Part 1

THE VALLEY OF LOST HERDS

by W. C. Tuttle

A New Kind of Ranch Foreman Deals with Cattle-Rustlers

The big Tomahawk--saloon, gambling palace, honkatonk--blazed with lights. Cowboys jostled each other at the long bar, or laughed and made merry with the girls who thronged the rooms. The roulette whirred, poker chips rattled and the voices of the dealers droned above the roar of the crowd.

It was the big night of the month in Tomahawk--pay night on the Reber ranches. And pay night on the Reber ranches meant that all the small ranches to the north would also pay off and let their men come to town. There was no limit to anything. Reber owned the Tomahawk Saloon; owned nearly everything else in the town of Tomahawk, as far as that was concerned.

And with one exception he owned all of Reber Valley. It had been known as Tomahawk Valley, and was still Tomahawk Valley on the map, but to those who lived there it was Reber Valley. For Park Reber owned the M 33, Half-Wheel, Circle S, Two Bar X and the Lightning. There was really only one ranch he did not own, the S Bar P. There was another little place twenty miles south of Tomahawk which belonged to Jack Silver, who had never registered any brand. So, outside of the S Bar P, Park Reber really owned the valley.

In an area thirty miles long by about fifteen miles in width Park Reber was supreme--a real cattle baron. And Park Reber sat in his big house in Tomahawk town, all alone except for a Chinese cook, and gloated. He was _the_ big man of the country--big and lonesome. And sometimes he was mad, they said. Men worked for him, spent their money in his saloon and gambling house; but none of them admired him.

He was about sixty years of age--white-haired, harsh of feature, his deep-set eyes gloomy. Over his left eye was a white scar like a crescent moon, and he often touched it, as if it annoyed him. He drove his men hard, demanded results and got most of their wages back _via_ the green cloth.

It had taken him twenty years to become owner of the valley.

His herds, the Diamond R brand, roamed the many hills. While his ranches were all designated by their original brand names, all the stock was branded with the Diamond R. Other ranches shipped from Tomahawk, but the Diamond R was the heavy shipper. They owned the loading corrals--or rather Reber did.

Park Reber did not come often to the Tomahawk Saloon, but he had been coming oftener of late. Some said it was because of June Meline, the tall, black-haired beauty who played the violin. She was not a fiddler. There seemed a difference between June Meline and the rest of the girls of the honkatonk. Her white skin was untouched by rouge or paint and there was an imperious lift to her well shaped head. Nor did she mix with the others.

Park Reber loved music and most of all he loved the wailing notes of her violin. Often she had come to his table to talk with him. She refused drinks, but liked to discuss with him his business troubles. Some said she was trying to “rope-in” the old man, but Park Reber knew better. He admired her level-headed way of looking at things.

And on this pay night Park Reber came again, taking his usual table, where he might drink and watch the show. With him was “Slim” Patterson, foreman of the Half-Wheel ranch. Their table was near the platform, where the three-piece orchestra rattled out its tin-panny music.

The show was just at its height as they sat down. There was a burst of applause as June Meline came out carrying her violin. She was dressed in black silk, which accentuated the pallor of her skin. Only the piano played her accompaniment, and as she lifted her violin the pianist hesitated.

Some one had spoken a word aloud--the name of a man.

“‘Buck’ Priest!”

And there he stood, not more than six feet away from Park Reber, backed by two of his men. It was the first time Buck Priest had ever been in the Tomahawk Saloon. He was as old as Park Reber, possibly older. He wore his hair long, but his thin, evil face, with the hawk-bill nose, was smooth-shaven. He wore a silver-trimmed sombrero, buckskin shirt, gray trousers tucked in the tops of his high-heeled boots, and around his waist was a wide, beautifully carved leather cartridge belt supporting a holstered Colt.

The men with him were hard-bitted cowboys--fighting men of the S Bar P. It took nerve for Buck Priest to lead his men in among the cowboys of the Diamond R. But Buck Priest had nerve. He had fought Park Reber until Reber had told his men to leave the S Bar P alone.

At one time--over twenty years ago--these two men had been comrades.

It was evident that Buck Priest was drunk this night. He was not a drinking man, but once a year Buck Priest would get drunk; and when he got drunk, he was so cold-blooded that even his own men did not wish to associate with him.

It seemed as if every man in the room were holding his breath. Park Reber got slowly to his feet, and Priest laughed harshly.

“You dirty old cow thief!”

Buck Priest fairly hissed the words at Reber.

“You sneakin’ old rustler!”

No one moved; no one spoke. The two men, one on each side of Buck Priest, were bent forward tensely, their eyes sweeping the room, ready to draw and shoot at the first move. Park Reber’s eyes blinked angrily, but he held still, staring at Buck Priest.

“I’m talkin’ to you, Reber,” said Priest slowly. “Callin’ you a thief. And you ain’t gut guts enough to deny it. You’ve rustled my cows just as long as you’re goin’ to, Reber. I’ve come into the lion’s den to tell yuh what I think of yuh, you cow thief!”

There could be but one answer to that accusation. Reber had been a gun-man, but of late years he had left that distinction to his hired men. He did not wear a belt and gun, but under his left arm-pit was a holstered Colt; and now he jerked back, reaching for this concealed gun.

It was what Buck Priest wanted, what he came there to force Park Reber to do--reach for a gun. His hand streaked down to his thigh and whipped up a big black-handled revolver. For a fraction of a second Park Reber’s life was not worth a penny. Something flashed between Reber and Priest just as Priest pulled the trigger--something that smashed against Priest’s hand and arm, partly ruining the shot which was intended for Park Reber’s heart.

The big gun thundered as Buck Priest jerked sidewise. Park Reber stepped backward against his chair, tripped and fell to the floor. Priest and his two men whirled and headed for the doorway, and the crowd gave them plenty of room.

Men lifted Reber to his feet and then set him in a chair.

“That fiddler girl!” exclaimed one of them. “She threw her fiddle and hit Buck Priest on the arm.”

The girl sprang from the platform and was at Park Reber’s side in a moment, and he smiled at her. Slim Patterson ripped away the shoulder of his coat. The room was in an uproar. No one thought of going after Buck Priest. Some one went after a doctor, who came in a few minutes.

The bullet had struck high in Reber’s shoulder, and he was quite ill. The doctor, skilled in gunshot cases, told him he was very lucky. Some one had recovered the violin, but it had been walked on until it hardly resembled an instrument. The girl looked ruefully at it, but said nothing.

Several of the cowboys secured a cot, using it in lieu of a stretcher, and carried Reber home; but not until he had received June Meline’s assurance that she would act as his nurse.

“I wish you would,” said the doctor. “Nurses are hard to find out here. And, anyway, your violin is broken.”

“I’ll buy yuh a carload,” said Reber weakly. “Don’t leave me alone with Hop Lee and this darned doctor. I’ve got lots of room up there, June.”

And so June Meline became nurse for Park Reber. She knew little about nursing and told Park Reber so. But he grinned painfully and told her he didn’t know much about being shot, as far as that was concerned.

She took up her residence in the big old house, which was really a ranchhouse, in the town. Hop Lee, the old Chinese cook, who cared for no one except Park Reber, took to June and actually smiled at her.

It was a new sensation to Park Reber, this idea of having a woman around. Not in nearly twenty-five years had he seen a woman in his house. His five foremen came at irregular intervals to report to him, and June often heard the name of Buck Priest spoken.

There was another name that caused Park Reber to curse--the name of Jack Silver.

It seemed that Jack Silver’s name was connected with the word “rustler.” There were two of these foreman that June did not like--Nort Jackson of the Lightning and Dave McLeese of the Two Bar X.

Nort Jackson was tall, thin, swarthy, black of eye, and wore a weak black mustache. He smiled at her too much, June thought. McLeese was ruddy of skin, with cold blue eyes under huge blonde brows. His nose had been broken across the arch and a huge scar twisted his mouth into a leer. Reber told her McLeese had been kicked in the face by a shod horse.

* * * * *

It was several days after the shooting of Reber. Up to this time he had not mentioned Buck Priest to her. The doctor had finished dressing the wound and had given her orders for the feeding of the patient. Reber had been watching her closely for quite a while.

“Gettin’ tired of bein’ nurse to an old man?” he asked suddenly.

June smiled at him and shook her head.

“No, I’m not tired, Mr. Reber.”

“That’s good. I like you, June. You saved my life that night. Buck Priest is a good shot. He meant to kill me, yuh see. You shore thought real quick, June. You’ve got a head, girl. I’ve watched yuh around here and I’ve talked to yuh. You’ve got sense--too much sense to be playing a violin in a honkatonk.”

June smiled at him.

“One must eat, Mr. Reber. And you have paid me better than I could get any other place.”

“You’ve earned it, June. I wondered how they’d take yore kind of music. But cowboys are sentimental. I’ve seen ’em cry over yore music. Give the average cowboy a few drinks and he’ll cry over ‘Home Sweet Home’. Yes, they will, June. Lot’s of ’em never had a regular home; lots of ’em were kicked out early in life--but they’ll cry, just the same.”

“I suppose,” said June, nodding.

“And you never asked me anythin’ about Buck Priest. That night he called me a dirty cow thief, didn’t he?”

Park Reber smiled bitterly.

“Mebbe Buck was drunk. He’s hated me for years, June. Oh, I’m no angel. I tried to run Buck out of this country. He’s a fighter. He’s not sorry he shot me, but sorry he didn’t kill me.”

“Why didn’t you have him arrested, Mr. Reber?”

“Arrested? For shootin’ me? Why, no, June, it was an even break. My shoulder-holster--well, it isn’t a fast draw. I’d have killed him. Oh, he hates me! Funny, isn’t it, June? We used to be pardners--me and Buck.

“And it was all over a woman--a woman like you, June. She was like you in lots of ways, I think. The valley wasn’t what it is now. Tomahawk was a tradin’ post. This girl came here with her family in a covered wagon. I was in the south end of the valley at that time, where me and Buck had a small herd of cattle. Buck was here at the post, and met her.

“He was two days late bringing in supplies, and when he came he told me about her. I told him he was a fool to even think of a girl. It was a bad country to bring a girl into. The Cheyennes were unfriendly then, and there were a lot of them in the valley. They stole cattle and horses. It kept us busy protectin’ our herds.

“But Buck went back to the post, over thirty miles from our ranch, and was gone five days. He was going to bring in more ammunition, but when he came back he was drunk and had no ammunition, so I left him there and went after it.

“And I met this girl. Her name was Janice Gray. Pretty name, eh? And she was pretty. I found that Buck had proposed to her and she had turned him down. Two days later we were married and went back to the ranch.”

Park Reber smiled bitterly and looked at the ceiling.

“I don’t know why she married me, June. I can see the look on Buck’s face yet when we rode in and told him. And I had forgotten the ammunition. He didn’t say much. Didn’t wish us happiness--just sat there and looked at the ground. Finally he said--

“‘Park, I’ll pay you for this some day.’”

“I didn’t know what he meant at the time. He saddled his horse and rode away. Later on he built a cabin at the forks of the river and sent two men for half of the stock. I helped them round up all the cattle and horses, and we divided them equally.

“But he never came near me. I heard that he said he would pay me back for what I had done, but I did not pay any attention to what I heard. We were happy, Janice and I. The spring came and turned into summer. There were few settlers. The Cheyennes were gettin’ worse, but every one said that when the winter came they’d be driven out by the deep snows and lack of game. The deer all move over to Clear Valley in the winter, because of the laurel, which does not grow here.

“The winter came early that season. I had cut a lot of wild hay on the bottoms, but not enough to feed stock all winter. In October there was three feet of snow, and it did not go off. By Christmas my hay was all gone, and I was in a desperate condition.

“I knew that the north end of the valley was open, and there was only one thing to try and do--to take my herd out of my range. I had one man working for me. He was a young man by the name of Sneed--John Sneed--a good boy. I couldn’t leave Janice alone, yuh see. There would be a baby along soon, and some one had to stay with her. There was a doctor at the trading post. I tell yuh, I was desperate, so I broke trail with horses and led my cattle to the upper end of the valley. It was a tough pull. I took them past Buck’s place, but didn’t see him. He had moved his cattle out a few days before, and the trail was open from there.

“I had to bring those half-starved cattle almost up to here, where I threw them in with Buck’s cattle, and came on to the post. It was bitter cold that night I rode in, but it warmed up a little, and by morning the worst blizzard that ever swept this country came down through here.

“This whole valley was a howling hell of wind and snow, June. I don’t suppose our cattle lasted one night. You couldn’t see a man at your elbow. A man couldn’t live in it. Twenty below and a fifty-mile gale. I swore I’d go home, but they stopped me. It lasted five days.

“And when the wind died down the temperature died with it, until the thermometer at the post froze. Then we started for my place, the doctor and me, traveling on snowshoes. The valley was a place of the dead. There was not even a rabbit-track. Our cattle were under the drifts.

“There was some one at Buck’s cabin. We could see a thread of smoke from his chimney; the rest of the cabin was buried in the snow. But there was no smoke from my chimney.”

Park Reber shut his eyes, and for a while June thought he had fallen asleep. Then:

“No, there was no smoke, June; the cabin was empty. We dug our way down to the door and went in. There was John Sneed, lying face down in the middle of the room--dead. His head had been cut open--his scalp taken. The Cheyennes had been there. The doctor said he had been dead quite a while. I think they had been there ahead of the blizzard.

“I don’t remember just what I did, June. They told me that I went hunting for the Cheyenne camp; I don’t remember. Later I went back to the post and spent the winter. In the spring I went to the Cheyennes and tried to find some trace of my wife, but it was useless. They treated me like a crazy man--and I reckon I was. Later on I went further north and opened a saloon in a new mining camp. It was a money-maker, and in two years I came back here and went into cattle again.

“Buck was still here; still hatin’ me. We met one day and he taunted me with my loss. I tried to kill him with my hands and almost succeeded. It didn’t help any. Buck Priest ain’t the kind you can whip into friendship.

“And I think he hates me for being successful. I own practically all of the Valley. They call it Reber’s Valley. That must hurt Buck Priest. I tried to buy him out, but he wouldn’t sell. He shot my cattle when they came on his range, and I--I shot his cattle on my range.

“Oh, it’s been a battle for years. Finally I gave my men orders to let him and his cattle alone. It seemed to be a mutual truce. But my cattle have disappeared. I don’t think Buck Priest took them.”

“Who is Jack Silver?” asked June.

Reber looked curiously at her.

“Jack Silver?”

“Yes, I heard his name spoken, Mr. Reber.”

“Jack Silver,” mused Reber. “A handsome devil of a breed, June. He’s tall, graceful--too smart for my men. He comes to Tomahawk. He’s not afraid of me. Half Cheyenne. There are no Cheyennes in the Valley now, June. Uncle Sam keeps ’em on a reservation. But Jack Silver lives back on Trapper Creek, twenty miles southwest of here. We’ve tried to catch him stealing my cattle, but he eludes us.

“McLeese of the Two Bar X and Nort Jackson of the Lightnin’ have trailed him for weeks; and Slim Patterson has tried to trap him, but he’s too clever. He’s got the cunning of the Cheyenne, the brain of a white man.”

June sat in an old rocker, her chin resting on the palm of her right hand, as she thought over Reber’s story. It was the first time she had ever heard the reasons for Buck Priest’s hatred of Park Reber.

“How many head of cattle has Jack Silver stolen from you?” she asked.

Reber shook his head slowly.

“Who knows, June? More than I care to lose.”

He smiled at the thoughtful expression on her face.

“What would you do if you was in my place, June?”

“I was just thinking,” said June, “that if I were in your place I’d hire Jack Silver to work for me.”

Reber frowned quickly. “Hire him to--”

“Why not? You’d save money--and he would be worth what you paid him, wouldn’t he?”

“I never thought of that, June.”

They were interrupted by Hop Lee, who came in and told Reber that Slim Patterson of the Half-Wheel was waiting to see him. June left the room when Patterson came in.

“How’re yuh comin’?” asked Slim, sitting down in the chair June had vacated.

“All right,” said Reber. “Be out in a day or so.”

“Good! Say, I was back between Trapper Creek and the West Fork yesterday and I found about a hundred cows bunched in a draw back there. It shore looked as though somebody was all set for a drive. Me and ‘Chuck’ Avery laid there until night waitin’ for somebody to show up, but they didn’t.

“I left Chuck there and went home. Sent ‘Biddy’ Conley and Abe Lehman out to keep him company and pulled out for here this mornin’, after Biddy came in and said they hadn’t seen anybody yet.”

Reber sighed wearily.

“I dunno, Slim,” he said slowly. “I talked with McLeese the other day and he suggested that we post men in that Trapper Creek pass. It might be a good scheme. They can’t get past the Two Bar X into West Fork pass without bein’ seen by some of the boys, and those are the only two ways out, except past here.

“I’ll tell yuh what I want yuh to do, Slim. Send about three of yore men to Trapper Creek pass, and then pack a message to Jackson, McLeese, Franks and Carlin to be here at my place tomorrow night, and you come with ’em. I’ve got a scheme to stop Jack Silver.”

“You have? That’s fine.”

Slim got to his feet and picked up his hat.

“I’ll pass the word to the boys for tomorrow night. Heard anythin’ more of Buck Priest?”

“Not a word, Slim. Have you?”

“Only that he says yo’re stealin’ his cows. I think he’s tryin’ to excuse himself for shootin’ yuh.”

Reber smiled slowly, and Slim went out.

* * * * *

The S Bar P ranchhouse and other buildings were of log construction, rambling old structures one story in height. The ranchhouse and bunk-house had the old mud-and-stone fire-places. Back of the stables was Porcupine Creek, which ran northwest to Tomahawk River. It was about six miles from the ranch to Tomahawk town.

It was the day after Reber had sent the message to his foremen when Jack Silver rode in at the S Bar P ranch. He rode a tall black gelding, a fitting mount for a man of his physique.

Silver was tall, lithe, dark-skinned. He wore his hair long, but his face was smooth-shaven. His shirt was black, as were his muffler and sombrero, and he wore no chaps. His high-heeled boots were of the short-topped Southwest style, and around his waist was a hand-made cartridge belt supporting a Colt gun in a hand-made holster.

He swung off his horse, waving a greeting to three of Buck Priest’s men who were down near the corrals. Priest met him at the door of the ranchhouse and they shook hands warmly.

“How are yuh, Jack?” asked Priest, as they sat down in the main room of the ranchhouse.

“I’m fine,” replied Silver. “Been over in Clear Valley for a week and just got back. Ran into Dave McLeese yesterday and he told me about you and Reber havin’ a fight.”

Priest scowled heavily and slapped the palm of his right hand on his knee.

“I tried to kill him, Jack. A girl ruined the shot.”

Silver smiled, showing a flash of white, even teeth.

“A girl, eh? McLeese didn’t tell me about her.”

“A fiddler in the Tomahawk,” said Priest. “Flung her fiddle and hit me in the hand. Oh, I was goin’ to kill him, Jack. Reber and his gang of cutthroats are runnin’ all the S Bar P cattle out of the valley.”

“I thought there was sort of a truce.”

“Truce!” Priest laughed shortly. “Reber sent me word that he’d quit if I would. I quit, Jack. But he didn’t. The only way I can ever make Park Reber quit is to kill him. Next time there won’t be any fiddle-throwin’ female present.”

Jack Silver laughed softly.

“You know what they think of me, Buck. I’m watched every minute by Reber’s men. Why, I can’t even kill a piece of fresh meat any more. They’re layin’ for a chance to kill me. Some day they’ll put up a job on me--and I’ll swing for it.

“Oh, they’re nice to my face--McLeese, Jim Carlin, Nort Jackson--all nice to my face. Behind my back they call me the dirty half-breed--the Injun rustler. I trap for a livin’, Buck. You know that. Reber hates me because I’m half Cheyenne.”

Buck Priest smiled crookedly, nodding slowly.

“There’s plenty of hate in this valley, Jack. I hope some day to see Park Reber suffer.”

“He ought to be half Injun,” said Silver bitterly. “That’s enough sufferin’ for one man. Last night he sent word to me by one of the Half-Wheel punchers to be at his place tonight.”

“He sent word to you?”

“Yeah.”

“Wants to trap yuh, eh?”

Silver shrugged his shoulders.

“I played safe, Buck. Today I came across the hills and I’ll stay here until dark. I don’t know what Reber wants.”

“He’s still crippled, and that girl is nursin’ him. She’s makin’ a play for Reber.”

“Pretty girl, Buck?”

Priest nodded.

“Yeah, pretty as a picture. But what do yuh suppose Reber wants of you?”

“I dunno.”

“Are you goin’ to take a chance on him, Jack?”

“I’ll see what he wants.”

“It might be a scheme to harm yuh, Jack.”

“Might be. But as far as that’s concerned, if they want to kill me they can pick me off most any time.”

“That’s true,” agreed Priest. “We’ll all ride in after supper, Jack. If things go wrong, we’ll do what we can.”

“And if Reber finds you in town he’ll set his dogs on yuh,” said Silver grimly.

“I’ll have my dogs along,” replied Buck meaningly. “We went into the Tomahawk and came out safe enough. But I was drunk, Jack. It wasn’t a job for a sober man. We sure shocked that gang a-plenty.”

“I wish I had been there,” smiled Jack. “I’ve never been in the Tomahawk.”

“It’s not a safe place, Jack; and maybe you’ll find it out tonight.”

* * * * *