The shock was so great that the stableman dropped the lid on Snipe’s unprotected head and stepped back; while from within came the muffled voice of Snipe, demanding to know why in hell everybody was pickin’ onto him.
The stable-man lifted the lid and let Snipe get out. He was still half-drunk, dazed and inclined to be indignant.
“Well how did yuh get in there, anyway?”
Snipe scratched his head thoughtfully and looked into the oatbin.
“Mus’ ’a’ fell in,” he said thickly. “How in hell does anybody git into oat-bins, I’d crave to ask yuh?”
“You couldn’t fasten the staple,” argued the stable-man.
“Thasso? Lemme tell yuh, I’m smart.” Snipe rocked on his heels and goggled owlishly at the lantern.
“But yuh couldn’t do a thing like that,” declared the stable-man. “Yuh could fall into the bin, but I’m danged if yuh could lock the lid from the outside.”
“Is thasso? Ha, ha, ha, ha! Is thasso? Well, smarty, couldn’t I lock it firs’? Anshwer me that. Couldn’t I? I must ’a’ done it thataway. Shay,” Snipe looked around foolishly, “have you sheen anythin’ of Sontag and Harrigan?”
“They left here quite a while ago.”
“Oh, my!” Snipe seemed shocked.
“Bill Wyatt was here a while ago, and he asked for you.”
“Yeah? Huh! Well, I’m mush obliged. S’-long.”
And Snipe went weaving out of the door, while the stableman filled the bucket with oats and fed the three horses. He flung the bucket against the wall, picked up his lantern and went back to his bunk, still wondering how on earth a man could get inside an oatbin and lock himself in from the outside.
V
The next morning Sheriff Buck Rainey and Wheezer Wilson his assistant went hunting cows. They went past the Bar S, and were agreeably surprised to find most of the last fifteen Bar S cattle in the pasture. They stopped to put up the broken wires, and rode on.
Slim Wray and Art Alberts, the sheriff’s punchers, had gone further north, looking for the missing herd. The following day the sheriff was to sell out the Bar S, and he wanted more than fifteen head of cattle.
“Looks like a short chance,” observed Wheezer, as they rode further into the hills. “We can’t find much except Box 8’s and Diamond W’s. Old Eph Wyatt must have quite a lot of cows, Buck.”
“Y’betcha.” The sheriff spat reflectively. “I wonder what did happen to the old man. It don’t seem reasonable to think that Sontag and Harrigan had anythin’ to do with the shootin’. There ain’t no motive.”
“We don’t know of any,” amended Wheezer.
“My gosh, you’re gettin’ particular. Pretty soon you’ll be doin’ all your eatin’ with a fork, jist to be correct.”
“Not ’less they make a kind that don’t leak food. There’s Bill Wyatt and Snipe Lee.”
Wheezer pointed at the opposite hillside, where two riders were coming toward them. They drew rein and waited for the Box 8 boss and his puncher to join them.
“Lookin’ for Bar S stock?” asked Bill, after the customary greetings had been exchanged.
“That’s about all it amounts to,” replied Buck Rainey. “We ain’t found none yet.”
Bill twisted in his saddle and pointed east. “We seen five or six head over thataway this mornin’, and there was fifteen or twenty head out near the Box 8.”
“That ain’t noways three hundred and ten head,” grinned Buck.
Wheezer grinned at Snipe Lee. “What happened to yuh last night, Snipe? I heard Jimmy Logan, the stable-keeper, talkin’ about findin’ yuh in the oatbin, with the lid locked.”
Snipe twisted his face disgustedly.
“I must ’a’ been awful drunk. Don’t remember a thing about it. Took our broncs to the stable, set down on the oatbin, and don’t know a darned thing what happened after that.”
“And somebody roped two doors together at the hotel,” said Buck. “McKinney showed me the rope. Slim Wray was pretty drunk when he found the lariat half-hitched around his door-knob; so he thought it was a warnin’ that somebody had hung to his door. He slept in the barn with a six-gun strapped to his wrist.”
“That must ’a’ been after we left,” said Bill dryly. “Got any track of the old man, Buck?”
“No!” replied the sheriff.
“Uh-huh. I happen to know that Sontag and Harrigan rode out of Oreana about midnight.”
“How’d yuh know?”
“Jimmy Logan said they did.”
“Thasso?” The sheriff squinted reflectively. “I wonder where they went. I don’t sabe that pair, Bill.”
“You ain’t got nothin’ on the rest of us, Buck.”
“They’re sure full of fun,” offered Wheezer.
“They’re full of hell!” snorted Bill. “They’ll run against a snag, if they don’t watch out.”
“They ain’t so young,” observed Wheezer. “’S funny they ain’t run agin’ it before this.”
“This ain’t findin’ us any Bar S stock,” reminded the sheriff. “Want to ride with us, Bill?”
“Yeah, we might as well.”
And while Bill and Snipe joined forces with the sheriff, Sad Sontag and Swede Harrigan also rode into the hills, also looking for Bar S stock. They found one of that brand, which they examined closely, noting that the iron had been run on the right shoulder.
“Well, that’s one of the three hundred and ten,” observed Sad, as they moved on. There were numerous Box 8 cattle scattered along the brushy draws.
“This sale won’t be worth attendin’,” declared Swede. “By golly, I wish we’d stayed in Sundown.”
“I’m havin’ a good time,” grinned Sad. “You want too much. I wonder what Bill Wyatt and his bunch had to say? I’ll betcha Snipe Lee didn’t know what happened to him, Swede.”
“I’ll bet he didn’t. Only thing I hope is that somebody let him out of the oatbin before he suffocated.”
“Aw, he was all right. That lid was full of cracks. Wyatt was foxy enough to take that adjoinin’ room, where they’d have a swell chance to hear us talk, and I’ll betcha he cursed the man who invented a maguey rope.”
Sad pulled up his horse, as several Box 8 cattle came out of a draw beyond them and moved into an open swale. He studied them for several moments, a half-smile on his face, and then took down his rope.
“Whatcha goin’ to do, Sad?” asked Swede.
“Practice a little,” grinned Sad, spurring his horse forward and shaking out his loop. Swede swore foolishly, but did not follow him.
The cattle broke into a gallop, heading back toward the ravine, but Sad singled out a rangy, red steer and spurred swiftly in pursuit. The animal twisted along the edge of the shallow ravine, trying to reach the cover of a willow thicket, but the loop sailed true, dropped fair over the horns, and Sad Sontag made his dally around the horn in approved style.
It was all very well done, except that Sad’s cinch was far too loose for a roping-stunt, and when the jerk came it yanked the saddle high up over the horse’s withers, throwing it sideways, and upsetting the calculations of a well regulated roping horse.
The big steer took a header into the brush, the horse skidded sideways over the edge of the washout, and Sad went out of the saddle, much after the manner of a flying-squirrel hunting for a more favorable location.
The action had hardly taken place before Swede spurred past, his own rope in hand, dismounted almost on the run and proceeded to hog-tie the steer, which had had the shock of its life. Sad’s horse regained its feet, kicked a few times, blew the alkali dust from its nostrils and looked back at Sad, who was sitting against the opposite bank, rubbing the alkali out of his eyes.
“You rised something, didn’t yuh?” fleered Swede, red of face. “You’ll never get no sense, Sad Sontag. Ropin’ a steer as big as that one on a loose cinch! I’ve seen a lot of fools in my time!”
“You hadn’t ort to be vain,” said Sad painfully. “It’s all right for a feller of yore physique to look in a mirror, but he shouldn’t brag about it. Didja tie up the little pet?”
“Yeah, I tied it,” Swede spat out some alkali viciously. “If I hadn’t, that red steer would ’a’ made a pet out of you, cowboy.”
“Thank yuh kindly, Swede.” Sad climbed out, after working his saddle back into place, and walked over to the wheezing steer. It was lying on its right side, glaring its hate from a pair of blood-shot eyes.
Sad squatted on his heels and reached for his cigarette papers, while Swede complained audibly.
“I dunno why yuh done this, Sad. That steer feels the insult awful strong, and I’m goin’ to ask you to turn it loose. I’m no matador. I’ll betcha even money that when yuh take the piggin’-string off that steer, he’ll beat yuh to yore bronc.”
Sad frowned over his cigarette, and sang mournfully, “O-o-o-oh, Susie Jones was a clingin’ vi-i-i-ine, but her father was a pi-i-i-izen o-o-oak.”
“Oh, all right,” sighed Swede.
Sad got to his feet and walked over to the steer.
“C’mere, Swede, and help me turn him over.”
“Do yuh think he’s tired, Sad? And after we turn him over, do we have to set him up for a spell?”
“Don’t strain yourself,” grinned Sad. They completed their turning process, when something unexpected happened.
“Don’t move, gents!”
It was the voice of Buck Rainey, the sheriff of Oreana. Sad and Swede whirled quickly to see Buck, Wheezer Wilson, Bill Wyatt and Snipe Lee, standing just a few feet away, guns in hand.
“Keep yore hands where they are,” warned the sheriff. “Get their guns, Wheezer.”
Wheezer came forward and emptied their holsters, while the two Sundown cowboys looked blankly at each other.
“We been watchin’ yuh,” said the sheriff easily. “Yuh see, it ain’t ethical to hang yore rope on other men’s stock in this range, Sontag.”
“That’s one of my animals, too,” said Wyatt angrily.
“I shore apologize,” said Sad contritely.
“Apologize!” snorted Bill. “I—guess—you—would!”
“Yuh might at least be gentleman enough to accept it.”
“Huh? Say,” Bill Wyatt’s voice shook with anger, “do yuh think yuh can get away with jist an apology? What kind of a cow-country didja come from, anyway?”
“Pretty fair,” said Sad seriously. “’Course it ain’t the best in the state, but we kinda like it up there. Lots of nice folks up thataway, Wyatt.”
“Yeah, I’ll betcha!”
“Got ’em before they had a chance to heat an iron,” observed Snipe. The sheriff looked all around and even inspected their saddles. He seemed disappointed not to find anything which they might have used to misbrand an animal. He brought Sad’s horse up beside Swede’s, and dropped the reins.
“I don’t sabe this,” he admitted. “What was you fellers tryin’ to do, anyway?”
“Jist bein’ playful,” grinned Swede.
“Yeah, I’ll betcha.” The sheriff scratched his chin and studied the steer. Wheezer squatted on his heels, holding Sad’s gun in one hand, and Swede’s in the other.
“Well, I reckon I’ll have to take you fellers to town.” The sheriff motioned to Snipe Lee. “Let the steer go, Snipe. We’ve got enough witnesses to this, I reckon.”
“Yo’re danged right we have!” grunted Bill Wyatt.
Snipe Lee walked over to the steer and loosened the rope. It was not the ethical thing to do, and under any other circumstances, it is doubtful that any of them would have considered turning a range steer loose among unmounted men.
Wheezer had placed the two six-shooters on his lap, holding them between his shirt and chaps, as he manufactured a cigarette.
Snipe yanked off the rope and stepped back, slapping the big red animal across the rump with the coils. The steer heaved to its feet with a deep bellow of rage, whirled with the agility of a deer and lunged straight at Buck Rainey and Bill Wyatt, who were standing close together.
The left horn of the animal caught in one side of Buck’s vest, threw him off his feet and he went headlong into the washout, while Wyatt and Wheezer collided, each having a different idea of which way to go, and they went down together.
The steer whirled at the brink of the washout and headed for Snipe Lee, who was waving his rope and yelling unheard advice to everyone. Sad and Swede were not merely spectators. Wheezer had forgotten the fact that he was custodian of the captured artillery, and the guns had barely fallen in the dust when Sad swept them up, whirled and went into his saddle.
Swede was mounted almost as soon, and while the sheriff’s posse scrambled for safety and took pot-shots at the infuriated steer, Sad and Swede rode out of gunshot, turning their tear-streaked faces toward a place where they might cry out their mirth in safety.
A forty-five bullet finally took all the fight out of the steer, and the dusty, scratched, bruised and otherwise injured posse managed to get together for a mutual condemnation meeting. Wheezer had lost a tooth in his collision with Wyatt, and he seemed inclined to think that Wyatt had done it with malice aforethought. Snipe Lee had a lump the size of an egg over his right eye, which pained him greatly.
“Blame yourself for that, Snipe,” wailed Wheezer. “You hit yourself with that hondo.”
“I did not! The steer hit me!”
“You never was within fifty feet of that steer!”
“What did yuh turn it loose for?” demanded Wyatt.
“He told me to,” pointing at Buck, who was rubbing his shoulder.
“Ain’t you got no sense of your own?” queried Wyatt painfully.
“You ort to listen to nobody but Bill,” declared Wheezer sarcastically. “He’s yore boss, Snipe—the clumsy danged fool! Yeah, I mean you, Bill! How didja ever expect to dodge a steer, goin’ the way you was? If it hadn’t been for you, I’d still have them guns and we’d have our prisoners.”
“You didn’t have them guns when we met,” declared Wyatt. “Not by a dang sight, you didn’t! An’ I’m no clumsy danged fool, either.”
“Well, you ain’t an active one, that’s a cinch. No, and by golly, you ain’t no medium one.”
“Aw-w-w, don’t fight about it,” wailed Buck. “Neither one of yuh are acrobats, and yo’re both fools. Why didn’t yuh watch the prisoners?”
“Why didn’t you?” countered Wheezer angrily.
“’Cause I was hangin’ to that steer’s horn by my vest, that’s why. It’s a danged good thing that vests don’t have sleeves.”
“Well, we might as well go back,” said Wheezer painfully. He put his right forefinger in his mouth and invited them to inspect the damage within.
“Aw-w-gle ugl nahk umf foot ’n aw-w-gl,” he told them distinctly.
“Yawgl nawgl woggle,” replied the sheriff seriously.
Wheezer spat painfully. “Think yo’re danged smart, don’tcha?”
“Well, I can talk any language you can. Let’s go home.”
They limped back down the draw to where they had left their horses, mounted and went back toward Oreana.
“What’ll you do if them fellers come back to Oreana?” asked Bill Wyatt.
“Yuh don’t think they will, do yuh?” asked Buck.
“I said, if they do.”
“Oh, yeah.” The sheriff was inclined to be sarcastic. “Well, if they do, I don’t know what I’ll do, Bill. And if they don’t, I don’t know either; so there yuh are. There wasn’t a thing around there that they could use to blot a brand nor change one.”
“Then why did they throw that steer?” demanded Bill.
“I dunno, do you? If this askin’ questions is some kind of a game, deal me a hand. You seen as much of it as I did.”
“Why did they turn that steer over, if they wasn’t goin’ to get at the brand?” remarked Lee.
The sheriff turned in his saddle and glared at Snipe.
“That’ll be about all for this lesson,” he said angrily.
“Well, can’t we discuss the thing?” asked Bill peevishly.
“Shore yuh can. But don’t ask me things. I ain’t got no brains, and I’m willin’ to admit it. I don’t know the why of anythin’. Go ahead and ask Snipe a few questions, if yuh must ask somebody.”
“Ask him why he turned that steer loose,” suggested Wheezer.
“Or yuh might go and ask the steer,” said Buck. “He prob’ly heard ’em say what they was goin’ to do with him.”
The questions ended right there, and the four men said little more to each other on the way to Oreana. It was rather late in the afternoon when they arrived. The sheriff and Wheezer went to their office, where they rubbed their bruises with liniment and used up their supply of courtplaster.
“This afternoon’s work wasn’t anythin’ to brag about,” said Buck meaningly. “I don’t reckon that Bill and Snipe will spread the joyous tidin’s; so we won’t.”
“I read about a sheriff that always got his man,” said Wheezer. “He jist never made no mistakes. I don’t jist remember who the feller was that wrote the book.”
“Some feller with considerable imagination,” said Buck.
“Yeah, I sh’d say he did,” agreed Wheezer. “He’d prob’ly been able to figure out what them two fellers was tryin’ to do with that red steer, Buck. Nobody had to ask him questions. Shucks, he up and tells ’em right on the spot.
“I never seen such a feller as this’n was. Deduct things! Whooee! Always knowed jist what to say, too. As I said before, nobody had to ask him any questions. I suppose he could ’a’ answered any question without no trouble. And I s’pose he would, too.”
Buck squinted at Wheezer, who was innocently examining his mouth in the mirror.
“And nobody asked him any questions, Wheezer?”
“Nossir.”
“Well, I wish I could be elected in his county. If yo’re tryin’ to make me mad—go ahead, pardner. I know just how much I can stand, and you don’t.”
“Well,” grinned Wheezer. “I ain’t fool enough to ask yuh when you’ve got a-plenty.”
A few minutes later there entered young Speck Steeb, carrying Boze, the pup, in his arms and smiling triumphantly.
“The gol derned pup found me,” he declared.
“Where did he find yuh?” grinned Wheezer.
“In the restaurant garbage can.”
“My gosh!” exploded Buck. “What was you doin’ in the garbage can, Speck?”
“Well,” grinned Speck, “that’s where I found Boze.”
“Our family is all united,” observed Wheezer. “I reckon we’ll pick fleas from now on, Buck. What do yuh know, Speck?”
“I know that Bill Wyatt is tellin’ folks that Sontag and Harrigan are rustlers. He said they was ropin’ his cows, and that they got away from yuh. Is that right?”
“He’s tellin’ it, is he?” grunted Buck.
“Yeah, and he said that it was time that the cattlemen took the law in their own hands.”
Buck and Wheezer looked at each other. Wheezer grinned widely, but Buck was serious. Slim Wray and Art Alberts rode up to the front of the office and dismounted. They were dusty and tired.
“We put twenty-five head in the Bar S pasture,” said Slim. “And that’s every darned head we could find. We picked most of ’em up near the Box 8, and it kinda looks like they might be a little bunch that got away from that main herd. If that bunch hadn’t been stolen, it’s a cinch we’d find more, Buck.”
“I s’pose,” nodded Buck. “It ain’t goin’ to be much of a sale, but we’ll sell what there is.”
“Sontag and Harrigan came down here to buy stock, didn’t they?”
“That kinda remains to be seen, Slim. They probably won’t be at the sale tomorrow.”
“I’d like to make a bet on that,” said Speck.
Buck laughed at the boy. “You’d like to bet on it, eh? What have yuh got to bet?”
“Well,” Speck hesitated and shifted his feet. “I ain’t got no money, but I’ll bet—I’ll bet my dog.”
Buck rubbed his chin thoughtfully for a moment.
“No bet, Speck,” he said. “Yore hunch is too good. Any old time a kid is willin’ to bet his dog, the odds are all agin’ the other feller.”
Abe Snow had been in town nearly all day, and now he rode back toward the Box 8 with Bill Wyatt and Snipe Lee, who had imbibed much liquor in a short space of time. Abe had been left in town to see if he could hear anything regarding Sontag and Harrison, but it was Wyatt and Lee who had the information.
They rode in at the Box 8, stabled their horses and went to the ranch-house. There was no one there, except the Chinese cook, whose cognomen was One Bum Lung. He was cooking supper when Bill went into the kitchen to see how long it would be before eating time.
“Two men come heah today,” stated One Bum Lung. “I no sabe ’em. One loan ho’se, one bay ho’se.”
“Yeah?” Bill scowled thoughtfully. “One roan horse and one bay horse, eh? What did they want?”
“No talk. I seeum on collal fence. Long time set on fence.”
“Long time set on fence, eh? Where did they set on the fence?”
“Longside li’l chute, where bland put on. You sabe place?”
“Uh-huh.” Bill whirled and went back into the living-room, where Snipe and Abe were arguing over the ownership of an old magazine.
“Sontag and Harrigan were here today,” said Bill. “Lung says they sat on the corral fence beside the brandin’-chute.”
“The hell they did!” snorted Snipe. “What for?”
“How would I know?” retorted Bill.
“That don’t look so good,” said Abe seriously. “The sooner we run them jiggers out of the country the better it’ll be for us.”
“And that’s no danged lie,” agreed Bill heartily. “If they show up at that sale tomorrow, there’ll be somethin’ doin’. You fellers keep sober and keep yore eyes open, sabe?”
“Yeah, we’ll do that, too,” agreed Snipe. “I reckon Bunty will be at the sale, eh?”
Bill laughed shortly. “Yeah, he’ll be there. I threw a spoke into his machine, but he don’t dare yelp. Keep yore eye on Bunty, too. This Sontag and Harrigan think they’re smart, buttin’ into things that don’t concern ’em.”
“Started over that damn dog!” snapped Abe. “If we hadn’t tied a can on the kid’s dog, these two wouldn’t never mixed into it. If it hadn’t been for the dog, you and Sontag wouldn’t ’a’ had a fight. And then the old man wanted to adopt the kid, ’cause the kid didn’t like you.”
“Glub pile!” called One Bum Lung, and they filed into the kitchen.
VI
“Didja ever read ‘Robinson Crusoe’?” asked Sad Sontag, leaning back in a dilapidated chair at the Bar S ranch and looking through a big book, balanced on his knees.
Swede Harrigan squinted through his revolver barrel at the window, decided that it was clean enough, and reached for the oil can.
“Know it by heart,” he declared wisely. “It was written on Friday by a man who found tracks in the sand. Where’d yuh get that book, Sad?”
“Found it upstairs. It’s probably a book that old man Steeb gave to the kid on Christmas. I ain’t read that story for years, and it kinda brings back memories of my childhood.”
“Yeah, it must,” agreed Swede. “You was eighteen years old before yuh learned to spell yore name.”
“Oh, yeah, that’s right. Well, it brings back memories of my callow youth. How does that suit yuh?”
“Suits me,” Swede shoved the gun into his holster and wiped his hands on his knees. “That danged deputy sheriff shore was careless to let our guns fall in the dust thataway. Say, I wonder what they’ll say when we show up at the sale? I dunno whether it’ll be just the right thing to do, or not, Sad.
“We don’t know how the sheriff feels about it. My gosh, he may be out gunnin’ for us right now. He—say, why don’tcha listen to me? You don’t seem to care a dang, Sad.”
“I was just wonderin’,” said Sad thoughtfully. “By golly, it’ll be a good way to find out for sure.”
“Find out what?”
“What didja say, Swede?”
“Well, now that’s sure intelligible,” declared Swede. “I suppose yuh found somethin’ in that book that’ll help yuh out, didn’t yuh?”
“Uh-huh—mebbe. When yuh don’t know the answer to anythin’—look in the book and see,” grinned Sad. “In a couple of hours they’ll come out here to hold that sale, and I might read ’em somethin’ out of the book.”
“I hope Bill Wyatt and his gang shows up,” mused Swede. “If the Lord ever did make three danged fools, them are the ones. They’re either ignorant, or they’ve got a lot of nerve.”
“They think they’re clever,” grinned Sad.
“Then this is an awful ignorant settlement. We better get all set before they show up.”
And while Sad and Swede got ready to receive them, the delegation rode from Oreana to attend the sale. Several buyers had come from the lower ranges, lured by the chance of buying something cheap.
Bunty O’Neil rode with the sheriff and his assistant, Wheezer. He was in hopes that the sale would bring enough money to pay his notes against the Bar S; but the sheriff assured him that it would not. The ranch itself was not worth over five thousand, and thirty or forty head of cattle would not bring enough more to cover the amount of the notes.
It was doubtful if a buyer could be found for the ranch. The story of the arrest and escape of Sad and Swede had become known, although the steer episode had only been touched upon lightly. Bill Wyatt and his two men rode together, and it seemed that they were unusually quiet of demeanor.
Speck rode with the sheriff, and was still willing to bet his dog that Sad and Swede would attend the sale. Speck had begun to realize that the Bar S was to be sold for debts, and that it no longer would be home to him. Buck Rainey had explained it to him in detail, and a great wrath welled up within Speck against Bunty O’Neil, the man who was indirectly responsible for this loss.
“That shore is dirty work,” Speck declared hotly. “Don’t I have the worst luck? Lose m’ ranch, and then somebody shoots the old man who was goin’ to help me out. I hope to gosh that somebody gets paid for all this.”
They rode in at the Bar S and dismounted at the big corral near the stable. The sheriff sent Slim Wray and Art Alberts to round up the cattle in the pasture, while the buyers walked around, inspecting the buildings. The sheriff was a busy man, trying to get an opinion on the value of the ranch itself, but none of the cattlemen seemed inclined to make a bid. Bunty sat on the corral fence, gloomy of face, surly of speech. He wanted his money, and he did not care who knew it.
“Close to ten thousand,” he wailed, when someone asked him how much the place owed him. “Got the notes right with me. That’s the last time anybody will ever hook me for that much.”
“Well, where are all the Bar S cattle?” asked Gilroy, a rancher, who owned an outfit on Bitter River. He arrived too late to find out that the cattle had disappeared.
“Stolen,” said Wheezer.
“Stolen? How long since they disappeared?”
Wheezer started to explain, but the boys were bringing the herd; so those at the corral separated and helped swing them in through the wide gate.
“Hey!” called Slim. “There’s a Box 8 in that bunch.”
“Leave him in,” yelled the sheriff. “We can cut him out later.”
They shut the gate behind the last animal and prepared for the sale. The assemblage sat down on the top-pole of the corral fence and watched the cattle milling around, seeking an exit. The dust clouded up the scene to some extent, but the men were all old dust-eaters and did not mind.
“There’s thirty-nine head,” declared the sheriff. “It’s a mixture of breeds, ages, et cettery. How much am I bid for the bunch?”
“Three hundred and ninety dollars,” offered the Bitter River man. The price of ten dollars per head brought a laugh from the crowd.
“Three hundred and ninety-one,” bid another.
“Three ninety-one and two-bits.”
“Three ninety-two.”
“Wait a minute,” begged the sheriff. “My gosh, that ain’t no way to bid. Them animals would be dirt cheap at thirty per head.”
“I’ll give twenty dollars per head.”
The sheriff turned quickly at the sound of a familiar voice. Sad Sontag was just outside the corral and behind the men on the fence. Bunty O’Neil tried to turn quickly and almost fell off the fence. Swede Harrigan was standing near Sad, hanging on to the neck of a half filled gunny-sack, a grin on his face.
“Well, I’ll be damned!” The sheriff seemed justified in making his statement. He climbed over the fence and faced Sad, who merely grinned and asked the sheriff if his bid was high enough to buy the cattle.
“Hello, Mr. Sontag,” called Young Speck from his perch.
“Hello, Speck. How’s Boze?”
“He’s fine. By golly, I’m glad they didn’t catch yuh.”
Sad laughed and turned to the sheriff. “I hope the old red cow didn’t hurt yuh, sheriff,” he said.
“Myah!” snorted the sheriff. “You’ve got yore nerve to come here.”
“Not so much. Yuh see, we intended to come to the sale.”
“Don’t let ’em bluff yuh,” said Snipe Lee anxiously.
“Nobody’s goin’ to bluff me,” declared the sheriff.
“Nobody’s tryin’ to,” smiled Sad. “Let’s go ahead with the sale.”
“Yeah, let’s go on with it,” agreed Bunty.
For the first time the sheriff noticed that Sad had a big book under his left arm. He squinted closely.
“What’s the idea of the book, Sontag?”
“The book of wisdom,” grinned Sad. “It might answer a question that’s been botherin’ me quite a lot. Yuh see, I’ve been wonderin’ who stole them Bar S cattle.”
“Are yuh lookin’ for the answer in a book?” asked Bill Wyatt sarcastically.
“Mebbe.” Sad considered Bill thoughtfully. “Say, we was up to yore place yesterday, after the red steer busted up yore party. You’ve got quite a place, Wyatt. From the number of Box 8 cattle in the hills, you must be doin’ quite well.”
Bill Wyatt did not reply, but shot a glance at Snipe and Abe, who were wishing that they were somewhere else.
“Yessir, you seem to be doin’ quite well,” continued Sad. “You don’t brand very deep, do yuh?”
“What do yuh mean?” demanded Bill.
“Just what I said. Beauty may only be skin-deep, but a brand shore ought to go into the epidermis.”
“I don’t git yore drift.” Bill spoke evenly and straightened up slowly. “If this is a sale—let’s sell somethin’ and have it over.”
He climbed down off the fence and leaned against the nearest post. Several more got down, as though tired of their position, and Bunty O’Neil was one of them.
“I made my bid,” said Sad. “Is somebody goin’ to raise it?”
“Those cattle are worth more than that,” declared Bunty.
“Go ahead and bid more,” growled Wheezer. “Nobody stoppin’ yuh, Bunty.”
“I ain’t goin’ to bid on what already belongs to me.”
“Does it belong to yuh?” asked Sad.
“You’re damned right it does. I’ve got the notes to show for it right here.” Bunty slapped his pocket. “I’ve got enough to more than cover the ranch and everythin’ on it.”
“Lemme see one?” demanded Sad.
“Let yuh see nothin’!”
“I don’t believe you’ve got a note,” persisted Sontag.
“Thasso?” Bunty spat dryly. “Well, I have. The sheriff has seen ’em, and so has a lot of other folks.”
“Say!” snorted Wyatt. “This is a joke. These men tried to steal a steer from me yesterday, and the sheriff arrested ’em, but they got away. Why don’t he arrest ’em again?”
“That’s my business!” snapped Buck Rainey uneasily.
“What’s the idea, Buck?” asked Gilroy.
“I dunno,” Buck shook his head.
“Scared of ’em,” fleered Bill Wyatt.
“It was your steer,” reminded Wheezer. “Why don’t you do somethin’, Bill? Are yuh handcuffed?”
“I still think that yuh ought to show them notes, Bunty,” said Sad, paying no attention to Bill Wyatt.
“Why?” demanded Bunty.
“I don’t believe they’re any good, Bunty.”
“Yuh don’t, eh?” Bunty took an assortment of papers from his inside coat pocket. “Yuh don’t think they are, eh? Then take a look at one.”
Sad accepted the folded sheet of paper and looked it over. It was a properly constructed ninety day note for twenty-six hundred dollars, and signed by Jim Steeb. Sad opened the book and looked at something on the fly-leaf.
“Was Jim Steeb sober when he signed this note?” he asked.
“As sober as a judge,” declared Bunty. “I didn’t want any slip in my dealings with him, Sontag. I never let him sign a note when he was drunk. Are yuh satisfied?”
“Nope.” Sad looked up from the book and motioned to Speck.
“C’mere, Speck, I want to ask yuh a question.”
Speck came willingly enough and Sad held out the book to him.
“Do yuh remember that book, Speck?”
“Sure I do. My dad gave it to me last Christmas.”
“Yuh see, gents, he recognizes the book,” said Sad. The men nodded. Sad opened it at the fly-leaf. “Was yore dad sober when he wrote that, Speck?”
The boy nodded quickly. “He never was drunk at home, Mr. Sontag.”
Sad closed the book, placed it on the ground and held the note out to the sheriff.
“Take a look at that, will yuh sheriff. I’m goin’ to ask Bunty to show us the rest of ’em.”
“The rest of ’em?” parroted Bunty. “Whatcha mean?”
“The rest of the notes, Bunty,” said Sad evenly.
“What for?”
“Because those notes are all signed ‘Jim Steeb.’”
“Signed—Why, you damned fool, that was his name!” Bunty hunched forward, reaching inside his coat, as though to comply with Sad’s request.
“Yeah, his name was Steeb,” said Sad, narrowly watching Bunty. “Anyway, that’s the way it’s pronounced, Bunty. Yore notes are signed S-t-e-e-b, but on the fly-leaf of that book, it says ‘To my little son on Christmas Eve, from his father, and—” Sad hesitated for a moment—“and it’s signed James S-t-e-i-b! You dirty coyote, you tried to steal the Bar S, and you probably killed James S-t-e-i-b!”
Bunty’s hand flipped from beneath his coat, holding a heavy revolver instead of the package of notes, but Sad suspected that Bunty was wearing a shoulder-holster, and his draw was just enough faster to spoil things entirely for Bunty O’Neil.
Sad’s gun spouted lead from his hip, and the bullet yanked Bunty sideways, throwing him to a kneeling position against the corral fence, while the six-shooter flipped away in the dust. His shoulder was broken, but his spirit, after the shock, remained unbroken. He cursed wickedly, but no one cared what he thought. He had admitted his guilt when he drew his gun. Bill Wyatt’s eyes grew hard, and he shot a meaning glance at Snipe and Abe.
The sheriff went to Bunty, reached inside his coat and took out the rest of the papers. Bunty cursed him fluently, but the sheriff paid no attention to his profanity. The others crowded around and watched the sheriff compare the signatures on the notes with that in the book. He turned to Speck, a grin on his face.
“Speck, I reckon you get your ranch back. Your dad didn’t know how much of a Christmas present he was givin’ yuh when he wrote in that book.”
“Well, he don’t get much, at that,” said Bill Wyatt.
“Don’t he?” Sad grinned at Bill. “Don’t he? C’mere, Swede.”
Swede came forward, carrying the gunnysack, which he upended and dumped out a fresh skin. It was the hide of the belligerent red steer. Swede spread it out on the ground for all of them to look upon.
“Remember that critter, sheriff?” asked Sad.
“By God, that’s one of my steers!” exclaimed Bill angrily.
“Yeah, it shore is,” agreed Wheezer. “That’s the one we filled with lead yesterday. I’d remember that red steer anywhere.”
“What’s the big idea?” demanded the sheriff.
“We went back and skinned it,” said Sad casually. “You jiggers were so mad that yuh wouldn’t even collect the meat. We all had some nice steaks for supper off that animal.”
“You got a lot of nerve!” snorted Bill. “Tried to steal——”
“Don’t talk out of turn,” advised Sad. “Sheriff, I ask yuh to examine that brand, but before yuh do, I’d like to say that we know where the body of old Eph Wyatt is. He lived long enough to help us figure out who shot him.
“Yuh see, he had only one livin’ relative. That livin’ relative would naturally inherit the Diamond W when the old man died. But when the old man declared his intentions of adoptin’ Speck, it was a cinch that Speck would get the Diamond W; so this lone livin’ relative—Don’t move, Wyatt! Keep yore hands where they are.
“You shot old Eph Wyatt from ambush. You and Bunty O’Neil had a fallin’ out; so you stole all the Bar S cattle you and yore gang could handle, and changed the Bar S to the Box 8. You branded some with an iron, but a lot of ’em were hair-branded in yore brandin’ chute. You fool, the floor of that chute looks like the floor of a barber-shop after Saturday’s work.
“Look at the brand on that hide! Keep yore hands——”
But Bill Wyatt had no idea of putting up a fight. He whirled around and darted for the corner of the corral, but stopped with a lurch.
Standing between him and the corner and regarding him calmly was old Eph Wyatt. For Bill it was like looking at a ghost; the ghost of the man he had tried to kill. Bill stared at him, turned back and walked unsteadily to the sheriff. It seemed as though Bill Wyatt were finished; as though he were surrendering. But he was not.
Suddenly he grasped the sheriff, whirled him around, grasped him by the back of the shirt and shoved his gun into the sheriff’s back.
“Keep back!” he snarled at the crowd, who were all in front of him. “Make one fool move and I’ll drill Buck Rainey. Now, Buck, yuh can back up. I’m no quitter.”
There was nothing for Buck to do, except follow orders. Bill reached down quickly and secured the sheriff’s gun. The two began backing away slowly, while the crowd, afraid to make a move for fear that Bill would make good his threat to kill Buck Rainey, stood and watched them widen the distance. Wheezer and Slim had moved in behind Snipe and Abe and quietly taken their guns before either of the Box 8 boys realized what had been done.
“Look at Bunty O’Neil!” gasped Sad. The wounded gambler had managed to get to his feet and had secured his revolver. No one had bothered to pick it out of the dust, because everyone thought that Bunty was too badly hurt to ever attempt to recover it.
Bunty was humped badly, with his right arm swinging loosely, his face the color of wood-ashes, but he was making unsteadily for the sheriff and Bill Wyatt.
“Go back, you damn fool!” commanded Bill.
Bunty shook his head painfully, gripping the heavy gun in his left hand.
“Damn the sheriff!” grunted Bunty. “His life don’t mean nothin’ to me; I’m after you, Wyatt. You double-crossed me, you coyote!”
Bill swung the sheriff around toward Bunty. He was afraid to swing further, because it would give the crowd a chance to shoot him in the back.
“Go back, Bunty,” warned Bill. “I’ll kill yuh if yuh don’t stop.”
Bunty laughed hollowly, but did not stop. He seemed awkward in his handling of the six-shooter in his left hand, and the swinging muzzle was as much of a menace to Buck Rainey as it was to Bill Wyatt.
Suddenly Bill fired at Bunty, but missed him. The bullet tore a splinter from the corral fence, and a steer bawled painfully.
“Your luck is gone, Bill,” said Bunty unsteadily.
“Like hell it has! I’ll show yuh who’s got the luck.”
Wyatt and the sheriff were backing faster now. It was evident that Wyatt was trying to draw far enough away to make a break for the brush. The crowd was powerless to stop him, unless they were willing to take a chance on Wyatt killing Buck Rainey.
Bill fired again at Bunty, and this time he did not miss. Bunty almost went to his knees, but recovered his balance. Bill fired once more, but missed, and the bullet caused the audience to scatter.
Suddenly little Speck Steib darted from the corner of the stable, circling behind Bill and the sheriff.
“Don’t yell!” cautioned Sad. “Bill don’t see him.”
Bill Wyatt did not hear Sad’s warning, nor did he realize that the youngster had sprawled in the dirt not more than six feet directly behind him. He was too interested in his own getaway, which seemed more probable every moment. If he could hold them back until he gained the brush, the odds would be in his favor.
Bunty was laughing drunkenly, as he reeled ahead. The sheriff knew that death was behind him, and he was almost as afraid of Bunty’s erratic gun muzzle as he was of Bill Wyatt’s threats. In fact, he was a trifle more worried about Bunty, because he felt that Bill would not shoot him as long as he obeyed orders.
They had backed almost into Speck now, as Bunty’s advance forced them to increase their backward pace. Suddenly Bill Wyatt’s heels struck the prostrate body, and the boy’s arms wrapped in a tight grip around his boots.
Wyatt cursed viciously, tried to catch his balance, but he had been going too fast. The sheriff backed into him, and they both went down in a heap on top of Speck, while into them, half-falling as he came, fell Bunty O’Neil.
Sad Sontag was running toward them, as Wyatt’s heels first struck Speck, and by the time the three men had piled up, Sad was into them, followed by the rest of the crowd, except Wheezer, who was going to be very sure that Snipe Lee and Abe Snow would not escape.
But Sad was not quick enough to prevent Bunty O’Neil from his vengeance. From the midst of the struggle came the muffled thud of a revolver shot, before the crowd could yank them apart.
The sheriff got to his feet unhurt, when they dragged Bunty O’Neil aside; and Speck, covered with dust and blood, crawled from beneath Bill Wyatt, spitting dirt and blinking blindly.
But Bill Wyatt did not get up. The crowd stood around and looked at him and at Bunty O’Neil, who was too far gone to know what it was all about. The sheriff grabbed Speck and hugged him, while Speck dug both fists in his eyes, trying to remove enough dirt to enable him to see what had happened.
Old Eph Wyatt came among them and looked down at his nephew. No one questioned the old man. They just seemed to take it for granted that everything would be explained. Speck blinked at him foolishly, his eyes filled with dust-tears.
“I—I kinda bull-dogged him, didn’t I?” asked Speck.
“Boy, yuh shore did,” said Buck Rainey. “You done just the right thing at the right time. If there’s goin’ to be any adoptin’ done, I’d like to have a chance at it.”
“I reckon I come first,” said old Eph Wyatt quickly.
Speck looked at them, a half-grin on his face.
“I’m much obliged to yuh,” he said. “I’ve got to think about it.”
“Well, he gets the Bar S all back, don’t he?” queried Sad. “It looks to me like you’d have to pick out all them changed brands and turn ’em back to the Bar S.”
“Y’betcha,” nodded the sheriff. “Speck gets ’em all.”
“Snipe Lee says he’d kinda like to talk,” stated Wheezer.
“I jist wanted to say,” said Snipe, “that me and Abe didn’t have nothin’ to do with shootin’ at the old man. Bill never told us that he did that, but he was awful sore to think that old Eph was goin’ to adopt the kid. Bill had an idea of combinin’ the Diamond W with the Box 8. I reckon Bill done the shootin’, ’cause he rode away that day with a rifle.”