The Project Gutenberg eBook of Connie Morgan in the cattle country
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.
Title: Connie Morgan in the cattle country
Author: James B. Hendryx
Illustrator: Frank E. Schoonover
Release date: September 25, 2026 [eBook #79655]
Language: English
Original publication: New York: G. P. Putnam's Sons, 1923
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79655
Credits: Al Haines
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CONNIE MORGAN IN THE CATTLE COUNTRY ***
[Frontispiece: The whole remuda swept on up the bench and into the
Valley]
CONNIE MORGAN
IN THE
CATTLE COUNTRY
By
JAMES B. HENDRYX
AUTHOR OF "CONNIE MORGAN IN ALASKA," ETC.
[Illustration: title page vignette]
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS FROM PAINTINGS
BY
FRANK E. SCHOONOVER
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
The Knickerbocker Press
1923
Copyright, 1923
by
James B. Hendryx
Made in the United States of America
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I.--WASECHE BILL TELLS A STORY
II.--KOBUK JACK
III.--TWO DOT TOWNSEND
IV.--BOB HARMON
V.--AT THE ROUND SEVEN
VI.--LEARNING THE ROPES
VII.--CONNIE MEETS A NEIGHBOR
VIII.--TEX
IX.--HARMON TALKS
X.--LEFT HANDED BRANDING IRONS
XI.--THE WAGONS ROLL
XII.--HARMON SHOWS HIS HAND
XIII.--THE SAGE BRUSH CORRAL
XIV.--THE "GREENNESS" OF CONNIE MORGAN
XV.--I. W. W.
XVI.--FIRE
XVII.--IN THE BAD LANDS
XVIII.--THE OUTLAW
XIX.--AT THE AGENCY
XX.--CONNIE CALLS A BLUFF
XXI.--THE COWBOYS HELP OUT
XXII.--A RIDING JOB
XXIII.--CONNIE LISTENS TO A PROPOSITION
ILLUSTRATIONS
THE WHOLE REMUDA SWEPT ON UP THE BENCH AND INTO THE VALLEY ...
_Frontispiece_
"AN' I KEPT A-GOIN' TILL IT PETERED OUT, AN' I WAS LOST"
AS THEY PASSED ALONG THE STREET CONNIE TOOK IN THE DETAILS OF THE
LITTLE COW TOWN
CONNIE FOUND HIMSELF HOLDING ON FOR DEAR LIFE AS THE WHEELS WOULD
DROP SUDDENLY INTO A BOTTOMLESS CHUCK HOLE AND EMERGE, DROPPING HUGE
CHUNKS OF GRAY ALKALI MUD
THE SHEEPMAN EYED HIM WITH A HOSTILE GLARE. "WHY DIDN'T YOU RIDE
RIGHT THROUGH 'EM?" HE ASKED
A MOMENT LATER THE MUZZLES OF FOUR RIFLES WERE THRUST THROUGH FOUR
APERTURES IN THE SAGEBRUSH THAT WAS LOOSELY WOVEN BETWEEN THE WIRES
OF THE FENCE
HARMON'S FACE WAS GHASTLY PALE AS HE ELEVATED BOTH HANDS HIGH ABOVE
HIS HEAD
... THEN FROZE IN HIS TRACKS AS HE FOUND HIMSELF STARING INTO THE
MUZZLE OF THE BOY'S SERVICE REVOLVER
Connie Morgan in the Cattle Country
CHAPTER I
WASECHE BILL TELLS A STORY
"This little cabin sure looks good to me," smiled Connie Morgan on
the evening of his hasty return from the Mackenzie River country, as
he and Waseche Bill settled themselves comfortably in front of the
little stove. "No matter where I am, or what I'm doing, I always
think of this little cabin on Ten Bow. It makes a fellow feel good
just to know it's here, and you're here, and I can come back any time
I want to." The boy paused and glanced affectionately at his big
partner, who was smiling behind the bowl of his black pipe. "It
isn't that I don't like the trail," he added quickly, "because I
do--and the longer the trail, the better I like it. And I like to
have something to do that takes me into places I never have been
before--and I like to tackle jobs I have never tackled before--just
to see if I can do them. But, all the same, I always want to know
that this cabin is right here just as it was when we built it. I'll
tell you what it is--it's _home_. A fellow likes to know he's got a
home, no matter where the trail takes him--and this is home for us.
And, say, Waseche, you won't ever tear it down while I'm away
somewhere, will you? I'd rather have it just the way it is than have
the biggest house in the world."
"Sho', now, son," the voice of Waseche Bill rumbled from behind a
cloud of blue tobacco smoke, "sho', now. That's plumb foolishness."
"Oh, it is, is it?" flashed the boy. "Well then, you tell me why
that big flume runs along the other bank of the creek instead of this
bank?"
"The big flume? Why it runs down the crick to carry water to the
sluices, of co'se."
"But," persisted the boy, "why does it run along the other side of
the creek instead of this side?"
"Cain's the engineer of this here outfit." grinned the man. "I
reckon it's on the other side 'cause Cain built it there."
Connie laughed: "You're a big bluffer, Waseche! Don't you suppose I
know you love this cabin just as much as I do? Anyone with any sense
could see that that flume could have been built along this bank with
half the work it took to build it there. I asked Cain when I came
back from the lumber woods, and he told me all about it. He said
that when you looked at the blue print, and found out that this cabin
would have to be torn down to make way for the flume, you told him to
put it on the other side, no matter how much it cost--so there!"
"H-u-m-m," grinned Waseche Bill, "Cain's plumb gabby, ain't he? But,
son, you don't need to worry about this here cabin. It's the onliest
home I ever had since befo' I kin remember. An' Cain's got his
orders about leavin' it where it's at. I told him if the sills was
restin' on a solid chunk of gold, the gold could lay there till the
last log rotted an' the roof caved in. It's all foolishness,
that-a-way, but--shucks! Gold ain't everything!"
"Well, now I'm here," said the boy, "tell me about that scrap we're
going to have with that outfit from the States."
"We ain't goin' to have none," answered Waseche Bill, laconically.
"You don't mean you're figuring on selling out?" cried the boy.
"No--only jest, we stay where we're at--an' so do they."
Connie laughed: "How did you work it, Waseche?"
"Who, me? Why, I didn't do nothin', except tell 'em they'd have to
wait till my pardner come back. They was five of 'em in the outfit
an' they stayed at the hotel. The boys kind of got to inquirin'
around what they were doin' here, an' I told 'em they was aimin' fer
to drive me an' you out of the country. The next night Black Jack
Demeree, an' MacDougal, an' Dutch Henry, an' a lot more of the
sourdoughs called a miner's meetin'. I didn't go to it. But, next
day the outfit pulled out. Seems like the boys sent out an' brung
these here fellows in on a snowshoe warrant, an' they was speeches
made by some considerable of the boys. I don't know jest what they
said, but after they'd got through, the head man of the outfit gets
up an' he says how they'd decided not to locate on Ten Bow--that the
formation wasn't just right to suit 'em, or the water, or
somethin'--anyways, they pulled out--an' from what I heard, I ain't
lookin' for 'em back." Waseche paused to fill his pipe, and Connie
smiled to himself as he pictured the scene in the miner's meeting. A
lump rose in his throat as he wondered what the sourdoughs had
said--those big men of the North, who were his friends, and the
friends of Waseche Bill.
Waseche tossed a burnt match into the wood box and his brow puckered
as he puffed at his pipe. "They's another matter that's pesterin' me
now," he said. "Seems like I'm, somehow, always a-gettin' into
somethin' that I ain't got no business into, like that there timber
deal down in Minnesota."
"We made good money out of it," reminded the boy.
"Yes, but we wouldn't if it hadn't be'n fer you goin' down there an'
runnin' the thing. An' besides, we ain't got to make money, nohow.
We got more comin' in right now out of the gravel here on Ten Bow
than we know what to do with--an' that's where the trouble comes in."
"Sure we have," agreed the boy, quickly. "But, there's no fun in
that. It was a game--and a big one, while we were getting a start.
But, now we've got things going, there isn't any fun in just sitting
down and weighing the dust. Do you know, in a way, I'm kind of sorry
those fellows quit. It would have been fun fighting them. But,
what's this new thing that's bothering you?"
Waseche Bill ran his fingers through his hair, and regarded the boy
gravely. "Well, it's this-a-way: Me an' you is in the cattle
business."
"The cattle business!" cried Connie, in surprise. "The cattle
business up here! Why there isn't grass enough on Ten Bow to keep a
caribou in the summer time--and what'll they do in winter?"
"This here cattle business ain't on Ten Bow. It ain't even in
Alaska. It's in Montana."
Connie grinned. "Another job for me. When do I start?"
Waseche shook his head: "No, son, I don't reckon this here is any job
fer you. You don't savvy the cattle business no more than Kobuk Jack
did, an' it would git you."
"Maybe it would, and maybe it wouldn't," retorted the boy. "Anyway,
I'm going to give it a chance to get me. I didn't know anything
about the timber business either, when I tackled that Minnesota job,
but it didn't take me long to learn----"
"That was sort of different," interposed Waseche Bill. "These here
cowboys--I've heard tell about 'em--is plumb riotorous an' lawless to
the extent which they ain't none regardful of human life whatever.
They all pack guns, an' when they meet up they begin shootin' at one
another, same like in this country we say _klahowya six_, or good
mornin'."
Connie laughed: "I guess they're not as bad as all that. Dan
McKeever has had a lot of experience with 'em down on the border, and
he likes 'em. Of course there's good ones and bad ones among them
the same as anyone else--and as for packing guns--I've got a Service
revolver there that's just as good as any man's gun--and a little
better than most. But loosen up and tell me something about this
cattle deal. How did we get mixed up in it? And who is Kobuk Jack?'
"Well, it's this-a-way," began Waseche tilting his chair against the
log wall, and stretching his long legs straight out before him. "One
time, a good many years before the big stampede, when I was nothin'
but a _chechako_, I outfitted at Nulato an' headed North, not havin'
no more idea what I was goin' up against, than a baby. Well, I kep'
to the Koyukuk till I hit Hog River an' then headed up that, an' I
kep' a-goin' till it petered out, an' I was lost. It was gittin'
right into the shank of the winter. The days was gittin' shorter an'
the nights longer, till the time come when I got sunrise an' sunset
in one eyeful, an' the next day, an' for many a day after, they
wasn't neither one. The snow was so deep an' soft that I couldn't
make no time trailin' an' then my grub got to runnin' low. I was up
against it--good an' strong. But I kep' pluggin'. If I made four or
five miles a day I done well. The strong cold was on--forty an'
fifty, an' even sixty below, an' when the cold would let up it snowed
some more. Then I done it, the only time I ever done it--I killed a
dog, an' for three days I lived off him an' fed the rest of the dogs.
I had built a kind of a Siwash camp out of brush an' spruce saplin's
'cause I was too weak to trail through that snow. An' anyway, bein'
as I didn't know where I was headin', one place was as good as
another--an' that means that all places was the worst they could be.
"Me an' the dogs finished the one I'd killed an' I was about to kill
another, when sudden like, a voice speaks out hearty an' plain right
behind me. 'Hold on, brother,' it said. 'Dogs pull better with the
hide on!'
"I whirled around quick, not expectin' really to see no one. I
thought it was--the end--that the voice was in my own brain. But,
sure enough, there he stood, rearin' up as big as two men in the
gloom--Kobuk Jack! Course I didn't know who he was--an' I didn't
care. He was a human man, an' his outfit bulged on top of his
toboggan. I couldn't say nothin'. Jest stood there an' gawped.
"Kobuk, he looked me over thorough, an' my empty sled, an' the skull
of the dog that had be'n boiled fer soup till there wasn't a bite fer
a no-see-em left on it, an' then he grinned. 'I'm Kobuk Jack,' he
announced, abrupt, 'an' you're the doggondest fool of a _chechako_
that's be'n invented. Where you headin'? An' what business you got
up here in a man's country? Why ain't you back on the Yukon where
you kin set comfortable an' spit on the stove of nights?'
"'I guess you've got me right, Kobuk,' I managin' to return his grin,
although my eyes wouldn't stay off that bulgin' load on his toboggan.
'By way of handier designation, though,' I says, 'folks call me
Waseche Bill. I headed up here after gold. I got lost an' my grub
run out, an' I'd give a pretty to be back on the Yukon spittin' on a
stove.'
"Kobuk, he laughed, an' the next minute he was unharnessin' his dogs,
an' in no time he had a meal of vittles cooked which was far an' away
the best meal I ever et, or ever will. When it was finished Kobuk
an' me smoked up, an' Kobuk he further orates, 'I run onto yer trail
back yonder,' he says, 'an' I know'd you was a _chechako_ 'cause you
had a sled instead of a toboggan in this here soft snow country. An'
I seen by the signs how you was about all in. So I swung in behind,
knowin' I wouldn't have far to go. I passed over more than a week of
your trail in four hours--that's the difference between knowin'
how--an' not knowin'. You was a fool to head North. So was I four
years ago--but I did. I come about as near cashin' in as you did.
An Injun found me. But, I ain't afraid of the country now. I've
learned it--an' I hate it. I've got a camp up on the Kobuk, about a
hundred miles from here, an' I'm takin' out considerable better than
wages. Spite of you bein' a fool _chechako_, I like you. It's just
such fools as you an' me that gits what they're after in the long
run--pervided the snow an' the strong cold don't git us first.
You're goin' along with me, an' we'll go pardners in my outfit on the
Kobuk, an' if we stay with it, sometime we're goin' to make a strike.'
"He wouldn't have it no other way, an' so I throw'd in with Kobuk
Jack, an' he was some man. We gouged the gravel together for a year,
Kobuk always claimin' we'd strike it big--always hatin' the country,
an' declarin' when he struck it he was a-goin' down to Montana an'
buy him a cattle outfit an' live like a king where they have daylight
the year around, an' twenty below zero was called a cold spell.
"When the year was out, I'd had enough of the Kobuk country. I
couldn't see it like Kobuk Jack that there was a big strike ahead, so
I pulled out an' drifted back to the Yukon camps an' fer a couple of
years I worked fer wages, an' prospected, an' just about come out
even.
"I was at Nulato when Kobuk came out with his stake. It wouldn't
stack up big along with the Klondike or the Nome strikes. But she
was big fer them days, couple hundred thousan' or so, an' Kobuk
wanted me to go with him to Montana an' go into the cattle business.
But I wouldn't an' then he wanted me to take a bunch of his dust, but
I wouldn't do that, neither.
"A stampede started fer the Kobuk, but I didn't go--I'd had enough.
After Kobuk had be'n gone a week, the storekeeper sends fer me one
day an' hands me a buckskin sack that's heavy with dust. 'Kobuk Jack
told me to give you this, fer a grub stake,' he says, 'An' he says
he's gone fer good, an' you can't refuse it, 'cause he made me
promise if you wouldn't take it, I'm to throw it in the river where
no one kin find it.' I took it, bein' as it wasn't no use havin' it
throw'd in the river, an' that's the last I ever seen or heerd of
Kobuk Jack till a month ago, when all at once, he stepped through the
door of the office, yonder. He'd aged some, but I know'd him the
minute I clapped eyes on him, an' he was the same Kobuk as ever,
rough talkin', but hearty an' pure gold clean through. I could see,
though, he seemed kind of worried about somethin' er other, so I
called it a day an' shut up the office, an' we come on over here, an'
Kobuk, he cooked dinner, same as he used to, an' after we done the
dishes an' hung up the rag, we smoked up."
CHAPTER II
KOBUK JACK
"'Come on out with it, Kobuk,' I says. 'What's on yer mind? They
ain't no use beatin' about the bush between friends. How's the
cattle business? An' what you doin' up here?'
"'Well,' he says, 'fact is, Waseche,' he says, 'the cattle business
is bigger than I bargained fer. It's got me. I'm broke, er will be.
I figger that when they git through with me, I'll have about twenty
thousan' less than nothin.'
"'What's the trouble?' I intrudes. 'Don't yer cows give no milk?'
"'Milk!' he yells. 'Milk! You dog-gone fool! I ain't runnin' no
dairy! I'm runnin' a cow outfit--beef! Twenty thousan' head or so
on the range!'
"'Must be quite a chore around butcherin' time,' I admits, an' again
he yells out at me. 'Butcherin' time! Why, you cussed ignoramous,
we don't butcher 'em!'
[Illustration: "An' I kept a-goin' till it petered out, and I was
lost"]
"'Eat 'em alive?' I suggests.
"'Ship 'em!' he roars. 'Ship 'em to Chicago. Load 'em on trains an'
ship 'em!'
"'Sounds easy,' I ventured. 'How-come you busted? You must git
quite a stake off a trainload of cattle.'
"'I do, but somehow, I ain't 'gittin' the calves I should. In other
words, someone else is brandin' Round Seven calves, that's my brand.
An' again, the sheep men are crowdin' me off the range, an' anyway I
ain't no business man, an' my wife, she don't like the country no
better than what I do, an' the kids is growin' up rough on account of
so many cowpunchers fer playmates, an' take it first an' last, I'm
sick of the cattle business. The wife wants to come back to
Alaska--she was a nurse in the hospital at Nome when I was took down
there with a frozen foot. Hadn't be'n fer her I'd be wearin' a
wooden one now. When I made my strike I went up to St. Michaels on
the way out an' we was married.'
"'So there's a Missus Kobuk, an' some little Kobukses, is there?' I
inquires. 'What do you want to do? Go back up on the Kobuk? Of
course up there they wouldn't be no bad playmates fer the kids, an'
maybe Missus Kobuk would like it--she wouldn't have to mush more than
a hundred miles fer to call on her neighbors, an' them Eskimo
Klooches would be right proud to have her visit their igloos.'
"'Go ahead, an' have yer fun out,' grins Kobuk, 'an' then we'll talk
sense.'
"'Unburden yerself,' I opines. 'I'm here to listen.'
"'I was on the train comin' from Chicago this fall when I meets up
with Moosehide Charlie, him headin' back fer the inside after a trip
to the cities where he seen the sights to the extent of his pile.
An' while Moosehide talked about the big country, I listened. He
talked solid fer most two days, an' I got a pretty good history of
the big country since I quit it, in the course of which he elaborates
that you an' your pardner, which he was only a kid, but some
sourdough, at that, had struck it big on Ten Bow. Accordin' to
Moosehide, old Andy Morgan an' John D. Carnagie, an' P. J.
Rockyfeller, couldn't scrape up an ante between 'em big enough to set
in your game with. Well, you know Moosehide--he thinks in bigger
figgers than what the facts justifies, an' always did, but at that, I
takes the trouble to look you up an' I finds out that Moosehide
wasn't so far off as he generally is. So, I come up to see you.'
Kobuk, he kind of hesitates, a little, an' then he goes on. 'The
fact is, Waseche,' he says, 'you're my only chance. I wouldn't of
come if I hadn't found out you was in shape so what I need wouldn't
even make a hole in yer pile. What I want to know is will you loan
me enough to break even? You'll get part of it back--you prob'ly
never will get it all back 'cause I've got to hunt a job--an' a man
with a job an' a family to support will be a long time payin' off
twenty thousand dollars. But, if that cattle business was run right
I know it would pay. I ain't the man to make it pay. I ain't got
capital enough to buy up some sheep outfits, an' a lot of water
rights an' to fight the rustlers with--if I had I would stay an'
fight it out.'
"He stops an' waits fer me to speak. 'How much do you need?' I asks.
"'I figure twenty thousan' would let me out even,' he says. 'It
would pay my debts an' fix things so no one would lose any money on
my account. I don't know exact--somewhere between eighteen an'
twenty-five thousan'.'
"'An' where would that leave you?' I asks. 'Where do you go from
here?'
"'Why,' he says, 'I can go to Chicago an' get a job.'
"'What kind of a job?' I inquires, 'would you figure on holdin'
down--in Chicago?'
"'I ain't figured that far ahead,' says Kobuk. 'Any kind of a job
that would make a livin' fer the wife an' kids. I'm a plumb failure
in business fer myself, but I kin do as much work as I ever could.'
"'Le's see if I've got the straight of it,' I says, 'Missus Kobuk
wants to come back to Alaska, but you want to go to Chicago. You
don't like the big country no more. You've got plumb citified till
mountains an' rivers an' snow, an' dogs an' all that goes along with
it don't interest you no more. You'd ruther live in a city in one of
these here flat-top houses that all looks alike an' is inhabited by
so many numerous folks that your neighbor that lives acrost the hall
passes you on the street without knowin' he ever seen you before.
An' on top of that you want a job like one of these here men that
stands back of a counter in a store an' sells ribbons an' cloth by
the yard to women, or like the ones that wears white aprons an'
stands behind them rows of shiny faucets, which it taxes their
judgment to recommend a ten-year-old kid if he should take pineapple
or strawberry juice in his sody water.'
"Kobuk, he was gittin' a little red around the gills, an' I know'd
I'd kind of got to him. 'Look a here, Waseche,' he says, 'you know
blame well I'd ruther be here in Alaska than anywheres else in the
world, an' so would the wife--the country's got into my blood an'
into her blood. We both thought when we went outside we never wanted
to see it ag'in--but, shucks, we hadn't be'n away two years till we
both would have give anything to be back, but we was in too deep to
git out. An' now there ain't no chance to come back. If I was alone
I'd come in a minute, but I ain't alone. I've got the wife and kids
to think about an' to make a livin' for, an' a job is a job. Suppose
we come North, what would we do? I couldn't leave 'em in some town
or camp while I struck out in the hills an' made a strike. The time
for strikes has gone, anyway, an' what would become of them while I
was out punchin' holes in the gravel of creeks? Alaska ain't a poor
man's country no more, Waseche--an' I'm a poor man. But, that ain't
neither here nor there. I come to you as one friend to another. I
need the twenty thousan', an' need it bad. You've got it, an' with
the capital you've got behind you, you kin git your money back--an' a
lot more with it. I've told you the facts in the case. Now, do I
git the twenty thousan', or don't I?'
"'How much did you put into this here outfit to start out with?' I
asks.
"'A little better than a hundred thousan' an' give a mortgage for a
hundred an' fifty fer the balance, an' I've paid about fifty thousan'
of that.'
"'An' how many of these here cows do you reckon you've got left?'
'Somewhere's around ten thousan' head,' he says.
"'An' what do you claim the whole works is worth, as she lays?'
"'Take 'em as they run, the goin' price is around twenty-five dollars
a head, an' the ranch buildin's an' hay fields an' all the rest of it
say twenty thousan'.'
"I figures fer a minute with a pencil, an' then I says, 'So she
stands worth about $270,000. Takin' off $100,000 fer the mortgage,
she stands at somewheres around $170,000.'
"'That's it,' agrees Kobuk. 'That's what she figures on paper--an'
she's worth every cent of it to anyone that had another quarter of a
million to dump into the outfit. They'd have a million dollar
proposition, then. The way they've got me hemmed in by fair means
an' foul, she's worth about twenty thousan' less than nothin'.'
"I figures a little more, an' Kobuk he gits restless. He gits up an'
walks around an' his pipe goes out five or six times in as many
minutes. Then he picks up his cap. 'Do I get the twenty thousan',
or don't I?' he asks again.
"'You don't,' says I. Well, sir, you should of seen Kobuk's face.
He didn't say a word, jest stood there with his fingers grippin' his
hat fer a long time. Then he turns to the door:
"'Well, so long, Waseche,' he says, an' I noticed his voice sounded
kind of hoarse like. 'I've got to be goin' back.'
"'I'd be'n writin' out the check while he was standin' there, but he
didn't notice. 'Hold on, Kobuk,' I says, as he pulls open the door,
'if this will help you out any, you're welcome to it.' I held out
the check an' he closed the door an' took the piece of paper in his
hand. He stood lookin' at it fer a full minute like he don't know
what it is.
"' A hundred--an'--seventy--thousan'--dollars--' he says, slow like.
'What's this, Waseche?'
"'Why, it's the pay fer yer cows,' I says. 'We're buyin' yer outfit,
lock, stock an' barrel. You kin fix up the papers when you go back.
An' that ain't all, Kobuk,' I says. 'If I done you right, I'd back
you up ag'in that wall an' punch yer head fer you.'
"'What do you mean?' he asks.
"'I mean just what I said. I suppose you've fergot a _chechako_ you
found one time in the snow, eatin' dog in a Siwash camp way up in the
Hog River country. You fergot that you took that _chechako_ over
onto the Kobuk an' give him a pardnership in a payin' claim. You
fergot that you taught him more about minin' an' mushin' an' playin'
a man's game than he know'd there was to learn. An' you fergot that
a couple of years after--when you made yer strike, you found him in
Nulato workin' fer wages, an' you left a poke of dust with the
storekeeper with instructions to make the _chechako_ take the dust.
Them things you fergot--but the _chechako didn't fergit_. But what
makes me mad is this--years afterwards, when the tables is turned the
other ways around, an' you're broke, an' the _chechako_ has played
into big luck, you come along an' ask him to loan you enough to
_break even_! Yes sir, it makes me mad-- _Break even_! So you can
go to Chicago an' hunt you up a measly job amongst the stinks an' the
noises of a city where the chances is yer kids would git killed by
street cars or automobiles, or if they didn't they'd git hydrophoby
er consumption fer want of a lungful of clean air! You tell me yer a
failure because you couldn't make a go of raisin' cows. Well, it
just happens that me an' my pardner is huntin' fer just such a
failure as you be. I've worked with you up on the Kobuk. Listen
here. You go back an' git the fambly an' head with 'em fer Fairbanks
as quick as you kin git squared off. We've got a proposition to
develop over on the Chena that's big. We ain't touched it yet,
because we ain't found the right man to handle it. But, now we've
found him. If it's a job you want, you've got one--an' she's a
bigger job than you've ever tackled, at that. You kin live in
Fairbanks where there's good schools fer the kids, an' good society
for the woman. An' that ain't all. What you don't use out of the
check, you'd better put into the proposition. We'll organize the
Chena Development Company, an' take it from me, yer money will more
than double every couple of years.'
Waseche paused and filled his pipe.
"What did he say?' asked Connie, who had been an eager listener.
"He didn't say nothin'," answered Waseche. "It ain't Kobuk's way.
But next day I had to go to the doctor where he'd shook my hand. Oh,
yes, they was one question he asked just before he went away. He
says, 'But, what will yer pardner think of this deal? I see this
here is a pardnership check.'
"'Yes,' I says, 'an' that's the way she stands. I've tried onct or
twict to shoulder the load alone when I'd made some outside
investment that might not pay out--an' I ain't aimin' to try it no
more.'
Connie laughed. "You better not try it!" he exclaimed. "But this
one is a dandy."
"What do you mean, son?'
"I mean that I wouldn't have missed it for the world! I'm going to
hit out for Montana and make it pay!'
"Sho', now, mebbe it would be better to jest let go an' git out with
as little loss as we kin--an' charge it off to 'grub stake'."
"Not by a long shot we don't take a loss--not unless we have to!
What do we care if we dump a few more thousand into it? We've got
more than we can ever spend. And besides it wouldn't be playing the
game. No, sir! Now we're into it, we'll go through with it--and if
we lose, we will have had a run for our money, anyway."
"All right, son, go as far as you like--I'm for you," grinned
Waseche. "But, at that, I never seen no kid before that was always
just a-honin' fer a fight."
CHAPTER III
TWO DOT TOWNSEND
The great trans-continental train that bore Connie Morgan eastward
from Seattle to his destination in Montana ground to a protesting
stop before the little station of Red Bank, and Connie stepped from
the vestibule to a rubber-topped stool ostentatiously placed for him
by the obsequious porter, and from the stool to the cinder platform.
Up ahead he saw his big tarpaulin-covered bed roll, which served also
as a trunk, tossed from the door of the baggage car. A blue-clad arm
waved the "high-ball," the vestibule door slammed shut, and the heavy
train moved smoothly along the rails, gaining momentum with every
revolution of the wheels. The boy watched it for a moment, and
turned to survey his immediate surroundings.
The town of Red Bank, Montana, may be surveyed from advantage from
almost any point within its precincts. Nestled close against the
railroad in the broad valley of the Milk River, its single street,
flanked on either side by wooden sidewalks, runs between two rows of
story-and-a-half frame buildings whose square false fronts serve as
an advertising medium for the emblazoning of the wares within. The
street continued for perhaps two hundred yards parallel with the
railway track and terminated abruptly in a broad flat whereon were
located the shipping corrals, with their system of alleys and chutes
and pens enclosed by board fences eight feet high and supported by
posts a foot thick. The wooden stores, the shipping corrals,
together with the station, the water tank, and the section house, the
last three painted red, composed the entire commercial aspect of Red
Bank. Of course, there were dwelling houses--not many, for most of
the merchants of Red Bank were domiciled above their stores, and when
the merchants were disposed of there were not many other residents of
the little town to be housed. For Red Bank was a "cow town," a very
busy, lively, and roistering town in the fall when the beef from
thousands of square miles of range was being rounded up and loaded
from its shipping corrals, and at all other times a very quiet and
unassuming little town, indeed.
A bronzed man with a grizzled beard who had been leaning against the
little building in conversation with the station agent, stepped
forward with a peculiar hitching gait. Connie's glance took in the
details, of bowed legs, roll brimmed Stetson, and keen gray eyes.
"Was you lookin' for someone in particular?" the man asked.
"Why, yes," answered the boy. "I wired Bob Harmon, the foreman of
the Round Seven Bar ranch, to meet me here."
"Gosh all fishhooks!" exclaimed the man. "Then you are the new owner
of the Round Seven!"
"One of them," grinned the boy. "Were you expecting me? You aren't
Bob Harmon, are you?'
"No, I ain't Bob. Townsend's my name--Charlie Townsend--Two Dot
Townsend they call me on account of my brand, which I'm the owner of
the Circle Two Dot outfit over on People's Creek, about thirty miles
northeast of the Round Seven."
"Glad to know you," acknowledged Connie, extending his hand. "My
name's Morgan--Connie Morgan. But I wonder where Harmon is? Maybe
he didn't get my wire."
"Yes, he got it all right," answered the other. "He was headin' for
town yesterday afternoon an' got to my place jest as I was pullin'
out myself. I had business here an' they wasn't no use putting two
teams over the road, special when they're heavy as they are now with
the snow meltin', so I told him if he'd stay there an' help the boys
finish up the new horse corral, I'd fetch you out an' he could take
you on from there. But I wasn't sort of expectin' no--that is, I
figured, the new owner of the Round Seven would be an older man,
somehow. Not that it ain't a fine thing," he hastened to add, "for a
youngster to be goin' into business for himself, but, somehow the
Round Seven--" The man did not finish the sentence, and Connie noted
that his brow was slightly puckered.
"What's the matter with the Round Seven!" he asked.
"I wish I owned it," answered the man, evasively. "She'd ort to be a
blame good outfit. But, we c'n talk while we drive. We better pull
out soon as we get a bite to eat or we won't be home in time fer
supper--it'll crowd them cayuses the way it is, with the trail heavy
in spots. I told them barn dogs to have the harness on agin the
train pulled out."
Connie reached for his suit case, but Two Dot shook his head: "Leave
yer war bag an' bed roll here an' we'll swing around an' pick 'em
up," he advised, "an' then we'll hit the trail."
Together they made their way across a muddy, deep-rutted flat and
gained the wooden sidewalk. As they passed along the street Connie
took in the details of the little cow town; four or five general
stores, a bank, two pool rooms, a barber shop, a harness and saddle
store, a wide-doored building whose sign proclaimed "LIVERY,
BOARDING, AND FEED," two restaurants, a hotel, and a miscellaneous
assortment of buildings of lesser importance. Past the hotel Two Dot
led, and turned in a couple of doors farther on where the sign read
"HOP WING, RESTAURANT & LAUNDRY."
[Illustration: As they passed along the street Connie took in the
details of the little Cow Town]
The two hung their hats upon pegs provided for the purpose, and
washed their hands at a little built-in sink in a rear corner of the
room. Then they seated themselves at a small wooden table as the
proprietor shuffled noiselessly in. "Mo'nin', Missa Two Dot, what
you goin' eat?"
"Hello, Hop! Beefsteak, an' I want it rar', an' fried spuds----"
"Dinna no leady yet--on'y sho't o'da, now."
"Fry up a half dozen aigs an' a slab of ham, then, an' a cup of
coffee, an' a couple of pieces of pie, an' hurry up about it. What's
yourn?" The last to Connie.
"The same," answered the boy, and the Chinaman shuffled into the
kitchen at the rear from whence presently came a great sizzling and
the odor of frying ham.
"I always eat to the Chinee's place," explained Two Dot. "It's
cleaner than what the hotel is, though the women claims he squirts
water out of his mouth to wet down the clothes when he's ironin' 'em.
But I don't wear no b'iled shirts myself, so let him squirt all he
wants to, jest so he keeps it out of the vittles."
Connie was about to reopen the question of the Round Seven, when the
Chinaman appeared bearing two plates heaped high with ham and eggs.
Two cups of steaming coffee followed, and then two plates containing
two pieces of pie each. Two Dot glanced at the pie, and swallowing a
huge mouthful of fried egg, he pointed to the plate in disgust:
"Since when you begun to cut a pie five ways?" he asked. "I didn't
order no shavin' of pie. What I want is two _pieces_! The way to
cut a pie is straight acrost the middle both ways. You c'n lay off
yer pie with a pair of dividers fer shorthorns an' pilgrims if you
want to, but me--I want two four-piece cuts--sabe?"
The Chink smiled broadly. "Alle light, Missa Two Dot. Loo ol'
customa. Loo alle light." He removed the offending pieces and
returned a moment later with the plates upon each of which reposed
the half of a pie.
From the restaurant, the two picked their way through the mud to the
feeding stable across the street, and a moment later the hostlers
were hooking up a team of rangy sorrels to a light spring wagon. Two
Dot climbed in and gathered up the reins, and Connie seated himself
beside him. The horses, fresh from a long night's rest, danced and
chafed at the bit, as the wagon rolled down the wooden apron that led
to the street. It was but the work of a moment for the boy to swing
the suit case and bed roll into the back of the vehicle, and with a
word from Two Dot to the team they were off. The wheels sank to the
hubs in the mud as they traversed the length of the street. It was
not quite so bad as they emerged onto the flats in front of the
shipping corrals, for there Two Dot swung them from the trail and
pulled out onto the sodden grass. Here the trail itself was almost
obliterated, for every one else who had traveled the road since
spring had set in had done the same thing, with the result that the
flat had all the appearance of a plowed field. All tracks narrowed
into the trail again at the farther side of the flat, and for a mile
or more, until the red iron bridge that spanned Milk River was
crossed, the boy found himself holding on for dear life as the wheels
would drop suddenly into a bottomless chuck hole and emerge dropping
huge chunks of gray alkali mud from spokes and felloes. A short
distance beyond the river the trail slanted upward to the bench whose
rims formed a skyline three or four hundred feet higher than the
floor of the valley. The trail followed the windings of a deep
coulee, dry normally, but now a rushing torrent of snow water,
through which the horses floundered once or twice to their bellies.
The bench gained, the trail became almost dry, and the sorrels struck
into a brisk trot that sent volleys of mud from the whirling wheels.
"She'll be good goin' now, till we hit the mountains," opined Two
Dot, "an' then we won't have no mud to speak of, only soggy snow, but
we'll waller through all right. How do you like the looks of the
country?"
Connie's eyes swept the level bench which terminated nearly fifty
miles away in three small ranges of mountains. Except on the
mountain slopes only an occasional patch of snow was visible, and the
bench stretched away brown and bare and ugly.
"Where are the ranches? And where are the cattle?" inquired the boy.
"Isn't this cattle range? And Kobuk said the nesters were building
cabins and fencing all the creeks."
"They ain't many cattle between the Bear Paws an' Milk River,"
explained Two Dot. "They're mostly sheep, an' this here is summer
range. They winter 'em in the mountains. There's ranches enough,
though. You can't see 'em because they are all down in the coulees.
Everything's built in the coulees an' crick bottoms in this country,
for to get shelter from the wind, an' to git the hay land under
ditches. Nothin' grows here except prickly pears, an' sage, an'
buffalo grass without irrigation. Between here an' the mountains, as
wide as you c'n see, you're lookin' right over the top of prob'ly
fifty ranches. Them mountains to the left is the Little Rockies, the
ones straight in front, south, is the Bear Paws, an' them further
ones to the right is the Highwoods. My outfit lays straight ahead
acrost two divides, on People's Crick, an' yourn lies thirty miles
further on an' a little to the right, on Eagle Crick. You're acrost
two or three more divides beyond me--the South Slope of the Bear
Paws, an' Eagle Crick empties into the Mizoo, that's what they call
the Missouri River, fer short, an' People's Crick flows northeast
through the Gros Ventre Reservation [Note: Pronounced Grow Vaun] an'
then swings north an' empties into Milk River. That'll kind of give
you the lay of the land. North of the Bear Paws it's mostly sheep,
an' south an' east of 'em it's mostly cattle an' horses, though the
sheep's beginnin' to crowd in along the South Slope."
Two Dot ceased speaking, and for some time the horses jogged over the
trail to the accompaniment of the rattle of the wagon wheels. Connie
had liked the man from the first, but more than that, he felt
instinctively that if he would he could tell him a whole lot about
the cattle business in general, and about the Round Seven Bar in
particular. He wanted to question him, but didn't know how to begin.
Townsend himself furnished the opening. "I suppose yer pa's pretty
well fixed fer to set you up in business with an outfit like the
Round Seven," he ventured. "It must of set him back quite a figger."
"I haven't any father," the boy replied. "He died several years ago
in Alaska, and he died poor. My partner and I bought this ranch to
help Kobuk Jack out. The ranch broke Kobuk, and a long time ago he
helped Waseche Bill out. Waseche's my partner, and the best
dog-goned man that walks on two legs, so it was up to us to see him
through."
"Who's this here Kobuk Jack?" asked Townsend.
"Why, he's the man that owned the ranch. We bought him out."
"Oh, Wilson--Jack Wilson's the name we knew him by. It's too bad he
couldn't make a go of it. Everyone liked him, but he wasn't no cow
man. He was all fer prospectin'. He'd start out an' nick away at
the hills, an' make long trips into the bad lands huntin' gold, an'
left Harmon to run the outfit."
"Isn't Harmon a good cow man?" asked the boy.
"You bet he is," assented the other, quickly. "A blame good cow man.
An' he's smart, too. But it don't make no difference how good a cow
man anyone is, I don't want no one but me runnin' my own outfit. I
ain't sayin' nothin', mind you, agin' Harmon. Only personal, I don't
want no foreman whatever that owns a brand of his own."
"You mean he would be thinking about his outfit and wouldn't give
time enough to yours?"
"Um-hum, either that, or he'd be thinkin' about his own outfit an'
give too blame much time to mine," Two Dot answered, dryly. Connie
wondered what the man meant, but refrained from questioning him
further.
"I'm goin' to find out what's the matter with the outfit, and put it
on a paying basis," observed the boy.
Two Dot surveyed him quizzically. "Time you get through with it I
judge you'll find you set yerself quite a chore. But the Round Seven
ort to be payin', at that--an' payin' big."
"You call it the 'Round Seven'," said Connie, "and Kobuk called it
the 'Round Seven Bar.'
"That's the brand--Round Seven Bar, left side--goes like this:" With
the butt of his whip, Two Dot produced a running-iron facsimile of
the brand on the muddy dashboard. "Around here we leave off the 'Bar'
in speakin' of it, to save time, same as my outfit is called the Two
Dot, instead of the Circle Two Dot."
"Kobuk said the sheep men were crowding in on him, and that the
rustlers were stealing a lot of his calves," ventured the boy.
"Yup," answered Townsend. "I heard the Round Seven wasn't puttin'
their irons on as many calves as they'd ort. An' there is
considerable nesters along the cricks close around the outfit.
Them's some of the things you've got on yer hands to figger about."
After a moment of silence he observed, "Course it ain't none of my
business, an' speakin' generally, I ain't no hand to horn in on other
folks's, but you must of struck it pretty lucky up there in Alaska to
of made enough money to buy up the Round Seven."
Connie smiled. "Yes, we did strike it lucky. My partner is a
wonderful mining man, and he runs the outfit. It was fun when we
were getting started, when we didn't know whether or not we were
going to make a go of it, and all the odds were against us, but after
things came our way and she got to running smoothly, I got tired of
it. So Waseche stays in Ten Bow and runs things while I'm mostly
chasing off on side issues, like this cattle business. I'd never
make an office miner. I like action."
"Well, by the Belled Buzzard of Bejax!" snorted Two Dot, "you're
goin' to find out you've bought into action enough, time you've got
the Round Seven back to where she belongs! Yer in a rough strip of
country over there on the South Slope; what with the mountains on one
side, an' Bad Lands on the other, she's rough, in more ways than one.
If you keep yer eyes open an' yer mouth shet, an' yer six-gun handy,
you might put it over. But, it's a man's job, an' it's goin' to be
interestin' to see what you do with it."
CHAPTER IV
BOB HARMON
Mile after mile the horses trotted along the trail that stretched
interminably across the bench with its monotony of dry buffalo grass.
Conversation lagged, and resumed. The mountains loomed ever nearer,
until the trail slanted sharply upward in the ascent of Tiger Ridge,
the long high spur that is the northernmost reach of the Bear Paws.
An hour's brisk travel along the wind-blown crest of the ridge, and
they were in the mountains proper, the horses floundering and
plunging through sodden drifts or trotting briskly over the
wind-swept stretches. The sun set as they crossed the Snake Creek
divide. They were beyond the stage trail, now, and the going was
much heavier.
The last seven miles took an hour and a half to accomplish, and
darkness had set in when the horses turned wearily into a long barbed
wire lane that led to a dark clump of lodgepole pine on a little
plateau of the People's Creek valley. Lights glowed dully from among
the pines, and Two Dot pulled up with a loud "Whoa!" before a low
ranch house of logs. The door of the bunk house beyond the main
house opened, and a ranch hand hurried to take the horses, as Two Dot
jumped lightly to the ground and led the way into the house.
"Well, for land sakes!" greeted "Ma" Townsend when introductions were
over. "An' you expect to run the Round Seven, an' you jest a boy?"
Connie laughed. "That's what I came down here for, and it's up to me
to make good."
"Well, good luck to you. But, I wouldn't want to send a boy of mine
over among them--" she halted abruptly at a glance from her husband,
and continued, lamely, "among them bad lands an' snow drifts. But
set down to the table. Supper's all ready, an' I expect you're ready
for it. Bob Harmon jest come from the bunk house, but I told him to
go back there till after you'd et. There'll be plenty of time to
talk to Bob, after, an' I told him you wouldn't be pullin' out for
the Round Seven to-night, nohow. Plenty of time in the mornin', an'
with them half-broke broncs he's got, you'll travel better by
daylight. An' you won't have to unroll your bed, because we're
always ready fer a stopper or two. It's quite a ways between ranches
an' folks can't always get to where they're goin' agin' night comes."
Supper over, Mrs. Townsend busied herself in the kitchen and Connie
and Two Dot drew up to the stove. There was a noisy stamping of feet
upon the little porch, the door opened, and a pudgy, round-faced man
of perhaps thirty, stepped into the room, jerking the Stetson from
his head as he closed the door behind him.
"This here's Bob Harmon," introduced Two Dot. "Bob, let me make you
acquainted with yer new boss."
The man stared for a second in astonishment, and stepping forward, he
extended a soft, damp palm. "Glad to meet you, Mr. Morgan," he
greeted, with a broad smile. "I got yer telegram all right, but I
suppose Two Dot, here, told you how we figgered it wasn't no use
puttin' two teams over the trail. I suppose it's all right!"
The boy noted that the speaker was eyeing him keenly. He nodded.
"Of course it's all right. And, there's another little matter that
we might as well get right while we're about it. Up where I come
from we don't call people 'Mister.' Connie Morgan is my name, and
you can use either one, or both--but, not 'Mister Morgan,' please."
Harmon grinned. "I might of know'd that, too. Wilson told me when
he come back fer his stuff an' his family, that he'd sold out to an
Alasky party--come near goin' up there myself, me an' another feller,
time of the big rush--but, seemed like Wilson said this party's name
is Bill somethin'."
"Waseche Bill," supplied Connie. "He's my partner."
"That was the name, an' accordin' to Wilson's tell this here Bill
whirls a big loop up where he lives. He did mention somethin' about
a pardner, too--but I kind of wasn't lookin' fer no--that is, I mean
not no man quite as young as what you look to be. Not that you ain't
old enough, at that," he hastened to add, "'cause I've saw kids 'fore
now that made good cow hands 'fore their voice changed. But,
somehow, from what he told me about this here Bill party I kind of
looked fer him an' his pardner to be sort of old fellers."
"Well, not so old but what we're still able to get around," grinned
Connie, and Two Dot joined in the laugh that followed.
"Shall I hook up the team?" asked Harmon, "or, was you figurin' on
beddin' down here?"
"We'll stay here to-night and pull out in the morning," answered the
boy, and a few minutes later Harmon withdrew to the bunk house.
"You look sleepy," suggested Two Dot, after an hour of desultory
conversation. "I guess you're like me, I never could git a night's
sleep on one of them sleepin' cars."
"I haven't slept much for the last two or three nights," agreed the
boy. "I can't sleep on the train, either, and the last night out the
boat rocked and pitched so in a storm that I could hardly stick in my
berth. I guess I will turn in."
Two Dot showed him to his room, and a few minutes later as the boy
snuggled between warm blankets, he wondered whether he had only
imagined it, or had a swift gleam of satisfaction followed the look
of surprise in Bob Harmon's eyes at the moment of their introduction?
Connie did not know. He did know, however, that there was something
decidedly wrong with the Round Seven, and that it was up to him to
straighten things out. Also, he fully realized that in all
probability it was going to be a tough job, and he remembered the
words of Big Dan McKeever, of the Mounted:
"The reputation of bein' a fool don't hurt a man none, in fact, it's
the biggest asset he's got--provided he ain't one." With a smile,
the boy turned over, and in two minutes was sound asleep.
The drive to the Round Seven ranch next morning was uneventful
enough. The trail held insofar as possible to the wind-swept ridges
which the half broken team of strawberry roans covered for the most
part at a run, that was only checked by the deep drifts through which
they plunged in crossing the snow-choked coulees to gain another
wind-swept ridge. As they topped the divide that gave onto the South
Slope, Connie gazed out over a broad plain cut and scarred by deep
gulches and coulees whose perpendicular sides showed black and ugly
in contrast to the great patches of drifted snow. Far to the
southward a range of mountains showed, their summits rearing white
and clean-cut against the grey of the clouded sky.
"The bad lands," vouchsafed Harmon, indicating the plain, "an' them
is the Judith Mountains over acrost the Mizoo."
"Why do they call 'em bad lands?" asked the boy.
"'Cause that's what they be. Nothin' but rock, an' mud cracks, an'
pizen springs, an' rattlesnakes, an' outlaws."
"Don't the cattle go in there?"
"Naw, nothin' but horses. They ain't only about six or seven
waterholes that's fit to drink out of, an' most of them runs dry
along to'ard the heel of the summer. Horses can pick up a livin' on
the scatterin' of bunch grass, an' they kin travel a long ways to
water. They ain't enough feed to run cattle in there, an' if they
was they wouldn't be enough water. The cow stock uses along the
aidge of the mountains, an' on the flats between the Bear Paws an'
the Little Rockies, an' west over onto Big an' Little Sandy."
At the foot of the long descent from the divide the trail swerved
abruptly to the westward and wound in and out among the foothills,
crossing the heads of innumerable coulees until at last it swung into
the broader valley of Eagle Creek, which it crossed and recrossed as
it threaded its way through groves of cottonwoods and willows.
Emerging suddenly from a thicket of cottonwood, Harmon swung the team
up a steep bank, and Connie found himself in the dooryard of the
Round Seven. "Here we be!" exclaimed Harmon, as he pulled the team
to a stand, and filling his lungs, sent forth a yell that rang far
down the valley: "Y-e-e-o-ow! Come an' git 'em, or I'll turn 'em
loose!"
CHAPTER V
AT THE ROUND SEVEN
In answer to the call, the door at the rear of the low log house was
thrown open and half a dozen cow punchers, some in chaps and others
with their overalls shoved into the tops of high-heeled boots,
swarmed out. All were bare headed and coatless, and Connie was
conscious of the swift, appraising glance of each pair of eyes as
they swarmed about the horses. Before the boy could alight the team
was unhitched and on its way to the barn in care of two of the boys,
while the rest waited in awkward expectancy.
"Boys, this here is the new boss," introduced Harmon, "name's Morgan,
an' you ain't to lift it by the handle. Looks like a kid, an' new to
the cow country, but I mistrust he ain't no pilgrim, at that."
Connie smiled broadly as he jumped to the ground, and the boys
grinned sheepishly.
Harmon went on with the introductions. "That hombre closest to you
is Tex Rutledge, him havin' be'n run off his native heath, as the
feller says, he hits for Montana. The next one to him is Kid Owens,
another one which the State of Texas got to little fer to hold him.
The old one is Alex McLaurie, that kin tell a cow from a horse seven
days in the week incloodin' Sundays. Mac, he's an old timer, havin'
be'n found down on the Yallerstone herdin' horses way back in
eighteen-forty when Lewis an' Clarke discovered the country. An' the
last one is Milk River Bill. Bill an' Tex is the top broncho
twisters of the outfit. They was both rocked in the saddle of a
rough string when they was babies, an' they ain't neither one of 'em
ever reached down fer a handful of leather sence."
The four advanced, still grinning, and four hands were diffidently
thrust out. Connie grasped each hand in turn.
"Glad to know yuh," said Tex.
"Glad to know yuh," muttered Kid Owens.
"Glad to know yuh," repeated McLaurie.
"Glad to know yuh," echoed Milk River Bill.
Connie smiled: "We'll know each other a lot better before long, I
hope," he said.
"Go on in an finish yer dinner, an' tell the cook we're here,"
advised Harmon, and turned to Connie: "While he's settin' on ourn
I'll show you the house. Not that they's such a lot of it, but you
might's well see what they is."
The two men who had taken the horses were returning from the barn and
Harmon paused: "Might's well make a job of it an' git acquainted all
to onct." He waited till the two came up:
"This here's the new owner," he explained, "name's Morgan, without no
Mister onto it." The two paused and Harmon pointed to a lanky man
with a long, sallow face: "I'll make you acquainted with Tombstone,
so called on account he's plumb doleful minded an' full of forbodin'.
Other name's Traxel, but it ain't of no importance.
"Glad to know yuh," uttered Tombstone, eyeing the boy sombrely.
"The other one," continued Harmon, "is Canary Struthers, so referred
to on account it's his habit to bust out into yodlin' without no more
excuse than what a bronc needs to pitch."
"Glad to know yuh," quoth Canary, and when the handshaking was over,
the two disappeared through the door.
Harmon led the way to the front of the house and up the two steps to
a small porch from which a snow drift, that had evidently lain deep
all winter, had recently been shovelled. The door opened directly
into a large, square room whose walls were adorned with calendars of
other years brightly lithographed and blazonly flaunting the names of
mercantile companies, banks, and Chicago commission houses. The
calendars, three or four chairs, the stove, and a single table
constituted the entire furnishing of the room.
Opening a door, the foreman disclosed a smaller room in which was a
bed and a dresser. "Wilson's slep' in there, an' et in here," he
explained. "The next room to this is where the kids slep', an'
they's a couple of rooms beyond that's handy fer to put up stoppers.
They's a lot of junk in the kids' room that Wilson left here,
saddles, bridles, chaps, an' the like. I expect you can pick you out
an outfit amongst it, except boots--hisn wouldn't never fit you."
"Yes, Kobuk told me about the boots. I got a pair in Seattle."
Another door opened and a man entered, his arms bare to the elbows.
A white flour sack depending from a string tied about his middle
served for an apron, and in his hands he carried a plate, a cup and
saucer, a knife, a fork, and a spoon. Pulling the table out from the
wall, he proceeded to set the dishes upon it, and was about to
disappear through the door, when Harmon called to him: "Hey, Walt,
this here's the new boss. Morgan's his name, an' he's signified that
it's bad medicine to say Mister." He turned to Connie:
"That's Walt Jones, the cook. He's cooked on cow outfits from Mexico
to the line, an' when it comes to dishin' up a good feed of vittles,
he's got 'em all skinned."
"Glad to know yuh," opined the cook, impersonally, and wiping his
hand upon his apron, took the boy's extended hand in a firm grip.
"What's the idea of the lone place at the table?" asked Connie.
"That's yourn. Wilsons et in here."
"Where do the rest of you eat?"
"The men's grub house is back, jest off the kitchen."
"Are you full up out there? Isn't there room for one more?"
The cook grinned: "Room for twenty-two to set down to onct," he
replied, "an' they wasn't only eight of us till you come."
"Well just fix me up a place out there, then," said the boy, "and
we'll all eat together."
Jones nodded, and picking up the dishes, stepped through the door,
closing it behind him.
"Boss goin' to fodder along of the rest of us," he announced, to the
boys who had resumed their interrupted meal. "Bob, he'll lose out on
the head of the table. Shove down there one space, an' I'll put him
next to the boss."
"Ain't stuck up none," commented Tex, in a voice of approval.
"Huh," sneered Milk River Bill, "prob'ly one of these here _hombres_
that's afraid someone'll say somethin' he don't hear. Reason why
he's feedin' in here is so he can catch him an earful."
Tex grinned an irritating grin: "What you got to talk about that
ain't fit fer the boss to hear? Me--he's welcome to listen to all
the gems of thought that trickles off my chin."
"They ain't nothin' never trickled off'n it yet that was worth
listenin' to," retorted Milk River. "Personal, I'd ruther the coffee
coolers stayed on their own side of the fence, an' left us on ourn."
"Yeh," drawled Tex, "but the coffee coolers is the ones that makes
the rules, so what you think about it don't carry no heft, one way or
another."
The cook's head was thrust in from the kitchen: "Cut out that rowin'
in there, 'fore I rattle yer skulls together! If youse two wants to
go to war, go outside." The two thus admonished lapsed into silence,
for the cook was an autocrat whose authority was unquestioned within
his own domain, and one glance at the huge forearms was generally
sufficient to give color to that authority.
Connie and the foreman entered and took their places and the meal was
finished in silence, the boys pushing back from the table and leaving
the room as soon as their plates were empty.
CHAPTER VI
LEARNING THE ROPES
"What's doing on the ranch this time of year?" asked the boy, when
the last of the hands had departed.
"Nothin', to speak of, right now," answered Harmon. "We run in a
wild bunch about a week ago an' Tex an' Milk River are breakin' about
a dozen head for the remuda. Kid Owens an' McLaurie are ridin' the
range throwin' weak stuff into the hospital bunch, an' Tombstone an'
Canary are pitchin' hay to 'em. Tombstone an' Canary ain't riders,
they're ranch hands."
Connie laughed: "I suppose it will all be perfectly clear to me in a
day or two, but the fact is I don't know much more than I did before
you told me. What is a 'wild bunch' and how do you 'run them in',
and what is a 'remuda?'"
"Why, a wild bunch is a bunch of horses that's runnin' the range an'
ain't be'n broke yet--mares, an' young saddle stock. We run a bunch
of 'em into the corral an' cut out the three-year-olds an' turn the
rest loose. Then we go ahead an' break 'em. The remuda is the
outfit of saddle horses we carry along on the round-up. We use about
a dozen riders on the round-up, an' each one has from eight to a
dozen horses in his string. Some horses gets old, an' some gets
stove up every year, so we have to break new ones every spring to
take their place."
"That's a lot of horses," exclaimed the boy. "The barn don't look
big enough to hold them."
Harmon laughed: "They ain't nothin' kep' in the barn but a few work
horses, an' a drivin' team, an' three or four winter horses apiece.
The rest of 'em's out on the range. We'll start the horse round-up
mebbe to-morrow an' run 'em into the big field an' hay 'em till it's
time for the calf round-up. We aim to pull the wagons about the
tenth of May, soon as the new grass gets strong enough to keep the
horses goin'."
"What do you mean by pulling the wagons? You see, I'm green as
anyone can be."
"The wagons is the round-up. There's the cook wagon, an' the bed
wagon, an' wherever they set up, there's where the round-up camps.
You'll get onto it all pretty quick. I s'pose I'd be the same way if
I was to horn into a gold camp up in Alasky. They's tricks in all
trades, as the feller says, but onct you get onto 'em they're easy as
slidin' off a haystack.
"D'you ever ride any!" asked Harmon, as he pushed back his chair, and
fumbled in his pocket for a toothpick.
"Never was on a horse in my life,"[1] answered the boy, "but I can
learn."
[1] In the northern division of the Mounted in which Connie served
there are no horses--only dogs.
"Sure, you can learn, an' if you'd like to tackle it this afternoon
we can kind of look the place over. I want to ride through the
hospital bunch anyhow an' see how they're comin'."
"I can't learn any younger," smiled the boy. "I'd like to go. My
boots are in my bed-roll, I'll step out and get them."
"They're in yer room," interrupted the cook. "I had Canary carry yer
stuff in."
"While you're gettin' 'em on, I'll rustle you an outfit out of that
bunch of junk in the other room," said Harmon, and when Connie,
teetering unsteadily in his new high heeled boots stepped from his
room he found Harmon in the living room engaged in coiling a rope
which he fastened by a strap to the right side of a big stock saddle.
Picking up a pair of black angora chaparajos, he handed them to
Connie, "Get into these chaps an' here's your spurs."
The boy drew on the chaps, fastened the buckles of his spurs, and
followed Harmon who had picked up the saddle, hung a bridle on the
horn, and with a blanket in his other hand led the way to the stable.
As Connie walked along behind he realized the reason for the
peculiar, shuffling gait he had noticed in the men of the cow
country. It was the high heeled boots that threw them far out of
balance. "I sure would hate to trail very far in these boots," said
the boy as Harmon threw open the stable door.
The foreman laughed: "They ain't meant fer walkin'. A cowhand don't
do no walkin' that he kin git out of. It's plumb redic'lus
sometimes. Why, I've saw a cow puncher chase a cayuse half a mile
around a field a-foot an' ketch him up an' saddle him just to ride
forty rod to where he was goin'."
"But wouldn't it be just as easy to wear something on your feet that
you could walk in, too?"
"'Twouldn't be safe," explained Harmon. "You see, if it wasn't fer
them high heels, if yer horse got to ra'rin', an' pitchin', yer foot
might slip on through yer stirrup, an' then if you got throw'd, er
yer horse went down with you, you'd be hung up an' drug to death,
less'n you was quick enough, an' lucky enough to draw yer gun an'
kill him first. Them high heels stickin' down like they do ketches
on the stirrup an' holds yer foot from slippin' through, an' then
agin, they're handy if yer rope-handlin' stock. You kin sink them
heels into the ground an' hold 'em, instead of bein' drug all around
the corral."
"The more a fellow knocks around," replied the boy, "the sooner he
learns that there's generally a good reason for doing things the way
they are done in different parts of the country. And the quicker he
learns to do them that way the easier he gets along."
"I expect that's right," admitted Harmon. "I ain't never be'n around
none to speak of outside of the cow country. Be'n to Chicago quite a
lot with beef, but I didn't learn nothin' of no account, except that
it's Gosh Almighty lonesome, an' a long ways back to the open range."
Harmon led the way into the barn where a long row of horses stood
munching hay in their stalls. "These is the winter saddle horses,"
he explained. "The work horses an' drivin' team is in that other
alley. The rest of the horses is out on the range. We keep four
apiece of our top horses up an' grain 'em in winter. They's quite a
lot of winter ridin', what with ridin' fences, an' throwin' stock
onto water, an' keepin' 'em from pilin' up agin' the fences in a
blizzard, an' throwin' the weak stuff in on hay." He paused behind a
coal black horse, and blanket in hand, entered the stall. "Whoa,
Nigger!" he soothed, as the horse, stepped about restlessly. Connie
watched with interest as the man, talking all the time, and avoiding
any quick motions placed the blanket upon the horse's back and
smoothed it into place.
"You've got to take it easy with these here cayuses," he explained.
"Nigger, here, he's plumb gentle, an' so is most all of these winter
horses, but they git excited easy unless they're handled right."
Picking up the saddle he threw a stirrup and the cinch back over the
seat, swung it to the horse's back, and fitting it upon the blanket,
pushed the seat clear, and reaching beneath the horse's belly caught
the cinch ring and drew it into place, explaining to the boy the use
of the patent buckle that has superceded the old fashioned
four-in-hand cinch knot which passed into the discards along with the
double rig saddle.
After bridling the horse, the foreman backed him out of the stall and
led him out the door where he dropped the reins and entering the
barn, reappeared a moment later with a bay horse which he led by the
halter to a point near the corral fence where his own outfit lay.
"Won't Nigger get away?" asked Connie, as the man proceeded to saddle
his own mount.
"No, they're broke to stand when the reins is dropped. 'Tyin' 'em to
the ground,' we call it, an' they'll stand that way when they'd bust
a pair of reins if they was tied to a fence or post." Placing his
knee against the bay horse's side, the man pulled on the latigo strap
with all his might: "Quit that, you old son-of-a-gun!" he cried, and
a moment later turned to Connie with a grin: "You got to watch out
fer that trick," he warned, "about half the cayuses git wise to it.
They swell up on you when yer cinchin' 'em, then when you git on yer
cinch is loose, an' yer blanket works back, an' first thing you know
you've got a galded horse. It's loose-cinches, not tight ones that
hurts horses, an' men, too. 'Cause sometimes it's loose enough so
the saddle turns." The man led his horse over beside the black.
"These horses is gentle so you could climb up onto 'em anyway," he
said, "but they's plenty of 'em in the remuda that ain't, so you
might's well learn how to git on an' off. Watch me." The man swung
lightly into the saddle and back to the ground. "See how it works.
It's the easiest way with gentle horses--an' the only way with bad
ones. Always go to a horse's head an' git on from in front, and
always on the left side. Take yer bridle reins in yer left hand, an'
ketch 'em up short agin the horse's mane. With a real bad horse you
grab the cheek strap along with the reins to keep him from rar'in
away from you. Turn yer stirrup around with yer right hand an' stick
yer left foot in it. Grab the horn with yer right hand, an' swing
on. When you git a little practice, the worse a horse jerks back,
an' rar's, the quicker he lands you in the saddle. Gittin' off, you
swing right back the way you got on. Don't never try to git on or
off on the right hand side. The horses ain't broke for it, an' you
might git hurt." Connie followed the directions and was surprised
with the ease with which he swung into the saddle. Harmon nodded
approval, and mounting, led the way down the creek. "You'll soon git
on to the ridin' part," he said. "The main thing is to save yer
horse all you kin. Ride on yer stirrups, an' you won't pound his
back to pieces. An' ride with a loose rein, onless you've got a
pitchin' horse. Then you got to keep him from sinkin' his head.
[Illustration: Connie found himself holding on for dear life as the
wheels would drop suddenly into a bottomless chuck hole and emerge,
dropping huge chunks of gray Alkali mud]
"These is the hay fields," explained the foreman, as he fastened a
wire gate behind him, "they's four of 'em on the crick under ditches
that's in alfalfa, an' then we cut wild hay in the coulees. We aim
to put up around five or six hundred ton a year, that winters the
work horses an' the winter saddle stock an' feeds the hospital stuff.
This here is what we call the 'big pasture.' That's where we run the
weak stuff in to feed 'em. There's the boys now pitchin' hay to
'em." They rode up to where Canary and Tombstone were pitching hay
from a wagon that was kept constantly in motion so that the cattle
feeding behind the wagon were strung out in a long line. "Feed 'em
that way so they clean it all up," explained the foreman. "If yer
throw'd it in piles they'd git to crowdin', an' tromp a lot of it
into the ground, an' the weak ones wouldn't git none. This is what
we call the hospital bunch, old cows, an' some yearlin's that didn't
winter through good on the range, an' some cows that's near to the
calvin'. We generally got three or four hundred head in here along
to'ards spring. The boys ride the range an' throws in the weak
stuff, an' rides the pasture an' throws out them that's picked up on
the hay. We'll swing out the west gate here an' up onto the bench.
We kin pull over onto the shoulder of that there butte an' git a good
look over the country. I kin show you from there just what yer up
against. I s'pose you know that the Round Seven is a losin' game?"
"Yes," answered Connie, as the horses travelled side by side up a
coulee that led to the bench. "That's what I came down here for--to
find out what's the matter. Kobuk Jack said it ought to pay, and pay
big."
"Who?"
"Why, Kobuk Jack--Jack Wilson, you called him down here--the man we
bought out."
"Oh, he did, eh? Well, _he_ didn't make it pay!" The man was
looking straight ahead, and glancing side wise, Connie saw that his
eyes had narrowed in evident anger. The next moment, however he was
smiling as he turned toward the boy. "This Wilson, he didn't savvy
the cattle business. But, at that, he's right about the outfit ort
to pay. Only it's goin' to cost an all-fired lot of money to make it
pay."
"What's the matter with it?"
"Well, they's quite a lot the matter. First off, there's the nesters
that's come in an' fenced off the water. Birch Crick an' Eagle,
below the Round Seven, an' Beaver is gittin' pretty well fenced.
These here nesters would all have to be bought out, an' they're all
holdin' high. Then, we generally finish off our beef stuff on the
Injun Reservation, an' the Injuns kills a lot of 'em."
"Don't the Round Seven pay for pasturing on the Reservation?'
"Sure. Fifty cents a head."
"Why don't you collect damages, then, for the cattle the Indians
kill?"
"You can't collect no damages agin' the Government," answered Harmon.
"You can't, eh?" answered the boy, "guess I'll just look over that
contract this evening."
Harmon squirmed uneasily in his saddle: "We never had no contract
wrote out," he said. "We jest paid over the money an' turned in the
beef."
"Who did you pay it to?"
"Major Hogan, the Injun Agent."
"Did you get a receipt?"
"No. They ain't no use of a receipt. Hogan, he ain't a-goin' to
claim we didn't pay him. An' that's all there is to it."
"How about the calves?" asked the boy, changing the subject abruptly.
"I understand the Round Seven isn't branding the number of calves it
ought to."
"Who says so?" asked Harmon, his eyes once more narrowing.
"Kobuk Jack did."
[Illustration: A moment later the muzzles of four rifles were thrust
through four apertures in the sagebrush that was loosely woven
between the wires of the fence]
[Illustration: ... Then froze in his tracks as he found himself
staring into the muzzle of the boy's service revolver]
"Look a-here, boss. I told you Wilson didn't know nothin' about
cattle. If he says we ain't brandin' enough calves he's off. He
didn't pay no attention to the ranch, nohow. He'd ruther be off in
the bad lands peckin' away at the rocks than stick around the outfit.
I done all the runnin' of the ranch, an' I know the cow business, an'
I'm tellin' you we brand all the calves that we git, except mebbe a
few that the sage brushers git."
"Who are the sage brushers?"
"Oh, a few rustlers that slips around through the sage brush an' dobs
their rope on a calf now an' then. They git away with some stuff,
all right, but you can't ketch 'em at it. They're pretty slick when
it comes to calf stealin'."
They had reached the high elevation that gave a view of Eagle Creek
and its feeders for miles. Harmon pointed out half a dozen small
outfits: "There's what's on Eagle," he said, "part cattle, an' part
sheep. An' there's more on the other cricks. Do you think you've
got the money to buy 'em out?"
The boy thought that he detected just a note of eagerness in the
man's words, and that the eyes that regarded him hinted at suppressed
anxiety. He thought rapidly and after some moments' delay during
which he pretended to be studying the various outfits, he answered.
"Yes I've got the money to buy out a hundred such outfits. By this
time next year you won't see any of them there."
There was no mistaking the genuine exultation in the other's reply:
"Well then, the Round Seven had ort to pick up considerable. It's
them nesters that's be'n crampin' it down. But, you better let me do
yer dickerin' fer you. If they know'd you've got the money to buy
'em out, they'll shove up the price on you. They know they can't put
over no monkey business on me, an' they know better'n to try it.
I'll stay along till fall so's to see you git all straightened out.
I aimed to quit this spring. Facts is, I've got me a little outfit
together over on Shonkin an' it's gittin' to where they's a livin' in
it without me workin' fer wages no more. But I got a man over there
that kin look after it all right till fall, and then you kin git
along without me, 'cause I'll kind of break in Kid Owens fer to take
my place."
"Thanks," answered Connie, "I hope you will stay, and I think we'll
locate the trouble with the Round Seven long before fall."
During the homeward ride Connie was aware that more than once the
foreman's eyes were fixed upon him in a keen, sidewise glance.
CHAPTER VII
CONNIE MEETS A NEIGHBOR
The following morning when Connie threw off his blankets and swung
his feet to the floor beside his bed he emitted a startled grunt of
surprise and pain. "What in thunder is the matter with me?" he
muttered, as he rose gingerly to his feet, and stretched his arms
above his head. Every muscle of his body from neck to heels was
stiff and sore as though he had been pounded with a club. He dressed
with an effort and seating himself on the edge of the bed, began
laboriously to pull on his boots.
"Come in!" he called, in answer to a knock, and the head and
shoulders of the boss were thrust through the doorway.
"How you feelin'?" asked Harmon with a grin, as the boy leaned
stiffly over to pull on his other boot.
"Feeling! I feel like I'd fallen off the top of the highest mountain
in the world and hit a rock every ten feet all the way down."
The boss laughed: "Yup, I mistrusted you would. That's what it does
to you--ridin' when you ain't used to it. An' they's only one cure
fer it--keep on ridin'. It'll pretty near bust you in two to ride
to-day, but you got to keep at it. After three or four days you'll
be able to ride all day an' never know you done nothin'.
"Breakfast's ready, an' after breakfast me an' Kid Owens, an' old
Alex, an' Milk River is goin' to ride after horses. It'll take mebbe
a week to git 'em all gathered, an' if I was you I'd kind of hang
around till we git back. Tex, he's goin' to stay here to look after
the hospital bunch an' the ranch hands will keep on throwin' 'em hay.
You better ride a little every day. Tex, he'll saddle up fer you
till you git on to it."
"Why can't I ride for horses, too?"
"Holy Smoke! Ridin' after horses is the hardest ridin' they is. It
ain't no job fer anyone that ain't broke in to it. We'll be foggin'
it all over the range from daylight till dark an' it would jest
nach'ly pound a pilgrim to pieces. No, you got to git broke in easy.
Ride a spell in the forenoon, an' agin in the afternoon an' rest up
between times. You'll git plenty of ridin' this summer, but you
ain't in no shape fer a hard ride, now."
"I guess you're right," answered the boy as he rose to his feet and
hobbled stiffly to the dining room.
After breakfast Connie found Nigger standing saddled and bridled in
the horse corral, and despite the protest of wracked muscles, he led
him out, mounted, and headed for the open range.
A half hour later he pulled up at almost the identical spot from
which he and Harmon had surveyed the valley upon the previous day.
Three or four miles down the creek he could see the nearest of the
two sheep outfits that the foreman had pointed out. "Might just as
well go down and get acquainted with my neighbours," he muttered,
"that is, if I don't fall apart before I get there."
Nigger picked his way slowly down the steep trail that slanted from
the butte, and holding to the bench in order to avoid dismounting to
open the gates of the hay pastures, Connie proceeded down the creek.
A wide-spread grey patch appeared in the distance, a patch that
seemed to be slowly moving and shifting about over the dead brown
grass of the range. As the boy drew nearer he saw that the grey
patch was a band of sheep, and that a man on foot and a dog were
following them. He surveyed the feeding sheep with interest.
Hundreds and hundreds of them spread out over the bench and threaded
their way among the sodden snowdrifts of the coulees. Careful not to
disturb them, he circled widely and pulling his horse to a stand
beside the nester, called out a cheerful greeting.
The sheep-man eyed him with a hostile glare: "Why didn't you ride
right through 'em?" he asked, truculently. "You'll be gittin' fired
first thing you know, if Harmon catches you bustin' orders."
"What do you mean?" asked the boy, in surprise.
"Mean! You're ridin' a Round Seven horse, ain't you? I mean why
didn't you try to scatter them sheep, or turn 'em back on me, like
the rest does?"
"I didn't know you wanted them scattered."
The man laughed nastily. "Harmon wants 'em scattered. You're
workin' fer the Round Seven, ain't you?"
Connie hesitated only for an instant, "Yes," he answered, "I'm
working for the Round Seven. But, what's that got to do with it?
Those sheep don't belong to the Round Seven, do they?"
The sheep-man eyed the boy in astonishment. The look of hostility
faded from his eyes, and he drew a step closer: "Say, kid," he said,
"you're a pilgrim, all right, I know'd it by the way you ride, an' by
the way you swung out fer them sheep. I don't know who you be, nor
where you come from, nor why you throw'd in with the Round Seven.
But I do know that if you stick with that outfit you'll learn every
mean, ornery, crooked, an' low-down trick there is in the cow
business. When Bob Harmon gits through with you, you'll mebbe be
slick enough to start you an outfit on nothin', the way he done. He
busted Mr. Wilson, an' he'll bust the new owner. I hear he's another
miner from up around Alasky somewheres, an' Harmon'll bust him, too."
Connie grinned: "Maybe he'll come down and learn the business and
find out where the trouble is," he suggested.
"He couldn't do it. Harmon's too slick for 'em. Wilson, he was
here, an' Harmon robbed him blind right under his nose. What with
stickin' his own brand on as many Round Seven calves every year as he
dares to, an' bein' in kahoots with a crooked commission outfit in
Chicago, that sends in short weight returns to Wilson, an' splits the
rake-off with Harmon, an' what with sellin' hay to this here Wadell,
down the crick an' shovin' the money in his pocket. No wonder it
busted Wilson."
"Why didn't you go to Wilson and tell him?" asked the boy.
"A man's supposed to mind his own business in this country," he
answered. "If I had, Wilson wouldn't of believed me. Harmon had him
fooled complete. An' besides, I've got a wife an' two little kids
that I'm tryin' to make a livin' for--an' if Harmon ever got wise
that I'd told Wilson anything--well, some fine night I'd turned up
missin'--that's all. I don't know what I went an' shot off my mouth
to you for. Somehow you don't look like his stripe. I guess mebbe
it was you ridin' around the sheep. If you carry what I've said back
to Harmon it's all up with me."
Connie smiled: "Don't worry about anything you've told me ever
getting to Harmon," he assured. "But, you haven't told me yet, why
Harmon should want his men to scatter your sheep."
"'Cause he wants to bust me an' put me out of business, that's why.
An' he's blame near done it. I had a good outfit started here before
the Round Seven come along an' located above me. At that, there
would be'n plenty room for both of us. The range is big, an' there's
plenty of water. I wouldn't of bothered 'em. Fact is I'd gone out
of my way to do 'em a good turn. Fellow named McNamara started the
outfit an' I never had no trouble with him. Then he sold out to
Wilson, an' Wilson made Harmon foreman, an' from that time on I've
had my troubles. What with the Round Seven throwin' in stock around
my fences along in August when the range gits pretty well burnt, so
they'll see my green alfalfa an' bust through an' eat it an' tromp it
in the ground; an' then holdin' the stock in close so they'll eat off
the grass that I need fer winter range--look at it! So short that
the sheep has got to run their legs off to grab a mouthful here an'
there. Look at 'em feed. Them leaders has travelled a mile while we
be'n talkin' an' they ought to fill up easy this time a year. I
ain't goin' to have no lamb crop to speak of jest because the ewes
has got to run theirself thin to git a livin'. It makes herdin' ten
times harder, an' I've used up what little hay I was able to cut
after the Round Seven cattle got through with it. Fer the last two
years I've jest about be'n able to make both ends meet, an' I ought
to be layin' by a little money."
"Couldn't you sue the Round Seven for damages," asked the boy, "and
buy the hay?"
The man laughed, bitterly. "This here is a cow country, son. A
sheep-man wouldn't stand no show to git damages agin a cow outfit.
An' even if I did, where'd I buy hay? They ain't another outfit that
raises any hay to speak of within thirty mile of here. I couldn't
haul it fast enough to feed it, even if I could buy it. I've tried
to buy it from the Round Seven--but Harmon jest laughs at me."
"But, you said he sells it to another sheep outfit down the creek."
"Yes, but that's different. Wadell an' Harmon is in kahoots somehow.
Mebbe Harmon's got a share in Wadell's sheep. I couldn't say fer
sure. Only I know that he helps Wadell out all he kin. They ain't
no cattle shoved over onto him. He ain't got no legal right to his
claim even. He ain't done no ditchin', an' he couldn't hold no claim
anyhow, because he's already proved up on one claim over on Shonkin,
near where Harmon's ranch is. He's jest squatted there, an'
pertendin' he's took up the claim, but he ain't foolin' me. There's
two or three more of his stripe located on Beaver, the other side of
the Round Seven. I got it figgered out that Harmon got 'em all to
come over around the Round Seven for some reason of his own. I don't
know why he wants 'em there, but they're all friends of his. Me, an'
Bill Samuels, an' Mike Campbell is the only bony fido nesters on
Eagle or Beaver. Bill and Mike has got little cow outfits over on
Beaver, an' Harmon keeps their stuff scattered to the farthest edges
of the range. He's tryin' to bust them, too. His orders is to throw
all their stuff out--that is, when his riders sees any of Bill's or
Mike's stock they shove it away from home. They've only got a few
hundred head apiece, an' they don't run no round-up, so it keeps 'em
ridin' all over Montana keepin' track of their stock. No sir, a
little outfit ain't got no show agin a big outfit if the big outfit
wants to get 'em. But, they's plenty of big outfits that's run
decent, an' try to do the nesters a good turn instead of harmin' 'em.
The IX is like that, an' the Circle C. But, the PU an' The Round
Seven is different."
"But, isn't it true that the nesters are fencing off all the water?"
asked the boy.
"No, it ain't true!" exclaimed the sheep-man indignantly. "How much
have I got under fence? How much has Samuels got? And, how much has
Mike Campbell got fenced? Jest one forty apiece for hay--that's what
we've got fenced. Fencin' costs money an' we ain't fencin' no more
than what we have to. It's your crooked little outfit like Wadell
that's doin' the fencin'--him an' the others that Harmon has got
planted along the cricks. An' the fencin' is done with Round Seven
wire! I know. I ain't no fool--but what can I do? Look at the way
their claims is laid off--each one of 'em has filed 'em a homestead
an' a desert along the crick. That takes care of a mile of water,
an' then they've filed their wives on a woman's desert, that takes
care of another mile--an' they ain't none of 'em married. They've
jest gone to work an' filed these here wives that there ain't no such
people. How in time they expect to prove up on 'em I don't know, but
they've got four years to figger that out--an' maybe they've got some
scheme or other about it. Take Wadell--that ain't his real name,
which it's Curry, but he had to change it, 'cause he's holdin' down
his claim on Shonkin under his real name, an' I expect the others has
all changed their names, too. Them kind changes their names, like
honest folks changes their shirt. They dirty one name up by wearin'
it a while, an' then they change to another."
"Will you be willing to stand by what you've told me, when the time
comes for a show-down?" asked Connie, abruptly.
The sheep-man cast a swift, startled glance into the boy's face. He
noted that the lines about the mouth had stiffened, and that the
blue-grey eyes that gazed steadily into his own gleamed hard and
cold. The fear-inspired denial that his lips had already framed
remained unspoken, and came the question: "What do you mean? Who are
you? An' what do you mean by a show-down?"
"I mean just this," answered the boy, and in his voice was the ring
of determination, "If what you've told me is true, and we can prove
that it's true, this cattle country will be a whole lot better off
without Bob Harmon. The state provides a place for just such men as
he is, and the others that are working with him. I think I see
through their game. I served a year with the Mounted up in the
Yukon, and first and last, I helped put quite a lot of his kind where
they belonged."
"But--who are you? An' what you doin' down this side of the line? I
can't afford to get mixed up in no rookus with Harmon. We're a long
ways from the railroad down here. The bad lands butts right up onto
us, an' the bad lands is full of outlaws--horse thieves, an' cattle
rustlers, an' such. If Harmon ever thought I tipped him off to
anyone, my life wouldn't be worth only just the price of a ca'tridge.
An' when they found me in some coulee the sheriff an' everyone else
would lay it to the outlaws in the bad lands. Harmon he wouldn't
think no more of pottin' a man than he would of brandin' a
maverick--if he thought he could get away with it. For Gosh Sakes,
kid, don't start nothin'! Or you an' me both will git ourn--pronto!
But, you ain't told me yet who you be?"
"Morgan is my name," answered the boy, "Connie Morgan. And I'm the
new owner of the Round Seven."
"The -- owner -- of -- the -- Round -- Seven!" Slowly the man's lips
formed the words, as he stared incredulously into the grey-blue eyes.
"Yes, the owner of the Round Seven. And I'm down here to clean
things up a bit. When I get through this South Slope of the Bear
Paws is going to be a healthier place to live in than it is right
now. You and I will hit out all right--and the other little outfits,
too, that are on the square. But the rest of them are going where
they belong. A month from now we'll have them hunting their holes
like rats."
The face of the sheep-man had lighted for a moment as he caught
something of the boy's enthusiasm, but the light faded, leaving it
positively grey with terror. "You can't do it! They's too many of
'em agin' you, an' they're hard men. You ain't got a chance--an' you
jest a kid!"
"Look here!" cried the boy impatiently. "I may be just a kid but
I've kind of knocked around in places where I've had to use my head.
I'm not afraid of Harmon and his bunch of cheap crooks! All I want
you to do is to keep your mouth shut about everything that's passed
between us. Then when the time comes and Harmon and the rest of them
are locked up in jail, you've got to come to the front with testimony
that will put them behind the bars for a long, long time. Will you
do it?"
The man pondered for a few moments and a grin slowly twisted his
lips: "It ain't no ways in reason that you can get away with it.
But, somehow--I guess it's them eyes of yourn--somethin' about you
kind of makes me think mebbe you can. Anyhow--here goes! Me, bein'
a grown man, had ought to be ashamed not to have as much nerve as a
kid. From now on, I'm for you--an' you don't need to wait, if you
need me, till them crooks is locked up, neither. But, take it slow,
kid, take it slow! If I was you I'd lay low till the calf round-up
was far enough along so you can get him with the goods. He'll slap
his brand on a lot of Round Seven stuff this spring--an' in Montana,
if you want to get a man real good, jest you prove up a job of
rustlin' onto him. The Stock Association will back you up, then. If
you say so I'll slip the word to Mike Campbell, an' Samuels, an' then
if anything comes up where you need friends right quick, they'll be
four of us."
"Good idea," assented Connie. "And we'll just lie low and keep our
eyes open till we get the calf-rustling on him, and then we'll clean
house."
"It'll sure feel fine to be good neighbors with the Round Seven
again," said the man. "Seems like when things gets so bad they jest
naturally can't get no worse, luck always changes."
Connie laughed: "A crook has only got about so long to run before he
gets caught. The smarter they are, the longer they can get away with
it--but they're all fools--or they wouldn't be crooks. Guess I'll be
going back, now. So long."
"So long, an' good luck to you!" answered the man, and with a wave of
his arm, he sent his dog to head off the leaders of his band of sheep.
CHAPTER VIII
TEX
The hour that Connie had spent with the sheepmen had given the band
time to scatter widely in search of feed, and as the boy approached a
deep coulee three frightened ewes came bounding up from its depths.
Another followed and just as it topped the rim an evil grey shape
closed in on it and Connie caught the flash of a set of gleaming
fangs that snapped together within an inch of the terrified ewe's
throat. Instantly the boy's service revolver was in his hand, and as
the grey shape paused for a second to survey the mounted figure that
had interrupted his meal, the gun spoke, and the wolf-like animal
sprang into the air and fell to the ground snapping and kicking about
on the short buffalo grass. Connie, however, had little chance to
watch the death struggle of his victim, for at the sound of the
explosion, Nigger sunk his head, and arching his back, shot into the
air. He struck the ground with a jolt that seemed to drive the boy's
spine into the base of his skull, and again the horse was in the air.
Mechanically the boy dug in his spurs with all his might. With his
left hand he hung to the reins. His right still grasped the
revolver. Again and again the horse plunged, bucking straight ahead
in a series of stiff-legged plunges that jarred and pounded the boy
unmercifully. Suddenly he was conscious of the sound of a voice:
"Stay with him, cowboy! Stay a long time! Fan him! Hook 'em in!
Ride--cowboy--ride!"
But Connie was slipping. One leg left the stirrup, and the next rise
of the horse sent him flying in a beautiful arc straight over the
animal's head. The boy struck on his hands and knees, and a moment
later he was upon his feet. There was a sound of pounding hoofs, and
he saw Nigger heading across the bench closely followed by a rider on
a curiously spotted horse. The rider was swinging a looped rope
about his head. Suddenly the loop shot out and settled about the
neck of the fleeing Nigger, and a few moments later the rider was
coming toward him, leading the runaway. As he approached Connie
recognized Tex, who greeted him with a grin: "You sure was ridin',
boss! But, why in thunder didn't you haul leather? He was buckin'
straight ahead an' you could of stayed with him."
Connie returned the grin: "To tell the truth, I never thought of it.
But, I don't think I'd have done it if I had. Harmon told me what
cattle men thought of a man that would pull leather."
"Oh, he did, did he? Well, that's all right for him to talk. Of
course, if you want to put up a fancy ride an' all that sort of
stuff, you got to keep your hand off the horn. But, I've seen Bob
Harmon pull leather to keep from gettin' busted onto the ground, an'
I've pulled leather myself, an' I'll do it every time I've got to,
and so will every other cow-hand that's got good sense. Put up as
good a ride as you can but if it comes to grabbin' leather or
quittin' your horse on the top end of a high one, you jest reach down
an' git you a handful every time--unless you're practicin' up for to
ride in some circus. I've handled stock longer than Harmon has, an'
you can take it from me, they ain't no one but a fool goin' to blame
you for haulin' leather when you've got to."
Instinctively, Connie liked this smiling cow puncher, whose hazel
eyes looked steadily into his own. He watched as Tex leaned forward
in his saddle and loosened the rope from the neck of the recalcitrant
Nigger. There was assurance in his every movement. The boy recalled
the easy swing of the looped rope, and the accuracy with which it had
fallen about the neck of the flying horse, and he watched now as the
man coiled the rope and returned it to its place with the dexterity
of long practice. Something about the cowboy reminded him of Waseche
Bill--the soft drawl of his voice, or maybe the manner of the kindly
advice that was offered as man to man for what it was worth, and not
doled out from man to boy in the patronizing manner of a piece of
schooling. Possibly it was because of the realization that here was
a man who was absolutely competent to do the thing that he set out to
do. Despite his youth, Connie Morgan had had wide experience of men.
His judgment had disapproved Harmon from the moment of their first
meeting, and that same judgment approved Tex. Therefore it was no
surprise to the boy when he detected from the man's words that he
held the foreman of the Round Seven in a sort of tolerant contempt.
And instinctively Connie knew that this contempt was not engendered
by any sense of petty jealousy, but was the natural contempt of a
square man for a crook. Here was an ally worth having, but one whose
alliance must be earned, not bargained for--an ally who would
naturally align himself upon the side of right against wrong.
The boy returned the gun to its holster, and the cow-puncher's glance
traveled from the weapon to its victim that lay stretched upon the
ground.
"That was good shootin'," he ventured. "But shootin' coyotes won't
make no hit with Harmon. It would have be'n as much as our job was
worth if one of us had done it."
"Why?" asked the boy in astonishment. "They're a kind of a wolf
ain't they? He was just about to kill one of those sheep when I got
him."
Tex grinned: "Yeh, they're a kind of a wolf, all right, an' they sure
do kill sheep--an that's why Harmon likes 'em. They don't bother the
calves none, but they're death on lambs, an' even old ewes. We've
got orders not to kill no coyotes. They're gettin' thicker every
year around here. John Grey--them was John's sheep--he kills one now
an' then with his rifle, but they've learnt to keep shy of a man
afoot, while us fellows can ride right onto 'em. They're slick,
coyotes are, they soon learn who to keep out of the way of."
"And Harmon wants them to kill Grey's sheep, is that the idea?"
"That's the size of it."
"He told me all about these nesters--about their fencing off all the
water so the range stock can't get any to drink."
"Yes," answered Tex, gravely: "Take John Grey, now; I reckon he's
fenced off all of forty rod of water, to keep the range stock out of
his alfalfa. But, he might have saved his wire."
"Why?"
"Well, it got busted, an' the cattle et the alfalfa."
"I've just been talking with Grey," said the boy, suddenly. "He told
me quite a lot of things about the Round Seven. I'm wondering if
they're true."
"Couldn't say," answered Tex, his attention riveted apparently upon
the rolling of a cigarette.
"Well, among other things, he told me that the Round Seven cattle
were thrown against his fences on purpose so they would break through
and eat his alfalfa. Do you know anything about that?"
Tex lighted his cigarette, carefully blew out the match, and flicked
it into a patch of prickly pears. "A cow-hand ain't hired to figger
on the purpose that's behind the boss's orders. So I couldn't say.
All I know is that along last August, when the range was all burnt
brown, we fogged a bunch of about four hundred steers around all day
on dry range, not lettin' 'em stop to eat, an' about four o'clock in
the evenin' we was ordered to swing 'em in against Grey's fences an'
leave 'em till mornin'. The alfalfa was green an' cool lookin', an'
the water sparkled in the sun, an' the thermometer stood about a
hundred. Next mornin' I kind of noticed they wasn't no alfalfa in
Grey's field, an' most of his west fence was down flat."
"Who ordered that done?"
"Bob Harmon."
"Did Wilson know it?"
"Can't say what Wilson know'd, or what he didn't know. He was away
then--gone for a couple of weeks or so, prospectin' the bad lands."
"Grey told me a lot of other things, too," said Connie, "before he
knew who I was."
Tex grinned: "I reckon you got you an earful."
"I did. Among other things I heard that the Round Seven is a crooked
outfit. That Harmon has got nesters to come over here and settle on
the creeks, and that the water is fenced off with Round Seven wire,
and that Wadell is feeding Round Seven hay to his sheep, and that
he's got another claim over on Shonkin that he holds under another
name, and that Harmon is stealing Round Seven calves, and that Mike
Campbell and Samuels are the only real nesters on Beaver and the
others are all fakes. What I want to know, is all this true?"
"What if it would be?' asked Tex, noncommitally.
"If it's true," flashed the boy, "if that's the kind of an outfit
I've bought, believe me, there's going to be something doing on the
South Slope before long! I've always played a square game, and I'm
always going to. I'm here to clean this outfit up, and every crook
is going to get hurt!"
"They'll be some considerable pain suffered south of the mountains by
the way the moon hangs," opined Tex oracularly.
"Look here, Tex," cried the boy, impulsively. "I've learned to size
men up. I've had to do it all my life. You had rather work for a
square outfit than a crooked one?"
The cow-puncher pondered the words: "It's be'n quite a spell since
I've had the chance," he answered dryly, "I sort of forget."
Connie laughed: "Then what Grey told me is true?" he persisted.
"Let's reason it out," answered Tex. "It's a cinch it ain't poetry,
therefore, by the process of elimination, as the feller says, it must
be truth."
"The Round Seven is going to need a new foreman very soon," said the
boy. "Will you take the job?"
"Is that a bribe? I'm supposed to agree to help git rid of Harmon so
I get his job?"
"It is not--and you know it!" exclaimed the boy. "With you, or
without you, I'm going to see that Harmon gets what's coming to him.
Then the ranch will need someone who is competent to run it. And,
I've got a hunch that you're the man."
"An,' dog my cats, if I don't believe you'll do it! Before the mud
of Eagle is dried on your boots you've found out more than Wilson
ever learnt. I'm for you. An' not because I want to be foreman,
neither. I jest want to see how it feels to set in a square game
again. But take it slow. We might have some rough work ahead of us.
I know a whole lot already, an' I aim to know more about how things
is stacked up. You set tight, boss, an' we'll get the goods on 'em.
But, don't let Harmon suspicion you know nothin' till the time's
right. Wait till along towards the tail end of the calf
round-up--then one of these days you an' me an' the sheriff will pull
a little surprise party--somewheres down in the sage brush."
CHAPTER IX
HARMON TALKS
During the week that the other riders were rounding up the horses
with Bob Harmon, Connie rode the range with Tex, who took pains to
initiate him into the cattle business, explaining the everyday
details as they presented themselves. This quiet, rather whimsical
Texan had been born in the cattle country and had punched cattle in
every state in the Union that boasted open range. Habitually
conservative in forming friendships, the cowboy's respect and
admiration for his young employer grew with the passing of the days.
And the respect was mutual, for Connie shrewdly penetrated the
other's habitual mask of half-mocking cynicism and evasive tricks of
speech, and recognized the real worth of the man.
The boy took keen interest in the work. Each morning after breakfast
the two rode through the hospital bunch in the big pasture, the
cow-puncher cutting out the cattle whose feeding on hay had put them
in shape to be returned to the open range. Sometimes three or four,
sometimes as many as ten or a dozen were separated from the bunch,
driven through the gate, and located on water several miles from the
pasture fence. This cutting out process created in the boy a
profound respect for the sagacity of the cow-pony, as he watched
Tex's horse, Skewball, deftly separate the selected animal from the
herd. A half-minute after his rider had picked out an animal, the
pinto knew which one was wanted, and thereafter Tex had nothing to do
but sit in the saddle while the pony carefully and slowly worked the
creature out of the herd. At the edge the animal always tried to
turn back, but never succeeded, for knowing that the time for slow
work and caution had passed the pony became a thing of magnificent
action, turning, twisting, pivoting, anticipating every dodge and
rush of the animal that sought vainly to regain the herd.
[Illustration: The sheepman eyed him with a hostile glare. "Why
didn't you ride right through 'em?" he asked]
"It ain't every cayuse that makes a cuttin' horse," explained Tex.
"It takes one that's smart, an' one that's quick as a cat, an' has
got the speed in him. Most of the range horses are either too
knot-headed to learn the game, or they're too clumsy, or too slow.
But Skewball, here, he's a top horse at it."
Under the capable tutelage of Tex, Connie learned to read brands, and
as they circled the range in search of weak stock, he practiced, by
the hour with his rope, trying to drop his loop over anything and
everything, from a patch of prickly pears to a bleaching buffalo
skull.
On one of these rides, the two pulled up at a point on the rim of
Eagle Creek valley that afforded a view of the Round Seven's lower
hay field. A man was pitching hay from a stack onto a hayrack to
which a team stood harnessed. "The boys must be feeding from the
lower field, today," he said. "I wonder what the idea is, when the
other field is so much nearer."
Tex grinned: "That ain't a Round Seven team," he replied. "That's
Wadell, an' he's stuffin' his band of wethers full of your hay.
Saves him a lot of work herdin' when the range is et down close like
it is along Eagle."
"Pretty expensive, isn't it?" asked the boy. "Feeding hay to sheep
that could just as well be picking up their living on the range?"
Tex squinted down the valley. "U-m-m, take it as a problem in
arithmetic, an' it would run somethin' like this: One fifty-ton stack
of hay at twenty dollars a ton equals one thousan' dollars. Startin'
on another fifty-ton stack, which it looks like he'd shoveled off
about ten ton already, two hundred dollars more. Button,
button--who's got the button?"
The boy smiled: "Wadell has got the hay."
"Yup, but the arithmetic don't tell no way to find out who's got the
twelve hundred."
"I haven't seen the books of the outfit, yet," said the boy.
"I don't expect they'll be cluttered up none with no hay entries,
when you do see 'em," opined the other.
"Do you think Harmon has stuck the money in his pocket?" asked Connie.
"I don't think Wadell had no twelve hundred for him to stick in his
pocket. Did you notice the brand on them sheep of his we passed a
while back?"
"Yes, they were branded with a Red X."
"Yup, that's right," commented the cowpuncher. "Me, I used to go to
school onct, away back, but there was some of their rules concernin'
discipline I couldn't recollect, so they cut me out of the herd an'
turned me loose with the wild bunch. But, not before I'd got past
arithmetic an' into algebra. Did they ever pitch you algebra for a
fattenin' feed?"
"No," laughed Connie, "I never had much schooling."
"Well, I was educated onct plumb up to where it made my head hurt to
hold it. It took years of range ridin' before I forgot the heft of
it an' relieved the pressure. I'll learn you algebra some day when
we're eatin' lunch. It would take a half an hour or so, an' we ain't
got time, now. Anyways, in algebra, when you don't know what you're
tryin' to find out, you let X equal it. It's easy, after you savvy
it." Tex rolled a cigarette, and started his horse after the little
bunch of cattle they were driving to the pasture.
"But, what's that got to do with Wadell?" asked the boy, puzzled.
"Oh, that? Well, we want to find twelve hundred dollars. We don't
know where it's at, so we'll let X equal twelve hundred dollars.
Them sheep of Wadell's is branded with an X. Therefore, the twelve
hundred dollars is in the sheep. P.D.Q., as the geometry books says
when they've proved up on a claim. In other words, if I was a
lawyer, instead of a mathmatition, I'd advise layin' low without
sayin' nothin' about books, or anything else that would make Harmon
suspicious. Don't let on you know nothin' about Wadell nor hay, nor
John Grey, till I give the word. When we get Harmon right where we
want him, we'll close in on him an' the sheriff will be along. At
the same time we can attach them sheep, an' see if we can't extract
twelve hundred dollars out of 'em, an' at the same time turn Wadell
over to Uncle Sam for filin' a fraudulent claim."
An hour later, as they were closing the gate behind the little bunch
of old cows they turned into the big pasture, a thunder of hoofs
sounded from the bench. "Here comes the horses!" cried Tex. "Come
on, we'll help 'em run 'em into the horse pasture," and putting spurs
to his pinto, the cowboy headed up a coulee that slanted steeply up
to the bench, closely followed by Connie. They gained the upper
level as the herd swept by. It was a splendid sight, a hundred
horses running free, manes tossing in the breeze, tails held high,
and the noise of their hoofs pounding the buffalo grass like the
rumble of thunder, and behind, and on either flank rode the cowboys,
urging them on. Tex and Connie joined in at the tail of the herd and
the whole remuda swept on up the bench and into the valley of the
west branch of Eagle where they were turned into the horse pasture.
Bob Harmon rode beside Connie as the boys headed for the ranch. "Got
a hundred an' three head," he said. "We're about seventeen head shy.
We generally run a twelve man round-up and I aim to give each man ten
horses in his string. I heard there was four of 'em way down acrost
Big Sandy, runnin' with some IX horses, but I didn't take time to go
after 'em. Half a dozen of 'em's played out an' we left them on the
range, an' the rest is somewheres on the range where we kin prob'ly
pick 'em up on the round-up; Tex an' Milk River has broke about a
dozen bronchos so we'll have enough. How you makin' it? I see
you've learnt to ride, all right. I expect the soreness an'
stiffness is about rode off by this time, ain't it?"
"Oh, yes," answered the boy. "It only lasted a couple of days. I've
been riding every day, helping Tex with the hospital stuff."
"Ridin' with Tex, eh? I s'pose he's be'n kind of breakin' you in to
the cow business." The boy noted that the foreman's eyes had shot
him a keen glance, and shifted to the back of the Texan who rode a
few paces ahead with Milk River Bill.
"Yes, been trying to teach me to read brands, and throw a rope, how
to work a herd, and a lot of things like that."
"He's a good man--when he's a mind to, Tex is," answered the boss.
"He's a good hand with horses, an' he savvies the cow business, all
right. But, I wouldn't get too thick with him. Not that he ain't
all right--maybe. But, well, it's like this, if an owner gits thick
with one of the hands it generally always starts trouble somewheres.
The other boys sees it, an' it kind of makes 'em grumble. Owners
generally don't have no dealin's much with the men, only the foreman,
that is, except it's a little yak outfit."
"What's a yak outfit?"
"Nester outfit. An outfit that ain't only got a few head, an' hires
all the way from nothin' up to two or three hands. Them outfits
ain't got no foreman, an' the owner runs it hisself. This here Tex,
you never know what's a-goin' on in his head. Far's I know he might
be all right, but I kind of like to have a man come out now an' then
with what he thinks. But him, he ain't never got much to say--just
looks at you like he know'd a good joke on you, or somethin', an' he
was laffin' at you--only he don't come out an' laff--that's just the
way he looks--like he was goin' to. Take these here still fellers
like that, an' I wouldn't trust 'em no further than what I could
throw a bull by the tail--not that I'm sayin' anythin' agin Tex, nor
nothin' like that. But I like to know what's goin' on in a man's
head. Course I don't like none of these here mouthy yaps that's
always shootin' off their face 'bout everything that ain't none of
their business, which them kind don't never know nothin' about
nothin'. But Tex, when he does open his mouth an' say somethin',
it's generally somethin' that it takes you till day after tomorrow to
figger out what he's drivin' at, an' chances is, you can't figger it,
then. If it wasn't that men's scurse this year I'd let him go, but I
got to hang onto him till after the calf round-up, anyhow. I've got
to dig out tomorrow an' rustle some men. The grass is beginnin' to
pick up, an' I want to pull the wagons about the tenth of May. It'll
take me mebbe a week to git my riders together."
"We've got four riders beside you and me, now," figured the boy.
"You'll have to hunt up eight more. Is that it?'
"I want 'leven riders besides me, an' a day wrangler, an' a night
hawk. The remuda has got to be herded night an' day," he explained,
"an' run into the rope corral fer the boys to ketch up their horses.
That makes thirteen, an' the cook makes fourteen, an' if you're goin'
to stay with the round-up, it'll make fifteen. We got to leave one
man here besides the ranch hands to handle the hospital bunch, so I
got to rustle up nine hands. I know where I kin git holt of some of
'em, but the rest is goin' to be hard to git, what with the IX, an'
the PU, an' the Bear Paw Pool all hirin' riders to onct."
"How much do you pay them?" asked the boy.
"Forty dollars a month is goin' wages on this range."
"Pay 'em forty-five, then, and you won't have any trouble getting
them."
Harmon laughed: "Not on yer life! If I was to offer forty-five, we'd
have the grass all wore off the range fer fellers huntin' a job--an'
then it would git us in bad with the other outfits. You see, in the
cow business, outfits has got to work together. It's like this:
Here's the range strung out fer hundreds of miles an' the cattle from
all the outfits all mixed up on it. If every outfit tried to cover
the whole range they wouldn't none of 'em git nowheres in all summer.
So we divide it up. We work part of it, an' the PU works part, an'
the IX, an' the Bear Paw Pool. Each outfit sends a man to ride with
each one of the other round-ups. They are the Reps. That way every
outfit has got the same number of hands they hire, an' every outfit
is represented on each round-up--that's where they git the name of
Reps. Each outfit carries brandin' irons of the other outfits. When
we drag out a calf that's follerin a PU cow we slap the PU brand on
it, an' when they drag out one of ourn they brand it accordin'."
They had reached the ranch and as the boys unsaddled beside the horse
corral, and spread their blankets to dry, the voice of the cook
sounded from the kitchen door: "Come on an' git it, or I'll throw it
away!" And with a great jangling of spurs, the riders of the Round
Seven raced clumsily in their high heeled boots for the wash dish
that occupied a bench beside the door.
CHAPTER X
LEFT HANDED BRANDING IRONS
The following morning Harmon dispatched Milk River Bill to town with
a four-horse-team to haul back the supplies for the round-up. An
hour later he rode away in search of riders, after issuing orders
that set all hands busy overhauling tents, wagons, harness, cook
outfit, branding irons, and rope corral; and putting all in shape for
the round-up that would take them from the ranch for fifty or sixty
days.
Connie took an active interest in everything from the setting of a
wagon tire to the overhauling of harness and it was not until late in
the afternoon that he found himself alone with Tex.
"Harmon is wondering whether I'm going to ride the round-up," he
said, "But I didn't tell him. I wanted to have a talk with you
first. Do you think it would spoil our chance of catching him if I
went along?"
"On the start it won't make no difference one way or the other. He
won't try any monkey business till the wagons are way down behind the
Little Rockys, which is the furthest end of the range we work, an'
likewise the clostest to the Mizoo. His ranch is over on Shonkin,
an' he ferries or flat boats the calves acrost. It's accordin' to
how things frames up. One of us has got to be there to keep cases on
him so we'll know when to spring our party. I've got a hunch that if
you want to ride the round-up I'll be the one that's elected to stick
on the ranch an' nurse them hospitals. I seen last evenin' when he
found us two together that he figured he'd made a mistake. You see,
he ain't got me guessed. He don't like me a-tall. He ain't restin'
easy as long as I'm with the outfit, an' yet he don't dare to fire me
because he don't know how much I know. He don't like me because he
don't savvy me--an' I don't like him because I do--an' there you are.
I reckon he'll try to keep us two apart as much as he can anyway till
after he gets them calves branded, or else gets rid of me.
"The way it looks from here the best bet would be for you an' me not
to pay no attention to one another. You tell him you'll ride the
round-up, an' chances are he'll leave me here at the ranch. Then
along at the tail end of the round-up, he an' Alex, an' Milk River,
an' Kid will haul out for a couple of days, pertendin' they're goin'
to work some creek, an' send the wagons on with a straw boss.
They'll be gone a couple of days an' then they'll come back. What
you got to do is to stay with the wagons till they get back an' then
kind of let on that you're tired of the round-up, er get sick, or
somethin' an' hit for the ranch. Then's when we get busy. Meanwhile
I'll get holt of McLaughlin, he's the Sheriff, an' Dave Hall, the
stock inspector, an' kind of let on that they better be ready to come
on the jump when they hear from me. They can get here in a day, an'
the next night there'll be somethin' doin' somewheres down in the
sage brush."
"But, won't they have time to make away with the calves before we can
get back there?" asked the boy.
"No, this here sage brush work is particular business, an' has got to
be worked just so. It takes about a week or ten days to work it, an'
if everything goes accordin' to Hoyle, it's the safest cattle
rustlin' scheme that's be'n invented. What we got to do is to kind
of slip a gravel under their saddle an' upset the dope. When we get
through with 'em they'll have a chance to say: 'Good Mornin', Judge,'
down to Benton. An' the judge, he'll pick 'em out anywheres from two
to twenty years apiece--with most judges favorin' the twenty."
"I don't see how they work it," said Connie. "If he puts his brand
on the calves anyone could see that they were following Round Seven
cows, and if he waits till the Round Seven brand is on them, how does
he get it off?"
"They's a lot of tricks these rustlers is onto. There's three
schemes that's used more than others. First, there's the hair
artists. They don't use any irons at all. They work with horses,
mostly, where they can trail the stuff out of the country and get rid
of it quick. All they do is to clip the hair around the brand so it
leaves ridges that look just like a brand mark. These ridges connect
onto the regular brand and make it look like another brand
altogether. Take your own brand for instance," Tex stopped and
traced the Round Seven Bar in the dust. [Round Seven Bar] "There she
is, now some hair artist comes along an' dobs his rope onto a calf or
a colt an' throws an' hog ties 'em an' goes to work. Suppose he
leaves a ridge of hair shaped like another Round Seven Bar, reversed,
on the right hand side of that brand, with the two bars connected
like this: [Flyin' H brand] Now when the critter gets up, he ain't a
Round Seven critter no more--he's a Flyin' H, plain as day. Of
course when the hair grows out he's a Round Seven critter again, but
by that time he's be'n trailed clean out of the country, an' sold,
an' the hair artist is maybe five hundred miles away doctorin' brands
on some other range. That's one way.
"Another way is to alter the brand with runnin' irons. There's two
kinds of runnin' irons. One is simply a straight piece of iron that
the rustler heats the end of an' traces out a brand, or changes one
that's already on, like you would handle a pencil. The other kind is
really two irons, a short bar, and a quarter circle. You can make
any brand there is with a short bar and a quarter circle, an' of
course you can change any brand there is. The runnin' iron work
makes a permanent brand, so whatever changin' is done has got to be
made into some brand that's recorded. Bob Harmon he don't favor
neither one of these ways. He works the short iron game. Come over
to the blacksmith shop a minute, an' I'll show you somethin'. Guess
there ain't no one nosin' around. I happened to stumble onto the
place where Bob keeps his private short irons cached."
In the blacksmith shop Tex removed a small pile of odds and ends of
scrap iron, and lifting a short length of floor planking, reached
beneath the floor and drew out a couple of curiously shaped irons.
Handing one to Connie he asked: "What do you call them?"
"They're Round Seven branding irons!" exclaimed the boy.
"Yeh, they're Round Seven, all right--but, do you see anything funny
about them?"
The boy studied the iron. "Why, it's turned the wrong way!"
"Yup--left handed brandin' iron, all right," grinned the cowboy.
"But, how does he work it? Is his brand the Round Seven Bar turned
the other way?"
"No. If it was he couldn't work your brand none. Bob Harmon's Brand
is the Heart Bar. It goes on the left side, same as yours. It looks
like this:" [Heart Bar brand] Connie stared at the brand that the
cowboy traced on the floor. "Do you get the idea?" asked Tex.
Connie shook his head. "Well, accordin' to the arithmetic, two times
seven is fourteen. But that there is just common sevens, an' not
Round Sevens with a Bar through 'em. If you add two of them
together, one way you get a Flyin' H, like I showed you. An' added
the other way, you get a Heart Bar. Take this here reversed Round
Seven Bar, [Reversed Round Seven] an' _your_ Round Seven Bar, an'
shove 'em together, an' you get the Heart Bar, an' that's Bob's
brand. The way he works it, he's pretty safe. He waits till the
wagons get way down back of the Little Rockys where there ain't no
ranches to bother, an' after they get a bunch of calves branded with
your brand, Bob an' Alex, an' Milk River, an' Kid Owens, they slip
away from the outfit an' round-up anywhere from twenty-five to a
hundred head of cows an' fresh branded calves, an' drive 'em to a
sage brush corral he's got hid down there somewheres. They run the
calves into the corral, an' leave the cows outside. His man that
looks after his outfit is there waitin' an' he camps there right
handy. Bob an' the boys go back to the wagons for a week or ten
days. Meanwhile this other bird stays right there an' watches that
corral from some pinnacle where he can see a good swipe of country.
The cows are circlin' around the fence tryin' to get to the calves,
an' they're bawlin' their heads off. Inside the fence the calves are
tryin' to get out an' they're bawlin' as loud as the cows. As long
as no riders get within earshot everything is lovely. In about a
week or ten days the cows give it up, an' go away. All this time
this lookout has be'n feedin' the calves, an' by the time the cows
pull out they're weaned. Then Harmon an' his gang come back, an'
they slap his reversed iron on the calves, makin' a Heart Bar out of
your Round Seven Bar, an' then they drive them to the river an' ferry
'em across."
"But, suppose someone would happen along and hear the cows and calves
bawling, and decide to investigate?" asked the boy.
"They wouldn't find out nothin'. The lookout would see 'em comin'
from his perch, an' would beat it down an' open the corral gate.
When the investigatin' party got there, all he'd find would be a
bunch of Round Seven cows with Round Seven calves follerin' 'em, all
regular an' proper."
"But, suppose someone should run across them driving the calves to
the river?" persisted the boy. "Wouldn't it look kind of funny to
see a lot of young calves with one-half of their brand new, and the
other half old?"
"It ain't likely they would meet up with anyone way down there,"
answered the cowboy. "Specially as this corral is right close to the
river. But he plays pretty safe by slappin' on his brand before the
Round Seven brand has had time to heal up. If anyone did come Harmon
would scatter the calves in the sage an' round 'em up later. He's
got it worked out pretty slick, all right--but, he's about played his
string out. This year he'll prob'ly brand up a big bunch, 'cause he
figures on quittin' this fall, an' he'll want to make a clean-up."
CHAPTER XI
THE WAGONS ROLL
It was quite an imposing calvacade that pulled out of the Round Seven
home ranch a week later, and struck westward, skirting the bad lands.
Breakfast had been eaten by lamplight, and in the first grey of dawn
the boys had harnessed the work horses to the wagons, roped out their
saddle horses and mounted amid yells of encouragement and banter for
those whose horses "sunk their heads."
Harmon had designated the fork of a certain creek some ten miles away
as the location of the first camp of the round-up. Kid Owens acting
as "pilot" pulled out ahead, closely followed by the remuda,
consisting of one hundred and fifteen saddle horses, and twelve extra
wagon horses, in charge of Milk River Bill and a full blooded Gros
Ventre Indian, named Roy Longknife, who had been hired as day
wrangler. Behind the remuda rode Harmon and Connie and ten cowboys.
And following them came the grub wagon, with Walt Jones, the cook, on
the seat, handling the six restive horses with the air of a circus
band-wagon driver. The bed wagon brought up the rear. This, also,
was a six-horse wagon, which contained the tents and was piled high
with the ponderous bed rolls of the cowboys. The "night hawk," as
the night remuda herder is called, drove this wagon. He was a Brule
Sioux breed named Sam Shanto and he handled his plunging six-team
with an air of bored indifference, a limp cigarette hanging from the
corner of his mouth.
On the rim of Eagle Creek valley Harmon pulled up and the riders
gathered about him. "All right, boys," he cried, "we're off! Gather
all cows an' calves, an' everything you run onto that ain't branded.
You all know where the wagons will be camped at the fork of Dry Box
Elder. Alex, you take five of 'em with you an' circle along the edge
of the mountains, drop off a couple of riders every three or four
miles, an' I'll take the rest an' circle south along the bad lands.
Try to get in by ten-thirty, so we kin work herd, an' make a good
sized circle this afternoon."
"How about nester stuff?" asked a new man.
"Shove everything that wears a nester's brand on ahead of you,"
ordered Harmon. "This outfit scatters nester stock as wide as it
kin."
Connie wanted to countermand the order, but fearing that any
interference with the foreman at this time would upset the plans of
Tex, who true to his prediction had been left at the ranch, he
remained silent.
The boy rode beside Harmon, who swung toward the bad lands with his
half of the riders. And as they rode the foreman explained the
working of the round-up. "We drop off a couple of riders every few
miles, an' they work the range between them an' the wagons, gatherin'
all the cows an' calves. We don't bother the beef stuff on the
spring round-up. When they git in with their stuff some of 'em holds
herd--ridin' around 'em to keep 'em bunched, an' some rides through
the bunch ropin' out the calves by the hind legs an' draggin' 'em to
the fire where they're branded. When the herd is all worked, they're
turned loose an' the afternoon circle starts. There's two circles a
day, an' two herds to work, then next mornin' the outfit moves on ten
or twelve miles an' the same thing all over again. They's more work
to the calf round-up than there is to the beef round-up, but there
ain't no night guard to stand because we don't hold nothin' over
night."
After the last two men had been dropped off, Harmon and Connie
continued on for three miles or more and then swung northward.
"You see," explained Harmon, "We're right now just about due south of
where the wagons is camped. We head north, with what we gather.
Alex, he'll be just about due north of the wagons, an' he'll head
south with his stuff. The other boys will gather everything between,
so you see the range east of the wagons has all be'n worked."
"I see," said the boy. "But, why don't you drop the boys off one at
a time? I should think you could cover more ground that way."
"We could cover more ground, all right. But cow-hands always work in
pairs on circle. One man can't handle stuff to do any good.
Sometimes a cow gits on the prod an' one man can't do nothin' with
her, an' then when he'd git quite a bunch gathered an' they'd start
breakin' back, he couldn't handle 'em. It takes two men, an' even
then sometimes they've got their hands full."
Connie and Harmon were the last ones in, and as they shoved their
thirty cows, each followed by a young calf into the herd, the cook
called dinner. Leaving four men on herd, the boys all raced their
horses for the wagon, where they unsaddled in an incredibly short
time and turned their horses into the rope corral where the wrangler
was holding the remuda. Selecting tin plates, cups, knives, forks,
and spoons, from a huge dish-pan, the boys formed in line and passed
by the huge sheet iron stove where Walt Jones, roll-sleeved, and
bedecked in a flour-sack apron, filled each plate to overflowing with
fresh beef, potatoes, and canned corn. Each man filled his own cup
from the huge coffee pot that was boiling on the back of the stove,
and then seating himself on the ground, proceeded to put the
well-cooked dinner where it would do the most good. A huge section
of dried apple pie completed the meal, and depositing the dirty
dishes in another huge dish-pan the boys walked to their saddles,
procured their ropes, and stepping over the single rope supported on
stakes, that formed the "fence" of the corral, proceeded to rope out
their horses. A half dozen caught up "cut horses," trained
cow-ponies wise in the tricks of herd working, while the remainder
selected any horse from their string that their fancy dictated.
Milk River Bill, who rode the "rough string," which was made up of
the new horses just broken by himself and Tex, furnished much
entertainment, by roping out and saddling a particularly vicious
broncho which as soon as the rider was in the saddle cut loose and
bucked high, wide, and handsome, to the huge delight of all hands.
Milk River was a real "broncho twister," and Connie found himself
yelling approbation with the others as the man, with the ease of long
practice, maintained his seat while the maddened horses "sunfished,"
"swapped ends," and bucked and pitched with every trick in the box.
Calmly the cowboy sat his saddle and each time the horse's feet hit
the ground with the nasty stiff-legged jolt, the quirt descended
about his ears, first on one side, then on the other, while the spurs
raked and scratched him from shoulder to flank. Not once during the
performance did Milk River reach for the horn, and finally,
exhausted, and steaming with sweat the broncho gave up, and trotting
clumsily under the strange weight on his back, he followed the other
horses to the herd.
It was not a large herd, and by noon the branding was finished and
the cattle turned loose, a milling, roaring, horde of bellowing cows
hunting for their calves from which they had become separated in the
mix-up, and of bawling calves searching for their mothers.
Again the wrangler corraled the remuda, and once more the cowboys
changed horses for the afternoon circle. At half-past four the new
herd was in, consisting of all stock picked up from the range within
five or six miles to the westward of the wagons. Supper was eaten at
quarter to five, and the herd worked afterward. It was during the
working of this afternoon herd that Connie witnessed an incident, by
no means uncommon on the round-up, that showed the absolute necessity
for alertness and quick action in the handling of range stock. In
making a pivot turn, a cow pony went down among the feet of the
milling, frenzied herd of cows. The moment man and horse
disappeared, two riders dashed at top speed for the spot, slashing
right and left with their quirts, and forcing their horses through
the mass of cattle. A moment later one of the horses whirled and
dashed out of the herd, and Connie saw that the cowboy whose horse
had gone down was running beside the horse, with a hand gripping the
stirrup leather. So fast was the rider urging his horse, that the
man running beside him had all he could do to keep his feet. The
next instant a roar of laughter went up from a dozen throats, as the
rider, well clear of the herd, suddenly swerved his horse, and the
unfortunate runner, not letting go in time, rolled heels over head
across the buffalo grass to the accompaniment of the jeers and jibes
of his fellows. Connie laughed with the rest, but wondered at the
spirit of fun that would prompt a man to risk life and limb to rescue
a comrade from the hoofs and horns of the maddened cattle, and then
seek to break the rescued one's neck by sending him rolling end over
end across the bench. But the man got up laughing as hard as the
rest, and brushing the grass from his hair chaps, he mounted his
horse that had been led from the herd by the second of the two riders
who had rushed to his aid, and mounting, resumed his work as though
nothing had happened.
At eight o'clock in the evening, another meal was served, called
"cocktail lunch" for want of another name, and after that the remuda
was turned over to the "night hawk," and the outfit went to bed.
Four o'clock in the morning found them at breakfast, and a half hour
later, while it was yet too dark for Connie to distinguish one horse
from another, the cowboys were in the corral, roping out their saddle
horses with unfailing accuracy.
"I don't see how they can pick out their own horses in the dark," he
said, as he stood beside the boss who, rope in hand, was waiting his
turn in the corral.
"They save the markers for mornin' circle," explained the boss. "You
notice they ain't none of 'em leadin' out solid color horses. They
save the bays, an' blacks, an' sorrels, an' greys for afternoon
circle, an' herd holdin'. See that horse comin' out? He's got two
white legs, an' the one Kid is saddlin' yonder, is a blaze-face, an'
Milk River has caught him up a pinto with a big spot on his side, an'
Alex is saddlin' a roach mane cayuse, an' that's the way it goes,
each one pickin' him out a horse that's marked plain enough to tell
in the dark. I'll rope you out one, now--there's one of yourn." The
boss slipped under the rope and flipped his lariat loop over the neck
of a bay. "See, he's got three white feet--that's how I know'd him,
he's a marker."
Connie rode with the foreman that day, and for several days
following, and as he rode he took pains to absorb every possible
detail of the cattle business as it presented itself. He learned the
nester brands, and the brands of the other big outfits--no small task
when some of these outfits like the Bear Paw Pool, and the PU ran
from fifty to one hundred brands each.
"What in thunder do they want so many brands for?" he asked Harmon
one day when they ran across a freshly branded PU calf following a
Block-Dot cow.
"Them big outfits is built up out of a lot of smaller ones,"
explained the boss. "They buy up some little outfit, an' then
instead of going to the trouble of ventin' the brands an' brandin'
'em over, they buy brand an' all an' let the old stuff run with the
little outfit's brand, but they brand all the calves with their own
brand. After a few years the old brands naturally peter out--the
beef gets shipped, an' the old cows dies, an' the young stuff all
wears PU brands. But in the meantime it sure gives their riders
somethin' to do keeping all them brands in their head."
Some days Connie would not ride circle, but saddling a horse would
take a long ride alone. And it was on one of these rides that he
made the acquaintance of another of his neighbors.
In a dry coulee he had run across a dozen or more K-2 cattle. The
K-2 brand belonged to Mike Campbell, and the Round Seven boys, under
Harmon's orders, had been pushing them farther and farther from home
as they encountered them on the range. Campbell was one of the
nesters of which Grey, the sheep-man, had told him, and the boy
headed them back and shoved them four or five miles toward home. As
he rounded a bend in a creek-bed he was following he came face to
face with a rider. The man pulled up, eyed the cattle indifferently,
as they passed him, and as Connie halted his horse beside him,
returned the boy's greeting with a nod, threw an overall-clad leg
over the horn of his saddle, and proceeded to roll a cigarette.
"Sort of shovin' them critters the wrong way, ain't you?" he asked
blowing a cloud of smoke into the air.
Connie grinned: "What makes you think so?" he countered.
"Well, you're forkin' a Round Seven horse--an' Round Seven shoves K-2
stuff _out_, not _in_. Or, mebbe you got turned around. Sort of
figgerin' west fer east?'
"No--I don't get turned around," answered the boy. "But, what do you
care which way the Round Seven shoves K-2 cattle?"
"It sort of makes a little difference in the ridin' I've got to do,"
answered the man dryly. "My name's Campbell--Mike Campbell, over on
Beaver, an' the K-2 belongs to me."
"And mine's Morgan--Connie Morgan, over on Eagle, and the Round Seven
belongs to me."
"I mistrusted that's who you was," replied the man, gravely. "Grey
told me about you buyin' the outfit. Then, it's true--what Grey
said?"
"Depends on what he said," laughed the boy.
"He said that you was jest a kid, but when you got strung out, he
reckoned you'd kind of change things over to the Round Seven. He
said you was goin' after certain parties that has be'n playin' the
game both ways from the middle, an' that when the smoke blow'd away
us little fellows would git a square deal from the Round Seven."
"Grey told it to you straight," answered the boy. "For a little
while yet your cattle keep on getting shoved _out_. Those are the
foreman's orders, and I've got good reason for not interfering with
him till the proper time comes. After that, the order will be
reversed, and the Round Seven will throw nester cattle in--and
anything else the Round Seven can do to help you, it will be glad to
do. There's plenty of room here for all of us, and life's too short
to be fighting over nothing."
"You said a mouthful, Morgan," the man replied, "I didn't hardly dast
to believe Grey when he told me. It'll make a lot of difference to
us little fellows to be good friends with the Round Seven. An'
they's ways we kin kind of show we 'preciate it." The man glanced
about him, his eyes sweeping the rim of the valley. "If your good
reason you was speakin' about a while back has got somethin' to do
with a sage brush corral, down clost to the Mizoo, mebbe I kin start
in doin' you a good turn previous to the smoke blowin' away. Facts
is, I might git in an' help make some of the smoke, if you say so."
"You bet I say so!" exclaimed the boy. "But, what do you know about
the sage brush corral?"
"I know where it's at--that's all. Me an' Samuels found it two year
ago, an' we've watched Harmon slap his own brand on Round Seven
calves down there. 'Count of it's bein' dog eat dog, far as we was
concerned, we never said nothin', but sometime we aimed to turn what
we knew to account."
"And now's the time!" cried the boy. "We'll be down there with the
wagons in a few days, and Harmon will start to work his game--then we
will get busy." He paused, and then asked abruptly: "Do you know
Tex?"
"What Tex? You mean the one that rides fer the Round Seven?'
"Yes."
"Sure, I know him."
"Well, he's at the ranch looking after the hospital bunch. You slip
over there and tell him what you've told me, and when the time comes
we'll gather in the Harmon gang with the goods on 'em."
"This here Tex," said the man. "You sure he's on the level? You
sure he won't go to Harmon an' spill what he knows?'
"Dead sure," answered the boy. "He's going to be the new foreman of
the Round Seven. He's absolutely on the square, and you can save us
a lot of time in rounding up the cattle thieves, because we figured
we'd have to hunt for the corral. You see, Tex was onto their game,
but he didn't know the location of the corral."
"All right, Morgan--you can count me in--me an' Samuels, an' Grey.
It'll sure feel good to be livin' onct more amongst white men!"
CHAPTER XII
HARMON SHOWS HIS HAND
Events shaped themselves much as Tex had predicted. The routine of
the round-up never varied, and the wagons worked gradually into the
country behind the Little Rockys.
One day, two weeks after Connie's meeting with Campbell, Harmon
pulled out on morning circle accompanied by McLaurie, Kid Owens, Milk
River, Connie and one of the new men. "You better drop off an' ride
short circle this mornin'," said the foreman, as he rode at Connie's
side. "The long circles takes us down into them breaks along the bad
lands, an' the way them cayuses is goin' to have to claw up an' down
them ridges, it's goin' to be all an old hand wants to do to stay
on--let alone a new beginner."
This was the first move in the game. Connie knew instantly that
today the calves would be run into the sage brush corral, and then
left in care of the look-out until the cows got tired of walking
around the fences. The boy never batted an eye: "All right," he
replied, "You say when, and we'll swing in. Who's going to be my
partner?"
Harmon's eyes swept his riders, as though making a choice. "I guess
I'll let Comstock go with you," he answered casually. "He's a new
man on the outfit, and these other boys knows the country."
"I'll be kind of glad to ride the short circle," said the boy, with a
yawn. "This riding every day, and all day, gets tiresome when you
haven't been at it any longer than I have. I've been figuring on
going back to the ranch for a while to rest up."
"Couple weeks of rest would do you good," assented the foreman. "You
be'n hangin' right to it for quite a spell, now. 'Course us fellows
is use to it an' don't notice it none, but I've saw a many a pilgrim
hit the round-up that didn't stay with it as long as what you have."
"I'll stick along for a few days," answered the boy. "And then if I
don't feel rested up, I'll lay off for a while."
"Sure. You kin ketch onto us agin when we swing in past Bird Tail.
We won't be no more'n about fifteen mile from the ranch then."
A few miles farther on, the foreman drew up and indicated the course
of the short circle, and Connie and Comstock swung back toward the
wagons. The boy was not in the least surprised when the noon herd
was worked to find that Harmon and the others who had accompanied him
were still out. It was nearly dark when they appeared without any
cattle and turned their horses into the remuda.
"We run onto some of them saddle horses I told you was on the range,
an' tried to pick 'em up, but they was runnin' with a bunch that
ranges down into the bad lands, an' they run us ragged. We never got
'em, at that, an' we run our horses to a frazzle."
For five days Connie rode the range, choosing short circle and
feigning extreme lassitude. The sixth day he spent lying in the
shade of the bed wagon and on the morning of the seventh, saddled his
horse and pulled out for the ranch.
"Plumb wore out," grinned Harmon, with a wink at Kid Owens. "I sure
do hate to lose a hand right in the middle of the round-up. But
that's the way with them coffee-coolers, they kin come an' go as they
like, while us pore cusses has got to stay on the job twenty-five
hours out of the twenty-four. But never mind, I'll be one myself
after the beef round-up. An' that'll give you a chanct to see how
good you be at runnin' the Round Seven. If you save up like I done,
an' don't blow yer money, in a few years you kin quit, too--an' maybe
we kin throw in together an' have a reg'lar outfit."
The two were the last to leave camp that morning, and as they
disappeared over the rim of the coulee, Walt Jones, the cook, grinned
as he seated himself on the wagon tongue with a paring knife in his
hand and a half bushel of spuds at his feet.
"Plumb wore out," he repeated. "Didn't eat no more'n four meals
yesterday, an' nibbled along at his breakfast this mornin', not bein'
able to put no more'n two cuts of pie on top of a pound of steer an'
a double helpin' of fried spuds." One after another the potatoes,
stripped of their peeling, splashed into the boiler of water at his
side. "I ain't wised up to this kid, yet, but I know Harmon's game,
all right. An', believe me, if I was him I'd be right now headin'
straight acrost the flats, an' you couldn't see me fer dust till I'd
crossed the Rio Grande! This here sudden onwee that's afflictin' the
big boss ain't no idle jest, as the feller says, an' I'm a
sheep-herder if that head of his'n ain't more useful than jest a
combination hair meadow an' hatrack." He paused and spat accurately
upon the spiney pad of a prickly pear, "Harmon aims to be a coffee
cooler after the beef round-up, but I'll miss my guess if he don't
start in coolin' coffee right in the middle of the calf round-up--an'
some more along with him--an' the State of Montany'll pay fer the
coffee."
Tex was just turning a little bunch of old cows into the big pasture
when Connie hailed him from the rim of the bench. A few minutes
later he joined the cowboy and together they rode toward the ranch
house, Tex listening while Connie detailed the events of the round-up.
"Don't let on to Canary or Tombstone," he cautioned, as they
approached the corral where the two ranch hands were unharnessing
their teams. "I don't know how they stand, and anyhow there's a
whole lot of things a man can't blab if he don't know 'em. I seen
McLaughlin the other day, an' it's all fixed with him an' Hall to
come a-runnin' when I yelp. Tomorrow we'll ride over an' pick up
Campbell an' Samuels an' then in the evenin' we'll meet up with the
sheriff an' the stock inspector over to Lloyd an' from there we'll
all make a night ride down along the edge of the bad lands an' hole
up in some mud crack where we can hear them old cows bawlin'."
"Did Campbell see you?"
"Yup."
"How about Grey? He wanted to be in on it, too."
"We don't need him," answered Tex. "Grey, he's got him a wife an'
kids. An' if things should happen to git rough down there it ain't
no use of him gittin' plugged. It don't make no difference about us
fellows--but I'd hate to see anything happen to Grey. They've had a
hard enough time a-ready."
"Aren't Campbell and Samuels married?"
"Campbell ain't, an' Samuels--well, Samuels, he wishes he wasn't.
Roundin' up rustlers will be a plumb restful an' peaceable vacation
for him, his daily life bein' turbulent an' tribulatious to an extent
it makes common gun-play look tranquil an' placid."
The two put up their horses and entering the ranch house, Tex went
immediately to the telephone and rang Red Bank. "Hello, Sally!" he
called into the transmitter, "Say, Sally, you see if you can get holt
of McLaughlin an' tell him to call up Tex at the Round Seven, will
you? All right, the quicker, the sooner--much obliged." Tex lighted
the fire in the cook stove, and set the kettle to boil. Presently
the telephone bell rang, "Two long an' three short. That's us!" Tex
picked up the receiver: "Hello, Mac. Yeh, this is Tex. Say, Mac,
you still want to sell that buckskin? ... Well, I might. He ain't
much 'count, but if you happen to be comin' out into the mountains
tomorrow, jest fetch him along, an' I'll meet you at Lloyd along
about dark. There's five different men tryin' to sell me a horse.
If you see Dave Hall ask him if he's got me a brand figgered out,
yet. I'm lookin' for a horse that'll pack a man an' his blankets an'
a couple days' grub. The new boss here is lookin' for one too, an'
so is Mike Campbell, an' Samuels. If yer cayuse is all right, you
can get rid of him easy, even if you an' me can't dicker. So long."
"Well, that's that," said the cowboy, as he dipped some flour from
the barrel.
"But, you didn't tell him anything about Harmon!" said Connie.
Tex grinned: "I told him all he wants to know. You see, with these
here party lines, if you got any particular business that ain't for
general publication, you got to kind of figger a round about way of
sayin' it. There's eighteen different ranches strung along that wire
an' every time a phone rings every one dives for the receiver. Why,
jest while I was talkin', I heard twelve different suppers fryin',
besides Hansen's baby squealin', an' Kearful's phony graft."
"But, the sherrif won't come clear out to Lloyd just to sell a horse,
will he?"
"No. But, he'll be there. You see what I told him was that the
rustlers was to work, an' there was five of 'em, an' he'd need his
blankets an' a couple days' grub, an' he needn't bother to bring no
one else along except Dave Hall, 'cause there'd be me, an' you, an'
Samuels, an' Mike Campbell waitin' for him. The way I told it to him
none of them folks that was hornin' in to get 'em an' earful of
someone else's business can tip it off to Harmon. All they could
savvy was me an' McLaughlin raggin' about a private horse trade."
Tex sliced boiled potatoes into the frying pan and added a generous
portion of bacon grease. The door opened to admit the two ranch
hands. "Here, you Canary, mix up a batch of sinkers, an' Tombstone,
you shovel a couple handfuls of Java into that coffee pot, an' then
fetch in an armful of firewood. We'll have supper ready in about two
jerks. Hello, two shorts, a long, an' a short. That's Two Dot's
ring." Tex beat Canary to the telephone by an arm's reach, and
noiselessly lifting the receiver placed it to his ear. Five minutes
of silence followed, and the cowboy returned the receiver to its hook.
"Two of Jerry Kearful's kids has got the measles, an' that black colt
of his et somethin' an' he's all bloated up. Mrs. Two Dot's goin'
down to Kearful's Sunday an' stay an' help take care of the kids."
"Prob'ly ain't measles," opined the doleful Tombstone. "Prob'ly
small poxt. They'll die, an' Mrs. Two Dot, she'll git it an' spread
it up an' down the crick. I had it onct."
"You couldn't of had it!" exclaimed Canary, scrutinizing Tombstone's
face. "I know'd a feller onct that had it, an' his face looks like
some one had busted him one with a charge of bird shot."
"I did, too!" vociferously maintained Tombstone. Although
inseparable cronies, these two were engaged in petty bickerings from
daylight to dark. "Guess I'd ort to know. Down on the Musselshell,
it was. I was hayin' for the Big Six outfit, an' the foreman sent
twenty mile fer a doctor. He was a good doctor, too--jest as good on
folks as he was on horses an' cattle, an' sheeps, an' besides that he
was a blacksmith. Cost me five dollars, so you might know he wasn't
no bum doctor."
"He soaked you. It wasn't worth more'n two."
"Oh, I don't know! I figger it ort to be worth five dollars to a man
to git his life saved. I can't have small poxt no more, but you
fellers kin. Chances is, you'll have it bad an' I'll have to hay
them cattle alone, besides stoppin' to do all the cookin' an' bury
you all to boot. Wisht the boys was back off the round-up. An' that
colt of Kearful's, chances is, he can't save him. When they git the
bloats, it's all up with 'em. He'd ort to give him sody, an' milk,
an' turpentine shuck up in a quart bottle."
"Why don't you tell him, if you know so much. His ring is a long an'
a short, an' a long."
Tombstone advanced to the instrument and gave the required ring.
"Hello, Kearful, is that you? Heard how yer kids has got the small
poxt... What, measles? That's what you think, but it sounds to me
like the small poxt. I'd ort to know, I had it... Do fer it? Give
'em some medicine, an' put 'em to bed, an' burn the bed an' their
clothes... What kind of medicine? What kind you got? Well give 'em
that, then. Chances is, if you wait till you git some other kind,
they'll die on you. An' that there black colt that's bloated, you
better give him a dost of sody, an' milk, an' turpentine. Git about
a quart of it down him... You ain't got no turpentine? Well, you
might try kerosene, then... You're welcome. Good bye."
"It's sure comfortin', livin' way out here like we do," said Tex,
with an elaborate wink at Connie, "to know we got a good doctor right
here in the house."
"I s'pose you think I don't know nothin' about doctorin'," said
Tombstone, "but, I doctored a bloated horse onct with sody, an' milk,
an' turpentine."
"Yeh, but not kerosene," grinned Tex. "How come you told him
kerosene?"
"You got to use yer head, doctorin', same as anything else. You use
turpentine fer thinnin' out paint, don't you? Well, one time we was
paintin' a barn, an' we run out of turpentine, an' we thinned the
paint with kerosene, an' that shows they're about alike, don't it?"
"Guess so," admitted Tex. "Did the horse you doctored get well?'
"No, he died. But, that's the way with sick horses. All you kin do
is give 'em what you got handy, an' if their time's come they'll die
anyhow, an' if it ain't they'll git well. Come on, supper's ready."
It was a rather grim-faced group of horsemen that pulled out of the
little town of Lloyd the following evening, and struck southward
through the mountains. The moon rose as they rounded the shoulder of
Saw Tooth and pushed out into the open country to the south-eastward.
At the edge of the bad lands, Mike Campbell took the lead and for
several miles the others followed in silence as the nester skirted
the heads of innumerable draws and coulees that led into the maze of
mud cracks and pinnacles and barren ridges that comprise the bad
lands. The lop-sided moon was almost directly over head when the man
turned abruptly into a dry wash that soon became a well defined
coulee, and later a canyon with perpendicular sides of disintegrating
rock. For miles the night horsemen followed the tortuous winding of
the canyon, whose floor was bare, and dry, and hard as the paved
street of a city. Mouths of innumerable connecting canyons yawned
black on either side, and as he rode behind the sheriff, Connie
realized why it was that the bad lands had become a refuge and a
sanctuary for outlaws and hunted men. For they consisted of an
intricate network of canyons and mud cracks, the almost total lack of
feed and water for horses, and the fact that very few men besides the
outlaws themselves, knew the bad lands, and those few were ranchers
and cowboys who lived nearby, and who did not dare to act as guides
to any posse the sheriff might lead in, for the reason that the
outlaws would have retaliated by ambushing them at the very first
opportunity.
It was into one of the yawning side canyons that Mike Campbell turned
after a couple of hours of riding through the darkness. The sides of
this new canyon, whose general direction was east and west, were less
abrupt than those of the main canyon, and here and there upon their
surface, Connie could see patches of coarse bunch grass. An hour
later the guide halted, the others drew in beside him, and all sat in
silence broken only by the creak of saddle leather, and the
occasional movement of a horse. After some moments a sound was borne
to their ears upon the soft night wind. It was the bawling of a
far-off cow. Another cow joined in, and then another, and Dave Hall,
the stock inspector nodded to McLaughlin.
"We're in time, all right," said the sheriff. "It'll be anyway a day
or two yet before the cows will quit the corral. But, in the
meantime, what are we goin' to do fer water an' horse feed?"
For answer, Campbell started his horse, and a few minutes later, led
the party into a shallow buffalo grass basin formed by the widening
of the walls of the canyon. "Here's feed, an' over yonder about
twenty rod, there's a spring of good water. We can lay here fer a
week if we need to. Harmon's corral is about four mile due east of
here, on a thick sage flat. We're almost on the edge of the bad
lands, but fer enough in so they won't no one be botherin' us, an'
near enough so we can hear when them cows quits bellerin'. They's a
rock pinnacle about a half a mile from here, where we can post a
lookout. They've got to cross a couple of miles of flat where the
sage is thin before they git to the corral, an' we kin watch 'em go
in."
The spring proved to be of ample proportion for the needs of the
party. After each had satisfied his thirst, Campbell filled an ample
coffee-pot, and a kettle, the horses were unsaddled, watered,
hobbled, and turned loose to feed.
"We got to do all our cookin' at night," said Campbell. "We can hide
the blaze easy enough, but that there lookout at the corral might see
our smoke if we build a fire daytimes." The water from the spring
flowed for a few rods across the basin before becoming completely
absorbed by the thirsty ground. Along this tiny watercourse a
scrubby growth of cottonwood, chokecherry, and a stunted bull pine or
two had sprung up, and it was upon this meagre source of supply that
Campbell drew for his firewood. After a meal of bacon, store bread,
and coffee, the tired men spread their blankets on the grass, and
soon were fast asleep.
CHAPTER XIII
THE SAGE BRUSH CORRAL
It was a long and tedious wait--the three days the little party spent
in the buffalo grass basin. For the first two days and nights the
bawling of the cows told them that there was no use in even posting a
lookout. On the morning of the third day, although the wind blew
gently from the eastward, no sound came from the direction of the
sage brush corral.
"They'll be along, prob'ly, to-day, or to-morrow," predicted
Campbell. "They ain't goin' to leave them calves onbranded no
longer'n what they have to. Guess I'll jest slip over to that
pinnacle an' keep an' eye out fer 'em."
After the noon luncheon, McLaughlin relieved Campbell, and he in turn
was relieved by Tex at supper time. It was nearly dark when the
cowboy returned to the basin. "Well, they're over there," he
announced. "Four of 'em drifted acrost the flats. That would be
Harmon an' Kid Owens, an' Milk River, an' Alex. Countin' the
lookout, that makes five, to our six."
"How do you figure 'em, Tex?" asked McLaughlin. "You know 'em better
than we do."
"The only real bad actor in the bunch, as far as gun play goes, would
be Kid Owens. Harmon, he's yellow, when you get right down to cases,
an' so's Alex. Milk River, he might back up the Kid's play if he
thought there was a chance to get away with it, an' I don't know the
lookout, but I reckon he's a sort of a ranch hand that Harmon's got
workin' over on his claim, so we don't need to worry about him."
"You think the Kid would really try to start something?" said Hall.
Tex grinned: "He's like a broncho--he's got a lot of guts, but no
brains. He packs one gun in a holster, an' another tucked away in
the front of his shirt. So, if you ever tangle up with him, jest
remember to keep your eye on his other hand. He's one of these kind
that thinks Billy the Kid, an' Jesse James, an' the Dalton boys was
real men. He ain't all bad, the Kid ain't. He'd give you the shirt
off his back, if he likes you. He's got a bad start, that's
all--he's a fool."
"Bad start makes a good endin', as the sayin' goes," reminded Hall.
"Well, then the Kid'll be a bishop--if he don't get hung first, or
shot," laughed the cowboy. "But when the time comes for the
show-down over there in the sage brush, you better leave the Kid to
me. I'm onto his curves--an' he knows it. Chances are we can get
out without any gun play."
"How you figgerin' on workin' it, Mac?" asked Campbell.
"'Cordin' to the lay of the land," replied the sheriff. "How close
can we get to the corral without bein' spotted by the lookout?"
"By keepin' to the coulees we kin git to within a quarter of a mile
on the horses, without our heads showin', above the rims. After that
it's jest a question of crawlin' up through the sage. Me an' Samuels
slipped up to within ten rod, last year, an' layed an' watched 'em
brand the whole batch."
"Why didn't you report them?" asked the sheriff.
Campbell shrugged: "They wasn't my calves they was brandin'. An'
what's more, I've got my full growth by mindin' my own business.
S'pose somethin' would of slipped when it come to the trial. It
would of be'n their word agin ourn. An' he would of had a whole
roundup to swear him an alibi--where'd I be'n after they turned him
loose?"
"We'll get them with the goods this time," said McLaughlin. "They'll
start brandin' in the mornin', an' we'll let 'em go till they've got
a bunch finished, an' close in on 'em. I want to make the sneak so
when the showdown comes we'll have every man of 'em covered with a
rifle. They ain't no one fool enough to make a gun play in the face
of a rifle, an' I'd sooner no one got hurt."
Breakfast the following morning was eaten in silence, the horses
saddled, and in silence, the little band of horsemen followed Mike
Campbell who led them up a winding coulee toward the eastern edge of
the bad lands. There was no wind, and the sun shone brightly.
Gradually the monotonous barrens of disintegrating black and red rock
gave place to stretches of alkali soil. Patches of sage, prickly
pear, and buffalo grass indicated that they were drawing near to the
place where the bad lands and the cattle range merged. The coulee
grew steadily shallower. Its walls gave place to slanting banks, and
at length Mike Campbell halted and swung to the ground.
"We got to leave the horses here," he explained, "An' make our sneak
a-foot. The corral is only a quarter of a mile, straight ahead an'
the lookout's on that big red rock pinnacle to the right. I caught a
whiff of the brandin' a minute ago, so we better sail in an' finish
the job."
McLaughlin stepped forward: "All right, boys. You all understand
what we're up against. No gun play unless it's necessary. If we can
crawl clean to the corral fence, so much the better. I'll cover
Harmon. Hall will handle Alex. Campbell will cover Milk River, an'
Tex will look after Kid Owens. Samuels, you make your sneak on the
lookout, an' that will leave Morgan to line 'em up, an' collect their
artillery. We'll all stick close together so if there is any
shootin' we won't be pluggin' each other through the sage. You all
savvy?"
Each man nodded his understanding of the orders, and Tex looked
dolefully at his boots. "This here travelin' afoot ain't what it's
cracked up to be."
The sheriff grinned; and stepping to his saddle, unrolled the slicker
from its place behind the cantle: "I mistrusted you boys mightn't be
figurin' on any foot work, so I brought these." He tossed a half
dozen pairs of beaded moccasins onto the ground. "Run acrost an
Injun peddlin' 'em in Lloyd," he explained.
"For a sheriff, you've got oncommon sense, Mac," laughed Tex, and
seating himself on the ground pulled off his boots. The others
followed his example, and soon all were ready for the trail. "Look
out for prickly pears," cautioned McLaughlin, "An' be sure an' keep
the brush between you an' that pinnacle. If that lookout should spot
us, it would be all off. We could never get back to the horses
before they'd got plumb out of the country."
Very slowly and carefully the men made their way through the tall
sage brush. Now and then it was necessary to crawl on hands and
knees across spaces where the sage was low, but for the most part,
they walked erect, their soft moccasins making no sound on the grey
alkali soil. The smell and the sounds of the branding were in the
air. The acrid smell of sage smoke blended with the odor of burned
hair and hide, and the bawling of calves was punctuated now and then
by the voices of men. Once a burst of laughter rang out. Campbell
halted suddenly, and dropping to their hands and knees, the others
crawled forward and peered through the sage. Twenty yards away was
what seemed to be a solid barrier of sage brush, and from behind this
barrier, issued the sounds of the branding.
"Where's the gate?" whispered McLaughlin.
Campbell shook his head: "Never was clost enough to see. They built
a wire corral an' wove brush into it. You couldn't see it, if you
didn't know it was there."
"We've got to crawl up an' shove our guns through it," McLaughlin
whispered. "We can't reach over the top. Come on!"
Silently they crept forward, and a moment later the muzzles of four
rifles were thrust through four apertures in the sage brush that was
loosely woven between the wires of the fence. Connie, service
revolver in hand, looked into the corral through an aperture close
beside McLaughlin. So intent were the men upon their work that not
one of them was aware of the fact that he was covered by a rifle.
What the boy saw was a small fire tended by Alex McLaurie. Harmon
and Milk River were holding down a calf while Kid Owens applied the
red hot branding iron to its side. A puff of ill-smelling smoke from
the burning hair and hide rose into the air to the accompaniment of a
bellow of pain from the calf. The Kid, and Harmon straightened up,
and Milk River slackened his rope which the calf kicked from his hind
legs as he scrambled to his feet and rejoined the herd that crowded
the opposite side of the corral.
The voice of McLaughlin cut sharply: "Stick 'em up!"
The eyes of the four men in the corral flew to the fence where four
rifle barrels protruded into the corral. Harmon's face was ghastly
pale as he elevated both hands high above his head. Alex McLaurie's
mouth worked nervously, and Connie noticed that the hands he held
upward trembled violently. Milk River Bill's hands were up, too, and
his eyes wandered from the row of rifle muzzles to rest on the figure
of Kid Owens who stood grinning, with his thumbs hooked into the belt
of his chaps. "Up with 'em, Kid!" The voice of Tex sounded harsh:
"I'm tendin' to your case. No monkey work. I know all about the gun
in yer shirt. Reach up, now, or I'll have to plug you!"
"Oh, it's you, is it?" sneered the Kid, as he raised his hands
slowly. "You got the drop on me this time, but you wait!"
"Find the gate," said McLaughlin to Connie, "an' go in an' take their
guns."
A moment later the boy entered the corral, closing the gate behind
him, and walking straight to Kid Owens, thrust his hand into his
shirt front, and drew out a gun. Lifting the other gun from the
Kid's holster, he moved on to Harmon, taking care to pass behind the
Kid, so as not to obstruct Tex's aim for so much as a second. One
after another he relieved the men of their weapons, and lined them up
beside the Kid. Tossing the five revolvers over the fence, he
covered the unarmed men with his own gun. "Come on in!" he called to
the rifle men, and a moment later all four entered the corral.
Still sneering Kid Owens addressed Tex. "So you're to blame fer
this, eh? I s'pose you'll be foreman of the Round Seven, now. I
hope you like the job. I hope you like it good enough so's you'll
hang onto it till they turn me loose agin. It won't be so long--even
if they git me to Deer Lodge, which I'm doubtin', unless McLaughlin's
got more brains than he looks like he has. Two to twenty years fer
rustlin' an' I'll draw a light one, bein' my first offense, an' only
a helper at that. Prob'ly about three years, an' three months a year
off fer good behavior. That ain't so long--an when I git out the
first thing I'll do will be to ride down here an' git you! An' you,
too!" he cried, turning to Campbell. "What you hornin' in on this
fer? We ain't branded none of your calves. I ain't blamin' Hall an'
the shuriff, it's their business to go after rustlers. An' I ain't
blamin' the big boss, cause they're his calves. But, you two dirty
pups! I'll make you hunt your holes a couple of years from now."
"Shut up!" commanded McLaughlin, "You've just about spoke your piece.
You ain't helpin' your case none, by shootin' off yer mouth. Stick
yer hands behind yer back, now while I slip these bracelets on."
"Chain mine in front. I want to roll a cigareet."
"Who's doin' this?" snapped the sheriff, as he handcuffed the Kid's
wrists behind him. The others submitted without a word, McLaurie
trembling so that the chains rattled on the handcuffs.
"What's the matter, Bob, you look like you'd heard bad news?" grinned
the irrepressible Kid. "Look at all the time you'll git off fer good
behavior. Let's see, three months a year fer twenty years, why
that's five whole years. Gee, if I had that much time off, the State
would be owin' me two or three years."
"B-but, that l-leaves fif-fifteen years," stammered Harmon,
hopelessly, his voice husky with terror.
"They never will turn me, loose," blubbered McLaurie, "I done time
onct before."
"You won't have to worry about a job, then," laughed the Kid.
"Me--when they turn me loose, I'll give 'em somethin' to outlaw me
for!" He glanced meaningly at Tex, who finished rolling a cigarette,
and thrust the end into the Kid's mouth.
"You talk like a fool," he said, quietly, holding a match to the
cigarette, "But, I'll be here when you want me."
The stock inspector who had been walking through the herd of calves
joined the others: "Close to a hundred head," he reported, "an' about
twenty of 'em branded. That left handed iron ain't so bad, Harmon.
It makes a pretty good Heart Bar." He produced a notebook and pencil
from his pocket, and started for the calves again. "About three of
you fellows come with me," he said. Connie, Campbell and the sheriff
followed him, leaving Tex to guard the prisoners. Hall made several
notes in his book, and pointed to a calf. "See that critter they
branded? He's got two white legs, an' half his face is white, an' a
white saddle acrost his withers." The three nodded, and Hall passed
to another calf whose markings he recorded, and called the attention
of the three to them. One after another he recorded every branded
calf in the herd.
"What you doin' that fer?" asked Kid Owens, querulously, as the four
concluded the work.
Hall grinned: "Oh, that's fer your special benefit, Kid," he said.
"You think you're a bad actor--an' you would be if you was to be
turned loose about the time you figure on. But you won't be. You're
pretty smart about dopin' out how long a stretch you'd draw, an' when
they'd let you go. You think you're a wise guy, but you ain't
wise--not a little bit. Yer runnin' off at the head, makin' cracks
about comin' back onto this range an' gittin' some folks has cost you
somewheres around forty years in the pen."
"What do you mean?" the question snapped out without the accompanying
sneer. Plainly the stock inspector's strange actions, and his words
had caused the Kid a sudden uneasiness.
"I mean that when it comes to your case, we'll just make each one of
those calves a separate offense. You'll draw from three to five
years for each one of 'em--an' there's just twenty."
"You can't do it!" shrilled the Kid, a sudden panic taking possession
of him. He started to his feet, his face livid. "You can't do that!"
"Can't we?" sneered Hall, "You wait an' see. You an' Harmon will be
gittin' out about the same time--an' you'll both be old men. By that
time the cattle range will be gone, an' there'll be a string of farms
up an' down Eagle. Harmon, here, we'll just bunch his in two
lots--the ones he branded this year, an' the ones he's branded
before. He'll get about twenty years apiece. Hello! Here comes
Samuels with the lookout!"
The nester appeared at the gate of the corral, a dejected looking man
preceding him, hands elevated above his head. A moment later the
hand cuffs snapped about his wrists, and he took his place beside the
others.
McLaughlin spoke to Tex: "You skip back an' get your brandin' iron,
an' we'll get busy an' vent these critters, an' rebrand 'em an' turn
'em loose. Then some one better cross the river an' see what you can
find over on Harmon's ranch. I'll deputize Campbell an' Samuels to
help me get these birds down to Benton. The Grand Jury's settin'
now, an' I want to get this case before 'em."
Tex returned with the horses, and loosening the iron from his saddle
built up the fire and thrust it in. The venting and branding
occupied two or three hours, and when it was finished the corral
gates were opened and the calves turned out on the range.
The horses of the five prisoners were tied together, and the manacled
men secured by tying their ankles beneath the horse's belly.
As they were about to start, Kid Owens called to the inspector: "Say,
Hall, I was only kiddin', about comin' back here an' gettin' Tex an'
Campbell--honest I was."
"Tell that to the pardon board," retorted the inspector. "You made
your crack--now, don't welch on it. An' what's more you're lyin'
when you say you was only kiddin'. You've got a bad eye, an' a bad
heart, an' I'm goin' to see that you get put where you can't harm no
one. Montana's had enough of your kind. The quicker we git shut of
varmints like you, the quicker we'll have a peaceable an' law-abidin'
State. Trouble with you is, you was born too late. Montana's got
tired of the rough stuff. I've knocked around the range from cow
punchin' up to the job I've got, for goin' on twenty years, an' I
know that ninety-nine out of every hundred of the boys on the range
is law-abidin' an' peaceful--an' always was. It's the hundredth
man--like you, that's always made the trouble--an' the boobs back
east hear about it, an' think we're all like that. They're so blamed
ignorant that they can't see that there's more rough stuff pulled in
any one of their big cities every year than has ever be'n pulled in
the west from the time the first cow outfit started. But, believe me
the wild west ain't goin' to git no free advertisin' out of you for
quite a spell to come. So long. See you at the trial."
CHAPTER XIV
THE "GREENNESS" OF CONNIE MORGAN
Sending Tex to take charge of the round-up, Connie accompanied Hall
to the Missouri where they ferried the horses across on the clumsy
flat-float that Harmon used to transport his stolen stock to the
other side. For three days the two rode the range south of the big
river, where the stock inspector, an expert with the rope, caught,
threw, and examined the brands of dozens of Heart Bar cattle.
"Harmon was playin' it high wide, an' han'some," he said, as toward
the evening of the third day they drew near the home ranch of the big
TN outfit. "Not only brandin' calves with his left handed brandin'
iron, but finishin' out your brand into a Heart Bar on old stuff with
a runnin' iron. I ain't found a single one of the Heart Bars yet
that ain't be'n worked. He's stole everything he owns. Best way out
of it for you is to hire the TN round-up to gather all the Heart Bar
stuff an' hold it for you. It'll cost you twice as much if you send
your own outfit over here an' they wouldn't know the range as well,
either. I know Bob Dye, the foreman, an' I'll give him the order.
He wouldn't have no right to pick up Heart Bar stuff on your say-so,
without authority from me. It'll only cost you a dollar-an'-a-half a
head, an' they'll hold 'em inside their fences till you send for 'em.
Then I'll fix it so you can vent an' re-brand right there. Then you
can get 'em back acrost the river an' turn 'em loose on their own
range without trailin' 'em clean back to your home ranch."
The two passed the night at the TN, and the business concluded,
headed northward, crossed the river at Clagett, and pushed on to the
Round Seven ranch, where after a night's rest the stock inspector bid
the boy good bye and went on to look into another case that would
take him over into the Highwoods.
[Illustration: Harmon's face was ghastly pale as he elevated both
hands high above his head]
The following morning Connie saddled his horse, and rode down to the
south pasture where he pulled up beside the stack where the man who
called himself Wadell was loading hay onto his wagon.
"So you're the new owner of the Round Seven, eh?" asked the man,
after he had acknowledged Connie's greeting. "Quite a job you've
tackled, not to be no older'n what you be, an' green to boot."
"Yes, quite a job."
"How'd you like it, fur's you've got?"
"Fine. It won't be long, now, before I'll have a good outfit here."
"That there foreman of yourn, Bob Harmon, he's onto all the wrinkles
of the cow business."
Evidently the news of Harmon's arrest had not reached Eagle Creek.
"He sure is," agreed the boy, heartily, "And there's quite a lot of
wrinkles that need smoothing out."
The man shot him a shifty glance: "Meanin'?"
"Well, for one thing, meaning that there are too many little outfits
along the creeks to suit me."
The man grinned: "That's what ails the Round Seven," he agreed. "The
water's gitten fenced in on you." He leaned on his pitchfork and
winked knowingly: "Grey's alfalfy's up about a foot high, a'ready,"
he confided, "An' the blame fool's gone to work an' built up that
west fence of his'n agin."
"Yes, what of it?"
"Why, don't you know the game Bob worked on him last year? He run a
lot of hungry an' thirsty steers up agin that fence, an' left 'em.
It didn't take 'em long to lay the fence flat an' clean up the
alfalfy. You better slip the word to Bob to have his steers handy.
'Cause I figger Grey thinks he'll slip one over on you by cuttin'
early this year. Grey, he's pretty clost to the edge. Ruin his hay
on him this year, an' you got him. That'll be one little outfit out
of the way."
"Yes," answered the boy, "That'll be one. And, you're the next."
"That's right," grinned the man, "I'm the next. It ain't goin' to be
no trouble fer us to deal. I don't aim to hold you up, like some
would. All I want is a reasonable price fer my claim."
"What do you figure a reasonable price?"
"Well--seein' how my land lays, up an' down the crick, it ort to be
worth six thousan' dollars--an' that's jest about givin' it away."
"That includes everything--sheep, and all?"
The man laughed uproariously: "Quit yer jokin'! Sheep an' all!
There's two thousan' wethers in that band, worth anyhow seven dollars
a head right where they're at. Say, you was jokin', wasn't you. You
ain't as green as all that?"
"Pretty green, I guess," smiled the boy. "So that just includes the
land? Any improvements?"
"Nothin', what you might call improvements, except a two-wire fence."
"How long have you lived there?"
"Not so very long."
"How long?"
"I moved on early this spring."
"Where are your claim papers?"
"Down to the tent. I ain't had time to even put up a shack."
"Let's go down and look them over."
"All right. Wait till I finish out this load. It won't take but a
few more forkfuls."
Connie followed as the man drove to the sheep corral where he climbed
off the hay load. Dismounting the boy followed him into the tent,
where seating himself on a box beside a rude table, Wadell fumbled in
his war bag. Straightening up, he tossed a thick official envelope
upon the table, and the boy examined its contents. After a while he
looked up. "How much did it cost you to file?" he asked.
"Sixteen dollars an' a half, fer the homestead, an' forty fer the
desert, an' forty fer the wife's desert."
"Where is your wife?"
"She ain't come on, yet. She's visitin' down to her folks on the
Musselshell."
"That's ninety-six dollars and a half," said the boy. "You've been
here say three months, and you want six thousand? Pretty good
profit, isn't it?"
"Oh, I don't know. There's the fencin'. An' besides it ain't what
the land's worth now, it's what it will be. It's worth that much to
you, jest to hold the water."
"What's the fence worth?"
"Well, there's a couple hundred dollars worth of wire, an' puttin' it
up, not to say nothin' about the posts, an' the haulin'."
"Where did you get the wire, and who hauled it, and who built your
fence?"
The man hesitated a moment before replying: "Where d'you s'pose I got
it? Picked it offen trees?"
"I'm not here to suppose. I'm here to find out, and I'm going to
find out, so you might as well tell me. I want to know where you got
that wire, and who built your fence, and whether or not it is paid
for?"
For a space of seconds the man's glance held on the steady grey eyes
of the boy, then it wavered, and he smiled: "Why, no--that is, it
ain't exactly paid fer, yet. I bought it offen Harmon. You see the
Round Seven had the wire on hand, an' nowheres to use it, an' I
agreed to take it. It wasn't no use leavin' that money tied up in
wire that wasn't bein' used. I aim to pay fer it out of my wool
money."
"Who built the fence?" persisted the boy.
"Why the Round Seven ranch hands built it. The fore part of the
winter they didn't have nothin' to do around the ranch, so Harmon,
wantin' to be neighborly, loaned 'em to me."
"And the posts?"
"I got them offen Harmon, too."
"And now about the hay," continued the boy. "You've been feeding
Round Seven hay, haven't you?"
"Yes, some. I aim to pay that out of my wool money, too. That is,
onless we make a dicker fer the claims. In which case you kin take
it out when you pay me."
Connie nodded: "I see. The way it stands, your land is fenced with
Round Seven posts and wire, built by Round Seven labor, and you're
feeding Round Seven hay, and hauling it with a Round Seven team and
wagon. Is that about right?"
"Yes, I rent the team an' wagon off Harmon."
The boy was silent for so long that the man shuffled about
impatiently. At last he spoke: "Well, what do you say? It's dirt
cheap fer you at six thousan'? I kin git my sheep offen here any
time--today, if you say so--that is if you come acrost with the
mazuma."
Connie laughed: "Six thousand dollars is quite a lot of money for a
boy of my size to be carrying around in his pocket. And besides, I'm
pretty green, as you said. The fact is, I'm so green at this
business that I don't even know whether these papers are correct, or
not. I haven't had much business experience. There were some logs
once up in Minnesota that a man tried to beat me out of. And another
time I paid ten cents for a sack of peanuts on a train, and I found
out afterwards that they were only worth five cents. So I'm
naturally cautious in dealing with strangers."
"Oh, that's all right," the man hastened to assure, "But this here
case is different. I ain't no stranger. We're neighbors, an' if you
got any doubts about me, ask Harmon. He's know'd me fer years.
He'll tell you I'm all right."
"That's the trouble," answered the boy, a perplexed frown wrinkling
his brow, "I can't ask Harmon."
"Why not? It ain't fur out to where the roundup's at."
"No, but, you see, Harmon isn't with the roundup any more."
"Where is he at?" the man shot a keen glance into the boy's immobile
face.
"Why, he's down at Benton, in jail."
"In jail!" The words leaped from the man's lips. "What d'you
mean--in jail?"
"That's just what I mean. You see, I'm green at this business, and I
wondered why he was changing Round Seven calves into Heart Bar
calves, so I sent for the sheriff and the stock inspector to ask them
about it, and we all went down the other side of the bad lands where
they had a corral built in the sage brush, and watched them change
some brands, and then the sheriff took Harmon down to Benton with
him, and Kid Owens, and Alex McLaurie, and Milk River, and another
man. It seems that there is something wrong about it, somewhere."
The man was staring wide-eyed, and Connie noticed that his face had
paled perceptibly. He continued in an even voice: "And so you see I
can't ask Harmon about you, but that'll be all right, because when I
found out that your name is Curry, and not Wadell, and that you
already had one claim over on Shonkin, I wondered if that was all
right. I'm so green that I thought I'd just make sure, so I sent for
the United States deputy marshall. He'll be down here some time
today, and then we'll all three look over the papers together, and if
they're all right, I'll buy the claims. You see, this being a
Government proposition, the sheriff couldn't help me out on it----"
The boy's words were drowned in a yell of rage, as the man sprang
forward and struck clumsily across the table with his fist. The boy
stepped lightly to his feet, and the force of the blow that did not
land sent Wadell sprawling across the table top. With a roar he
regained his feet, and froze in his tracks as he found himself
staring into the muzzle of the boy's service revolver. His fists
unclenched slowly, and every particle of color left his face. His
shoulders sagged perceptibly, and the flash of rage in his eyes faded
into that peculiar hang-dog look that is the look of a beaten man.
His lips moved, and he moistened them with the tip of his tongue:
"Wha--what you mean--green?" he managed to stammer, "Who be you?"
"I'm Connie Morgan," answered the boy, in the same half-diffident
tone he had employed all through the conversation. "I'm green, but
I'm down here trying to learn the cattle business. There's more to
it than I thought, but if I work hard, I guess I can learn it."
"I'll say so," mumbled the man. "I don't git you. You set there an'
talk like a fool, an yet 'fore yer here two months you've got next to
about all the dirty work that was goin' on. I kind of savvy you, at
that. The fool way of talkin' is only actin'. I didn't know till I
jest studied it out. It's the way you draw'd yer gun. They ain't no
man livin' that's slow-headed like you let on, that could dodge a
blow, an' git onto his feet, an' cover a man with a gun all in one
move. But, say, don't set the Gov'ment onto me. I was tryin' to
cheat you, all right. But it was Harmon's doin's. He got me to come
over here, an' pertend to take up the claim. Them papers is forged.
When he found out that Wilson had sold out to another Alasky man, he
figgered on cleanin' up big, count of him gittin' away with it with
Wilson. Him an' I throw'd in an' bought that band of wethers, paid
nine thousan' dollars fer 'em. We aimed to run 'em on your range,
an' take the clip, an' fat 'em on your hay, an' sell 'em. We'd of
made about three thousan' on the deal, an' besides we'd of gouged you
out of the six thousan' fer the land."
"You must have thought I was green," commented the boy.
"Well, Harmon he pulled it jest as raw as that on Wilson, an' got
away with it, so he figgered all Alasky men was easy. Now, I've give
it to you straight, let me git away from here before that there
marshal comes. I'll go straight, from now on--honest I will. This
is the first time I ever broke the law, an' I've got a bellyfull of
it. I've got me a little place over on Shonkin where I kin make a
livin', if I'm let alone. You kin keep the sheep. Only loan me a
saddle horse to git away on, an' don't set the Gov'ment on me."
For a long time the boy was silent, as he watched a tiny gleam of
hope grow in the other's eyes. He thrust the revolver into its
holster, and reached for the claim papers, which he carefully folded,
slipped into the envelope, and thrust into his pocket. "I think,
Curry, I'll give you a chance," he said, slowly. "I'll just keep
these papers. I won't use them unless you forget to run straight.
About the sheep, now. I'll get Harmon's share by process of law.
Your own share you can keep. Of course you'll have to stand your
share of the hay expense, and your share of the labor for building
that fence, and for tearing it down to get it off the open range----"
The flicker of a smile twisted the man's lips. "If you could use the
fence where it's at, it would save you quite a bit," he said. "It's
only a two-wire one, but a couple more wires would make it cattle
proof."
"But--I've got no right to fence the range!"
"Well--this here piece ain't exactly open range. It belongs to the
Round Seven already. Harmon said you wouldn't never know the
difference. We wouldn't of dasted to fence open range where we would
of had to show them forged papers to the first claim inspector that
come along."
"But, about these sheep. You'll have to look after them till we can
dispose of them. I don't want them where they are. Can't you trail
them off someplace and herd them?"
"Young man," said the sheep man, solemnly. "I kin trail them sheep
clean down into Mexico an' herd 'em indeffinate, if you say so. I'll
do anything you say to do. I feel different in here, a'ready," he
placed his hand on his chest, "I wasn't borned to be no crook. An' I
ain't felt right good sence I got into it."
CHAPTER XV
I. W. W.
The calf round-up was over. The Heart Bar cattle had been rebranded
with the Round Seven brand and turned onto their own range north of
the Missouri River, and Tex, with a half dozen riders who had been
retained, was out on the range gathering a train load of
three-year-old steers and turning them onto the Indian Reservation
where they would "finish off" for fall shipment to Chicago, to much
better advantage than on the open range.
Connie remained at the Round Seven home ranch where haying was in
full swing. Each day found him in the hay fields where the crews
under the direction of Tombstone and Canary were harvesting the crop
of winter feed. To the boy whose experience had been for the most
part in the far north, there was a certain fascination in seeing the
tall grass laid flat to the whine of the mowers. There was
fascination, also, in the scent of the sun-dried hay that was rolled
into long windrows by the rakes, and whipped into cocks by the forks
of the hay crew, and in watching the huge stacks grow, as load after
load was swung aloft by the big boom of the stackers.
One evening as the boy sat on the porch of the log ranch house with
his eyes on the far horizon where the square head of Sugar Loaf Butte
stood out distinctly in the afterglow, Tombstone, doleful of
countenance, slowly chewing at the end of a stalk of hay that dangled
from the corner of his mouth, ambled around the corner of the house
and seated himself on the top step. For a full minute he sat there
chewing his piece of hay, his eyes fixed sombrely upon the ground.
Connie was the first to speak:
"How are things coming, Tombstone?" he asked.
The man shoved his Stetson toward the back of his head, shifted the
straw to the opposite corner of his mouth, and spat with deliberation
and accuracy upon a sun dried chip. "Things looks bad. Tollable
bad, a man could say." He surveyed the result of his shot at the
chip with approval, and relapsed into silence.
"Why, what's the matter? Everything seemed to be going fine this
afternoon."
"We got a lot of hay down. One field of blue j'int layin' flat. A
lot of wild hay up the west coulee raked, an' that alfalfy down in
the medder, all cocked up."
"What's the matter with that?" The boy's eyes swept the sky that had
been cloudless for weeks. "You're not looking for rain, are you?"
Tombstone submitted the heavens to a minute scrutiny. "You can't
never tell," he opined, with a wag of the head, "I've saw it rain
before now, an' I've saw it not. If it hauls off an' rains things
will be worst an' worst, which they're bad enough as they be."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, some of the hands has quit."
"Quit! What did they quit for?"
"They want more money. They claim it's too hot, an' they won't work
for no forty dollars a month."
"Isn't it always hot at haying time?"
"Sure, it's hot. It ain't the hot. That there's jist a excuse fer
to have somethin' to kick about. They think they've got you where
they kin gouge five dollars more on the month out of you. This here
is a heavy hay year, an' all the outfits has hired all the men they
is, an' they figger you can't git no more if they quit."
"Have they all quit?"
"Naw. Only one gang. Them ones that's in the bunk house. They's
two or three of 'em that claims they're I.Ws., whatever that is, an'
they've talked around amongst the rest, an' made speeches nights,
ontil they've got the hull gang onsatisfied with the work an' the
wages, an' everything else. Besides which they know you're jest a
young feller. I wisht Tex was here. Mebbe me or Canary could find
him in a day's ride, or so."
"I guess we won't bother Tex," Connie replied. "He ought to be
pulling in most any time, now. But even if he should be out a few
days longer, I think we can handle this gang. I ran across the
I.W.Ws. once up in a log camp in Minnesota, and I know something of
their tricks. You stay here and I'll go down to the bunk house and
have a talk with 'em. I was looking for Tex and the boys in this
evening. If they come before I get back, tell them not to show up
around the bunk house. Wherever there are I.W.Ws, there's apt to be
trouble, and if they want to start anything, it's just as well not to
let them know how strong we are."
"I do'no," said Tombstone, doubtfully, "I don't b'lieve talkin' will
do no good. An' if you agree to give 'em a five dollar raise, the
other gang'll want it, too. An' if you don't, the heft of 'em'll
quit, an' we'll be short handed an' lose a lot of hay, or if they
don't quit they'll be wantin' another five dollar raise in a week's
time. Things looks bad, boss, I'm a-tellin'--mighty bad."
Connie laughed: "Cheer up, Tombstone! Things generally work out all
right. What we've got to do is use our heads. I'll know more about
it when I come back."
"They's a lot of times things don't work out," forboded Tombstone,
lugubriously: "Lots of hay has be'n lost 'cause outfits was
short-handed. Outfits has busted, an' men has died before now,
because things didn't work out right. If yer luck's runnin' porely,
it ain't no use to try to buck it. Even if only half them fellers
quits, we're crippled so we lose a lot of hay."
On the way to the bunk house Connie grinned to himself: "Poor
Tombstone," he muttered, "It must be awful to always look on the dark
side of things. The trouble is with him, he's never learned to live."
Twilight was deepening, and as the boy approached the bunk house he
could see by the yellow glow of the bracket lamps that the men had
sought shelter from the mosquitoes behind the closed screens. The
sound of a voice reached his ears. Evidently one of their number was
haranguing them in a sort of set speech. Fragments of the man's
remarks reached his ears as he drew near the door: "Capital grinds
labor in under its heel. Bosses an' slaves--that's what this
country's made up of. Us pore fellers toilin' an' sweatin' out there
in the sun all day is the slaves, an' the ranch owners is the bosses.
An' what do we git out of it? Forty stinkin' dollars a month! The
price of one steer! Or two ton of hay! An' how many steers has this
outfit got? An' how many ton of hay? Thousands of 'em! But, the
time's comin' when things will be changed. Labor's got to organize.
Capital can't exist without us. We've got the bosses by the throat,
an' we don't know enough to squeeze down an' choke 'em. Right now,
we've got the chanct to squeeze down an' git a little of what's
comin' to us--" Connie opened the door and entered the bunk house.
A sharp featured man, with narrow shoulders, and a blue cotton shirt
open at the throat, stood at one end of the room. Two others were
seated beside him, and the rest of the men lounged on chairs and
bunks. Connie seated himself in a chair and deliberately tilted its
back against the wall. The narrow shouldered man stared at him for a
moment, shuffled uneasily upon his feet, glanced over the faces of
the others, and sat down abruptly between his two companions, where
he mopped his sweat-beaded forehead with the sleeve of his blue
cotton shirt.
"Go on," urged Connie, smiling toward the man. "Don't mind me. Go
on with your speech. I'd like to hear it."
The man scowled, wriggled, and shot an appealing look toward the man
on his left, a large, low-browed man with a month's growth of beard.
The big man answered the boy's invitation without rising from his
chair: "What we got to say, ain't fer you to listen to. All you've
got to know is that you've got to pay us five dollars more on the
month, or we'll quit."
"Why should I pay five dollars more a month? You agreed to work for
forty dollars, didn't you? None of the other outfits are paying more
than forty."
"That don't make no difference one way or another. The p'int is,
we've got you where you'll pay the five, or you'll lose more hay than
what the raise would come to. We use our head, we do. You're up
agin organization, young feller, an' organized labor is goin' to show
the bosses where to head in at. Time ain't so fur off when the
I.W.W.'ll make the prices, an' you bosses'll pay 'em, same as you're
goin' to come acrost, now."
"Are you all I.W.Ws?" asked the boy glancing about the room. He
noted that the eyes of most of the men lowered before his glance, and
the man with the stubby beard answered. "No--only us three here is
I.W.Ws., now--but the rest of 'em will be when they see how easy it
is to git their rights."
"There are a few points I'd like to talk over," replied the boy.
"You say that the fact that you agreed to work for forty dollars
don't make any difference. You expect these men to join your
organization, and the first thing you show them is that the
organization welches on a bargain." The boy turned to the others who
had remained silent listeners: "How do you boys feel about it?" he
asked, abruptly. "You've all worked in the hay fields before.
What's the trouble?" he paused for a moment, but no one answered, and
he continued: "Don't your sleeping quarters suit you? Or, is it the
grub? Or the hours? I want to find out where the trouble is.
Tombstone told me someone said it was the hot weather. But, if you
did quit, it would be just as hot the next place you worked, and the
wages would be the same." Once more the boy paused and ignoring the
three I.W.Ws., allowed his glance to travel over the faces of the
others. No one volunteered an answer and he pointed his finger at a
large, roll-sleeved man whose arms were tanned to the color of old
leather. "You, there--with the pipe--you tell me what the trouble
is, and we'll talk it over."
The eyes of all centered upon the man, who finding himself singled
out, hunched forward in his chair and removed the pipe from his
mouth: "Talkin' about me, personal, they ain't no trouble. I've be'n
hayin' fer fifteen year, not only around here, but in other places,
an' other states, an' they ain't be'n a onct that I was better set
than what I be right here. The bunk house is better'n most places
they sleep you, an' the grub's jest as good as any I ever et, an' a
heap better'n the general run, an' the hours is the shortest I ever
seen called a day in hayin' time. I've worked fer outfits that
figgered a day started in the grey of the mornin' an' quit when it
was too dark to see, an' most outfits call a day from sunrise till
sundown, which this time of year is plenty long, but with this here
outfit the sun's shinin' when we go to the fields, an' it's still
shinin' when we come out of 'em. When a boss or a coffee-cooler
comes out like a man an' wants to know where the trouble is, the way
I figger it, he's got a right to be told. The trouble with this here
gang is settin' right over there in them three chairs." He indicated
with his pipe stem the three I.W.Ws., and settling back in his chair,
replaced the pipe in his mouth and spoke slowly between puffs.
"Talkin' about me, I'm goin' to stay where I'm at. Personal, I'm an
American, an' I don't need no Roosian Kike, er Dago, er whatever them
birds is, to tell me when I'm settin' purty. I've set an' listened
to their bluffin', an' their talk about their lodge er whatever it
is, till it looks to me like if Congress would go to work an' turn
everyone loose that's locked up in every jail an' pen in America, an'
fill up the jails an' the pens with these here I.W.Ws., the general
average of folks runnin' loose would be consid'able better'n what it
is now."
Hardly were the words out of the man's mouth than, with a snarl of
hate, the big, low browed man who had acted as spokesman for the
I.W.Ws., leaped to his feet, and with chair swung aloft rushed at the
man with the pipe, who had no time to defend himself, or even to rise
from his chair. Quick as a flash, Connie, who was seated between the
two, and a little to one side, thrust out his foot, and the next
instant both he and the big ruffian crashed to the floor.
Pandemonium broke loose in the bunk house. Before the big I.W.W.
could regain his feet, the man with the pipe was upon him. Connie
scrambled to his hands and knees only to be knocked flat the next
moment by a chair wielded by the narrow shouldered I.W.W. The rungs
of the chair struck the boy fairly upon the back of the head, and for
a moment the room turned black. Sounds were all about him; the quick
breathing of men, the thud of blows, and the hoarse grunts that
followed the thuds. Again he scrambled to his hands and knees. The
floor seemed to be swaying and rocking beneath him, and a wave of
nausea and dizziness swept over him. Two men, grip-locked in each
other's arms tripped over him, and as Connie squirmed and wriggled
from beneath them he saw the narrow shouldered man snatch up the leg
of a broken chair and sneak forward, his eyes fixed upon the head of
the man with the pipe whose back was toward him, and who was
exchanging blow for blow with the big man who had started the row.
Unarmed as he was, Connie did not hesitate a second. His brain
cleared, and struggling to his feet he launched himself upon the back
of the narrow shouldered man just as he raised his club to strike.
Connie's right arm shot over the man's right shoulder, and instantly
his fore-arm tightened with a vise-like grip under the man's chin, at
the same moment his right knee bored into the small of the man's
back. With a startled gurgle the man gave backward, the chair-leg
flew out of his hand and knocked the chimney from one of the bracket
lamps causing it to flare smokily. The two crashed to the floor with
Connie on top. A mighty surge of rage seized the boy as he realized
that beneath him lay the man who had dealt him the cowardly blow from
behind, and who was stopped in the act of dealing another cowardly
blow from behind. The man's hand closed on another chair leg as
Connie's fingers gripped his throat, and he flattened himself against
the man's body as the weapon swept harmlessly above him. Putting
every ounce of strength into his grip, the boy squeezed the man's
wind pipe, and a wild sense of elation swept over him as he felt the
yielding flesh give beneath his fingers. The man struggled
furiously, and doggedly Connie maintained his grip, pumping up and
down with all his strength, so that the back of the man's head
audibly battered the floor. The man's legs and arms thrashed and
writhed as he vainly sought to break the vice-like grip at his
throat. Finally his struggles grew weaker, and suddenly ceased, as
did the gurgling sounds that had been forced from between his lips.
The boy relaxed his grip as he glanced into the face of the man whose
mouth had sagged open, and whose eyes had rolled back until only the
whites were visible, showing in startling contrast to the fast
purpling skin of his cheeks and forehead.
The sounds of struggle dwindled and ceased. Connie regained his feet
with the aid of the overturned table, and glanced about him. Three
men sat astride of three others upon the floor. The big ruffian who
had started the fight cowered upon his knees, with his face buried in
the blankets of a bunk, and his arms protecting his head, while the
man with the pipe stood over him with doubled fists. The
narrow-shouldered man's chest began to heave, and his lips writhed,
as his breathing apparatus began to function once more. The third
I.W.W. lay peacefully slumbering a few feet distant, with a big blue
lump on his forehead where a chair leg had met him head-on.
The man with the pipe turned his gaze on the boy. One deeply purpled
eye had swelled shut, but the man's swollen lips grinned, and his
good eye winked as he indicated the three men who were held to the
floor: "Say, boss, looks like this here lodge had nishiated three new
members, but they's six of us that they didn't nishiate--not what
you'd notice. Which it means that when it come to a show-down
Ameriky's still on top."
Connie laughed: "You bet she's still on top!" he agreed. "And now,
if you boys will stay here and keep an eye on these fellows till I
come back we'll give 'em their time and get them off the ranch."
"Leave 'em to us, boss," replied the man, searching about the floor
for his pipe. "They won't start nothin' we can't stop."
CHAPTER XVI
FIRE
Tombstone was waiting on the steps of the porch. "D'you have any
luck?" he asked.
"Pretty good luck," grinned the boy. "We argued the thing out, and
only half of 'em decided to quit, the three I.W.Ws., and three more.
The other six will stay."
"Even if half of 'em quits, we'll be short-handed an' prob'ly lose a
lot of hay," Tombstone glanced into the boy's face, and his brow
puckered. "Say, boss, what's the matter? Yer shirt's all tore. You
look like you be'n in a fight."
"Things did get a little lively down there for a few minutes, but
they're quiet, now."
Tombstone's reply was interrupted by the sound of hoofs, and the next
moment Tex and his six cowboys swept down the creek and drew up
sharply in the open space before the house.
"Hello, boss," called the new foreman, as he slipped to the ground.
"Well, we finished up the job. Shoved five hundred head of steers
onto the reservation, an' picked up four head of missin' saddle
horses." His glance rested for a moment upon the face of Tombstone,
and he grinned: "What's eatin' you? You're plumb doleful lookin'.
Got a burr in under yer suspenders?"
"Huh, they's plenty trouble 'round here. Part of the hay crew's
quit, an' the boss had a fight down to the bunk house, an' things
looks mighty bad."
"A fight, did you say?" Tex stepped closer to Connie. "How about
it, boss? It ain't over, is it?"
The boy laughed, "Yes, it's all over. You're just a few minutes too
late to get in on it." Connie spent the next ten minutes in
explaining the situation, concluding with the information that he was
going to pay off the insurgents and get them off the ranch.
Tex looked grave. "I.W.Ws., eh?"
Connie nodded: "Yes. Know anything about 'em?"
"I know enough to know that when they can't get holt of dynamite they
use fire. There must be a lot of haystacks in the fields by now.
They belong where Harmon an' his gang is. Ain't they done enough so
we can haul 'em to town an' turn 'em over to the sheriff?"
The boy shook his head: "No--but--" his voice trailed into silence,
and for some moments he stood apparently lost in thought:
"We started a setting just inside the fence up where our road joins
the main trail. We must have half a stack there already."
"I wasn't thinkin' about no half a stack," replied Tex. "How about
the settin's that's already finished--the ones that's got anywheres
from a hundred to four hundred ton apiece in 'em?"
"And I was thinking of that half a stack," replied the boy gravely.
"These I.W.Ws. are pilgrims. They wouldn't go far off the main trail
in the dark."
Followed, then, a colloquy, at the end of which Tex and his riders
turned and rode away into the night, and Connie and Tombstone
proceeded to the bunk house.
"Holy Smoke!" exclaimed Tombstone, as he stepped into the interior.
"They ain't a hull chair left! I'll say things was lively! Charge
'em up with the chairs, boss. It's their fault they was broke."
Connie laughed: "I'll contribute the chairs to the good of the
cause." He surveyed the six battered individuals who had been herded
into one end of the bunk house. "Step over here, one at a time and
get your money. You've worked a half a month." One by one the three
I.W.Ws. slouched forward and accepted his wages' while the six loyal
hands stood guard, each with the leg of a broken chair held
conspicuously in his hand. The three others who had thrown in with
them followed, only the last man making any comment. "I don't want
to quit," he whined. "I'm satisfied to keep on workin'. I'm like
him," he indicated the big man with the pipe. "This job suits me,
an' I want to stay. These here fellers talked me into strikin' fer
more wages, but I'm gittin' enough the way it is."
"You're a little too late deciding," answered Connie, coldly. "You
should have made up your mind when the fight started, like these
other men did. Here's your money." The boy handed the man his wages
and turned to the others. "You fellows are going to pull out of here
in about ten minutes," he ordered. "Tombstone will hitch a team to
the wagon and haul you out to the trail."
"The trail!" roared the big I.W.W. "You hauled us out from town an'
you'll haul us back where you got us! We know our rights. You'll
haul us clean to town, or we'll have the law on you!"
"You're a fine bunch to appeal to the law," sneered the boy. "But go
ahead. Your bluff is called, because once outside my gate you're
going to be afoot. We're short handed here because you've made us
short handed, and I haven't got a man, nor a team to spare for a trip
to town. It's only sixty or seventy miles, and the walk will do you
good. If you get tired just camp along the road and wait for the
stage. It will be along sometime to-morrow."
"If you don't haul us, you've got to sleep us, an feed us till the
stage comes, an' then pay our fare in."
"Oh, do I?" Connie smiled, "Well, just add that to your claim for
damages when you bring that law suit."
A few minutes later Tombstone pulled up at the door with a loud
"Whoa!" and Connie turned to the big man with the pipe. "Load 'em
into the wagon," he ordered. "And you boys better go along to see
that they don't start anything. Dump 'em off at the gate and hustle
back. We've done a pretty good evening's work since supper, and I'll
have the cook rustle an extra lunch."
Except for the little light of the stars, the night was dark, and
very still. Beside the trail, just outside the gate of the Round
Seven ranch, six disconsolate figures stood glowering into the night.
During the ride to the gate no one had spoken. In the mind of each
had risen a wild thought of seizing the team and wagon and driving it
on to town, but one glance into the faces of the guards showed their
evident willingness to use the chair legs they still held in their
hands, and the thought died a-borning.
To the northward, the black mass of the Bear Paws cut a jagged line
across the star-studded sky. A light puff of air from the south
rustled the leaves of the cottonwoods and fanned the faces of the
men, and to their ears was borne the muffled creak and rattle of the
wagon returning slowly down the creek to the ranch. The big leader
of the I.W.Ws. scowled as his eyes sought the trail that vanished
into the endless dark. Then, suddenly they fixed upon a rounded
black shape that reared high close beside the trail. It was an
unfinished stack of hay, the one they had been working on that day.
With a venomous imprecation the man pointed to the hay stack: "We'll
make him wisht he'd of hauled us to town!" he growled. "They's forty
ton of hay in that stack if they's a pound. We'll learn the young
pup to set men afoot sixty mile from nowheres!"
The others divined his intention. The narrow-shouldered man whom
Connie had choked into submission offered a protest: "What's forty
ton of hay?" he sneered. "Why not make a job of it while we're about
it? Might's well git hung fer a sheep as a lamb, as the sayin' goes.
What's the matter with slippin' around to them south fields where the
hayin's all finished? They's settin's of hay down there, four stacks
to the settin', an' a hundred ton to the stack. We kin pair off, two
an' two, an' burn three of them settin's to onct--that'll be twelve
hundred ton gone fluie!'
"That's the idee!" seconded the third I.W.W. "Might's well do a good
job while we're about it."
"Yes," sneered the big man, "An' where'd you go when you done it?
They ain't none of us knows the country well enough to ever git out
of them fences in the dark."
"The bad lands is south an' east," countered the narrow-shouldered
man. "We could hit fer the bad lands."
"Yes, an' then what?" taunted the big man. "A-foot in the bad lands
with nothin' to eat, an' nothin' to drink! If we didn't curl up an'
die in two days' time, we'd be crawlin' out of there on our bellies
a-beggin' 'em to come an' hang us to put us out of our misery. An'
believe me, if we git caught it's a tight necktie an' a cottonwood
limb fer us! No sir! I ain't agoin' to git fer off this trail!
They can't see this here stack from the ranch, nohow, an' we'll have
all night to git away in. They won't know it's burnt till mornin',
an' by that time we'll be a long ways off. It ain't like as if the
cowboys was home. They can't foller us, cause they ain't none of
them hay hands kin ride a horse no more'n what we kin. An' besides
they got so much hay down that they can't afford to stop hayin' to
chase us. Even if they did, we could see 'em fore they seen us, an'
hide till they got past. 'Course, I wisht this here was a big
settin', like them below, but losin' forty ton, with hay figgered
around twenty dollars a ton will make it cost him dear fer not
haulin' us to town. Come on!"
The big man started for the fence, the two I.W.Ws. followed at his
heels, but the other three men held back. With a hand on the barbed
wire, the big man glanced over his shoulder, then he turned and
strode wrathfully back to the trail: "What's ailin' youse?" he asked,
truculently, "Youse is in on this here party, same as us! Come on.
We're all in the same boat."
"We don't aim to burn no hay," replied one of the men, looking the
leader squarely in the eye.
"Oh, you don't, eh?" sneered the big man. "An' what do you aim to
do? Didn't you say you was goin' to join up with the I.W.Ws. the
first chanct you got? What do you expect to do--lay around an' let
someone else do the work, an' you git the benefits of it? That don't
go with us."
"An' burnin' up a man's property don't go with us, neither," retorted
the man, "I ain't no criminal."
"Oh, you ain't no criminal!" sneered the other, "An' yet you want to
belong to the I.W.W.! Well, we ain't got no Sunday School section in
the organization. We go after a thing to git it. If we can't git it
one way, we git it another. An' we don't care how we do it. The
only way fer labor to force its demands on capital is to terrorize
capital into grantin' the demands." The man rattled the sentence off
glibly, as a school boy speaks his "piece." It was a sentence he had
memorized. "An' the way to terrorize capital is to destroy
property," he continued, "An' that's what the I.W.W. is for."
"I'm glad I found out before I joined up," replied the other, "I
thought it was just a--a sort of union that took in unskilled labor."
"That's jest exactly what we be! A union--only instead of foolin'
around arbitratin' we believe in usin' force. Strike at capital's
dollars an' you bring it wallerin' to its knees. We're a union, all
right--but our idees is more radical than other unions."
"An' a blame sight too radical fer me!" exclaimed the man, "You go
your way, an' we'll go ourn."
"But, youse already throw'd in with us! Didn't you fight on our side
in the bunk house?"
"Fair fightin', with the odds about even's one thing, an' hay-burnin'
in the night is somethin' else. An' besides, I didn't know what kind
of an outfit you was. You got us kicked out of a good job with your
talkin', but you can't talk us into burnin' no haystack!"
The big I.W.W. turned to the two, who stood at the man's side. "How
about youse?" he asked, glaring into their faces.
"I think the same as him," answered one. "I'm skeert," added the man
who had told Connie he didn't want to quit. "I'm skeert to help burn
the hay, an' I'm skeert not to."
The big man laughed, nastily: "You better be more skeert not to," he
said, "We'll all git the blame of it, anyhow. But, if you throw in
with us, they'll be four agin two, an' if we git caught we kin lay it
on them two pardners of yourn. If we split three an' three, we all
git it."
"I don't want to burn no hay,'" whimpered the man, "But, I'm skeert."
"Suit yerself," replied the big man, indifferently, and turned to
join his two companions who waited beside the fence.
"I'll go! Wait! I'll go long! If us four all sticks together, we
kin lay it on them two." He joined the three who were already
crawling through the wire fence.
"Light her at both ends, an' in the middle," ordered the big man, as
he made for the farther end of the stack. The two men in the road
waited, undecided which way to turn. "What'll we do?" asked one.
"I ain't agoin' to run," said the other, "I ain't got nothin' to run
fer. Let them that does the burnin' do the runnin'."
"But, s'pose they see the fire, an' come up an' ketch us?'
"It won't look so bad if we don't run, as if we do--" a bright tongue
of flame shot upwards at a corner of the stack, and another from an
opposite corner. By the light of the flames the two men saw two of
the I.W.Ws. straighten up, and step back from the fire. The next
instant at the outer rim of the fire light, they caught a blur of
swiftly moving forms. A cry of terror reached their ears.
The flames were bright now, and by their light, they saw a rope shoot
out, and one of the I.W.Ws. was jerked clear off his feet, and fell
violently to the ground. A form ran toward them shrieking in fright
and they recognized the "skeert" man. He, too, was jerked to the
ground before he had run twenty feet. A shower of sparks shot
upward, as one of the flame spots dimmed. A form rushed toward them
stopping at the fence. "Come on, boys! Help fight fire!" The
speaker was Connie Morgan and instantly the two men were at his side.
It was but the work of a moment to crawl through the fence. As they
ran toward the stack they pulled off their coats, and a moment later
were working furiously beside men in high-heeled boots and chaps,
beating down the flames with their coats while others tore at the
stacks with pitch forks. In a few moments the fire was subdued, and
the last spark beaten out. Two lanterns were lighted, and by their
light, the men grouped themselves about the four forms that lay on
the ground tightly bound with lariat ropes.
"Come on," said one of the two men who had refused to help fire the
stack. "There ain't nothin' more fer us to do here. We'll be goin'."
"Don't let them two git away!" roared the big I.W.W. "They was into
it, same as us. They was the lookouts!"
Connie Morgan laughed: "Hold on, boys!" he called, "How about going
back on the job?"
The men turned and faced him. "We was in the fight in the bunk
house, all right," answered the one. "An' you told him," he
indicated the "skeert" man, who was whimpering and moaning upon the
ground, "that it was too late to go back to work. That he'd ort to
made up his mind before the fight."
"Well," answered Connie, "I've had time to change my mind since. You
see, we figured about what would happen up here when we turned these
I.W.Ws. loose, and we sort of got ready for it. The boys got in off
the range tonight, and they rode out here and surrounded the stack
while I was paying you off. Then I followed along behind the wagon
to see the fun, and instead of going back with the wagon, I slipped
in behind that hay cock over there, and so I couldn't help hearing
what you fellows were talking about. I guess you know the I.W.Ws.
now as well as I do. Back there in the bunk house you thought they
were right. I like to see a man willing to fight for what he really
believes to be right. I need men like that. As long as I'm running
the Round Seven, you two have got a job--that is if you want to come
back."
"I'll say I do!" exclaimed the man, quickly. "It's the best blamed
outfit I ever worked fer--an' as fer as wages goes, you kin pay me
whatever you want."
"How about you?" asked Connie, turning to the other.
"I think the same as him," answered the man.
Connie gave a loud whistle, and presently the sound of creaking and
the rattle of wheels announced the approach of the wagon. Tightly
bound, the three I.W.Ws. were loaded in, and as the boys were about
to load the man who had joined them at the last moment, Connie
stepped forward and threw the rope off him. The man rose trembling
to his feet and stood looking fearfully from one to another. No one
paid him the slightest attention, and the boy turned to the others:
"Come on, boys! Let's be getting back. I expect the cook has got
that grub ready by this time."
The cowboys mounted their horses, and the others climbed into the
wagon.
"How about me?" piped the man who had been released from his bonds.
"Ain't you goin' to take me along?'
"Not you," answered the boy, "Ive got no use for your kind, whatever.
Why, you're not even worth arresting!"
The cowboys started their horses, and the wagon followed the cowboys,
and as it threaded its way through the cottonwoods that bordered the
trail down the creek, a wailing cry was born to the ears of the
riders: "I'm skeert all alone in the dark! I'm skeert!" and then the
sound was drowned in the rush of water about the wheels as the wagon
crossed at the ford. And as they emerged on the other side another
sound was borne to their ears. It was the long cry of the cook:
"Come on an' eat it or I'll throw it a-w-a-y!"
CHAPTER XVII
IN THE BAD LANDS
"What's the next thing on the program?" asked Connie Morgan, as he
seated himself on the top rail of the horse corral beside Tex, the
day after the fight in the bunk house. In the corral three cowboys
were trying to saddle a three-year-old that had been retained with
half dozen others out of a bunch of twenty odd head of horses that
had been picked up off the range.
"Well," answered the foreman of the Round Seven, "There's quite a
heft of chores that's got to be 'tended to. I want to start the beef
round-up week after next, an' in the meantime there's a little
overhaulin' to be done on the outfit. The front ax on the grub
wagon's sprung, an' that cayuse we had to break in on the bed wagon
jest naturally busted every strap on his harness except the collar
an' tugs. He won't never make no harness horse no how an' he ain't
big enough if he would, so we got to break in a colt, or else take a
work team off 'n the ranch fer bed-wagon leaders."
Tombstone paused abruptly in the act of bolting extra clamps onto a
hay-rack, and regarded the speaker with jaundiced eye. "Oh, sure,
take a team off'n the ranch. We ain't only got five, six hundred ton
of hay to put up yet, an' we kin haul that on a wheel-borrow. We
ain't got nary team too many the way it is, an' here you go, takin'
one of 'em to do a job which they's any jack-rabbit you ketch up
off'n the range could do it."
Tex laughed: "You're plumb doleful-minded ain't you, Tombstone? If
the world didn't look no better to me than what it looks to you, I'd
of jumped in the river 'fore I'd got my growth."
"An' if you had, we'd of, mebbe, had a range foreman that didn't want
to skin all the horses off'n the ranch right in the middle of hayin'.
That's the trouble with you wagon-bosses. I never seen one yet that
ever give a doggone how the ranch got along. They can't see nothin'
but the cattle end of it--an' they won't never will, neither."
"Where does the money come from, if it ain't from the cattle,"
grinned Tex. "This here ain't no hay ranch, it's a cow-outfit."
"Yes, an' if us ranch hands didn't git up enough hay, how'd yer weak
stuff winter through? Here's the whole outfit goin' plumb straight
to the dickens, an' no one worryin' none about it but me."
"Oh, I guess things ain't so bad as all that," smiled Connie. "Why
it seems to me things are coming along fine. Here we've got rid of
Harmon, an' his gang of rustlers. An' got rid of Wadell, or Curry,
or whatever his name is, that'll give us one more team--an' we
straightened out the trouble with the hay crew. Why, I think things
are looking fine."
Tombstone spat precisely and accurately upon the head of the king
bolt, and lugubriously shook his head: "That's jest the trouble," he
foreboded, "Things is lookin' good. An' when things is lookin' good,
that-a-way, then somethin' allus happens. As long as things is jest
as bad as they kin git, they can't git no worser. But when they look
good, then you got to look out. Where'd we be at right now if the
eppyzootic hit the horses? Tell me that?"
Tex laughed outright: "Good gosh! Tombstone, they ain't never be'n
no eppyzootic in this country that I ever heard tell of."
"That don't make no difference. They has in other countries. An'
next time it'll prob'ly be here. An' besides that, s'pose they come
on a wet spell. Where'd the rest of the hay be? Next winter'll
prob'ly be a awful hard one."
"I never seen a wet spell in hayin' time yet, that was more'n jest a
shower an' didn't hurt no hay. What makes you think next winter's
goin' to be a bad one?"
"I know it is. Didn't I kick out a mice's nest in under the aidge of
the old haystack? An' it was thicker than what the general run of
'em is. You can't fool me. Mouses knows. An' besides, I've saw a
wet spell in hayin', if you ain't. It was in the summer of nineteen
an' seven, an' I was workin' fer the Two-Bar."
"How much hay did they lose?"
"They didn't lose none, but they was lucky. If the wet spell had
lasted longer, an' they hadn't be'n so fer along with the hayin',
they might of lost a thousan' ton. An' then where'd they be'n?"
"Say, Tombstone," said Tex, soberly. "They's one worry you
overlooked. See them mountains? Well, back a couple thousan' years
or so ago, a mountain blow'd up an' buried a whole town--two of
'em--folks an' all. Now, where'd we be if one of them Bear Paws
would take a notion to let go?"
"That's jest it," agreed Tombstone, "Where would we be? If this here
other mountain blow'd up it ain't no cinch these here ones won't. If
them folks would of thought the mountain was agoin' to blow up they
wouldn't of built the town there. That's jest what I be'n tellin'
you. I don't s'pose none of them folks had the sense to be worryin'
about it. Or if they did, the rest of 'em prob'ly laughed at 'em."
"Worryin' about it wouldn't of done no good," grinned Tex. "They'd
of got buried up jest the same."
"No, they wouldn't. If enough of 'em had of worried about it, they'd
of moved their towns somewheres else, wouldn't they?"
Tex winked at Connie, and pulled a long face: "They might of, but the
chances is they'd of located 'em along side of some river that would
of rose sudden, an' drounded 'em all."
Tombstone nodded: "Yeh, prob 'ly would," he agreed, "That's jest what
I be'n sayin'--when things looks good, that's the time somethin' most
genelly allus happens."
Tombstone went off to the shop for more bolts, and Tex grinned;
"Reckon we better break in a colt, an' save the whole outfit from
goin' under. We got to run in some more wild horses anyway. I want
the boys to break about a dozen saddle horses before the beef
round-up. I only held over six hands from the calf round-up, so I'll
put two of them breakin' horses, an' one to work on the wagon an'
harness, an' let Tombstone have the rest to help with the hay. Me
an' you will ride after the horses an' run 'em in."
Before Connie could reply things were happening in the corral. A
cowboy had swung into the saddle, the two others cast loose the
snubbing rope, and clambered up the pole fence as the broncho sunk
his head.
"Stay with him!"
"Ride him, cowboy!"
"Fan him!"
"Stay a long time!"
Such were the words of advice and encouragement that sounded above
the thud of hoofs and the labored grunts of the horse as he leaped
again and again into the air to hit the ground stiff-legged, with his
back humped like the back of an angry cat. In the saddle the rider
yelled shrill yells and plied his quirt. Round and round the small
enclosure went the horse, bucking, sun-fishing, swapping ends without
once loosening the seat of the rider who leaned far back against the
cantle, left arm extended to the limit with the pull of the taut
reins, right arm rising and falling, as with quirt and spurs he stung
the frantic animal to bring out the worst that was in him and so
conquer him in one ride. For full five minutes, with lathered
flanks, the broncho fought to unseat the cowboy, but it was no use,
and giving up, the horse sulked, and for another five minutes no
amount of punishment with quirt or spur could get so much as a move
out of him. With head drawn half way around, he stood the picture of
sullen stubbornness.
"Open the gate!" cried the rider, and instantly the two cowboys who
had sought refuge on the fence slid to the ground on the outside and
mounting their horses held themselves in readiness to "haze" the
broncho from plunging into obstructions that might injure both
himself and his rider. For your unbroken horse cares nothing for the
bit. Blinded by fear and rage he seeks only to rid himself of the
thing that clings to his back, and pitching and bucking in his blind
fury will crash into wagons, machinery, fences, buildings, anything
in fact that happens to lie in his path unless there are horsemen at
hand to crowd in and force him to hold to the open. Tex leaped to
the ground and threw the pole gate wide. The rider slackened his
reins for a moment, and seeing the opening, the broncho made a wild
dash for liberty, his first rush taking him in a series of leaps and
bucks, and clumsy lunges straight through the creek bed and out into
a wide hay meadow upon the other side, the two hazers keeping pace to
prevent the crazed animal from plunging into the barbed wire fences.
"Guess we might's well throw the shells on our own cayuses an' make a
little ride today, boss. There's a bunch of horses runs between the
lower end of Saw Tooth Butte an' the bad lands that we might run in.
Last time I seen 'em there was four or five likely lookin'
three-year-olds runnin' with 'em."
"Fine," answered Connie, "Let's go!" and led the way to the stable
from which they emerged a few minutes later with their horses, and
mounting swung off down the creek.
At the lower end of the hay field they met the three riders coming
back. The broncho bathed in sweat, white foam dropping from his lips
as he ceaselessly mouthed and fretted at the bit, was walking quietly
enough between the horses of the other two riders.
"Takin' to it natural!" called the rider, as the two passed. "I'll
be ridin' circle on this gent inside of a week."
"It doesn't take long to break them, does it?" commented Connie as,
without dismounting Tex unfastened the wire gate and held it aside.
"Well, that's accordin' to the horse. Some breaks easy, an' some
hard, an' some you never can break."
"What do you do with 'em when you can't break 'em?" asked the boy.
"Turn 'em out on the range?"
"Not by a blame sight!" laughed Tex. "The outlaws are the ones that
brings the most money. Wild West shows takes part of 'em, if they
ain't bad. What they want mostly is easy straight backers an'
crow-hoppers. Somethin' that's good an' safe to ride, but that looks
to the pilgrims back east like they was raisin' the deuce. The bad
outlaws goes to the real show--Cheyenne, Pendleton, Denver, Prescott
an' Calgary. There's real riders in them annual rodeos. They ain't
faked up like these here road shows, where some mail-order-catalogue
cow puncher with buckin' rolls on his saddle big as a loaf of bread
rides a crow-hopper acrost a base ball lot to the resoundin' plaudits
of the multitude that thinks they're seein' the real thing."
An hour's ride brought them near the base of Saw Tooth Butte, a
mountain which, together with its foot hills, forms one of the
south-most reaches of the Bear Paws. "You better take the flat an'
let me ride the high ground," advised Tex. "There's a lot of deep
coulees an' draws, an' some of 'em's pretty well grow'd up to brush.
It'll be harder ridin' up there an' a lot more chance of missin' the
bunch. There's about thirty head altogether an' the leader's an' old
gray mare that you got to watch every minute. She's a wise old
crow-bate an' if you don't look out she'll slip the bunch back past
you up some coulee or behind some ridge. I'll keep my eyes open, an'
if I see you start 'em I'll swing down an' help you."
It was nearly three o'clock in the afternoon when Connie came upon
the horses feeding in a shallow basin about halfway down a long,
broad tongue of bench land that stretched straight into the bad
lands. As the boy topped the rim of the basin, the horses ceased
feeding and stood for a moment watching him with upraised heads and
pricked ears. Connie swung wide to get behind them, but the old grey
mare divining his intention, led off at a brisk trot, straight down
the ridge. Slowing to a walk the boy tried to outwit them by riding
slowly out of the basin at a right angle to their course. Once out
of sight over the rim, he put spurs to his horse, and taking a
parallel course, rode for half a mile at headlong speed. Then
cautiously he drew up to the edge of the rim. The wild bunch was
nowhere in sight. For a full minute he sat sweeping the plateau. A
lone coyote loped along the farther rim of the basin. Two or three
small bunches of cattle grazed undisturbed, but not the sign of a
horse did he see. Then a blur of motion caught his eye, and he saw
the horses a good half mile ahead, just swinging up the far side of a
coulee. His ruse had been too simple. The old mare had out-guessed
him, and as soon as he had disappeared over the rim of the basin, she
had changed her gait from a trot to a furious gallop, the herd
following, and by the time the boy had maneuvered again to the rim,
they were far in the lead.
Connie grinned: "Well, here goes!" he cried, and digging his spurs
into his horse's flanks he started after the herd that had drawn to a
halt on the open bench to study his next move. "I'll get around you
some way!"
The tongue of bench on which the boy found himself was cut and scored
by numerous deep coulees some of which reached clear across, while
others shallowed and lost themselves in a maze of branches. It was
not long before Connie realized that Tex had not over-estimated the
sagacity of the old grey mare. When he emerged from the first of
these transverse coulees, the horses had again disappeared, and it
was only after a considerable search that he located their trail
where the mare had led them into a deep ravine that led straight into
the bad lands. Soon the boy found that he had lost the trail
completely. It had not been easy to follow along the sun-baked,
grass-covered floor of the coulee where it traversed the bench, but
after plunging into the bad lands, the grass-covered soil gave place
to a bed of hard, disintegrated rock upon which the unshod feet of
the horses made no impression whatever--at least none that Connie
could follow. Side coulees joined the main stem at intervals, and
the boy dismounted to examine the mouths of these in vain for some
slight mark or track that would indicate the direction of the horses.
On and on he rode, assuming that they were still ahead of him.
Deeper and deeper he penetrated into the bad lands, the sides of the
coulee getting steeper and higher as he followed its winding course.
He pushed on for several miles, giving no heed to time, his attention
fixed solely upon following the band of horses. Suddenly, he pulled
up, and glanced about him. It was getting late. The wall of the
coulee, which had by this time become a veritable canyon, cast a deep
shadow, and glancing upward, Connie saw that the edge of the shadow
reached high on the opposite side. "I'll just look around this next
bend," he said, "an' then I'll turn back. Tex will laugh at me for
losing the horses after I'd found 'em once, but I never did get a
chance to head 'em."
Around the next bend he came upon a pool of stagnant water--the first
water he had seen since noon. He realized that he was very thirsty.
The horses would have been thirsty, too. He would surely find tracks
about the edge of the pool. Dismounting he led his horse near to the
water and searched the ground for sign. About the edge of the pool
was a thick mud that would have plainly recorded the action of any
animal that had come down to drink. But the mud was smooth and
untrampled. The horses had not come that way. Some place they had
turned into a side coulee, had doubled back, and were probably at
that very moment grazing unconcernedly upon the bench.
The boy led his horse to the lower edge of the pool. The animal
advanced, sniffing cautiously. He plunged his nose into the water
and threw it about with a shake of his head. But he did not drink.
Again and again he repeated the performance, pawing at the mud with
his forefoot. "Drink, if you're goin' to," laughed the boy, "and
quit your foolin'. And quit messing that puddle all up. We've got
to be hitting the back trail, but first I want about a barrel of
that, myself." Dropping the reins, he picked his way to the upper
end of the pool where a flat stone projected out into the water.
Removing his hat, he threw himself down on his belly. With his lips
almost upon the surface of the water he raised his head and listened.
For several seconds he remained thus, but the only sounds that came
to his ears were the sounds made by the rattling bit chains of his
horse, and the soft scraping of the pawing hoof. "Thought I heard
someone yell, a long ways off," he muttered, and again put his lips
to the water.
"Spat!" Within two feet of his head, a bullet struck the pool,
throwing a spray of muddy water all over him. Instantly the boy was
on his feet, revolver in hand, while his eyes vainly sought the
coulee for a sheltering rock. With a snort of fright at the wicked
spat of the bullet, Connie's horse leaped back from the water and
turning, plunged headlong down the canyon, bridle reins flying. A
slight movement caught the boy's eye. He looked upward to see, on
the rim of the canyon, and some distance below, the form of a man who
seemed to be waving his hat and frantically gesticulating. The next
moment the man turned abruptly, swung himself to the back of a horse
that had stood close beside him, and disappeared. Almost at the same
instant the boy spied a niche in the rock wall on the opposite side
and it was but the work of a moment to slip into the aperture which
gave him a view of the lower reach of the canyon, the direction from
which the bullet had come, and toward which his horse had bolted.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE OUTLAW
What did it all mean, wondered the boy, as he waited with his
revolver at cock for the next move in the strange proceeding. Why
should the man shoot once at him, and then evidently try to attract
his attention? And why, after attracting his attention, had he
immediately mounted his horse and disappeared? Had someone else
fired the shot? The boy scanned every visible foot of canyon, and of
the rims of its high walls, but no living, moving thing met his gaze.
It was growing rapidly darker, now. Evidently the sun had set, for
there was no streak of light even along the very top of the opposite
wall. He debated what he should do. He certainly didn't want to
spend the night cramped up in the uncomfortable niche, neither did he
want to expose himself to a possible shot from the rims. He was not
afraid, but he had no desire to be potted without any chance of
shooting back. He remembered that he had thought he heard a cry when
he first stooped over the water to drink. In thinking it over he was
almost certain it had been a cry. What had that cry to do with the
shot? He remembered to have heard that the bad lands was the home of
numerous desperadoes and outlaws, but he had heard, also, that unless
they were molested they remained on friendly terms with outsiders,
and especially with ranchers whose property bordered on their domain.
He wondered if it were possible that Kid Owens or Bill Harmon had
broken jail and joined the outlaws. Either one of them might have
taken a shot at him in revenge, but if so, why had they tried to
attract his attention afterward?
Connie gave it up as he found his thoughts travelling in circles. He
would wait till dark, slip from his uncomfortable perch, get a drink
of water, and then--he was undecided whether to follow his horse in
hope of overtaking him, or to hit the back-trail and try to make the
Round Seven on foot. "If I only had shoes or moccasins instead of
these doggoned high heeled boots," he muttered, eyeing the offending
foot gear with disfavor. Minutes passed that seemed hours to the boy
in his cramped position, and with his mouth and throat parched with
thirst. It looked tantalizingly near--that pool of water, and it was
with an effort that he forced himself to remain where he was until
darkness came.
Suddenly he heard a sound. Someone was coming up the canyon. He
could hear the click and scrape of horse's feet on the rock floor.
Gun in hand he waited. The sounds grew louder, and presently he made
out the form of a horse and rider moving slowly toward him. The man
was very close now, and Connie could see that he was leading a
riderless horse--his horse! At the lower edge of the pool the rider
drew up, and looked carefully about him. Connie noted that the butt
of a six-gun protruded from a holster at the man's belt, and that the
stalk of a rifle peeped from beneath the stirrup leather at the back
of his leg. Suddenly, the man called: "Hey, there! Hey you, Round
Seven!"
"Right here!" answered the boy, in a firm voice. "And you might as
well know I've got you covered!"
"Oh, that's all right," answered the man. "I ain't a-goin to make no
gun-play. But, where be you?"
For answer Connie scrambled from his niche and faced the man not ten
feet distant, still keeping him covered with his revolver.
"You kin put up yer gun," grinned the man, "I done all the shootin' I
aim to do a while back."
"Yes, and you blame near got me, too. What's the idea?"
"No, I didn't blame near git you, neither. If I'd wanted to got you
I'd done it, jest as easy as shootin' where I did. I dropped that
pill right where I wanted to drop it, an' no wheres else, an' it's a
darn good thing fer you I did."
"For me!" exclaimed the boy, in surprise, as he returned the gun to
its holster, "What do you mean--a good thing for me?"
"Well, if I hadn't, you'd prob'ly be dead by now, or leastwise layin'
on the rocks some wheres doubled up with a bellyache that would of
got you before mornin'. Don't you know that there spring is pizen?"
"Poison!" cried Connie, a sudden chill at his heart, as he thought of
how near he had come to drinking from it.
"Yes, pizen--gyp water, some says, but others claims its arsenic.
Don't make no difference what name you call it by it'll kill you jest
as quick. I was a watchin' you from the rim, an' when I seen you was
goin' to drink, I yelled till I like to bust a lung. Thought first
you heerd me, but you stuck down yer head agin, an' I done the only
thing I could think to do--I dropped a rifle pill jest as clost as I
dasted to."
Connie, who had been staring down at the water in a sort of
fascinated horror as the man talked, stepped quickly to his side, and
reaching up took the gloved hand that rested on the horn of the
saddle. "You did the right thing," he said, gravely, "At just the
right time. And that's what I call a man. But, how did you know
that water was poison? And how do you tell poison water from water
that ain't?"
"That's easy," answered the man, "Don't never drink no water yer
horse won't drink, an' yer safe. When you seen yer horse stand there
pawin' an' thrashin' the water around with his nose, you'd ort to
know'd the water was pizen."
"I thought he wasn't thirsty."
"I've hear'n tell how you come from Alasky, same as Wilson. An'
likewise I've read how dogs is used up there fer to git over the
country instead of horses. It's be'n a middlin' hot day, an' it
you'd savvied horses, you'd know'd doggone well yer horse would of
be'n dry enough to of drunk any water that was fit to drink."
"Anybody ought to have known that," agreed Connie, sheepishly, "Gee,
I was a fool!"
"Oh, I don't know," answered the man, "That ain't exactly the way
you're figgered in these parts. Take me, or any of the boys from
around here an' dump us up there in Alasky with a bunch of dogs to
git over the ground with, an' we'd most likely pull more foolisher
plays than what you done."
"There's no such thing as poison water up there," said the boy, "I
wasn't thinking about it. But, isn't there any water around here
that isn't poison? I sure am thirsty!"
For answer the man reached behind him, loosened a pack string that
held his yellow slicker in place, and thrusting his hand beneath the
folds of the slicker, drew out a can of tomatoes, which he proceeded
to open with his knife: "Here," he said, handing the tin to Connie,
"Drink this. It's better'n water when yer dry, an' handier to carry."
Eagerly Connie gulped down the juice and the soft red pulp. When the
can was half emptied, he offered it to the other.
"I ain't dry," said the man, "Finish her up, an' we'll git a-goin'.
Guess I'm the party yer huntin' fer, an' I'll go 'long peaceable.
You kin take my guns if it'll make you feel any better."
Connie tossed away the empty can and stared at him in astonishment:
"What in thunder do you mean? I ain't hunting for anybody. I was
hunting Round Seven horses. I ran onto the bunch back there on the
bench and when they headed down this coulee I took after them, but I
guess they gave me the slip somewhere."
"They wouldn't of come very fer down into the bad lands. They run up
some side coulee, an' doubled back on you. But, it don't make no
partic'lar difference, fer as that goes. I'll go 'long with you
anyhow. I'd ruther you'd git the money than anyone else, on account
of what you done fer my brother."
Connie laughed: "I guess you're talking to the wrong person. I don't
know anything about this money. And I told you I wasn't hunting for
anybody. And I don't know anything about your brother."
"No, I ain't talkin' to no wrong person. I know who you be, all
right. Yer the Round Seven Kid--that's what folks calls you around
here. They took you fer a joke at first, but sense you've cleaned
out Bob Harmon an' his gang an' run Curry off the crick, an' them
other fake nesters, they've begun to set up an' take notice. John
Grey, the sheepman, he's my brother. The Round Seven's be'n tryin'
to bust him, an' they'd of got him this year, sure. John was on his
last legs when you come along. An' what do you do? Do you give him
the last push that would shoved his nose in under? You don't. You
reaches out an' sets him on his feet agin. You loans him a team,
gives him back more hay than what the Round Seven cattle et up. An'
then you digs down in yer pocket an' loans him the money to lamb out
his band. An' yer men's got orders to keep the cattle off'n his
sheep range. Dick Grey's my name. I'm outlawed, an' I be'n hidin'
out fer the last six months in the bad lands. But I slip over an'
see John now an' then, an' Samuels, an' Campbell, an' kind of keep
posted. So, bein' as things is, I'd ruther you'd git the five
hundred dollars' reward that's on me, than anyone else."
Again Connie laughed: "You're out of luck, if you expect me to take
you in. I ain't looking for any reward money. So the best thing for
you to do is to turn around and beat it, and I'll go on back home."
The man shook his head: "It's this way," he said. "I'm tired of
bein' on the run. I'm broke. I'm outlawed so I can't git a job on
no cow-outfit. The only way I could keep goin' would be to turn into
a real outlaw an' start in runnin' off horses. I guess I could git
away with it, all right--but I don't aim to do it."
"Are you a cow-hand?" asked the boy, abruptly.
"I ain't never worked at nothin' else."
"All right, you come right along with me to the ranch. I don't know
why you were outlawed. You don't look to me like a crook. Anyway,
after what you did for me, I'm willing to take a chance. If you want
to work, I'll give you a job."
"I ain't no crook, neither. They's plenty of 'em that knows me will
tell you the same thing. It was a frame-up to git my claim. But, I
ain't a-goin' to git you in bad--not after what you done fer John, I
ain't."
Connie reached for his bridle reins, and mounted: "You come with me,"
he ordered. "We'll go to the ranch, an' get something to eat, and
then you can tell me about it. If it's true that you're the victim
of a frame-up, I'll stand back of you with every dollar I've got!
And before we get through with it, someone's goin' to get hurt!"
"I'll go along an' tell you about it," agreed the man, "But, that's
the end of it. I ain't goin' to git you mixed up in it. The PU.'s a
big outfit. They'd bust you. An' you can't buck Major Hogan. He's
a big man around these parts."
"Yes, and the bigger they are the harder they fall--don't forget
that. If we've got the right on our side we don't need to be afraid
of 'em no matter who they are. And as for busting me, I'll take a
chance on that. Believe me, if they try that game, they'll know
they've be'n somewhere! It'll cost 'em a half a dozen outfits the
size of the PU. Where would I be now if you hadn't dropped that
bullet right under my nose?"
The Round Seven ranch house lay dark in its little grove of
cottonwoods and willows as the two riders topped the rim of Eagle and
descended into the valley of the creek.
After putting up the horses, Connie led the way to the kitchen where
he proceeded to "rustle" a cold lunch. He had just got nicely
started when the door of the cook's room opened and Walt Jones
appeared, bare-footed, and with one strap of his suspenders a-dangle.
He stood for a moment in the doorway, blinking from one to the other
of the marauders.
"Hello, Walt," grinned Grey.
"Hello, Dick." The cook advanced into the room. "You two chase
yerselves out of here an' don't come back till you hear me yelp," he
ordered.
"Go on back to bed, Walt," Connie answered, "We can find all we want."
"Yes, an' mess up my kitchen till _I_ won't never be able to find
what _I_ want no more!" As he talked the cook had laid a fire in the
big stove, liberally drenched the wood and kindlings with kerosene,
touched a match to it, and already the flames were roaring up the
stove pipe. "Go on, git! Things is comin' to a pretty pass when a
man wakes up in the middle of the night an' finds his kitchen full of
outlaws an' coffee-coolers clawin' around amongst the grub. Clear
out, now, an' give me room to move around, an' in a few minutes I'll
holler."
Connie laughed and led the way to the living room where, after
removing spurs and chaps, Grey lighted his pipe and tilted his chair
against the wall. Connie, similarly divested of riding gear,
regarded the man thoughtfully for a few moments. "It's like this,
Dick," he began, abruptly: "If I'm going to work and straighten this
trouble out, I've got to know the facts in the case just as they
happened."
Grey nodded: "It won't take long to tell 'em. I've rode fer the PU.
fer the last five er six years an' a couple of years ago I filed on a
homestead on the crick jest below the PU. fences. It run along till
about six months ago, an' one day the Major was out to the ranch.
You know he's manager of the PU. as well as Injun agent. Some says
it's agin the law to be both. I don't know. Anyways he hunted me up
an' asks me what I'm aimin' to do with that claim. I told him I
aimed to prove up on it when the time come an' start me a little
outfit of my own. That didn't suit him none whatever. It don't
never suit no big outfit fer to have nesters comin' into the country.
They want to hog the hull State of Montany. 'How long you helt it?'
he says, "Bout a year an' a half," I tells him. 'You've had it long
enough so you kin prove up by buyin' in fer a dollar an' a quarter an
acre,' he says. I told him I know'd that, but I aimed to take the
hull five years to prove up, an' save the two hundred dollars it
would cost me to buy it in. 'You'll buy it in now,' he says. 'I'll
put up the money, an' when you git yer patent I'll give you another
two hundred fer it.' I told him I didn't aim to sell it, an' he got
mad an' cussed around an' threatened what he'd do to me if I didn't
sell out to the PU. I let him go an' when he'd got through I quit
the outfit, an' then I up an' told him a few. We had it backward an'
forward fer a while, until he up an' called me a name I won't take
off'n no man livin', I don't care if he's manager of an' outfit, an'
Injun agent er what he is. So I hauled off an' pasted him one that
blacked both his eyes, an' then I throw'd the kak on my cayuse an'
fogged it. I come down here to John's fer a few days, but I don't
like to be around sheep much, so I drifted over an' helped Mike
Campbell an' Samuels with their stock, just grub-linin', sort of,
till the round-up started when I aimed to hit the IX. outfit fer a
job.
"Well, I was ridin' one day south of the reservation, when I come
onto a PU. mare an' a young colt. The colt was so lame he couldn't
put one fore foot to the ground, so I dobbed my rope onto him an'
throwed him to see what was the matter. He'd run a mean sliver right
up into the frog an' I was workin' on it when I looks up, an' there
set the Major an' a couple of his cow-hands lookin' at me. 'Caught
in the act!' I says, sort of grinnin' up at 'em, an' quick as a
flash, the Major he turns to the boys an' he orders 'em to make a
ride down Cow Crick. Then he rides right up to where I'm workin'
with my knife on that sliver. I didn't say nothin' an' he didn't
neither till I'd finished an' turned the colt loose. Then he says:
'I guess you'll sell me that claim, now, won't you?' he says. 'No,'
says I. 'I won't. Not now, nor no other time.' 'All right,' he
says, 'Suit yerself. If you don't you'll do time fer horse stealin'.
Take yer pick.' 'Horse stealin'?' I says, 'You know blame well I
wasn't doin' no horse stealin'. I seen that colt would die or be
stiffened up fer life if that sliver wasn't got out, so I done it.
An' you know blame well that's the truth--you've set there an'
watched me do it fer the last fifteen minutes. An' besides, them
other boys seen it, too.' The Major, he laughs: 'What they saw,' he
says, 'from where we pulled up our horses, was you with an unbranded
colt on the ground, and a PU. mare runnin' circles around you
whinnerin' her head off. I took good care to get the boys out of the
way before they saw any more. They saw just enough to put you behind
the bars--an' no more.'
"I couldn't hardly believe a man would be that ornery. Here was me
workin' to save one of his colts, an' him usin' it agin me to make me
sell him my claim, or go to the pen! I seen in a minute that what he
said was true. Them boys was square, all right, an' not bein' clost
enough to see what was goin' on, they'd swear to what they seen--an'
any jury would convict a man on that, 'special, when the Major could
prove I had a grudge agin him an' had blacked his eyes. I seen I was
in bad, an' I was mad clean through.
"You see, the Major, he'd git the claim now, no matter which way
things went. If I agreed to buy it in an' sell it to him, he'd have
it, an' if I didn't he'd outlaw me, an' I wouldn't dare to show up to
do my assessment work an' 'stablish residence, an' then it would go
back to the Government an' he'd git someone else to file that would
sell to him.
"Right then was the only time I ever wanted to shoot a man, but I
helt onto myself--even draw'd my gun an' unloaded it an' put the
cartridges in my pocket. I was afraid he'd say somethin' that would
make me lose my head fer a second--an' I know'd that if I had to stop
to load up my gat, I'd have time to git my right senses back before I
done somethin' I'd be sorry fer. It wound up by me lightin' in an'
tellin' him an earful, an' then we rode off in opposite directions.
"To make his play right good, the Major got some of his cow-hands to
hair-brand three or four PU. colts with my horse brand. I don't
reckon the boys know'd it was my brand. I never used it because I
never had nothin' but a saddle horse an' I always had a bill of sale
fer it. But I had recorded the brand when I filed the claim, an' the
Major know'd it. They was his colts an' I guess the boys figgered if
he wanted 'em hair-branded that was his business. Anyhow, after he'd
done that he sent fer the sheriff an' took him out on the range an'
show'd him these colts, an' the two boys told how they seen me with a
PU. colt throw'd. The Major posted a two hundred an' fifty dollar
reward, an' the State, or County, or Stock Association or someone put
up another two-fifty, an' I was outlawed. I hit fer the bad lands,
an' I be'n there ever since. But, I'm through. I'm broke, an' it's
come, like I told you, to where I either got to turn horse-thief to
live, or give myself up. An' I don't aim to turn horse-thief."
The cook thrust his head into the room and announced supper, and all
through the meal Connie pondered. When it was finished, and they
were once more in the living room, the boy grinned: "We'll turn in,
now," he said. "It's nearly one o'clock."
"I guess I'll jest hit out," said Grey. "If the sheriff should
happen to come along an' find me here, it would git you in bad fer
harborin' an outlaw."
"That's your room in there," answered the boy, ignoring the other's
words. "In the morning we'll get busy and straighten this thing
out--or start in on it, anyway."
Grey shook his head: "I can't figger no way out. They got too good a
case. Them hair-branded colts was what cinched it."
"Yes," answered the boy, "That's exactly what did cinch it--_for us_.
If the Major had had sense enough to have made out his case on the
evidence he had when you and he parted that day, things would have
looked pretty bad. But, the way it is, now we've got everything our
way. You see, I spent a year in the Mounted, and I learned a few
things about crooks. One thing I learned was that it's just as
dangerous for a crook to over-play his hand, as it is for him to get
careless and underplay it. That's why a crook has got the hardest
job in the world. He's got one thin line to travel on--and that's
all. And it takes more brains than most men have got, to find that
line, and to travel it. The trouble with Major Hogan, is: He
overplayed his hand!"
CHAPTER XIX
AT THE AGENCY
After breakfast on the morning following Connie's talk with the
outlaw, the boy called Tex aside: "Know a fellow named Dick Grey?" he
asked.
"Sure, I know him. Brother to John Grey down the crick. Worked with
him on the PU. couple of years back. Heard he'd got into some kind
of rookus with Major Hogan, an' the Major got him outlawed fer
horse-stealin'."
"Do you believe it--that Grey's a horse thief?"
"No, I wouldn't believe nothin' Major Hogan said, unless he had the
papers for it. An' then I wouldn't believe Dick Grey's a horse
thief. 'Cause he ain't. What you want to know about him for?"
"I want to give him a job. He says he's a cowhand."
"There ain't no better one. But--he's outlawed."
"That's just it. And we've got to fix it so he isn't outlawed,"
answered the boy, and proceeded to tell the whole story to Tex, just
as Grey had told it to him the night before. "And, now, what are we
going to do about it?" he concluded.
The foreman grinned: "Anyone around here that would undertake to buck
the Major would prob'ly find out he'd bit off more than he can chaw.
He's a pretty slick article. He does just about as he pleases, an'
what he says goes."
"What do you mean?" asked the boy.
"Well, there's Cato Emery. He's the Major's agency clerk. He an' I
are pretty good friends, an' he tells me a lot of things he wouldn't
tell no one else. For instance, about the Major, as Injun Agent,
makin' contracts with the PU. Cattle Co., the Major bein' manager of
the PU. They say that's agin the law. An' if it ain't it ought to
be, 'cause the PU. pays for pasturin' five thousan' head on the
reservation, an' then they run in ten or fifteen thousan'. An' other
outfits that run cattle there--like our five hundred head--the
Government never sees a cent of that money. It all sticks to the
Major. They ain't even a report goes in of any other cattle bein' on
the reservation for the reason that it's figured that five thousan'
head is all it will pasture."
"How does he get away with it?" asked the boy.
"Greasin' wise inspectors, an' bluffin' green ones. He's the biggest
bluffer loose, the Major is. He's got every one bluffed."
"He hasn't got me bluffed," answered the boy, quickly. "And besides,
this bluffing game is a game that two can play. There isn't any way
we could find out whether it's true about those hair brands, is
there?"
"We might," answered Tex. "Two of our boys worked for the PU. up
till a couple months ago. Maybe they know somethin' about it. Wait
here a minute."
The foreman stepped to the corral, and returned a few moments later
followed by one of the boys who was helping to break a broncho. "Red
Carney, here, he''s one of the _hombres_ that helped do it. Tell us
about it, Red."
"Well, the Major he come along one day, an' he says how he wanted me
an' Bill Hansen to ride with him down to the big pasture where they
was a lot of mares an' colts. There's a corral down there an' he had
us run in a half a dozen head an' cut out the colts an' turn the
mares back in the pasture. 'I want to play a joke on a friend of
mine,' he says, 'An' I want you boys to take these clippers an' work
a hair brand onto them colts. We won't let 'em out onto the range,'
he says, 'We'll jest let 'em run with the mares in the field.' So we
went to work an' done it, him watchin' on till we was through."
"What brand did you put on them?" asked the boy.
"It was a quarter-circle D, like this." He traced the brand in the
dirt with a stick.
"Whose brand is that?" asked Connie.
"I don't know if it's anyone's brand. That's the way he wanted it,
an' that's the way we done it. They was his colts, an' we didn't ask
no questions."
"What did you do with the colts when you got through?" asked Tex.
"Turned 'em out in the field again with the mares. Then we went back
to the ranch, but the Major, he rode on. Next day one of the boys
found where the wires to the big pasture had be'n cut an' all the
mares an' colts was scattered clean to the Mizoo. Kind of funny,
about that cuttin'," grinned Red. "When the Major was clawin' around
in his pocket after them clippers, the first thing he brung out was a
pair of wire-cuttin' pliers. He never know'd I seen 'em, an' he
slipped 'em back. It wasn't none of my business--it was his fence."
After the cow-boy had returned to the corral, Connie turned to Tex:
"That Quarter-circle D is Dick Grey's horse brand. He told me.
Guess I'll just saddle up and ride to town for a day or so. It's
sort of dull around here----"
"Say, boss,": interrupted Tex, "If you aim to slip over to the
reservation an' lock horns with the Major, take me along, will you?
That there is sure one projeck I'm honin' to see!"
Connie laughed. "Dick Grey is in the house. Keep him here at the
ranch, and tomorrow I'll telephone you where to meet me. I'll
probably want him to go with me, and you can come, too, if you want
to."
In town, the boy hunted up the sheriff who greeted him cordially:
"Hello, Morgan! Got any more cattle rustlers rounded up?"
"No, not exactly," grinned the boy. "I know where Dick Grey is,
though."
The sheriff regarded him curiously: "What you mean?" he asked.
"Why, Dick Grey's an outlaw, isn't he? You want him, don't you?"
The officer, seated upon a bench in front of the livery and boarding
stable, reached down with his knife, before replying, and speared a
chip. "Set down a bit," he invited, "An' tell me about Dick. He
ain't be'n botherin' yer stock, has he?"
"No, but there's a reward up for him, isn't there?"
"Seems to me they is," replied the sheriff, and the boy noted that
the tone was as hard and as cold as the thin, keen blade that sliced
a shaving from the chip. "Where 'bouts is he at? You claimed to
know."
It was with difficulty that Connie maintained a grave face: "He's at
my ranch."
Another shaving curled from the chip and fell to the sidewalk.
"You're holdin' him down there fer me to come an' git him so you kin
claim the reward?" The man's cordiality was all gone, now; and the
boy caught the note of contempt in the words. His mouth twitched at
the corners just as the sheriff cast a sidewise glance into his face.
The next moment the officer's elbow dug him a prod in the ribs:
"Doggone you, boy! You had me goin' fer sure." The lips behind the
drooping mustache were grinning. "I had you sized up different than
that--an' you kind of give me a jolt. Come on, now--what's on your
chest? They ain't no one here but us two."
"They say Dick's a good cow-hand, and I want to hire him."
The officer frowned, and shook his head, slowly: "I sure wisht you
could, Morgan, but--'twouldn't work. They's plenty folks would talk.
'Twouldn't be no time till Major Hogan heard about it, an' I'd have
to go down there an' fetch him in."
Connie nodded: "That's just what I figured," he answered. "But
suppose Major Hogan should withdraw his charge against him, or at
least, for some reason or other, should refuse to prosecute him, what
then?"
"Well, in such case, me an' Rudie Weight, he's the prosecutin'
attorney, we might kind of git together an' have the warrant
withdraw'd or nolled, or whatever they call it. But, they ain't no
chanct that Hogan'll let up on him. He ain't that kind. When he
onct gits it in fer a man, that man might's well pull his freight. I
don't know the inside of that there deal, but I'd bet a hat, Dick
never branded no PU. colts, without he slapped the PU. brand onto
'em."
"I know the inside of it," answered the boy, "And that's what I came
to see you about." For a half-hour he talked while the sheriff
listened, as he sliced thin shavings from his chip. Only one
interruption occurred when a loquacious person adorned with a brand
new mail-order cow costume swaggered up and seated himself beside the
officer: "Hello, shurff! How's every little thing?"
The sheriff regarded him coldly: "Little things like this here bench
ain't commodious fer more'n two folks to onct." He pointed with his
knife blade to a vacant chair in front of the hotel across the
street: "If you ain't suited to keep on walkin', that there chair ort
to fit your shape purty good."
"But, I got somethin' to tell you," answered the man, with an
elaborate wink.
"Don't fergit to remember it next time you see me. Good day."
When the man had passed out of hearing Connie finished his story, and
the officer continued to whittle for several minutes. Then, very
deliberately, he tossed away the remnant of his chip and put up his
knife. "I guess that's about the straight of it. But, that don't
git us nowheres. Knowin' somethin's one thing, an' bein' able to
prove it's another. You couldn't prove nothin' you've told me.
Hogan's got enough folks under his thumb so he's about law proof.
Them that's be'n in with him on these here deals would have to stay
by him to save their own hides, an' besides, he's got plenty others
to swear the way he tells 'em. Fact is, he's got this here country
pretty well bluffed, an' he goes ahead an' does just about as he
pleases, gover'ment or no gover'ment. When it come to a show-down
he'd wiggle out somehow, an' then he'd start in to git even with
every man that had anythin' to do with it."
Connie smiled: "I've got a hunch that it will never come to a
show-down. You see, I haven't been in the country long enough to be
afraid of him. And I've noticed that the last thing in the world
that a bluffer wants is a show-down. A bluffer's got to either quit
cold, or keep on bluffing. Isn't that right?"
The sheriff nodded: "Sounds reasonable, an' jibes in with, what you
might say, numerous an' sundry observations of my own, except an'
pervidin' you've left out one main item. In order to force this here
bluffin' party's hand, you got to find someone that's got the nerve
an' the where-with-all to make him quit. There's plenty folks would
like to see Hogan's bluff called, but there ain't no one that would
care to undertake the job of callin' it."
"Tex is going to pull the wagons in a few days and I promised Dick
Grey a job on the beef round-up," answered Connie. "So, I guess I'll
just saddle up and ride over to the reservation. And by the way, if
Hogan should happen to call you up and withdraw his charge against
Dick, you be ready to take it up with the district attorney."
"You mean you're goin' over there an' lock horns with the Major! An'
you, what you might say, jest a kid! Son, they wouldn't be enough
left of you when you got through to grease a skillit! You, with
cattle on the range, ain't in no shape to buck him--he'd ruin you!"
Connie laughed: "There's a fellow up our way that makes his living
fiddling for dances, and killing meat for the camps. He isn't a very
big man, but he's killed more bear and moose, I guess, than any man
in Alaska. Fiddling Taylor, they call him, and one day he came onto
a big grizzly asleep on a rock. Taylor got his rifle all ready, and
then picked up a dead spruce sapling and prodded the bear in the ribs
to hear him growl."
"Well, what happened?" asked the sheriff, after some moments of
silence.
"The bear growled all right. Gee! Taylor said you could have heard
him four miles up and down the creek. He wasn't over ten feet away,
and he held his rifle right on the bear's eye. But, when the bear
moved, he moved so quick Taylor couldn't shoot."
Connie paused again.
"But, doggone it! What happened?"
"Why, the bear's going yet. You see, when he moved, he moved the
other way. As far as bulk goes, the bear would have made ten of
Taylor, but----"
"Haw, haw, haw!" roared the sheriff. "I git you, all right, son.
I'll be in town fer the next couple days. You might swing around
this way 'fore you go back to the ranch."
Connie called up the Round Seven, and about noon the next day he
picked up Tex and Dick Grey at the reservation fence, and together
they rode to the agency.
A half-dozen Indians were at work painting the agency buildings, and
as they drew near Tex indicated a tall man with a huge gray mustache
and pointed imperial, who seemed to be directing the work: "There's
the Major now. An' there's Steve Longknife, his pet Injun police.
That buildin' they're workin' on is the agency jailhouse. Shines up
pretty good on the outside, don't it, Dick?"
The man addressed grinned a grin that seemed to lack wholeheartedness.
"Dick kind of figgers it ain't goin' to make no difference to him how
it looks on the outside," hazarded the foreman.
The three dismounted and Connie stepped forward, as the tall grey man
turned to meet them: "Major Hogan?" asked the boy.
"That's me. What do you want? Be quick about it. I haven't got
time to fool around."
"Morgan is my name. I'm the new owner of the Round Seven."
"You!"
The boy flushed at the mingled surprise and contempt of the man's
tone. "Yes, me," he answered, but before he could continue, he was
interrupted by the voice of the Major, who had taken a step forward
his eyes on the face of Dick Grey.
"Of all the confounded nerve!" he roared. "I'll put you where you
belong, Dick Grey! Hey, Steve! Steve!" The Indian policeman was at
his side in a moment and Hogan pointed a finger shaking with rage at
Dick Grey. "Take that man and lock him in a cell! Might as well not
have any sheriff when outlaws with a price on their heads can ride
the open range! Maybe McLaughlin can find him, now. Wait till I
phone him!" The Major turned abruptly and stamped into the office.
Grey submitted peacefully to arrest, and Connie and Tex followed the
Major into the building.
A few minutes later Sheriff McLaughlin stepped out of the telephone
booth in Red Bank, and shook his head dolefully: "Young Morgan must
of give the Major an awful proddin'. Accordin' to his tell, that
there bear of Taylor's could of be'n heard four mile an' I jest heard
the Major growl better'n twenty-two mile! An' it looks from here
like he'd follered up his growl. I told that kid he better lay off
the Major!"
CHAPTER XX
CONNIE CALLS A BLUFF
In the agency office, Hogan snapped the receiver onto the hook, and
glared contemptuously at Connie: "Your maw don't care what kind of
company you keep, does she?" he snapped.
"She didn't know I was coming here--to the agency," answered the boy.
"What?"
"I say, she didn't know I was coming over here to see you."
"I was talking about Dick Grey. Didn't you know he's an outlaw?"
"Yes," answered the boy, looking the man squarely in the eye. "And I
know why. That's one of the things I wanted to see you about. There
are some other things, too."
"Well, spit it out."
"About those cattle of mine that I'm pasturing on the reservation.
Mr. Rutledge, here, my man, reports that the Indians have killed
several head for beef."
"Well, what about it?"
"He says they don't kill any PU. stuff on the reservation for beef."
"That's your hard luck. What you going to do about it?"
"I'm going to put in a claim for damages."
The man sneered: "Claim for damages, eh? All right, put it in. But,
I'll tell you before you do, you might as well save yourself the
trouble. The Government don't guarantee you'll take as many head off
the reservation in the fall as you put on in the spring. All your
fifty cents a head buys, is the right to pasturage."
"I'd like to see a copy of the permit, please."
"What permit?"
"Why, the permit under which I am pasturing five hundred head of
cattle on the reservation."
"Oh, you would, eh? Well, you can't."
"I've got a right to see it, haven't I?"
"I'm the agent of this reservation, an' what rights you've got here
are just what I say you've got. You get that, do you?"
Connie nodded: "Yes, I get it. And, now about Dick Grey. I wish you
would call up the sheriff again, or the prosecuting attorney and tell
him that you've decided to drop the case against Grey, and are
withdrawing the reward. You see, I've hired him for a rider, and I
kind of want to get his record cleared up."
The Major glared for a moment as though the boy had taken leave of
his senses. "What! What--what in thunder do you mean? Of all the
impudent young puppies I ever heard of! Look here, if you want to
file any fool complaint, go ahead and write it out and then get out
of here! And let me give you a little advice, young fellow, if you
expect to stay in this country it isn't going to do you any good to
be mixed up with crooks and horse thieves."
"That's good advice, Major. And that's the reason I want to get
Dick's case straightened out. You see, I know all about his claim
that you want to get hold of, and about the hair-branding that you
ordered done in the corral that day, and about your cutting the fence
afterward. One of the boys that did the branding is working for me."
"Look here," roared the Major, "I don't know what you're talking
about! If anybody's been feeding you up on any cock-and-bull story
all I've got to say is to let 'em tell it to the judge when Grey has
his trial. I guess when I get through with what I've got to say, and
the boys on the PU. ranch, any testimony your lone cow-hand brings
out will look kind of sickly. But, I've listened to enough of this
nonsense. Here's a pen and paper. Write out your fool complaint and
get out of here!"
"Oh, I'm not going to file any complaint here," answered the boy.
"When the inspector from Washington comes I'll file it with him."
"Inspector from Washington! What in thunder are you talking about?'
"If he started yesterday he ought to be along in a day or two. You
see, Major, I'm a sort of a green hand around this part of the
country, and I've had to do a lot of enquiring around. I've found
out quite a lot of things, but there are some things that aren't
quite clear yet. And the funny part of it is that the Indian
Department at Washington is almost as much in the dark as I am.
That's why they're going to send this inspector out so you can help
him straighten things out. Why, they haven't any record of any Round
Seven cattle ever having been pastured on the reservation, nor any
other brands except the PU. And, they think there's only about five
thousand head of PU. cattle on the reservation, and of course we know
there's ten or fifteen thousand head. And, maybe you wouldn't
believe it, Major, but they don't even know you're manager of the
PU.!"
At first mention of the inspector the blood had rushed into the
Major's face flushing it a fiery red, but at the next few sentences
the blood slowly receded, and his whole figure seemed to shrink so
that when Connie finished his face was deathly pale, and he sat
slouched down in his chair, speechless, like a man who had been
stunned. "What--what do you--mean?" he asked, in a bewildered tone
that faltered as though his brain groped for words.
"Why, I mean that in a couple of days now, we will have this business
all cleared up, and----"
"And, you say there's a special inspector coming from Washington?
Coming here--without notice!"
"I don't know anything about any notice. But, if he started
yesterday he ought to be here tomorrow, or next day. It's according
to the connections he makes at Chicago and St. Paul."
"Why in thunder didn't you come to me with this instead of taking it
up with the department?" There was a hint of the man's habitual
bluster in the tone, and it was evident that his fright was giving
place to rage. "You've stirred up a nice mess! Young man, do you
know you've ruined me? You young fool! Don't you know that if you'd
come to me first with what you've just told me, you could have forced
me to pay for your dead beef, and let you pasture on the reservation
in the future for nothing, and withdraw my charge against Grey
besides? Now, I've got to skip the country or be hauled up before
the department, and you don't get a cent out of it, one way or
another! That's what comes of a fool kid blundering around without
knowing the first principles of business."
"Where I came from crookedness isn't figured as one of the principles
of business," answered the boy dryly. "You see, since I took hold of
the Round Seven, I've had to kind of jump in and help clean up the
country. Men like you and Bill Harmon have been pulling it pretty
raw around here just because nobody figured it was their business to
call your bluff. You're right about having to either skip the
country, or being hauled up before the department. But you're dead
wrong about it's not doing me a cent's worth of good. It will do me,
and the Indians, and the whole country good, to have you some place
else. But, before you go, you're going to pay me for twelve head of
steers at forty dollars a head, and you're going to turn Dick Grey
loose, and then call up the sheriff and tell him you have withdrawn
your charge against him. Maybe he's started for here, but if he has
you can leave a note for him, before you pull out for somewhere else."
The man's face reddened almost to a purple: "You confounded young
whelp! I'll--I'll--Are you so blamed ignorant you can't get it
through your head that you've lost your only chance of getting paid
for those steers? And, as for Grey, that horse-thieving charge will
hang over him till it outlaws, for all of me! You've forced me out
of the country with your bull-headed blundering--but it will cost you
something to do it!"
"It isn't the money I care about. Ridding the country of a man like
you is worth a whole lot more than the price of a few steers. And,
of course Dick Grey could stand trial and be acquitted if you weren't
here to prosecute him. It isn't that--it's just that I'd hate to see
you go away thinking you had put anything over on me."
"You've got a fat chance of making me do anything you propose!
You've shot your bolt! You're through!"
"Not quite," answered Connie. "Have you stopped to think where you
would have been if I had waited and ridden down here with the
inspector? The way it is, you've got at least a day or two the start
of him. That's a little act of kindness, maybe, on my part. But I
don't expect you will come across on that score. I knew if I came
down here with nothing but bluff and bluster to back my play I
wouldn't have any better chance to win out than you had."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, for instance, I don't suppose you've heard that my foreman,
here, Mr. Rutledge had been appointed deputy sheriff. And maybe you
don't know that putting another man's brand on your own colts with
intent to injure another is a criminal offense. But it is. As you
say, it is possible that when the case came to trial, you and your
paid witnesses could secure your acquittal. Just suppose, though,
that Mr. Rutledge should arrest you on that charge and take you back
to town. With Judge Colter somewhere in the mountains fishing it
might be several days before you could arrange for bail. In the
meantime we will just suppose that the inspector has arrived from
Washington--" The sentence was interrupted by a sharp click, as the
major jerked the telephone receiver from its hook and called central
in a voice that had lost its bluster.
"Hello, this is Major Hogan. Can you get the sheriff again? What?
Horseback? Well, yell at him! It's important." Several moments of
silence followed, and at length the voice spoke again! "Hello,
McLaughlin? Yes. Lucky she caught you. Said you were just riding
by. It's about that Dick Grey case. I want you to fix it up to have
that charge withdrawn. Yes, that's right--withdrawn. I just found
out it was a mistake. Yes. Get it off the books, will you? Yes.
I'll explain next time I see you. Glad I saved you the ride. Good
Bye." Reaching into his desk the man withdrew a check book, and
without looking up, asked: "How much did you say that was--for those
steers?"
"There have been twelve head butchered that we know of, and I figure
them at forty dollars," answered Connie. "That's--let's see--it's
four hundred and eighty dollars, isn't it?"
Without answering, the man wrote out the check and handed it to
Connie who folded it carefully and placed it in his pocket. "Thank
you, Major," he said. "And, now, if you'll turn Dick loose, I guess
we'll be going."
That evening as the three sat down to supper in the Chinaman's
restaurant in Red Bank, the door opened and Sheriff McLaughlin looked
in. Connie motioned him to the empty chair opposite: "Come on,
Sheriff, have supper with us!"
"Don't know but what I will," answered the officer, as he seated
himself, and shook the hand that Dick Grey had outstretched: "Glad to
see you, Dick!"
Dick grinned: "An' I'm gladder to see you, Mac, than any time for the
last six months. You give me a narrow squeak one time. Down in
Black Coulee, it was, about three months ago. You rode past within
arm's reach of me!"
"Uh-huh," answered the sheriff. "An' if I hadn't know'd you wasn't
no more a horse-thief than what I am, I'd of retched out my arm an'
nabbed you. I couldn't hardly keep from laughin' when I was goin'
past."
"You know'd I was there!" cried Grey in such evident surprise that
the others all laughed.
"Say, son," grinned the sheriff, "next time you want to hide from
anyone, an' it's a sunshiney day, jest you either pull them silver
conchos off'n yer chaps, or else cover 'em up. I rode up that coulee
fer a half a mile or more, with about eight of them conchos
a-flickerin' in my eyes like a row of street lamps. But, how come
you an' Morgan hooked up?"
Connie, himself told the story of the poison spring, and Tex followed
it with a glowing account of the interview with Major Hogan. "But,
what I can't figger out," he concluded, turning to Connie, "is how in
thunder you got such quick action with the Indian Department in
Washington?"
"Indian Department?" said the boy, "I never had anything to do with
the Indian Department. All I said was just what your friend the
agency clerk told you--that the department didn't know anything about
the Round Seven cattle being on the reservation, and that they
thought there were only five thousand head of PU. cattle there, and
that they didn't know that the Major was manager of the PU."
"But--you said there would be an inspector----"
"Oh, no, I didn't!" smiled the boy. "Do you know, I believe maybe
the Major thought I said that, too. But what I really said was that
an inspector ought to be along tomorrow or next day if he had started
from Washington yesterday. Which is a perfectly evident fact to
anyone who will take the trouble to figure it out."
"You mean," cried Tex, staring in open-mouthed astonishment, "that it
was all a bluff?"
"Just a bluff," answered the boy. "I told the sheriff that I
believed the easiest man in the world to bluff was the man who
bluffed most himself. Didn't I, sheriff?"
"You sure did," admitted the officer. "But, believe me, I never
thought you could work it on _him_!"
Tex roared with laughter: "An' on top of that he makes him turn Dick
Grey loose, and pay fer the steers the Injuns killed! He told him I
was a deputy sheriff----"
"No, no! Tex! Why, that would have been a lie! All I said was that
I didn't suppose he had heard that you had been appointed deputy
sheriff. In fact, he couldn't have heard it. You never have been
appointed a deputy sheriff."
Another roar of laughter greeted the words, and Tex asked: "But how
did you know that things would break just right, like Judge Colter
bein' off fishin' so it would take several days to get bail."
Connie shook his head, sadly: "Tex, there is something wrong with
your hearing. I didn't say Judge Colter was away fishing. Only that
'with Judge Colter away fishing, it would take several days to get
bail,' and, it would, wouldn't it sheriff?"
"It surely would, son," answered McLaughlin. And, as they all rose
from the table, he turned to Dick Grey, with a grin: "I was jest
a-wonderin', Dick, how you was goin' to like yer new boss."
"Huh!" answered Grey, as he set his Stetson firmly upon his head, "if
he don't fire me first, he's goin' to have to bury me when I git an
old, old man!"
CHAPTER XXI
THE COWBOYS HELP OUT
Connie, and Tex, and Dick Grey returned to the Round Seven ranch to
find the riders already beginning to assemble for the beef round-up.
Some there were who had ridden the spring round-up, for Tex had only
held over a few of his best men. But there were new faces, also,
riders who had never before worked for the Round Seven. Campbell,
and Samuels were on hand, glad of the chance to earn a little money,
and at the same time gather their own beef for shipment with the
Round Seven stuff, an opportunity that had never been accorded them
under Harmon's management.
After supper as Connie and Tex were seated upon the edge of the porch
planning the round-up, Tombstone joined them, the inevitable spear of
hay dangling loosely from between his lips.
"How they comin', Tombstone?" asked Tex. "Got the hay all up, yet?"
Tombstone regarded the range foreman with a glance of pity: "That 'ud
be you, settin' there with more men on yer hands than you know what
to do with, askin' me if the hay's all up, which I'm workin'
practically, what you might say, short handed. Things is runnin'
behind. I don't know what we're all a-comin' to. But, I got two
good weeks' hayin' still onto my hands, an' besides which, they's
them two eighty-rod stretches of fencin' to do, if we don't want them
new ditches all tromped flat. Then on top of that they's the plowin'
an' seedin' the field down to hay. They ain't nobody, without it's a
wagon boss, that's ever ketched up with his work."
Tex laughed: "For a first class, right an' left handed pessimist I'll
back you agin the world! But, you spoke a true word when you said
I've got more men on my hands than I know what to do with. I won't
be ready to pull the wagons fer a week yet on account of havin' to
catch up a few more horses off the range fer the remuda. I only need
two or three boys with me, an' that'll leave a dozen or so, countin'
a few that ain't showed up yet, with nothin' to do but hang around
the ranch. Suppose I was to turn 'em all over to you, would it help
you out any?"
Tombstone shifted the stalk of hay to the opposite corner of his
mouth and nodded thoughtfully: "Yes, if I hed ten or a dozen good men
fer a week I could clean up the hay, an' the heft of the fencin' to
boot. But them there cowboys ain't goin' to jump in an' tackle no
hayin' an' fencin' job. They think they're too good fer to do ranch
hand's work."
"Well, maybe," admitted Tex. "Sometimes, though, it depends on who
wants 'em to, an' how you go at 'em. Layin' around doin' nothin' fer
a week gets kind of monotonous, an' besides if they go to work their
pay starts now, instead of when the wagons pull. I'll slip down to
the bunk house d'rectly an' see how it strikes 'em."
"Chances is, 'twon't do no good," forboded Tombstone. "Them cowboys
is upity. Though why they'd ruther set in a saddle on top of one of
them cayuses from sun-up till dark, than work in the hay field is
more'n what I know. Personal, I'd as lief someone was to turn me
over a wagon tongue an' pound me with a post maul. Ranch work is
easy an' it's safe, both of which ridin' ain't neither one. They
ain't none of them cowboys knows what minute he's goin' to git his
neck broke, or git landed into a prickly pear patch, on account his
horse steps into a dog-hole an' breaks his leg. An' besides that
they got to live off'n alkali water, an' crawl out to stand guard
nights, an' sleep, rain or shine, with their beds on the hard ground.
It's plumb redic'lus fer a job--but, at that, I bet they won't none
of 'em do ranch work, even fer a week."
"We'll give 'em a chance," grinned Tex, and rising abruptly, walked
to the bunk house in front of which four cowboys were pitching horse
shoes, while others sprawled about, or busied themselves with
repairing their gear. The foreman plunged directly into his subject:
"When I told you-all to show up here around this time I expected we'd
be ready to pull the wagons pronto. But, the facts is, we won't be
ready to pull for a week, yet. We would of be'n if the big boss
hadn't dropped his own business to step out of his way an' do a good
turn to a common cow puncher. You-all know Dick Grey, there, an'
you-all know how Major Hogan had him outlawed. The whole thing was a
frame-up to git Dick's claim fer the PU. It would of worked, too, if
the big boss hadn't happened onto Dick down in the bad lands when he
was huntin' horses. When he heard the facts, horse-huntin' stopped
on the Round Seven long enough for the boss to go after Hogan. He
got him, too. Hogan's gone. He's headed somewhere's, travelin'
light, an' travelin' fast. An' Dick Grey ain't outlawed no longer,
an' his claim's safe. Hogan was the last one to make the mistake of
playin' the big boss for a kid, 'cause he looks like one. It took
the boss jest two days to git the man that's bluffed the whole
country fer twenty years. He's got more brains in a minute than
Hogan know'd there was. Ask Bob Harmon, an' his gang of rustlers.
Ask Curry, which he claimed his name was Wadell, an' ondertook to
horn the big boss out of six-thousan' dollars by sellin' him some of
his own land. An' ask a lot of the other fake nesters that tried to
slip one over on him. The nesters is gone. The rustlers is gone.
An' now, Hogan's gone.
"But, I didn't come down here jest to brag up the big boss. He don't
need no braggin' up from me. What I'm gittin' at is this: They was a
little trouble with the hay crew, which the boss handled a bunch of
them here I.W.Ws. jest like he handled the rest of the crooks, but it
set him back a little with his hayin', an' some fence buildin'.
You-all could help him out a whole lot if you'd start in from now
till when the wagons pull, an' work on the ranch. I ain't askin' any
rider to do a ranch hand's work that don't want to. Them that does,
their pay starts tomorrow mornin'. Them that don't is welcome to
stay here jest the same till the wagons pull. You can take yer pick,
only I'd like to know how many of you-all we can count on for the
work."
"Talkin' about me," spoke up Dick Grey, "I'm a cow hand, an' I ain't
never done no ranch work fer any man. But if it'll help out the big
boss any, I'll shovel hay from now till Chris'mus."
"Me, too," agreed Campbell. "Before now, the Round Seven has always
scattered my stuff as fer as they could all over the range. But now
the orders is to shove it back, even if the boys has to go out of
their way to do it.'
"Same here," seconded Samuels. "It's costin' Morgan money to turn us
nesters' stock back fer us, an' any big owner that'll do that don't
need to go beggin' fer hands while I'm around."
"Show us the hay!" exclaimed a lean cow puncher whose bowed legs
indicated that he had been a rider almost from infancy. "I don't
reckon they's none of us here that's so delycate that a week's hayin'
an' post hole-diggin' is goin' to hurt him none. If a bird's right,
no matter if he's owner of a big outfit, er who he is, I'm willin' to
go out of my way to help him out--an' I reckon we all feel about the
same way."
The others agreed to a man, and Tex returned to the house and resumed
his seat where Connie and Tombstone awaited him.
"All right, Tombstone," he announced, "you can spread out yer
thinkin' apparatus to cover a double crew. The boys figure they'd
all like to do ranch work till the wagons pull."
"Well, I'll be doggoned!" cried Tombstone, for once in his life
deigning to show surprise. "First time I ever know'd cowboys that
was willin' to freeze onto a fork handle or a post hole auger. Must
be the world's comin' to an end, or somethin'. Chances is they'll be
so many of 'em, they'll be gittin' in each other's road, or it'll
haul off an' rain, or somethin'."
"But, if they don't get in each other's road, an' it don't rain
you'll get quite a lot of work done, won't you?"
"Yes, that is if somethin' else don't come along. When things looks
good then's when you got to look out. I remember how it was with my
Uncle Joe. He was ailin' fer a good long spell. The doctors claimed
they wasn't nothin' the matter of him, but Uncle Joe, he know'd
different. One mornin' he gits up an' eats his breakfast an' when
he'd got through he says: 'Seems like I kind of feel a little better
today than what I've felt sence, it's eleven year an' four month,
come day after tomorrow,' he says, jest like that. 'Guess I'll hitch
up an' drive to town,' he says. So he hetch up the old mare an' driv
to town, an' when he got there, along come a train an' hit the rig
an' killed him dead, an' her, both. An' that's what a man git's fer
claimin' he feels good."
"Who's _her_?" asked Tex.
"Why the old mare, of course. 'Course everyone know'd that Uncle
Joe's misery wasn't nothin' but laziness. He'd be'n livin' off his
relatives fer years--an' folks claimed he seen the train comin' an'
was jest nach'lly too lazy to reach out an' hit the old mare an extry
lick to git her off'n the track. But we soo'd the railroad an' got a
thousan' dollars fer Uncle Joe, an' a hundred fer the mare which she
was spavined an' had the heaves an' better'n twenty year of age onto
her, an' fifty dollars fer the buggy, an' fifty more fer the harness,
which it was mostly clothes-line an' bailin' wire anyhow--so we kind
of figgered we got a long price fer the whole outfit--but, that's
what a man gits."
Tex laughed: "Well, Tombstone, if you stick to the hay fields between
now an' round-up I'll guarantee they won't be no railroad train come
down here an' git you."
"Huh," grunted Tombstone, lugubriously. "They's other things besides
railroad trains." He stood up, and mouthing his straw, started for
the bunk house muttering something about not having teams enough to
keep such a big crew busy.
Connie and Tex laughed heartily when the doleful one had passed out
of hearing. "Poor Tombstone," said Connie. "Don't he ever get any
enjoyment out of living?"
"Sure he does," answered Tex. "That's where he gets his enjoyment.
He gets pleasure out of lookin' on the dark side of things, same as
we do out of lookin' on the bright side. It's an idiosyncrasy in his
mental complex--how's that fer a wagon boss? But, you recollect I
told you that I was onct educated out of a couple years' growth. If
you walk through the mud with a pair of new boots on, fer a long time
afterward you'll be findin' chunks of dry mud still stickin' to
'em--that mental complex stuff's one of the chunks. Bein'
interpreted into English it means, there's a kink in his works that's
throw'd his imagination around, hind side to. It's like crossin' the
bridle reins an' tryin' to drive a horse. See what I mean? Neither
do I. But anyway, he's a blame good ranch foreman, long as you don't
have to listen to him talk. Guess I'll roll in, now. Want to pull
out by daylight. You better stay here an' kind of keep an eye on
things. The boys all like you--even them that don't know you, an' it
might be you could kind of smooth things over if Tombstone gits on
their nerves--they don't savvy him, much--cowboys favorin'
lightheartedness more'n what he does. Good night. Be back in three
or four days with a bunch of broncs to bust."
CHAPTER XXII
A RIDING JOB
Soon after dinner the following day two riders, their bedrolls upon
the back of a pack-horse, drew up and dismounted near the
blacksmithshop of the Round Seven, where Samuels and Red Carney were
busy repairing the grub wagon.
"Where's Tex?" asked one.
"Huntin' horses," answered Samuels.
"Which my name's Tom King, an' hisn's Leander Stot," introduced the
cow puncher. "We rode the calf round-up fer Y Bar Pierson over agin'
the Highwoods. Which they don't only shove you three meals a day on
the round-up--hot beans, cold beans, an' sour beans.'
"An' the cook's a breed, an' the bread ain't done in the middle, an'
they feed you tea to drink," interrupted Stot, with disgust.
"An' their horses is so tall you got to have a ladder to fork 'em,
an' you wear kidney sores onto 'em where yer spurs comes."
"An' they roust you out so early in the mornin' you got to light
matches to tell what you're gittin' hold of in the horse corral. Tex
he hired us fer to ride the beef round-up on the Round Seven."
"Wagons'll pull in about a week," informed Samuels.
"Where's the rest of the riders? Ain't they no one showed up yet?"
"Oh, yes, 'bout fifteen er so. Me an' Red, here's two of 'em. The
rest of the boys is in the hay field, or buildin' fence."
"Hayin' an' fencin'!" cried King, in surprise. "Say, what kind of an
outfit is this here? Makin' riders do ranch hand's work. Well,
here's two that won't freeze onto no fork handle, nor punch no post
holes in the ground, neither, nor likewise string no wire! Even Y
Bar Pierson never tried that game. Where's the big boss? I ain't
afraid to tell it to him, same as I've told it to you."
Samuels jerked his thumb toward Connie, who was turning his horse
into the corral after a ride through the hay fields: "He's over
yender."
"What! You don't mean that kid?"
"Well," replied Samuels, picking up his hammer, and drawing a piece
of glowing iron from the forge, "some might call him that. Other
folks has kind of learnt to think of him in bigger figgers."
"They ain't no man kin make me pitch hay er do fencin'--let alone a
kid."
"Mebbe," admitted Samuels, and a shower of sparks flew about him as
his hammer descended upon the iron.
The two cow punchers strolled over to the horse corral from which
Connie was emerging, bridle in hand. "Morning, boys," he greeted.
"Just turn your horses into the corral and we'll go up to the house
and see if we can't rustle something to eat."
"You the big boss?"
"Yes. You can roll your beds off at the bunk house."
"I ain't so sure about rollin' off them beds. We mightn't be goin'
to stop."
"Oh, I thought you were to ride for the Round Seven. We were
expecting a few more men to show up. The wagons won't pull for about
a week."
"That's what we thought we come here fer. King's my name, an' this
here's Leander Stot, which we're cow hands an' ain't ranch hands.
The party that's blacksmithin' over there says how all the riders is
fightin' hay, er jobbin' post holes through the sod. Where we come
from ranch hands does such like, an' riders rides. We don't figger
to pitch no hay, nor neither we don't do no fencin'."
"That's all right," smiled Connie. "Just put up your horses. Nobody
works around this outfit unless they want to. Just come up to the
house when you get through and I'll see if I can rustle a cold bite."
The boy turned away. King looked at Stot and Stot looked at King.
"How about it?" asked Stot. "Me--I'm hongry."
"If we throw off them beds, they ain't no law we can't throw 'em on
agin'. Bite of hay won't hurt the cayuses none, neither."
"He says they don't no one work around this outfit onless'n they want
to."
"First time I ever seen a place where they didn't no one work but
them that wanted to--an' everyone workin', even riders. Must be a
bunch of pilgrims."
"That there Tex ain't no pilgrim--not what you'd notice, he ain't.
An' that bird that's blacksmithin', he ain't, neither--by the looks
of him."
King grinned: "Mebbe we better hadn't go up an' eat nothin'. Mebbe
he slips somethin' into the grub that makes folks want to work."
"I'll take a chanct," laughed Stot, as he swung his saddle to the
ground. "I've got the first time yet to hear myself hollerin' fer
work to do, outside of ridin'."
After the lunch which Walt Jones placed upon the table had
disappeared, Connie waved his hand toward the bunk house: "Just make
yourselves at home," he smiled. "Spread your beds in any of the
empty bunks that suit you. The rest of the boys are all working.
They figured they would rather have their pay start now instead of
waiting till the wagons pull out. But, it's all the same to me if
you boys would rather rest up for a few days. We've got plenty of
grub here, and you'll find cards and dominoes, and checkers, and
horseshoes down at the bunk house."
They had stepped out onto the porch, and King hitched at his chaps:
"Two-handed cards ain't no fun, an' dominoes is fer Greasers, an' we
don't savvy checkers, an' pitchin' horseshoes gits tiresome fer an
all day job."
"Well, you can sleep, or do anything else you want to."
"Man can't sleep fer a week," commented Stot. "I wouldn't mind
havin' my pay start in now, neither. I'm broke. Say, boss, ain't
you got a job of ridin' to do? Anythin' jest so it's handlin' stock
of some kind. Ain't you got nothin' to throw in, or throw out? Or,
no broncs to bust? Or nothin' a cow-hand kin do to fill in the time?"
"Rather do any kind of a riding job than work in the hay fields, or
help with the fencing?" asked the boy.
"I'll tell a hand, we would."
"Well," reflected Connie, "I ran onto an old cow this morning, a
couple of miles up the creek, that don't look like she's doing well.
You might catch up a couple of saddle horses and bring her down and
throw her on water just this side of the hay field gate. The feed's
good in there, and she may pick up."
Connie grinned to himself as both men started for the corral with
alacrity. "Better take it kind of easy with her, boys," he
cautioned. "She isn't in very good shape."
"We savvy the doggies, all right," reassured King, "we'll fetch her
in."
And a few minutes later, as the two riders dashed past the house with
a whoop on their way up the creek, Connie Morgan grinned again.
That evening the men from the fields, after much noisy splashing at
the wash bench, trooped into supper. When the meal was half over
Samuels glanced up and down the table: "They was a couple of
_hombres_ drifted in this afternoon fer to ride the round-up. They
allowed they didn't have no appetite fer ranch work. Guess they must
of drifted on."
"They's a couple extry beds layin' down by the bunk house, an' a pack
horse, an' couple of strange ridin' horses in the corral," ventured
Dick Grey.
"I guess they'll be along soon,' explained Connie. 'You see, I
wanted to hold them for the round-up, and they didn't want to do
anything but ride, so I sent them on a little job up the creek."
Down by the bunk house, as darkness settled, one of the cowboys who
had been working in the hay field, voiced the thought that had been
in many minds: "We're riders, same as them two is. Looks like if
hayin' an' fencin' was good enough fer us, it's good enough fer them,
too. We git here first, an' then them two comes along an' gits a
ridin' job, an' we shovel hay."
Dick Grey bristled immediately: "What's eatin' you?" he asked,
truculently, "You don't have to sweat no harder 'cause someone else
is doin' somethin' else, do you? Me--I was satisfied to work at
hayin' to help the boss out to-day, an' I'll be satisfied to do it
to-morrow. It don't make no difference to me what he sets other
folks to doin'. That's his business. An' you can take it from me,
he's the best doggone boss in Montany. You're lucky you lit here, no
matter what he puts you at. If he figgers that's the only way he can
hold them birds, it's all right with me. You bet!"
"What in thunder's that a-comin'?" asked Campbell staring through the
dark at a slowly moving blur that had come into sight a short
distance up the creek.
The blur resolved itself into figures, and Samuels gave a low
exclamation: "Good gosh! Boys, it's them two riders, an' they're
bringin' in old Eva, head an' tail! Oh, my granmammy! I mistrusted
the boss was up to somethin'. He was too blame sober about that
there explainin'. Shut up, all of you, an' make his play good!
Don't pay no 'tention to 'em."
The two riders were almost abreast of the bunk house, where twenty
men stood and solemnly watched their progress along the road that led
down the creek toward the hay field. What they saw was a rider with
his rope around the horns of an old cow which was close-snubbed to
his saddle horn. Following him was another rider with the cow's tail
snubbed to the horn of his saddle. The cow had braced herself
grotesquely against any forward motion, and was being pulled and
pushed down the road by main force, taking stiff-legged, reluctant
steps as the horses passed slowly along the road.
"What's the boss's game? An' what's this here old Eva business?"
asked the cowboy who had registered his complaint about the newcomers
being given riding jobs.
Samuels grinned broadly: "They was playin' the boss fer a kid, which
he's got more brains into his head than some folks has got hay. I
mistrust he's outguessed 'em. He give 'em a ridin' job all right!
That there old cow they fetched in is an old milk cow that got locoed
six or seven year ago, an' they turned her out, an' she's be'n
hangin' around the same bend of the crick ever sence. They's a patch
of loco weed on the side of a little butte clost by, an' she's got a
path wore between it an' the water." With grins and chuckles, and
digs in the ribs, the cowboys and ranch hands who had gathered around
showed their appreciation of Connie's joke on the men who had refused
to work in the fields. "They'll be back, d'rectly," continued
Samuels, "an' we don't want to let on we seen nothin' out of the
ordinary about draggin' in a locoed cow. I got a hunch the boss
ain't through with 'em yet. It's up to us to keep our mouth
shet--onless'n they catch up their own private horses, an' throw
their beds on their pack horse--then we'll cut loose an' laugh 'em
off'n the ranch."
After breakfast the following morning Samuels, who was still
tinkering about the grub wagon, managed to edge into hearing as the
two men reported to Connie at the corral. "Well, did you get her in
all right?" asked the boy.
"Yeh, we fetched her in," answered King, as he stooped to loosen the
rope from his saddle preparatory to entering the corral. "I hope you
ain't got no more like her to fetch in to-day. If you have, we'll
hitch up a team of work horses an' drag 'em in on a stone boat.'
"No, I don't think there are any more to bring in. You won't have
any very hard riding to do to-day. Just ride herd on the one you
brought in yesterday. I don't want to lose her, now we've got her
here." Samuels dived into the blacksmithshop where he stuffed his
bandana into his mouth to keep from bursting into unseemly laughter.
"Say," cried Stot, "what d'you mean ride herd! Why, that old critter
is locoed so bad she can't hardly stand on her feet, let alone go no
place! I bet she ain't moved ten foot from where she bedded down
las' night!"
"Maybe not," answered Connie, "but I don't want her to pull out on
us. That's the only riding job I've got, and there won't be much
work to it. Only, don't lose sight of her for a minute. You better
come in one at a time to dinner and supper. One of you can hold her
while the other one eats. We won't bother about standing night
guard, though. I don't think she'll try to pull after she beds down."
Connie saddled his own horse and rode away.
"Well, I'll be doggoned!" muttered Stot, as he led a Round Seven
horse from the corral.
"You an' me--both!" seconded King, as he threw his saddle on another.
"Course it's his money he's payin' out fer wages. An' if he wants to
pay two men fer holdin' that ol' cow, it ain't none of our business."
"No--but, jest between you an' me--that kid ain't got all his
buttons."
Through a chink in the blacksmithshop wall Samuels, convulsed with
suppressed mirth, watched the two ride away down the creek, to take
their places on herd, in full sight of the hay and fencing crews.
Soon thereafter he found excuse to visit the hay field, and later the
fencing crew, where he spake after this fashion: "The lid's off, fer
as kiddin' them birds goes. The boss has got 'em ridin' herd on that
ol' Eva! The way I got it sized up, if he hadn't wanted 'em kidded
he wouldn't had 'em throw her in where the hull outfit could see 'em.
I dang near busted tryin' to keep from laughin' when he told 'em they
had to come fer meals, one to a time, so the other one could hold
herd. You'd ort to seen their faces! An' the boss, he kep' his'n as
straight, an' talked as serious as a preacher. He's got 'em plumb
fooled--they think he's more locoed than what old Eva is!"
At noon the crews came in from the fields, riding on hayracks, and as
they passed the two riders who had spent the entire morning watching
the old cow which had not moved from the spot where she stood with
nose to the ground, they cut loose with a perfect volley of advice:
"You hadn't ort to be off yer horse!" "Suppose she'd charge!"
"Lookout fer a stampede!" "You hadn't ort to smoke, you might start
the hull herd!" "She looks like she was on the prod!" "Her hair looks
rough, you'd ort to bring out a curry comb!" "Sing her to sleep, an'
then one of you kin come on in to dinner!" "Try blindfoldin' her, an'
she'll be easier to hold!"
"Eva. Eva.
Oh, my heart's a palpitatin'
All the time that I'm a waitin'
For my E-e-e-e-va."
sang one, joyously.
The wagons passed on, leaving Stot and King guarding the old cow in
stony silence. When the rattle of the returning wagons sounded from
up the creek, King called across to Stot: "I'm goin' to dinner! Be
back d'rectly."
In the dining room he ate alone, served by Walt Jones whose face was
imperturbable as a face of stone. "Say, what in thunder is this
place, a ranch, er a lunatic asylum?" questioned King, as he finished
his meal.
The cook regarded him gravely. "This is a ranch," he explained.
"The lunatic asylum is down to Warm Springs. You git off at the
deppo, an'----"
"You go to thunder!" And as King banged the door behind him, Walt
Jones grinned broadly.
At supper time Connie was surprised to see that both Stot and King
had taken their places with the others at the table. Seeing the eyes
of the boy upon them, King explained: "We lost the herd, boss."
"Lost it?" asked Connie, gravely.
Producing a flaming bandana, Stot dabbed at his eyes, and between
sniffling sobs blurted out: "Little Eva's passed away!"
"Passed away! You mean she's dead?"
"Dead as Cleopatra--an' twict as respected," announced King, gravely,
"The end come, peacable an' quiet at 4:15 this P.M."
"But what killed her?"
"It might of be'n the sudden takin' away of her drug. I regret to
report she was an addick.'
"Or," ventured Stot, "it might of be'n suicide."
"Or, maybe," supplemented King, "it was a fit of rage an'
shamefulness over some an' sundry of remarks that was passed in her
hearin'."
"Or, it might of be'n a gun shot wound at the hands of a person, or
persons onknown," suggested Stot, "or jest plain lonesomeness. We
didn't hold no reg'lar inquish, nor no post mortoriam. Anyways, she
ain't lived her life in vain, as the feller says. You win, boss!
You got us fair an' square. It took us quite a while to savvy
you,--but we ain't like a feller that can't take a joke, jest because
it's on him. Anyone that kin put anything over with as straight a
face as you done, is good enough fer us to work fer--an' if these
other birds, here, ain't none too good to go into the hay field, we
ain't neither. So if you got a couple extry pitch forks handy, we'll
lean on 'em tomorrow--if it's suitable to you."
The man's last words were hardly audible in the roars of laughter
that rilled the room--the whole-hearted laughter of appreciation and
comradery. For not a man in the room but felt, that the two had come
through a trying situation with flying colors.
"You're good sports," grinned Connie, when finally he could make
himself heard. "The Round Seven is glad to have you on the payroll."
A long-drawn "Ye-a-a-a!" rose from twenty throats, and when it
subsided the voice of King could be heard as he looked across the
table at Samuels.
"But--makin' us ride herd on one old cow--ain't that the limit?"
CHAPTER XXIII
CONNIE LISTENS TO A PROPOSITION
At the sound of wheels rattling over the gravel of the creek bed,
Connie and Tex turned from the corral where they had been inspecting
the new saddle horses, to greet Two Dot Townsend who, with a younger
man, was just alighting from a spring wagon.
"Hello, Morgan," grinned Two Dot. "They tell me you be'n sort of
makin' history down here on the South Slope sence you come."
"What do you mean?" asked the boy.
"Well, the talk goes that there's some folks that was inhabited down
this way that's changed their residence fer a spell, an' likewise I
heard this mornin' that they's a new agent over on the reservation."
Connie laughed: "I told you, when you were driving me out here, the
day I hit the country, that I was going to find out what the trouble
was, and then make the Round Seven pay----"
"Yes, an' I figgered you had about as much chanst of doin' anything
with that there hard-b'iled outfit as you would of makin' a North
Dakoty flat out of the Bear Paw Mountains. You've done a big job,
son, an' you done it quick, an' thorough. Choteau County started in
to laugh at you--but they ain't laughin' now. Which reminds me I
plumb fergot to make you acquainted with my brother-in-law here.
Bill McLaren, his name is. He's my wife's brother, an' he's a
Gover'ment forester. He's got charge of one of these here National
Forests."
Tex, who had unhitched and led Townsend's team to the stable,
returned, and together the four walked over and seated themselves on
the porch.
"You figger you got the Round Seven on a payin' basis, now?" asked
Two Dot, puffing at a long, thin stogie.
"She'll pay, now, all right," answered Tex, "an' pay big."
"An' what you goin' to do next?" asked Two Dot, regarding Connie with
a smile.
"What do you mean?" asked the boy.
"Well, I recollect you told me, speakin' about yer mines up in
Alasky, that when they got to payin' big money you kind of lost
intrust in 'em--kind of let yer pardner run the outfit, whiles you
was generally kitin' off on side issues--like this here cattle
business."
"Yes," answered Connie, seriously. "Somehow, it's the game that
interests me more than the profits. After the game is won, I lose
interest. I want to tackle something else. You see, I was only a
little kid when I struck Alaska, and while other boys my age were
playing the regular games that boys play, I was prospecting for gold.
That was my game--and I played it--and I won. So, now, everything I
tackle seems like a game. I play it as hard as I can. I want to
win. While I am playing it, it seems the biggest, the most important
thing in the world--that I should win. But, after it is won, it
becomes just a machine for adding more money to a pile that's so big
now I don't know what I'll ever do with it."
Two Dot nodded: "I see what you mean. I used to feel that way when I
was younger. Only, I never had the brains nor the money to back up
the feelin' with. The Two Dot ranch was my game, but it's come to
where I'm doggone glad she's payin' out reg'lar money. That was what
I remembered you said, an' that's why I brung Bill, here, down to see
you. He's got a proposition he wants to talk to you about. He come
out to the ranch fer his vacation, an' he was tellin' me about this
here proposition--an' I thought of you right away, so this mornin' I
hooked up the team, an' we come over."
Connie laughed: "Go ahead," he invited, "I'd like to hear it. But, I
may as well tell you, I won't take hold of anything big, without
first consulting my partner."
Tex and Two Dot strolled over to the corral, and McLaren nodded:
"Certainly, I understand that. As a matter of fact, the thing I have
in mind is a very big undertaking--just how big I don't know,
myself--but, it's big." The man paused and asked abruptly: "Do you
know anything about timber?"
"Not much. We logged off a tract in Minnesota and made a nice profit
out of it."
"What was it?"
"White pine and Norway--mostly white."
"But, you don't know anything about forestry?"
Connie shook his head: "Never even heard of it."
McLaren smiled: "Almost anyone can go onto a tract of timber and log
it off, as you say, and make a profit out of it. What have you got
left?"
"Got left? What do you mean?"
"I mean what have you got left up there on your timber tract? You've
taken out the merchantable stuff--what's left?"
"Why--I don't know. Nothing, I guess."
"I can tell you what you've got left--what you mean by nothing.
You've got a waste of slash, and stumps, and sand--and if the fire
hasn't been through it yet, you've got a stand of what the natives
call 'bresh.' Young poplar, and scrub oak, and wild cherry, and soft
maple, with here and there a pine tree that escaped the saws of your
crew, and probably a few pine seedlings. In other words you have a
tract of cut-over that is about as near worthless as land can be."
"Well, what of it?" asked Connie. "I told you we got our profit out
of the logs."
McLaren's face became graver: "I wondered if you were going to say
that. It is the very thing that any of the timber operators would
have said a few years ago--and that most of them are saying to-day,
although a few of them are beginning to see the light--to awaken to a
realization of the vast importance of the problem that confronts
them. It is a problem that is just as serious to the business man of
New York City, and to the Iowa farmer as it is to the timber
operator. You are a very young man. Your answer was thoughtless,
rather than cynical. From what I have heard of you, you are a very
exceptional young man--you have a shrewd, clean brain, you have the
aggressiveness--the pep, as the expression goes, to accomplish the
thing you go after, and you have the financial means to back up your
personal qualifications."
As Connie listened he saw that McLaren was very much in earnest.
Uppermost in his mind was Waseche Bill's oft repeated warning: "Look
out fer these yere promoters, son. Don't never put yer name to no
papers till you've looked the proposition over up an' down, an'
crossways. If it's good, they c'n prove it. If it ain't, you don't
want it." But, some how, this man did not look like a promotor. His
grey eyes were serious--honest, and he spoke his words with
conviction. His skin was the weather-tanned skin of the outdoors
man. The boy led him on: "What is this problem you spoke about?" he
asked.
"Timber," answered the man. "Lumber. Where is the next generation's
lumber supply coming from?'
"Why, the same place the last generation's came from, I guess.
Surely there is plenty of timber."
"Where?"
"Why--everywhere. I passed through a lot of it coming here from
Alaska. And there's lots left in Minnesota, isn't there?"
"None! That is, none to speak of. With the exception of a limited
supply in the south, all the remaining timber is in the west--and
within twenty-five years all the world will be bidding against us for
what remains of that. And, the reason for it is plain. Because
everyone else logged just as you logged in Minnesota. Took the
timber and left a worthless waste behind you. With a senseless, I
may say a criminal disregard of the future, they have taken their
profit from millions of acres of forest and in its place they have
left to their sons and their daughters, a legacy of fireswept
desolation!"
"What's the answer?" snapped the boy, his brain vainly grasping to
visualize millions of acres of slash.
"The answer is to harvest the remaining forests instead of to
demolish them. And to raise timber as a crop. Reforest the cut-over
as you go along, keep out the fire--and carry that cut-over on your
books as an asset, ever increasing in value, instead of a liability
worse than worthless."
"Can it be done? I mean, as a practical business proposition? And
show a profit as you go along?"
"Absolutely."
"I don't see how you could expect to show a profit. Why, it must
take years and years for a tree to grow big enough to make a log. If
you planted little trees on the cut-over it would be years before you
could show any profit."
"Just so, if you started in with cut-over. Suppose, however you
started in with virgin forest, harvested yearly, and reforested
behind you? By the time you had gone once over the whole tract, the
young stuff you first set out would be ready to cut."
"And, you are acting as agent for someone who wants to sell me a
forest?"
"No! I am in charge of a National Forest--work on a salary for the
United States Government. I have not one penny's worth of interest,
either directly or indirectly, in any timber land, anywhere. Quite
by accident, I happened, not long since, to hear of a large tract of
timber--two tracts, that adjoin, to be exact, that could probably be
purchased at a very reasonable figure. These tracts are held by two
different outfits that have fought each other in the courts and out
of them, until they are about exhausted. Neither would sell to the
other, but either, so my information goes, would gladly sell to a
third party."
"My interest in the proposition is merely the interest of one who
sees the chance for some outfit to step in and do some real forest
work. The Government is doing it. Some States are doing it. A very
few individuals are doing it, in a smaller way. But this tract, the
combined tracts, would be on a vastly larger scale than any private
undertaking has yet attempted. I want to see someone go into a
forest, not as a desperado bent on loot, but as a business man who is
content to take a reasonable profit, and at the same time build up
his holdings, so that in the future, instead of a worthless tract of
devastated land, he will have a property of enormous, and ever
increasing value."
"But, that's a job for a trained forester."
"You can hire trained foresters."
"But, I'd want to run it, myself."
"You can learn forestry. There are several ways. Go to any one of a
dozen universities. Go onto a forest as ranger, and study under the
forester, as you work--come onto my forest. Or, hire a forester, and
study under him on your own forest."
"How much of an investment would it take?"
"That would depend on what terms you could get. The total would
involve upwards of a million--possibly two or three millions. I
don't know the exact acreage, nor the stumpage scale--but it's big."
"Would you take the job?"
McLaren, taken completely by surprise by the abruptness of the
question, hesitated: "Well--I--of course--I would want time to
consider it. That is----"
Connie interrupted him: "Sure, I understand," he said, "I need time
myself. You are on your vacation?"
"Yes."
"Suppose you spend the rest of it getting all the information you can
about this proposition--acreage, value, cruiser's
reports--everything, and keep in mind the fact that you may have to
take hold of it and show me a profit--then we will get together and
see whether we want to handle it. In the meantime, I'll talk it over
with my partner, and I'll tell you whether or not we want to tackle
it."
"But--your partner is in Alaska, isn't he."
"Sure," answered the boy, "I'm leaving to talk it over with him
tomorrow--be back here in three or four weeks."
McLaren stared in amazement, as Connie called to Tex, who stood near
the corral talking with Two Dot: "Hey, Tex!"
"Comin'!"
"You've got to run this outfit for three or four weeks without me.
I've got to go back to Ten Bow for a little talk with Waseche Bill.
I'll fix up a checking account for you in town."
"Gosh sakes!" cried the range foreman, "You don't mean you're goin'
to hit out fer Alaska on a minute's notice--like most folks would
slip over to the neighbors!"
Connie laughed. "Yup. Heard about a patch of timber I may want to
buy. Guess I'll saddle up, now. So long--take care of yourself."
He turned to McLaren: "See you when I get back."
Ten minutes later, Connie disappeared up the trail.
McLaren looked at the others. Tex grinned: "Kind of, what you might
say, abrupt ain't he--the boss? They's a whole lot of loafin' he
never done."
"He's a--a whirlwind!" answered the forester, "a man would like to
work for him."
"I'll tell the world a man would!" answered Tex. "If he can keep
from gittin' dizzy."
The Connie Morgan Series
By
James B. Hendryx
It is difficult to say whether Mr. Hendryx is famous because of
Connie Morgan, or Connie because of Mr. Hendryx; but it is certain
that many youngsters have accepted this altogether wholesome and
unique character as one to be ranked with such historical figures as
Daniel Boone and Kit Carson.
Connie Morgan in Alaska, 22 Illus.
Connie Morgan with the Mounted, 13 Illus.
Connie Morgan in the Lumber Camps 14 Illus.
Connie Morgan in the Fur Country, 8 Illus.
Connie Morgan in the Cattle Country.
G. P. Putnam's Sons
New York London
The Boy Adventurers Series
By
A. Hyatt Verrill
The popularity of these stories for boys is a result of Mr. Verrill's
unfailing ability to see things with their young eyes, to write for
them and not down to them. The books follow the Young Adventurers
through their strange wanderings in romantic countries.
The Boy Adventurers in the Forbidden Land
The Boy Adventurers in the Land of El Dorado
The Boy Adventurers in the Land of the Monkey Men
The Boy Adventurers in the Unknown Land
G. P. Putnam's Sons
New York London
The Frozen Barrier
By
Belmore Browne
_Illustrated_
The author not only writes real books for real boys, he lives them.
He has had a vast experience in the great northern wastes, and his
settings are authentic. George Draper and Fred Morgan, who set out
on The Quest of the Golden Valley, and who were greeted again in The
White Blanket, now meet with other desperate adventures as they pack
into the very heart of Alaska-erupting volcanoes, sliding glaciers,
encounters with grizzlies, through which they emerge triumphant.
G. P. Putnam's Sons
New York London
The Frozen Barrier
By
Belmore Browne
In _The Frozen Barrier_ Belmore Browne has surpassed all his other
relatings. In it he tells of the hazardous adventures of George
Draper and Fred Morgan on their third journey, in which they packed
straight into the heart of Alaska.
There the boys met with perilous hairbreadth escapes, from grizzlies,
from suddenly erupting volcanoes, from being dashed to death when
crossing an almost impassable glacier, and for days having no food
other than the eggs of wild birds, and finally earning the gratitude
of an entire tribe of Indians.
Such a graphic and thrilling account of experiences in the great
North-west as is given in this novel, is rarely met with, and
everyone who reads it will wish that he, too, had been with George
and Fred when they were exploring this wonderful land of the Aleute
tribes.
G. P. Putnam's Sons
New York London
_By James B. Hendryx_
Connie Morgan in Alaska
Connie Morgan with the Mounted
Connie Morgan in the Lumber Camps
Connie Morgan in the Fur Country
Connie Morgan in the Cattle Country
The Promise
The Gun Brand
The Texan
The Gold Girl
Prairie Flowers
Snowdrift
North
*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CONNIE MORGAN IN THE CATTLE COUNTRY ***
Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will
be renamed.
Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright
law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,
so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United
States without permission and without paying copyright
royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part
of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project
Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™
concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark,
and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following
the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use
of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for
copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very
easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation
of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project
Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may
do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected
by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark
license, especially commercial redistribution.
START: FULL LICENSE
THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE
PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK
To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full
Project Gutenberg License available with this file or online at
www.gutenberg.org/license.
Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg
electronic works
1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg
electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or
destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg electronic works in your
possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a
Project Gutenberg electronic work and you do not agree to be bound
by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person
or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.
1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be
used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few
things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg electronic works
even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See
paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project
Gutenberg electronic works if you follow the terms of this
agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg
electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.
1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the
Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection
of Project Gutenberg electronic works. Nearly all the individual
works in the collection are in the public domain in the United
States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the
United States and you are located in the United States, we do not
claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing,
displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as
all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope
that you will support the Project Gutenberg mission of promoting
free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg
works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the
Project Gutenberg name associated with the work. You can easily
comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the
same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg License when
you share it without charge with others.
1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are
in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States,
check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this
agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing,
distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any
other Project Gutenberg work. The Foundation makes no
representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any
country other than the United States.
1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:
1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other
immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg License must appear
prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg work (any work
on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the
phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed,
performed, viewed, copied or distributed:
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg™ License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you
are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws
of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg electronic work is
derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not
contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the
copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in
the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are
redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply
either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or
obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg
trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg electronic work is posted
with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any
additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms
will be linked to the Project Gutenberg License for all works
posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the
beginning of this work.
1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg
License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg.
1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg License.
1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including
any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access
to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg work in a format
other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official
version posted on the official Project Gutenberg website
(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense
to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means
of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain
Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the
full Project Gutenberg License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.
1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
access to or distributing Project Gutenberg electronic works
provided that:
• You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
the use of Project Gutenberg works calculated using the method
you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed
to the owner of the Project Gutenberg trademark, but he has
agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid
within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are
legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty
payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in
Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation.”
• You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™
License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all
copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue
all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™
works.
• You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of
any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of
receipt of the work.
• You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.
1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project
Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than
are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing
from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of
the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set
forth in Section 3 below.
1.F.
1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project
Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™
electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may
contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate
or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or
other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or
cannot be read by your equipment.
1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right
of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGE.
1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you
received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium
with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you
with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in
lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person
or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second
opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If
the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing
without further opportunities to fix the problem.
1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO
OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT
LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.
1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of
damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement
violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the
agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or
limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or
unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the
remaining provisions.
1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in
accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the
production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™
electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses,
including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of
the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this
or any Project Gutenberg work, (b) alteration, modification, or
additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg work, and (c) any
Defect you cause.
Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg
Project Gutenberg is synonymous with the free distribution of
electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of
computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It
exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations
from people in all walks of life.
Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg’s
goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg collection will
remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
and permanent future for Project Gutenberg and future
generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see
Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.
Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit
501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification
number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by
U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws.
The Foundation’s business office is located at 41 Watchung Plaza #516,
Montclair NJ 07042, USA, +1 (862) 621-9288. Email contact links and up
to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website
and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact
Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation
Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread
public support and donations to carry out its mission of
increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest
array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations
($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
status with the IRS.
The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations
where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND
DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state
visit www.gutenberg.org/donate.
While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
approach us with offers to donate.
International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.
Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation
methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other
ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To
donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate.
Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg electronic works
Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project
Gutenberg concept of a library of electronic works that could be
freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and
distributed Project Gutenberg eBooks with only a loose network of
volunteer support.
Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in
the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not
necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper
edition.
Most people start at our website which has the main PG search
facility: www.gutenberg.org.
This website includes information about Project Gutenberg,
including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.
