‘We can’t do a thing for you, Dave. You ought to know we’re carrying you for every cent your ranch is worth to us. This is not a personal matter. I know you’re good for it; but I merely represent the directors, and the stockholders of this bank.’
John Harper, president of the Mesa City Bank, leaned back in his swivel-chair, and looked at Dave Morgan, who was seated across the table from him. Harper was a small, wiry, grizzled man, smooth-shaven, neatly dressed. He had been with the Mesa City Bank since the day it opened.
Dave Morgan twisted his lips seriously. He needed a shave, and, judging from his bloodshot eyes, he needed sleep.
‘All right,’ he said slowly. ‘I reckon I could get along, John. I just wanted to see about a loan. How about buyin’ the Flyin’ M?’
Harper shook his head quickly.
‘No, Dave. Say, why don’t you get Peter to take a second mortgage? He’s pretty well fixed.’
Dave smiled crookedly, shaking his head. ‘Not Pete. If I was anybody, except his cousin. He thinks I’ve got damn poor judgment in business.’
‘You haven’t done so well, Dave.’
‘Oh, that’s all right; I’m not kickin’. I get more fun out of my money than Pete does. He’s been goin’ around like a bear with a sore head ever since them nesters moved in on him. They’ve got him bluffed.’
‘The nester’s son had a fight over at the Oasis to-day,’ said the banker. ‘I happened to be out in front about the time it was over. I don’t know who got whipped, but I saw young Lane get on his horse and ride out of town. In a few moments Ben Leach followed him, I think. Several of the boys stood around the hitch-rack for a few minutes, and then they all rode away.’
‘Wasn’t a gun-fight, was it?’
‘No, there wasn’t any shooting.’
‘Young Lane is a tough hombre,’ laughed Dave. ‘Some of Pete’s punchers probably rubbed him the wrong way. I guess the old man is kinda salty, too. Well, I’ve got to be movin’.’
‘I’m sorry about that loan, Dave; but business is business.’
‘That’s all right, John. I’m pretty near busted, but I’ll pull through.’
He laughed bitterly and hitched up his belt.
‘Mebby somebody will die and leave me a fortune.’
‘Have you any rich relatives?’
‘Only Pete—and he’s healthy.’
Dave laughed and walked out of the bank. But there was little mirth in his laugh. He stopped in at the post-office to get the ranch mail, and the clerk handed him a telegram, along with the rest of his mail.
‘I’m not sure about that telegram,’ he said. ‘It is either D. Morgan or P. Morgan, and I can’t tell which.’
Dave tore it open and glanced quickly at the telegram.
‘It’s mine,’ he said shortly, and walked out, stuffing the mail in his pocket. The telegram read:
MRS MORGAN PASSED AWAY SUDDENLY AND WAS BURIED LAST
SUNDAY STOP TRACED SON TO DEPOT WHERE HE PURCHASED
TICKET TO CANONVILLE.J. E. BLAIR
Dave Morgan halted at the edge of the wooden sidewalk, a puzzled expression on his face.
‘Mrs. Morgan!’ he exclaimed to himself. ‘So old Pete had a wife and a son, eh?’
He started to laugh, but checked it quickly. When had Pete married, he wondered. He had been on the same range with Peter for over twenty years. Of course, Peter had taken trips East with cattle, and it had been said that Peter was a wild devil in those days, but no one had ever mentioned the fact that Peter had been married.
Probably got drunk, married in that condition, and had been forced to support the woman away from Mesa City. And there was a son, too; a son who would inherit the 6X6 and the Oasis. And Dave had thought he was the only living relative of Peter Morgan.
Dave had been married. It had been so long ago that he could hardly remember what the woman looked like. But their nuptial bliss didn’t last long. Dave was too wild. He remembered that Peter had remonstrated with him, tried to get him to straighten up, but it was no use. Anyway, it was none of Pete’s business, he had decided. And one morning, when he awoke from a drunken spree, the woman was gone.
He wondered what had caused Pete and his wife to separate. As he stood there, thinking over the situation, Peter Morgan rode into town with his three men, the sheriff and deputy, and the body of Ben Leach.
Their arrival caused plenty of excitement in Mesa City. A crowd gathered quickly around the livery-stable, where Lem Sheeley had hired a vehicle in which to take the body to the coroner at Cañonville. Indignation ran high when the crowd heard that Leach had been killed by Long Lane, and a number volunteered to form a posse.
But Lem Sheeley, the sheriff, was deaf to their offers.
‘Keep yore hands off,’ he requested them. ‘This job belongs to the law—not to a lot of damn fools with a rope.’
‘Then you better do somethin’ right quick,’ said Peter Morgan. ‘Either you do yore duty, Lem, or——’
‘Or what?’
‘You’ll see.’
Shortly after the sheriff and deputy drove away with the body of Ben Leach, old Paul Lane rode in to Mesa City. He had been to Cañonville, but had stopped at home on his way back, where he heard what had happened. Now he wanted more information than Nan was able to give him.
He met Peter Morgan in front of the bank. Dave Morgan and Joe Cave, the stage driver, were there. For several moments the big cattleman and the nester eyed each other closely. Then—
‘That’s what yuh get for stayin’ where yuh ain’t wanted,’ said Peter coldly.
‘Yea-a-ah?’ Lane gritted his word through clenched teeth.
‘That’s what I said, Lane. You better move quick.’
‘I’m not movin’, Morgan. To-day I filed a homestead.’
‘Yuh did, eh? I suppose you know yore son is a murderer.’
‘I don’t know any such a damn thing! If he killed Ben Leach, it was in self-defense.’
‘Men who kill in self-defense don’t usually run away.’
‘When everybody’s ag’in’ ’em, they do.’
‘You’re crazy.’
Morgan turned his back and started away, but stopped and came back to Lane.
‘We’re through fooling with you, Lane,’ he said. ‘We’ll find your son and make an example of him and it won’t take us long to do it either. And if you’re wise, you’ll pull out of this country as fast as you can.’
‘If you’re through, I’d like to say a few words, Morgan,’ said the old man coldly. ‘That ranch belongs to me now. The line runs about two hundred yards this side of the ranch-house. And when you or yore men ride my way, yuh better estimate distance pretty close.’
‘Drawin’ a deadline, eh?’
‘Agin’ the 6X6. And another thing, Morgan; yesterday I found an orejano with my brand on it. I brand on the left hip, but this calf was branded on the right hip. I suppose yore punchers, or you, forgot where I branded. They tell me you got yore start by pickin’ up orejanos, Morgan; so I just heated an iron and run the 6X6 on its left shoulder, passin’ it back to you.’
For a moment Morgan glared at the old man, who was little more than half his size, and then lashed out with his right fist, catching Lane just above the left eye and knocking him flat. But the old man was not knocked out; the blow had landed too high for that. For a moment the old man sprawled on his side, dazed, hurt. Then his hand jerked back to his holster.
But Joe Cave stepped in front of him, blocking him from using the gun. Morgan laughed shortly, turned his back, and strode over to the Oasis saloon, while Joe Cave helped Lane to his feet.
‘That shore was a dirty punch,’ said Joe.
The old man brushed off his clothes, turned and went back to his horse, while Dave Morgan and Joe looked at each other and laughed.
‘I’d hate to be in Pete’s boots,’ grinned Joe. ‘That old jigger will kill him if he don’t look out.’
‘That’s no lie, Joe. Let’s go and have a drink, eh? No, not to the Oasis.’
Joe had worked for Dave before driving stage, and they knew each other’s business fairly well. Joe was a colorless sort of person, with tow-colored hair and buck-teeth. He had been fired from the 6X6 for playing a crooked game of poker in the bunk-house, and naturally had no love for Peter Morgan.
‘Mebby I was a fool for blockin’ the old man,’ said Joe Cave.
‘Mebby Pete will give yuh a reward for savin’ his life,’ grinned Dave. ‘He ought to pay yuh for that, Joe.’
‘Any time!’ snorted Joe. ‘He wouldn’t pay a nickel for a front seat at the Battle of Waterloo, with the original folks doin’ the fightin’.’
‘Why, I thought you loved old Pete.’
‘That overbearin’ old badger? What are yuh drinkin’?’