It was the following day after the train robbery. Marion Taylor lifted a bucket of water from the old well and poured it into a trough, while she held the lead-rope of a blue-black horse, a tall, rangy animal, a few degrees better bred than the average range animal.
The girl was bareheaded, the sleeves of her white waist rolled to her elbows. She wore a divided skirt of brown material, and a serviceable pair of tan riding-boots. Her hair was twisted in braids around her well-shaped head, and held in place with a hammered silver comb set with turquoise.
She was of average height and rather slim, with the olive tint from the desert sun. Her eyes were wide and blue, and her well-shaped lips parted in a smile, showing a flash of white teeth, when the horse snorted at the splash of water in the trough.
“Somebody must ’a’ pinned yore ears back, Spike,” she said softly. “Or are yuh tryin’ to make me think yo’re a bad horse?”
The ears of the blue-black snapped ahead, as if he understood, and he plunged his muzzle into the clear water, drinking gustily, while the girl drew another bucket and gently poured it into the trough. A burro came poking in through the patio gate, an old ancient of the Arizona hills. His right ear had been broken and looped down over his eye, and his long, scraggly gray hair carried an accumulation of almost everything that grew and wore spines.
“Hello, Apollo,” called the girl. The burro lifted his one good ear, thrust out his whiskered muzzle and sniffed like a pointer dog. Then he brayed raucously, shook himself violently and came slowly up to the trough.
The horse drew aside, being either through drinking or too proud to drink with such an object. The burro looked at the horse, decided not to be particular, and proceeded to drink deeply.
Marion leaned against the curbing and laughed at the burro. That was the one reason the ancient was tolerated around the ranch—to make them laugh. His goatlike appetite was a constant provoker of profanity. Shirts, boots, straps, bedding, anything eatable or uneatable went into his maw. And as a result the inhabitants of the Double Bar 8 were careful not to leave anything lying around loose.
And Apollo was not to be tampered with. In spite of his age he was quick to resent any familiarity, and to feel the caress of his heels left nothing to be desired in the way of shocks. At one time Buck Taylor and Peeler had roped Apollo and clipped him closely, and so heavy was his coat that he almost died from chills, with the thermometer at 115 degrees in the shade.
As Marion turned away from the well and started leading the horse back toward the gate, three horsemen rode up. They were Apostle Paul, Buck and Peeler, who had left the ranch the morning previous to search for Double Bar 8 cattle, which had been reported thirty miles away on the Yellow Horn mesa.
Marion continued out of the patio and met them just outside the gate. With them was a strange dog, which came up to her, acting very friendly. It was the missing Geronimo.
“Where did you get the dog?” asked Marion, after greetings had been exchanged.
“He picked us up,” smiled her father. “I dunno who owns him. There was a piece of rope dragging and we took it off, ’cause it was always gettin’ hung up on somethin’. Friendly cuss, ain’t he.”
Geronimo danced around, as if he knew what was being said about him. Apostle Paul Taylor was a tall, skinny, lean-faced man, with a hooked nose, wide mouth and deep-set gray eyes. His hair was fast turning gray, and he stooped a trifle.
Buck Taylor was almost replica of his father, except that he was bow-legged, had a mop of brown hair, and did not stoop. The half-breed, Peeler, was heavy-set, deep-chested, typically Indian in features, and showing little of his white blood. The two Taylors were dressed in blue calico shirts, overalls, chaps, high-heeled boots and sombreros. The half-breed’s raiment was practically the same, except that he wore a faded red shirt, scarlet muffler, and his hat-band was a riot of colored beads.
All three men wore belts and holstered guns, and in addition to this the two Taylors had rifles hung to their saddles. They were dusty, weary from their long ride. The Apostle Paul dismounted and handed his reins to Peeler.
“Did yuh find any stock on the mesa?” asked Marion.
“About thirty head,” replied her father. “Wild as hawks, too. We brought ’em in as far as Buzzard Springs. Anythin’ new?”
“Not a thing, Dad.”
“You ain’t tried ridin’ Spike, have yuh?”
Marion shook her head and looked at the blue-black.
“Then yuh better let Buck or Peeler fork him first. He ain’t been saddled for three months.”
“Yeah, and the last time I climbed him he piled me quick,” laughed Buck. “Let Peeler do it.”
“After pay-day,” grinned Peeler. “I don’t want to die with money comin’ to me.”
“Pshaw, I’ll ride him myself,” said Marion.
Her father laughed and turned toward the gate when two men rode around from behind the bunk-house and came up to them. It was Scotty Olson, the sheriff, and Al Porter, the deputy. Porter was a big man, dark-featured, with a nose entirely too large for the rest of his face, and very flat cheekbones.
“Hyah, Sheriff,” greeted Taylor. “Howdy.”
The sheriff removed his hat and bowed awkwardly to Marion—
“Howdy, Miss Taylor.”
“Hello, Sheriff,” replied the girl.
Olson rubbed a huge hand across his big mustaches. There was still a lump on his forehead, where he had bumped himself on the floor in the Oasis.
“Just gettin’ in?” queried Porter, glancing at the horses.
Apostle Paul nodded quickly.
“Yeah. Been back on Yellow Horn mesa, lookin’ for cattle.”
“Way up there, eh?” said the sheriff. “Quite a ride.”
“Went up yesterday,” offered Buck.
“Uh-huh,” the sheriff eased himself in the saddle. “Then yuh wasn’t around here last night, eh?”
“Nope. Why?”
“Didn’t yuh hear about the hold-up?”
“Hold-up?” Taylor shook his head. “Where?”
“Last night,” said Porter, “the train was robbed between Broken Cañon and Blue Wells. They got the Santa Rita pay-roll.”
“Well, I’ll be darned!” exclaimed Taylor. “Anybody hurt?”
“Nope.”
“They must ’a’ got close to thirty thousand,” said Buck.
Porter turned quickly.
“What do you know about it, Buck?”
Buck stared back at him, his eyes hardening at the implication in the deputy’s question.
“I don’t reckon the amount of the Santa Rita pay-roll is any secret, Porter.”
“Thasso?” Porter shrugged his shoulders.
“Yes, that’s so,” Buck dropped his reins and walked over to Porter, who squinted narrowly at him.
“I don’t like the way yuh said that, Porter.”
“The way I said what?” queried Porter.
“You know what I mean,” declared Buck, angrily.
“Drop it, Buck,” advised his father, and turned to Olson.
“How many men in the gang, Scotty?”
“Three that we know of—possibly a fourth. A man got on the express car when the train stopped at Encinas, and him and the express messenger had a fight. They fell out of the door and rolled into the ditch. It kinda looks as though this feller was one of the gang. Anyway, there was three that stopped the train, cut off the engine and express car, and blowed the safe.”
“Are you just startin’ out after ’em?” asked Buck, squinting at the sun. “Not very early, it seems to me.”
“I didn’t know nothin’ about it until this mornin’,” said Porter. “I came in from Encinas early this mornin’ on a freight, and went to bed. I got up jist before noon, and they told me about it; so I got the sheriff and we started out.”
Apostle Paul turned to the sheriff, whose ears were red.
“Where were you all this time, Scotty?”
“He was in jail,” said Porter.
“In jail?”
“In my own jail,” said Olson angrily. “Oyster Shell, Eskimo Swensen and Johnny Grant came over to my office last night. They were drunk, and insisted that I had stolen their horses. And they wanted to look in the cells, the —— fools! Jist because they was drunk I let ’em look, and they accidentally locked me in.
“I told ’em where to find the keys, but they went on out and never came back. That’s why nobody could find me last night. I never knowed there was a hold-up, until Porter showed up this noon. And somebody turned our horses loose, too. Mebbe it was that drunken bunch from the AK. Anyway, we’re goin’ over and tell ’em about it, yuh betcha.”
Marion turned away, shaking with laughter, while her father and the other two of the Double Bar 8 choked back their laughter. They knew the gang from the AK very well indeed. But it was no laughing matter to the two officers.
“I can arrest them three drunks for interferin’ with an officer,” declared Olson hotly. “They interfered with the law when they locked me in. I was badly needed, I tell yuh.”
“Sure yuh was,” choked Buck. “If they hadn’t locked yuh up you’d ’a’ had all three of them robbers in jail now.”
“Mebbe. Anyway, I’d have been on their trail.”
“Where’d yuh git the new dog?” asked Porter.
“New dog?” queried Buck. “That one? Huh! We raised him.”
“Never seen him before.”
“Lotsa things you never seen before.”
“Have yuh any clues?” asked Apostle Paul.
“Clues?” The sheriff wasn’t sure of that word.
“Yeah—evidence that might lead yuh to the outlaws.”
“We ain’t had no time yet.”
“Then what are yuh wastin’ it around here for?” demanded Buck.
Porter glared at Buck, but did not reply. He disliked this thin-faced young man, but was just a trifle dubious about starting anything with him.
“Well, I s’pose we might as well be goin’ along,” said the sheriff. “Mebbe we’ll swing around and look in at the AK. I’ve sure got a few things to say to them fellers.”
“God be with yuh, brother,” said Apostle Paul piously. “The AK is sure a good place to make a talk, but when the collection is taken up, you’ll find small pay for yore work.”
“We’ll make ’em respect the law!” snapped Porter.
“Yes, you will,” said Buck. “You better back yore law with an army. They may love yuh for startin’ trouble with ’em, but they’ll never respect yuh. My advice to you jiggers would be to let the AK alone. You’ll never find out who robbed that train if yuh try to shove the law down the necks of them three.”
“Well, by ——, I’m runnin’ my office!” snapped Olson hotly. “No drunken puncher can lock me in my own jail and not hear about it.”
“Let ’em hear about it, by all means—but in a roundabout way, Scotty. And please don’t swear any more. Remember, there’s ladies and gentlemen present.”
“Ex-cuse me,” grunted Scotty, picking up his reins. “Well, we’ll be goin’ along, folks. Adios.”
“Adios, amigo,” said Apostle Paul.
Porter glared at Buck, who wrinkled his nose at the big deputy, and rode away.
They watched the two riders head east across the little valley, riding side by side, as if carrying on a conversation.
“You think they ever find out who rob that train?” asked Peeler.
Buck snorted and headed for the stable.
“Find out nothin’, Peeler. Them two jiggers couldn’t find their own boots. I’d like to be at the AK, when they start their war-talk. That sure was funny about lockin’ him in his own cell.”
Peeler did not reply. He stopped at the stable door and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Buck looked at him sharply.
“Whatsa matter, Peeler?”
“I’m tryin’ to think of one word, Buck.”
“What kind of a word?”
Peeler smiled softly.
“I think it is ‘convenient.’”
“Convenient? What for?”
“For the robbers, Buck. That he is locked in his cell.”
Buck stared at Peeler for a moment. Then—
“Yea-a-a-a, that might be true. But it’s nothin’ to us; so we will forget it, eh?”
“I forget,” smiled Peeler.
Porter was very angry when he and the sheriff rode away from the Taylor ranch, heading for the AK. He was inclined to do a lot of talking, once he was far enough away to conceal his language from the Taylor family.
“I tell yuh they know somethin’, Scotty.”
“Do yuh think so, Al?”
“Yo’re —— right. Didn’t Buck speak right up and tell how much money was in that pay-roll? And didn’t he get right on the prod when I picked him up on it? Don’t tell me that he don’t know somethin’ about it. They’ve been to Yaller Horn mesa, have they? That’s a —— of a good excuse.”
“Do yuh think that’s enough evidence to arrest ’em on, Al?”
“Well, mebbe not. But it’s sure as —— enough to suspect ’em on. I wouldn’t trust any of ’em as far as I could throw a bull by the tail. Buck’s a bad hombre, Scotty. The old man is pretty salty, and that —— breed fits in well with the bunch.”
Scotty nodded. He was in the habit of agreeing with Porter, which saved him many an argument.
“We’ve got to watch ’em,” continued Porter. “They’re slick.”
“Slick,” agreed Scotty absently. “I’m jist wonderin’ what to say to them slick-ears at the AK.”
“Give ’em ——,” advised Porter. “They shore need a good curryin’, Scotty.”
“I know they do, Al. But —— it, they won’t listen to reason. I dunno why they locked me in that jail last night.”
Porter grinned sarcastically, but sobered suddenly.
“Say, Scotty, here’s somethin’ to think about. They locked yuh in yore cell, and in about an hour the train was held up. Does that mean anythin’ to you?”
Scotty shook his head.
“My ——, yo’re dense. Listen:” Porter repeated his statement. “Now do yuh get it?”
“You mean—they locked me up and robbed the train?”
“They locked yuh up—and the train was robbed, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah, I know that, Al; but they was too drunk.”
“Acted too drunk, yuh mean.”
“Well, they acted—say, Al,” the sheriff grinned slowly, “you sure can see things. I wonder if that ain’t right? But it ain’t enough evidence to arrest ’em on, is it?”
“Well, mebbe not enough to arrest ’em on, but it’s enough for us to suspect ’em real hard, and to keep an eye on ’em, Scotty.”
“Yo’re sure gittin’ evidence,” applauded the sheriff. “Al, I’d be lost without yuh. You think faster than I do. I’d prob’ly think of these things after while, yuh see. And they prob’ly turned our broncs loose; so’s we couldn’t foller ’em, even if I got loose.”
“I was jist goin’ to mention that part of it, Scotty. Yuh see how things work out.”
“Yeah. You’d make a good sheriff, Al.”
“Sure. Mebby I will be. Unless somethin’ happens I’ll take a crack at the office next election.”
“Will yuh? I dunno what I’ll do. A feller gits kinda ’tached to a job like this, don’tcha know it? Yo’re prob’ly a better deputy than you’d ever be a sheriff. A feller has to have certain qualifications to be a sheriff, and it ain’t as easy as it looks. Buck was kinda sore at yuh, wasn’t he?”
“Yeah, and he’ll get smart jist once too often. One of these days I’m goin’ to bend him plumb shut and rub his nose off agin’ his knee. I’ll jist stand so much from a hombre like him.”
“You sure hang on to yore temper well, Al.”
“Feller’s got to, when he’s a deputy. Yuh can’t go fightin’ every whippoorwill that wants a fight. It don’t look well, Scotty.”
The AK ranch was located well away from the hills, and about three miles southeast of Blue Wells. It was a typical Arizona ranch; the buildings were part adobe, but more elaborate and larger than those of the Double Bar 8. There was no patio to the AK, but the group of buildings were fenced in with barbed wire.
The sheriff and deputy rode in through the gate and up to the ranch-house, where they met old George Bonnette, owner of the outfit. He was a pudgy little man, almost bald, almost toothless, one cheek bulged from a huge chew of tobacco. He spat explosively and nodded to the officers. It was not often that the law came to the AK, and the old man looked at them curiously.
“Howdy, George,” said the sheriff.
“’Lo, Scotty; hyah, Porter,” Bonnette shifted his chew and waited for them to state their errand.
“Where’s the boys?” asked Scotty, glancing around.
“Well,” the old man scratched his head, “I’ve only got three workin’ here now. T’day is pay-day.”
“Meanin’ that they’ve gone to town, eh?”
“Follerin’ the natcheral inclination of cowpunchers, I’d say that’s where they’ve gone. Whatcha want ’em fer?”
“Oh, nothin’ much,” Scotty sighed with evident relief. He really didn’t want them very badly.
“You heard about the hold-up, didn’t yuh?” asked Porter.
Bonnette hadn’t. And he grew so interested in Porter’s recital of it that he bit off two more chews of tobacco during the telling, which swelled his cheek until one eye was almost closed.
“Well, the dem cusses!” he said earnestly. “Thirty thousand dollars, eh. Worth taking eh? Who wouldn’t? Got anythin’ to work on, Scotty?”
“Well,” said Scotty darkly, “we might have more’n anybody’d think, George. Did the boys find their horses?”
“Hm-m-m-m,” the old man scratched his head. “Seems to me I did hear one of ’em say they walked home, and that their horses was here when they arrived. Them broncs was raised here at the AK, and they’d head for home. I didn’t pay much attention, but I did hear Eskimo say that somebody turned their broncs loose in town last night.”
“I jist wondered if they got ’em,” said Scotty.
Bonnette squinted at Scotty, his brows lifted inquiringly.
“Didja ride all the way out here to find that out?”
“Not exactly, George. Yuh see, them three jaspers locked me in my own jail last night. Didja know that?”
“In yore own jail? No, I didn’t know it, Scotty.”
“Yeah, they did, George. And I was in there when word came of the robbery, and didn’t know a thing about it. They’re liable for blockin’ the law.”
“Yeah, I s’pose they are. Huh!” Bonnette turned away, choking a trifle, and when he turned back there were tears in his eyes.
“We came down here to see about it,” said Porter. “It’s a —— of a note, when things like that happen, Bonnette. Them three fellers ort to be run out of the country.”
“Yea-a-ah?” The old man looked narrowly at Porter. “Why don’t yuh go ahead and do it, Porter. They’re all of age, yuh know. And there ain’t a milk drinker in the crowd; so they really wouldn’t suffer if yuh took ’em away from the cows.”
“Oh, they ain’t so —— tough,” retorted Porter. “They’re not runnin’ this country. They’ve kinda had their own way in Blue Wells for a long time, but now is the time to call a halt. We’re civilized, I’ll tell yuh that.”
“Who do yuh mean, Porter?”
“Well, all of us—ain’t we?”
“I dunno. Sometimes I wonder if we are. We ain’t savages. We don’t worship no idols, nor we don’t eat each other. Holdin’ up a train is a sign of civilization. I dunno about lockin’ a sheriff in his cell. It sure as —— ain’t old-fashioned, ’cause I never heard of it bein’ done before.”
“Well, I don’t care a ——!” snorted the sheriff. “They done it to me, and I’m sure goin’ to let ’em know that I’m sore about it.”
“Yo’re probably more interested in that than yuh are in findin’ the men who held up the train.”
“Yuh think so, do yuh?” growled Porter. “Well, I’ll tell yuh we’re plenty interested in that, too. C’mon, Scotty; we’re jist wastin’ time around here.”
“You don’t need to get mad at me,” laughed Bonnette. “I never locked up any sheriffs.”
“Well, yore men did!” snapped Scotty.
Bonnette laughed at the sheriff’s red face.
“I’ll prob’ly fire ’em for not havin’ more respect for the law.”
“Aw, c’mon,” urged Porter. “T’ —— with ’em; we’ve got work to do.”
They rode away from the AK, heading back toward Blue Wells, no better off for their long ride to the AK.
“I’ve jist been thinkin’ that folks around here don’t show a —— of a lot of respect for the law,” said Scotty Olson.
“Well,” growled Porter, “it’s up to us to make ’em. By ——, I’m all through lettin’ folks make remarks to me. From now on I’m goin’ to make these smart pelicans set up and salute when the law shows up.”
VI—THE MAKING OF A COWBOY
Jim Legg awoke to a different world from what he had ever seen. Blue Wells was so typically southwestern, being one long street of one and two story adobe houses, some of them half-adobe, half-frame. There were no sidewalks, no lawns, no shrubbery. The fronts of the buildings were unpainted, and the signs were so scoured from wind and sand that the letters were barely legible.
No one seemed to pay any attention to Jim Legg. The town was full of cattlemen, and the topic of conversation was the train robbery. Jim Legg listened to the different ideas on the subject, no two of which were alike. He realized that if he and the express messenger had not fought and fell out of the car, they would have been in the center of things.
And Jim Legg was glad the messenger had lied about the physical proportions of the man who had attacked him. Jim wondered what had become of Geronimo, but did not ask any one. And then Jim Legg ran into the three men from the AK outfit. Their pockets were lined with a month’s pay, and they were happily inclined toward all humanity.
Oyster Shell, backed against the Oasis bar, was the first to see Jim Legg. His eyes opened wide and he spurred Johnny Grant on the calf of his left leg.
“My ——, Johnny,” he said softly. “Do m’ eyes deceive me?”
Johnny looked upon Jim Legg with much the same expression that a scientist might exhibit upon finding the fossil egg of a dinosaur.
“Welcome,” said Johnny. “I welcome you to Blue Wells.”
“How do you do?” smiled Jim. “Nice day, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” said Johnny, “We have one like this every thirty days. What grade of poison does yore stummick stand?”
Jim Legg had never drank anything more potent than a small glass of beer, but he knew that he was now in Rome, so he said:
“Oh, anything you gentlemen are drinking.”
“Hooch!” exclaimed Eskimo, and the busy bartender sent the bottle spinning down the bar, followed by four glasses.
“You want a wash?” asked Johnny, meaning a glass of water or soda.
Jim Legg glanced at his hands and looked at himself in the back bar.
“No,” he said finally. “I don’t think so.”
The three cowpunchers exchanged quick glances. Fate had sent them something to play with. Eskimo poured out a full glass for their new playmate, who almost strangled over it. But he got it down.
“That’s liquor,” declared Johnny, smacking his lips.
“It’s gug-good,” whispered Jim Legg.
He cleared his throat and wondered at the warm glow within him.
“I’m buyin’,” declared Oyster, spinning a dollar on the bar, which got them four clean glasses.
Again Jim Legg managed to swallow the liquor, but this time it did not strangle him. He laughed gleefully at nothing in particular and rested a hand on Johnny Grant’s shoulder.
“My name’s Legg,” he told them. “Jim Legg.”
“That’s quite a name,” agreed Johnny. “My name’s Grant, this one’s name is Shell, and that Jewish friend of ours there is named Swensen. We’re Johnny, Oyster and Eskimo, respectably.”
They all shook hands gravely.
“If the clerk will furnish us with clean glasses, I’ll make a purchase,” said Jim Legg solemnly.
“My ——!” exclaimed Eskimo explosively.
“Just why?” queried Jim Legg.
“I thought my belt was comin’ off.”
They filled their glasses and drank heartily. By this time Jim Legg seemed to be getting numb, but happily so. The world was bathed in a rosy glow, and he wanted to sing and dance.
“Jist what is yore business, Misser Legg?” asked Oyster.
“I came here,” said Jim, “to be a cowpuncher.”
Johnny Grant’s foot slipped and he sat down heavily on the bar-rail.
“That,” said Eskimo owlishly-wise, “is a ambitious thing for to become. I’ll betcha yuh came to the right place, Jim.”
“I—I—” Jim hesitated because his tongue did not seem to exactly function. “I picked thish place at ra-ra-random.”
“That shounds like a college yell,” said Oyster.
“You can’t be no cowpuncher in them clothes,” explained Eskimo. “Never, nos-sir. You look like Sunday. But in the proper clothes you’d be a dinger.”
“I intend to dresh the part,” said Jim thickly. “Perhaps I can secure the proper dresh here in Blue Wells.”
“Oh, you can,” said Johnny. “We can take you to a place where you can buy just what yuh need, pervidin’ you’ve got the dinero.”
“Dinero?”
“Money.”
“I’ve got five hundred dollars.”
“My ——!” Johnny took off his hat.
“And you want to be a cowpuncher—with five hundred dollars!”
“Isn’t it enough?”
“Don’ nobody speak for a moment,” begged Oyster. “I want to conchentrate. I’m about to go into a tranch.”
“Sh-h-h-h-h!” warned Johnny. “The man is looking into the future.”
“Is he a medium?” asked Jim Legg, owl-eyed, as he stared at Oyster.
“Medium ——! He’s rare,” chucked Eskimo.
“I shee shomethin’ comin’ to a man named Jim Legg,” stated Oyster, his eyes closed tightly.
“Yuh see?” applauded Johnny.
“Yessir,” nodded Jim. “Maybe we better let him alone, while we get me shome clothes.”
“He’s comin’ out of it,” announced Eskimo.
Oyster’s face twitched convulsively and his eyes opened.
“Where is the haberdasher’s?” asked Jim Legg.
The three cowboys stared owlishly at each other.
“Oh, them folks,” Johnny Grant squinted thoughtfully.
“Must ’a’ been that German fambly that nested in down on the forks of Rio Creek,” said Eskimo. “They’re gone. Let’s go buy somethin’ to make a real, regular cowboy out of this here, now, Jimmy Limbs.”
The sheriff and deputy came back to Blue Wells in bad humor. They stabled their horses and went to the office. Scotty Olson leaned against the doorway and looked across the street at the horses tied at the Oasis hitch-rack. The three at the far end were from the AK; a tall roan, a sorrel and a gray.
Al Porter sagged back in a chair, placed his feet on top of the desk and drew his sombrero down over his eyes.
“If I was you I’d go over to the Oasis and have a talk with them AK scoundrels,” he told Scotty. “By ——, if I was sheriff of this county I’d shore impress upon ’em that this is a dignified office. I’d make it dignified, y’betcha.”
Scotty turned troubled eyes upon his deputy.
“You would, like ——! You’ll sag jist as quick as anybody, when it comes to trouble. All the way back from the AK you’ve told me what you’d do. Talk! Yeah, you can talk, Al. If talkin’ was worth a ——, you’d be President of the U. S. A.”
“A-a-a-a-aw, ——!” yawned Porter.
“Don’t try to pass the buck to me, feller. It ain’t my trouble. If you want to forgive ’em for lockin’ yuh in a cell—go ahead. It’s none of my business, anyway. But if yuh want to know what I’d do, I’ll—”
“I don’t! —— it, Al, I don’t care to hear what you’d do—unless yo’re willin’ to tell the truth.”
“All right. We’ll just drop the subject. But if they locked me in a—”
“They didn’t! —— yuh, Al, I wish they had! I’d throw away the keys and leave yuh there until yuh quit runnin’ off at the mouth. I’m more interested in that train robbery than I am in the AK cowpunchers.”
“Yeah, and you stand a fine chance of catchin’ ’em, Scotty. They’ve had a danged long start of us by this time.”
“I s’pose.”
Scotty leaned back against the door and studied the street. He saw Tex Alden ride in and tie his horse at the rack beside the three AK horses.
“Tex Alden jist rode in,” he said indifferently.
“Thasso?” It did not seem to interest Porter.
“Probably came in to lose some more money.”
“Lost eight thousand to Antelope Neal yesterday,” said Porter. “Wonder where in —— he got so much money. He don’t own that X Bar 6.”
“Don’t he?”
“He sure as —— don’t. It belongs to an Eastern outfit.”
“Well, I don’t care a ——,” said Scotty.
He had enough worries of his own to think about. He smoothed his buffalo-horn mustache and almost wished he weren’t the sheriff of Blue Wells.
Tex Alden left his horse and started across the street toward a store, when Lee Barnhardt called to him from the door of his office. Tex turned and went over to the door of the lawyer’s office, where Barnhardt was standing.
“I just wondered if you wasn’t coming to see me, Tex,” smiled Barnhardt.
The big cowboy blinked, wondering just why he should make it a point to see Barnhardt that day.
“Why, I dunno,” he faltered. “Hadn’t thought of it, Lee.”
The lawyer motioned Tex into the office and closed the door. He sat down at his desk, filled his pipe carefully, scratched a match on the sole of his shoe, and puffed explosively. Then he sagged back in his chair and looked at Tex with an approving grin.
“I’ll give you credit for a clean job, Tex,” he said, lowering his voice confidentially. “A —— clean job.”
“Yeah?” Tex scratched his chin. “Just what is it, Lee?”
“What is it?” The lawyer leaned forward, the smoke curling lazily from his nostrils. “Oh, now, Tex! We’re friends, you know.”
“All right,” grinned Tex. “And what am I supposed to say?”
“It isn’t what you say—it’s what you do. My mouth is shut tight, except between us, Tex. And don’t forget that I was the one who told you where to get it.”
The big cowboy studied Lee Barnhardt, a puzzled frown between his brows.
“Go ahead and talk about it, Lee,” he said.
Barnhardt’s shrewd eyes appraised the foreman of the X Bar 6. He knew Tex was not a man you could scare or drive. He would have to go easy, at least until he knew just what Tex meant to do. Then—
“You owe me eight thousand dollars, Tex,” he said.
“And a swell chance you’ve got of collectin’ it.”
“Oh, I dunno, Tex. Anyway, I’ll be satisfied with the eight thousand. It ought to be more, but I can take the eight thousand with a clear conscience, because I’m not supposed to know where it comes from.”
“Would yuh mind repeatin’ that?” asked Tex evenly.
“No need of that, Tex. You know what I mean. There were two or three men with you last night. I realize that they have to get their share, but even at that—well, as I said before, I’ll take the eight thousand and call it square.”
Tex got to his feet and walked back to the door, where he turned and looked at Barnhardt, who had also stood up, leaning across his desk.
“I reckon you’ve gone loco, Lee,” he said softly. “I dunno what yo’re talkin’ about—and I don’t reckon you do either.”
“The ——, I don’t,” rasped the lawyer. “If you think you can cut me out of that Santa Rita pay-roll, you’re crazy. It was done on my information, and you’ll come clean with me, or you’ll find just how high a fee I can charge.”
Tex blinked at him, a puzzled expression in his eyes. Then he turned on his heel and left the office, while Barnhardt stopped at the window and watched Tex walk slowly across the street to the Oasis, where he stopped and glanced back toward the office, before going into the saloon.
Barnhardt was mad. In fact, he was almost mad enough to go to the sheriff and tell him that Tex Alden knew that the Santa Rita pay-roll was coming in on that train. But he was not quite mad enough to do that. There would be plenty of time for that, in case Tex could not be induced to make a split.
Barnhardt put on his hat, yanked it down on his head, forcing his ears to flare out, and headed for the sheriff’s office, intending to find out what the sheriff had in mind.
He was nearing the Blue Wells General Merchandise Store entrance, when four men came out. Three of them were the boys from the AK, but the fourth one was a stranger. Every article of his apparel shrieked of newness.
His sombrero was the biggest they could find in town, and was surmounted with a silver-studded band. His robin’s-egg-blue shirt was of flimsy silk, his overalls new; and the creaking bat-wing chaps were hand-stamped and silver-ornamented. His thin neck was circled with a scarlet silk muffler, and his feet were encased in the highest-heeled boots in town.
Around his waist was a wide yellow cartridge belt, glistening with its load of cartridges, and the revolver holster was a sample of leather-working art. He carried a heavy Colt .45 in his hand—or rather in both hands. James Eaton Legg was in a fair way to become a cowpuncher.
Barnhardt stopped and looked at him. It did not require an expert eye to detect that all four of them were pie-eyed drunk. Barnhardt noticed that the sheriff was coming up the street from his office. The lawyer had heard about what had happened to the sheriff, and he wondered just what the sheriff would have to say to the boys from the AK.
Eskimo stepped back from Jim Legg, reared back on his heels and looked the young man over with appraising eyes.
“Jimmie,” he said thickly, “yo’re a cowboy. Yessir, if you ain’t, I’ve never seen one. My ——, yuh hurt m’ eyes.”
“Look at ’m slaunch-wise,” advised Johnny Grant. “My ——, don’t never take a chance of lookin’ at him square. Ain’t he a work of art? Whatcha tryin’ to do with that gun?”
Jim Legg was trying to see how the thing functioned, and it was fully loaded. It was the first time he had ever handled a six-shooter, and it interested him.
“Don’t cock it!” choked Eskimo. “——’s delight! Yeah—that thing yuh jist pulled back! Don’t touch that thing underneath it! Keep yore finger off it. I tell yuh! A-a-a-w, Johnny, take it away from him, can’tcha?”
“Aw, whazzamatter?” grunted Jim Legg. “I’d like to shee shomebody take it away from me.”
“No-o-o-o-o!” wailed Johnny, ducking aside. “Point it in the air, you cross between a monkey and a Christmas tree!”
But Jim Legg reeled around on his high-heels, giggling drunkenly, the big gun in both hands.
“Don’t do that, you —— fool!” wailed Oyster. “Aw, fer—”
Wham! The big gun spouted smoke between Johnny Grant and Eskimo, who promptly fell sidewise, and the bullet tore into the dirt almost under the feet of the sheriff, who had stopped about fifty feet away.
The recoil of the gun caused Jim Legg to turn half-way around. He staggered back on his heels, possibly more frightened than any of the rest.
“Whee-e-e-e-e!” he yelled, and his next shot missed Lee Barnhardt by a full inch.
“Yee-e-e-e-o-o-ow!” screamed Johnny Grant. “Cowboy blood! Look at the sheriff!”
Scotty Olson was galloping back toward his office, his legs working as fast as possible, his hat clutched tightly in one hand.
“Look at the lawyer!” yelled Eskimo, and they turned to see Lee Barnhardt go head first into his office door, like a frightened gopher, dodging a hawk.
But Oyster Shell was not paying any attention to the departing sheriff and lawyer. He wrenched the gun from Jim’s hands and grasped Jim by the arm.
“C’mon, you —— fools!” he yelled. “The sheriff don’t know it was an accident, and we don’t want to lose Jimmy!”
Realizing that Oyster was right, the other two helped him rush the bewildered Jim across the street to the hitch-rack.
“Git on!” snorted Oyster, whirling his gray horse around. “Git in the saddle, Jim; I’ll ride behind.”
“I never rode no horsh,” Jim drew back, shaking his head.
“You never shot at no sheriff before either!” snapped Eskimo.
He swung Jim Legg up bodily and fairly threw him into the saddle. Jim managed to grasp the horn in time to prevent himself from going off the other side.
The others were mounting in a whirl of dust. Jim felt Oyster swing up behind him, and then he seemed to lose all sense of direction. The gray flung down its head and went pitching down the street, trying to rid itself of the unaccustomed load, while on either side rode Eskimo and Johnny, yelling at the top of their voices.
“Pull leather, you ornyment!” yelled Johnny. “Anchor yoreself, son! You’ll either be a cowpuncher or a corpse!”
After about ten or twelve lurching bucks, which did not seem to disturb Oyster to any great extent, the gray’s head came up and they went out of Blue Wells, like three racers on the stretch.
Scotty Olson skidded into his office, fell over a chair, and sat there, his mouth wide open, while Al Porter ran to the door in time to see the four men cross the street. He turned back to the sheriff.
“What in —— happened, Scotty?”
Scotty got to his feet and brushed off his knees. Then he went to the corner behind his desk and picked up a double-barreled shotgun. Breaking it open to see whether it was loaded, he limped back to the doorway in time to see the three horses go pounding out of town in a flurry of dust.
“Goin’ duck huntin’?” asked Porter sarcastically.
Scotty limped back and stood the gun in the corner.
“By ——, that makes me mad,” he said seriously. “I seen them AK fellers up by the store; so I goes up there to have a heart-to-heart talk with ’em. But before I get there, one of ’em takes a shot at me and almost knocked a hole in my right boot. And when I turned around they took another shot at me.”
“That don’t sound reasonable,” said Porter.
“I don’t give a —— how it sounds; I was there, wasn’t I?”
The shots had attracted some attention, and the sudden exit of the AK boys made things look suspicious. Scotty and Porter went up the street, where several men had gathered in front of the store, and were talking with Lee Barnhardt, who was telling them all about it.
“I tell you, it was deliberate,” he said. “I saw that cowboy take aim at me. Why, I heard that bullet sing past my ear, so close that the air from it staggered me.”
“Why did he shoot at you, Lee?” asked the storekeeper, Abe Moon, a tall, serious, tobacco-chewing person.
“I don’t know. Why, I don’t even know the man.”
“I never seen him before either,” declared the merchant. “He came in a while ago with Oyster, Eskimo and Johnny. They were all pretty full, I think. Anyway, they outfitted this young man with everything. Even bought a six-gun, and loaded it for him. He left his other clothes, wrapped up, in the back room.”
The sheriff moved in closer.
“Wasn’t it one of the AK boys that done the shootin’, Lee?”
“No.”
“The stranger,” said one of the men. “Did yuh hear his name, Abe?”
“They introduced him to me. Said his name was Legg.”
“Legg?” queried Barnhardt blankly. He shook his head slowly. “I dunno anybody by that name.”
“I don’t either—and he shot at me,” said the sheriff.
“He’s prob’ly one of them peculiar jiggers that would rather shoot strangers than acquaintances,” said the merchant dryly.
“Well, he’s goin’ to hear from me,” declared the sheriff.
“Write him a letter,” grinned one of the men in the crowd.
“He was pretty drunk,” offered the merchant.
“He wasn’t too drunk to shoot straight,” said Scotty. “I’m promisin’ yuh right now that the next time that AK outfit comes to Blue Wells, I’m packin’ a riot gun. Blue Wells has stood all it’s ever goin’ to from that layout. And,” he added, “I don’t care a —— who knows it.”
Lee Barnhardt turned on his heel and walked back to his office. Chet Le Moyne and Dug Haley, the man who had come with Le Moyne to guard the Santa Rita pay-roll, rode in and drew up in front of the store. Haley was a heavy-set, stolid looking person, with a wispy mustache and only a faint suggestion of ever having had eyebrows.
Le Moyne smiled and spoke to the men, but Haley merely nodded.
“I wanted to see you, Scotty,” said Le Moyne. “Goin’ back to your office pretty soon?”
“Right away, Le Moyne.”
Le Moyne nodded and rode beside the sheriff down to the office, while Haley tied his horse in front of the store, and went in to make some purchases. Le Moyne tied his horse and went into the office with the sheriff.
“What do you know, Scotty?” asked Le Moyne.
“Not very much. It kinda looks to me as though they had a big start on us, Le Moyne.”
“Have you anythin’ to work on?”
“I said I didn’t have much,” Scotty wasn’t going to tell Le Moyne of his suspicions against the Taylors or the AK.
“Uh-huh,” muttered Le Moyne. “Well, I just wanted to tell you that the express company will have a man on the job, and the Santa Rita company will also have an investigator. They’ll be here tonight, and I want you to help ’em all you can. We’re offering a thousand dollars reward, and the express company will probably offer somethin’. What was all this stuff about you bein’ locked in your own jail?”
The sheriff told Le Moyne of the incident, and the handsome paymaster could not suppress a laugh.
“Go ahead and laugh,” sighed the harassed sheriff. “It sounds funny.”
“But why did they do it, Sheriff?”
“That’s somethin’ I’m goin’ to try and find out.”
“Meanin’ what?”
“Well, it kept me from quick action on that robbery, didn’t it?”
“It rather looks that way,” admitted Le Moyne. “Well, I’ve got to be moving along. I just wanted to tell you about the detectives, and I know you’ll help them all yuh can.”
Le Moyne left the office and went up to the store, where he joined Haley. Tex Alden came in to purchase some tobacco. He nodded to Le Moyne, made his purchases and went out again. There had never been open enmity between them, nor had they ever been friends.
“Tex got hit pretty hard the other day,” offered the storekeeper. “Yuh heard about Antelope Neal takin’ eight thousand away from Tex in a two-handed poker game, didn’t yuh?”
“I heard he did,” nodded Le Moyne. “It sounded fishy.”
“Well, it wasn’t. He lost it all right. What’s new on the pay-roll robbery?”
“Not a thing. The express company has a detective on the case, and we’ve sent for one. They might find out somethin’, but I doubt it. Those men had a good start, and it’s pretty hard to identify gold coin. If they’re ever caught, it won’t be through anything developed around here.”
“What do yuh think about that feller throwin’ the messenger out of the car? That sounds funny to me.”
“It does sound rather queer,” admitted Le Moyne. “But I guess it happened. The messenger sure looked as though he had been through a fight. And he wasn’t there when the robbery took place, it seems. Anyway, the money is gone. We better get the mail, Jud, and head for the mine.”
“How much was in that pay-roll?” asked the merchant.
“Thirty-one thousand and eighty dollars, all in gold. It’ll make somebody happy, Abe.”
“Yes—or unhappy, Chet. I don’t reckon any man ever got a lot of happiness from what he stole. It’s unlucky money.”
VII—JIMMY WINS HIS SPURS
A few short days wrought a great change in Jim Legg. His face had received its baptism of Arizona sun, and no longer was he the pale-faced city dweller. His skin was beginning to peel, and as Johnny Grant said—“He peels off like a package of cigaret papers.”
His hands were seared from fast-traveling ropes, his silken shirt was minus half of one sleeve, and had a huge rent down the back. His ornate sombrero had fallen off in a corral, where a circling remuda had trampled it into the sand, giving it an antique air.
And out of self-defense he had quit wearing glasses. Just now he leaned against the corral fence, trying to roll a cigaret with cramped fingers. Beside him squatted Johnny Grant, his eyes fixed curiously upon this young man, whose eyes were filled with determination.
About fifty feet away from them were Oyster and Eskimo, saddling a horse. The animal was humped painfully, squirming uneasily under the pull of the cinch, but fearing to move, because a heavy bandage had been fastened across its eyes. The two cowboys were talking softly to each other.
“This has gone past the funny stage,” Johnny Grant spoke to Jimmy Legg seriously. “We was jokin’ when we dared yuh to ride Cowcatcher. You can’t ride him. He ditched Eskimo in four jumps, and Eskimo is the best there is around here, Jimmy.”
“I said I’d ride him,” reminded Jimmy Legg. “I haven’t quit yet, have I?” Johnny Grant shook his head.
“That’s why I hate to see yuh fork that bronc, Jimmy. I don’t sabe yuh, kid. You ain’t strong. Yore body ain’t built for the shocks yuh get in this business. We was raised for this kinda stuff. You ain’t no youngster. That bronc will jist about flatten yuh for life—and whatsa use?”
“Johnny, I want to be a cowboy,” said Jimmy seriously. “It’s something I can’t explain right now. I appreciate you trying to save me. I’ve been thrown five times since I came here, and I’m still able to hobble around.”
“Yeah, I know. But this is a horse. He’s plumb bad. If there’s any slip in the boys bein’ able to herd him away after he’s spilled yuh, he might tromp yuh.”
“But,” Jim Legg spoke softly, “I’ve got confidence in Oyster and Eskimo. They’ll do their part. If I can ride Cowcatcher, will you admit that I can ride?”
Johnny smiled softly. “I’ll admit that yore the best rider in the Blue Wells country.”
“All set!” called Eskimo. “Johnny, you pull the blind, after me and Oyster get all set, will yuh?”
Johnny held Cowcatcher while Jim Legg mounted. The rough-coated gray outlaw, which had defied the best riders of the Blue Wells ranges, stiffened slightly, but did not move. Oyster and Eskimo mounted and rode in on each side of him, prepared to block the bucker from heading into obstacles, and to herd him away from the rider, in case of a spill.
They did not see the sheriff, deputy and another rider swing around the corner of the corral and come toward them.
Jim Legg straightened up in his saddle, grasped the reins tightly and nodded to Johnny Grant.
Johnny reached up and grasped the bandage.
“Pull leather, Jimmy,” he said softly. “Don’t be ashamed to do it. It’s only fools and contest riders that don’t, when they feel themselves goin’.”
But Jim Legg shut his lips tightly and looked straight ahead. He had asked to ride Cowcatcher, after every half-way bucker on the AK had thrown him, and he was going to ride him, or get thrown clean.
Then the bandage was jerked off, and Cowcatcher was moving as he caught his first flash of sunlight, but not ahead, as they expected. Veteran of many battles, he hated the horses and riders which crowded him too closely; so he had whirled free of them, catching them flat-flooted, headed the wrong way.
Although Jim Legg was not unseated, he was flung sidewise, and his right spur hooked wickedly into Cowcatcher’s flank; hooked in while the outlaw was still in the air, heading for the three riders which were not over a hundred feet away, just drawing up to witness the sport.
There was no chance for Oyster and Eskimo to ride herd on Cowcatcher. The gray outlaw churned into the dust, fairly screaming with rage, head down, running like a streak, forgetting to buck, because of that spur, socked to the full limit of the rowels into his flank.
Johnny Grant ran toward the corral, trying to see through the cloud of dust. Jim Legg was still in the same position, hands flung up, as if fearful of making a mistake and pulling leather.
The sheriff’s party tried to spur their horses aside, but their slow-moving mounts failed to move quickly enough.
Came the crash of impact, the scream of a horse. A man yelled. Eskimo and Oyster were riding toward them as fast as possible, while Johnny Grant ran through the dust, trying to see what had happened.
He saw one horse and rider heading toward the ranch-house, and a moment later he heard something crash into the corral fence. Two horses were down. A gust of wind blew the dust aside and he saw Scotty Olson on his hands and knees about twenty feet away from his horse, going around and around, like a pup trying to lie down.
Al Porter was flat on his back just beyond the two horses, which were trying to get up, and up by the house was the third member of the sheriff’s party, trying to recover his reins, which he had dropped.
And there was Cowcatcher, standing in an angle of the corral fence, head hanging down, a most dejected-looking outlaw, while still on his back was Jimmy Legg, his hands resting on the saddle-horn, apparently oblivious to everything.
He slowly climbed down and staggered toward Johnny Grant, his lips parting in a foolish smile, as he whispered—
“My ——, wasn’t that a wreck!”
Oyster and Eskimo had helped Al Porter to his feet, and he was clinging to them, puffing heavily. The sheriff managed to get up without further difficulty, and they waited for him to recover his speech. The two horses scrambled to their feet and moved toward the ranch-house, still frightened.
The sheriff was mad; so much so, in fact, that he almost yanked one side of his mustache off, trying to find words with which to express his feelings.
“Yuh know, Sheriff,” said Johnny Grant, anticipating the sheriff’s coming flood of profanity, “you know it was an accident.”
“Yea-a-a-huh?” blurted the sheriff.
“Wh-wh-who was ridin’ that —— bub-bucker?” stammered Al Porter.
Johnny looked around at Jim Legg, who was still a trifle dazed over it all. Johnny grasped him by the arm and turned to the deputy.
“This is Jimmy Legg, the only man that ever stayed on Cowcatcher.”
“I don’t give a ——!” roared the sheriff. “Every time I get in sight of you fellers, somethin’ happens. By ——, I’m sick and tired of it! Do yuh hear me?”
“Louder and more profane,” begged Eskimo, cupping one hand beside his ear.
“A-a-a-aw, shut up!” The sheriff was too mad to say anything more.
The stranger had ridden up closer to them, and was listening with an amused smile. He was a well-dressed, middle-aged sort of person, rather hard-faced.
“I got out of that pretty lucky,” he said, “I happened to be just outside the crash.”
“Well, I didn’t,” said Porter ruefully. “Any old time there’s a crash—I’m in it. Boys,” he turned to Johnny Grant, “this is Mr. Wade, the detective for the express company.”
The boys of the AK looked Wade over critically, but the keen scrutiny of these sons of the range did not embarrass Wade. He was what is know as “hard-boiled.”
“Hyah,” nodded Johnny Grant. “What do yuh know?”
“Not very much,” admitted Wade. “What do you know?”