evening and I’ll believe you,” she said dryly....
It was midafternoon next day at the Lazy H. Archibald Haas sat on the corral fence in the shade of a sycamore and looked at Jim Bailey, astride an ancient charger called Peter the Hermit, so named from his habit of staying alone as much as possible.
“That there lump on the front end of the saddle,” explained Archibald, “is the horn. It’s used to dally a rope around, not to be hugged. If yuh cain’t think of anythin’ to do with yore extra hands, let ’em dangle, they won’t fall off.”
“_I_ might,” suggested Jim Bailey wearily.
“Uh-huh--yuh might. Now, the thing t’ do,” suggested Archibald, “when the horse starts lopin’, you try and lope with him. You and Pete ort to git together. And when he trots, brace yore legs. No use of him goin’ one way and you the other. And another thing; that horse is rein-broke. Yuh don’t have to take holt of one rein with both hands and yank his jaw loose. Try it again.”
At supper time Jim Bailey staggered to the house. Peter the Hermit didn’t stagger at all, he lay down where he was. This was almost too much for his ancient bones. Archibald Haas said to Mary:
“All he needs is the finishin’ touches.”
“What do you mean, Archie?” she asked.
“Jist shoot him and put him out of his misery.”
“You’ll not shoot Peter the Hermit!”
“’Course not. I didn’t mean him.”
VI
Jim Bailey was in bad shape next morning. He was barely able to limp to the breakfast table. The rest of the crew had eaten and gone away, long before Jim Bailey came to breakfast. Archibald Haas was there.
“I’ve got a bronc all saddled for yuh,” he said.
Jim Bailey groaned.
“This’n is a little faster than Pete,” Archibald said. “And more durable.”
Tellurium placed Jim’s breakfast on the table, stepped back and looked Jim over appraisingly.
“I found a pair of boots for yuh,” he said. “They ain’t no Sunday specimens, but they’ve got heels. You’ve got to have heels.”
“What I need,” groaned Jim, “is two new legs, two new arms and a headache tablet.”
“Does it hurt yuh to set down?” asked Archibald.
“It does,” replied Jim grimly, “but it also hurts me to stand up or lie down.”
“Didja ever try hangin’ by yore hands?” asked Tellurium soberly.
Archibald stood in the kitchen doorway, yawned widely and announced:
“Here comes that knot-headed lawyer from Pinnacle.”
Jim didn’t want to talk with Ed McLean. In fact, he didn’t want to talk with anybody, but McLean came up to the kitchen. Hot weather gave McLean a beaded complexion and he continually polished his bald head with a pink handkerchief. Jim could see that the lawyer was not in good humor. He refused breakfast curtly.
Jim finished and limped outside with McLean, who led him down by the corral, where he could talk without being overheard.
“In my mail last evening,” said McLean, a bit grimly, “I got a letter and a clipping from a friend of mine in Frisco. The clipping deals with the death of Bob Hawley.”
“Bob Hawley?” asked Jim quickly. “Is Bob dead?”
Ed McLean looked at Jim Bailey, and his expression was not exactly friendly.
“According to the time element,” he replied, “Bob Hawley must have died the night before you left San Francisco. Bob Hawley told me that your name was De Haven.”
“Well,” said Jim, “is that remarkable?”
“According to this clipping--yes. The body believed to be that of Jim Bailey has been identified as that of Cliff De Haven, and the police are looking for Jim Bailey, who roomed with De Haven. They would like to know why De Haven had articles on his person, which identified him as Bailey.”
Jim Bailey thought the thing over carefully. It would be easy to explain to the police, as far as he was concerned. He said:
“Well?”
“You,” said the lawyer accusingly, “are an impostor.”
Jim Bailey laughed, “So the pot calls the kettle black, eh?”
“You can tell me the truth, Bailey,” McLean said. “I don’t want the San Francisco police tracing you to Pinnacle City.”
“They won’t get that far,” said Jim, and proceeded to tell the lawyer exactly what happened.
“So De Haven merely appropriated your suit, eh?”
“That’s all. I took his letter--and took a chance.”
“All right. I’ll go back now. What makes you so lame?”
“Learning to ride a horse,” groaned Jim.
“Stay off the bad ones,” warned the lawyer. “At least, stay off them, until this deal is finished. I need a live heir to the Lazy H.”
Ed McLean drove away, and Archibald came down from the kitchen, carrying a pair of old, high-heel boots. The heels were worn off on the outside, indicating that the owner had been bow-legged.
“They ain’t much--but they’ll help,” Archibald said.
* * * * *
Leaning against the corral fence, Jim painfully pulled them on. They were a little tight, but not too bad. Walking was difficult, especially with his aching legs. There was an old pair of overalls and an old sombrero hanging on a peg in the stable. The overalls were tight but the sombrero was loose.
Archibald looked him over approvingly.
“Right now,” he declared, “yo’re three looks and a whoop from bein’ a tenderfoot. I ain’t sure whether you’d be diagnosed as a broken-down cowpoke, or a up-and-comin’ sheepherder. However, my friend, you won’t scare the cows.”
Mary came down to the stable. She wanted to be sure that no tricks were being played on Jim. When she saw him she emitted a smothered shriek, and he laughed heartily.
“How do I look, Mary?” he asked.
“How do you feel?” she whispered huskily.
“Terrible.”
“You look just that way, Jim. Are you going to ride again?”
“I am going to try.”
Archibald came out with a Roman-nosed sorrel, saddled and bridled. There was little comparison between this horse and Peter the Hermit, except that they both had four legs. Mary said:
“Do you think he’s capable of handling Blondy, Archie?”
“Well,” replied the wrangler, “I figure that Blondy is the only horse around here capable of handling him. He won’t buck. You know Blondy. If he gits four, five miles away from the ranch, he’ll come back in spite of hell and high-water.”
Mary nodded, and watched Jim get into the saddle. It was a very painful procedure, and Jim’s face showed it.
“Don’t go too far,” she advised. “If you get lost, give Blondy his head, and he’ll come home. And if he wants to come home, don’t try to stop him; it makes him mad.”
“I shall do my best,” replied Jim.
“You let Blondy do that, you jist set,” advised Archibald.
Mary shook her head as Jim disappeared down an old road.
“You ain’t worryin’ about that gallinipper, are yuh?” asked the wrangler.
“Not worrying, no,” she replied. “I didn’t think he would have the nerve to get on a horse today.”
Archibald chuckled. “Not only that, but he looks almost human in them clothes, Mary.”
“People’s ideas of humanity differ, I’m afraid,” said the girl.
Jim Bailey soon found out that Blondy was not like Peter the Hermit. Blondy _wanted_ to go places. Mary had said that Blondy would bring him home; so why worry? There was a cooling breeze in the hills, which made riding pleasant. He struck a trail, leading up through a wide swale, and sent Blondy over it in a swinging walk.
For the first time in his life Jim Bailey felt freedom. He was not going any certain place, and he was not going home until the horse decided to go back. All he had to do was enjoy the scenery. The sore muscles were much easier now, and he began to like riding.
At the top of the swale they found another well-worn trail, and kept on going. For an hour or more they followed trail after trail, until Jim began to wonder how long before Blondy would feel the urge to go back to the ranch. By this time they were high in the breaks, where he could see the blue haze of the valley. There were cattle along the trail, wild-eyed creatures, moving quickly aside into the brush. Two deer broke out of a thicket and went bouncing into the heavy cover. It was all very new to Jim Bailey. Suddenly Blondy stopped short, shaking his head. Jim booted him gently, but the horse whirled, almost upsetting his rider, struck a down-trail through the brush, and went along at a swinging walk. Jim laughed aloud. Blondy was going home.
It seemed that Blondy was taking a short-cut, instead of going around the way they came. The trail was steep, and the hoofs of the horse cut deep into the dirt, angling down into a canyon. They struck the bottom and kept on going down through a mesquite thicket, where the trail was almost too narrow. Those mesquite claws slashed at Jim’s overalls and boots, and now he understood why cowpokes wore leather chaps.
Suddenly they broke into an opening, possibly two acres in size. Just ahead, standing against the edge of the brush, were two saddled horses. Near the horses were two men, one of them kneeling down beside a roped yearling. A few feet away was a tiny pile of sticks, a thin spiral of almost colorless smoke indicating the branding fire. Blondy stopped short, and one of the horses nickered softly.
* * * * *
Both men whirled, the one lurching to his feet. Jim started to call a greeting to them, when a gun flamed and he felt Blondy jerk back from the impact of the bullet. Another shot blasted, and Jim found himself pitching into space as the horse fell sideways. Only slightly dazed from the fall, Jim got to his feet, dimly realizing that these men were shooting at him. A bullet tugged at his sleeve, and Jim Bailey had a sudden urge to get as far away as possible in the least space of time.
It has been said that it is impossible to run fast in high-heel boots, but Jim Bailey disproved this theory. It was the first time he had ever been obliged to run in order to save his life, and he made the best of it. There was no soreness left in his legs, and he went into that heavy brush with all the dispatch of a frightened cottontail. Not only did he go into the brush, but he kept right on going, while bullets whistled past him.
Finally he sprawled, exhausted, and waited for the worst. He could not hear any sounds of pursuit. A half-hour passed, but there were no sounds, except the buzzing of a bee, the call of a bird. Jim got carefully to his feet. Something else buzzed near him, and he instinctively held still. After a few moments a diamond-back rattler slowly uncoiled and slid easily away in the undergrowth. Jim Bailey shivered. The snake had rattled not over five feet away.
Cautiously he made his way back to the cleared space. There was Blondy, flat on his side, but no sign of the two men. He went to the horse, but the animal was dead. Jim’s heart sank. He knew it was a long way back to the Lazy H, but in just what direction?
“It must be downhill,” reasoned the young man, “because we came all the way uphill. If I ever get out of this alive, I’ve had all I want of the West.”
It was after sundown that evening, when Skeeter Smith came riding along the base of the hills north of the Lazy H. He saw a man stumble out of the mouth of a small canyon. The man stopped in the open, looking around. When he saw Skeeter he ducked down behind some brush. He was acting so queerly that Skeeter approached him cautiously.
It was Jim Bailey, scratched and torn, his face bleeding, hands cut. One sleeve of his shirt was entirely gone, the rest of the garment in tatters. One bare knee protruded from a split overall leg, and there were cactus spines in that knee.
“Meade! What happened to you?” Skeeter gasped.
“I’ve been walking,” replied Jim wearily.
“Yeah, I reckon you’ve been doin’ somethin’. Here,” Skeeter slipped his left foot out of the stirrup, “hook your foot into that stirrup and come up behind me.”
“You mean two on one horse?”
“That’s right. Hook that stirrup and I’ll help yuh on. Don’t stand there like a billy-owl--climb up.”
With his help, Jim managed to get up behind Skeeter. He drew a deep breath.
“I went riding and somebody shot my horse,” he said.
“They did? Well, that’s interestin’. Shot yore horse, eh?”
“Tried to shoot me, too,” complained Jim. “Are you sure you know the way back to the ranch? I think you’re going the wrong way.”
“Yore compass is busted, pardner,” chuckled Skeeter.
“I feel completely busted,” said Jim. “Even the snakes buzzed at me.”
The boys were all at the ranch, waiting for supper when the two men rode in. Mary was anxious over the safety of Jim. They mopped him off with water and put his blistered feet to soak, while Archibald, with the aid of pliers, began taking out cactus spines.
Jim told them what had happened to him and Blondy. No one offered sympathy. Tex Parker asked Jim if he could find the spot where they had killed Blondy.
“I hope not--ever,” Jim said.
Tex said, “Let’s eat, boys. We’ll have to watch the buzzards to find Blondy and get that saddle back. It sounds to me like somebody was doin’ some range-brandin’ on other people’s cows. That could be their only reason for smokin’ up the kid. I wish I’d been in his place.”
“You’d prob’ly stayed in the canyon,” said Tellurium. “Come and git it--before I dump it out!”
Jim managed to hobble to the table and ate a good meal though he was one mass of sore spots.
“Soon’s yuh git ready for bed,” Tellurium said, “I’ll sneak in with the horse-liniment. That’s a he-man’s cure for everythin’ from ingrown toenails to dandruff. How do you like bein’ a cowpoke?”
“Ask him that in the mornin’,” advised Dell Howard, “he’s sound asleep.”
VII
Skeeter Smith went to Pinnacle City alone that evening. When he tied his horse at the saloon hitch-rack, he saw a light in Ed McLean’s office. The lawyer was working on some papers as the tall, lean cowpoke came in. The fat lawyer shoved the papers aside and leaned back in his chair, wondering what caused the newcomer at the Lazy H to come into his office. Skeeter said “Howdy” and sat down.
“What can I do for you, sir?” asked McLean, reaching for his pipe on the desk-top.
“I thought yuh might like to know that Jim Meade rode into the hills today and some rustlers shot the horse from under him. The kid had to walk home, and he’s pretty sick of his job.”
“Job?” queried the lawyer. “He is not working for the Lazy H.”
“Well,” drawled Skeeter, “we’ll call it a deal, instead, eh?”
McLean puffed violently at his empty pipe, his eyes watching the lean face opposite him.
“Deal?” queried McLean quietly.
“Yeah--deal.” Skeeter leaned forward, lowering his voice.
“I want in on this deal, McLean,” he said.
McLean stared at Skeeter, but encountered only a pair of level, gray eyes. He swallowed painfully and looked at his pipe.
“I don’t understand what you mean,” he protested.