The Project Gutenberg eBook of Peace medicine
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Title: Peace medicine
Author: W. C. Tuttle
Illustrator: Arthur Schwieder
Release date: May 21, 2026 [eBook #78718]
Language: English
Original publication: New York: The Ridgway Company, 1923
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/78718
Credits: Prepared by volunteers at BookCove (bookcove.net)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PEACE MEDICINE ***
PEACE MEDICINE
W. C. Tuttle
Author of “Tramps of the Range,” “Sticky Ropes,” etc.
It was late Spring in the valley of the Chinook. The hills were already
covered with luxuriant bunch-grass, and the clumps of cottonwood along
the Chinook River had leafed to a sparkling green against the dark blue
and green of the balsam, fir and pine.
Winding through a V-notched gash in the mountains was the road which led
from the town of Pasiooks, through Poncho Pass to Tarp City. This road
was barely wide enough for one wagon, and its builders had followed the
lines of least resistance in its making.
Chinook Valley was a cattleman’s paradise. Thirty miles in length
and averaging seven miles in width, its grazing-land was unexcelled.
It had plenty of feed, streams of cold water and an encircling range
of mountains which held the herds within its boundaries. Poncho Pass
was the only outlet, and this was guarded by a fence and a gate at
its narrowest point.
At the lower end of the valley the Chinook River--which was not really a
river, but a large stream--gurgled its way through a box-cañon, and
twisted and turned in its narrow bed, giving it the title of Crazy Snake
Cañon. It was impassable for man or beast.
Pasiooks was the only town in the valley, consisting of a general store,
a saloon and a post-office on one side of the street; a blacksmith shop
and barber shop on the other side. At one time it had been the location
of a French trading-post, and the Indians had called it Pasiooks, which
in the Chinook jargon, or trade-language, means French or Frenchmen.
Thirty miles to the north, across Poncho Pass was the town of Tarp
City, the terminus of the branch of the C. N. & W. Railroad. South and
east of Tarp City stretched the Fossilshell Range along the Fossilshell
River. North of Tarp City was Sun Prairie, the sheep country, despised
of cow-men.
Cowboys patrolled the Fossilshell Range lines to see that no sheep
invaded their domain from Sun Prairie; but the cow-men of Chinook
worked secure in the fact that no woolie would or could ever come
through Poncho Pass.
Here the ranch-owners ruled with as great a power as any of the feudal
barons of old; and wo unto the man or men who broke their word or tried
underhanded work on that range.
Nestling down in this snug little valley was the rambling ranch-house of
the Cross L--the castle of “Cross L” Marshall, whose word was considered
law in Chinook.
Down a long, grassy slope above the ranch-house rode a man and a girl,
coming slowly toward the ranch-house. The girl was Jess Marshall, a
tall, willowy girl, easy of movement and sitting her horse like a
cowboy. Her brown eyes were troubled as she tucked a vagrant strand of
brown hair under the brim of her sombrero and looked up at the man
beside her.
Clell Danert was handsome--by certain standards. He was tall and
well proportioned, regular of feature, with a certain ease and grace
seldom found in cow-land. His gray eyes were a trifle small and set
a little too close together, and a smile showed a tilt to one side
of his mouth--a sign not cared for by those who love an open smile.
His clothes were perhaps a trifle too well tailored and inclined to
gaudiness. Just now he leaned closer to the girl and watched the curve
of her cheek as he propounded a question.
Jess Marshall’s eyes scanned the country for a moment, and a tiny crease
appeared between her eyes as she turned to him.
“I--I think so, Clell.”
Danert imprisoned the hand on the saddle-horn--
“Then you will marry me, Jess?”
“I said, ‘I think so,’ Clell,” she repeated wearily. “I really don’t
know what dad will have to say about it.”
Danert laughed softly:
“I’ll fix that all up, Jess. When will we be married?”
“Some time,” enigmatically, “I----”
She stopped and listened. From the ranch-house floated the musical
dinner-call, as the cook beat a tattoo on a suspended triangle of steel.
“Some time is hardly definite,” reminded Danert sourly.
“Nothing is definite in this world.” Jess smiled sadly at him as she
released her hand and gathered up her reins. “Let us go to the ranch
or we’ll be late for dinner, Clell.”
“My heart is bothering me more than my stomach,” replied Danert, “but I
bow to your wishes--forever.”
“Well,” replied Jess, “I suppose you are not the first man who has said
that before marriage, and very likely it is not the first time you have
said that to a girl, Clell.”
She laughed at him and spurred down the slope.
Bart Farley, the foreman of the ranch, met them as they rode in past
the corrals, and walked beside Jess’ horse to the house. Farley was
a grizzled cowboy, who lived only for the interests of the Cross L
and Jess Marshall. He did not speak to Danert, who gave Farley only
a glance. When they dismounted Farley led Jess’ horse away, leaving
Danert’s horse to its owner.
Danert looked after Farley, but said nothing as he tied his animal to
a ring at the corner of the porch. Cross L Marshall had come on to
the porch as they came up the steps, and he put his arm around Jess’
shoulders.
Marshall was of the old type of cow-men. He was between fifty and sixty
years of age, tough and wiry as a steel cable, his features as harsh as
if chipped from flint. He had fought his way through the early gold
rushes, battled the Indians and outlaws and was now enjoying the fruits
of his labors in peace.
He nodded to Danert and kissed Jess. Danert had been a frequent visitor
to the Cross L, and frequent visitors always made themselves at home.
“Better get yoreself ready for chuck, Jess,” smiled Marshall, and as she
turned into the house Danert spoke--
“Marshall, I want to talk to you for a minute or two.”
“Yeah?” Marshall looked at him curiously. “Well, I reckon I’ll
listen--at least.”
Danert twisted his gloves for a moment and slapped himself on the knee.
“Marshall, I want to marry Jess.”
Marshall’s mouth twisted to say “Oh!” but no sound came. He squinted at
Danert for a moment, and then--
“Well, that ain’t nothin’ against yuh, is it?”
Danert looked up quickly.
“And she wants to marry me.”
Marshall glanced back at the door and seemed to let this statement
percolate through his mind for a while.
“Say she does? When?”
“She would not say.”
“Oh!” shortly; Marshall rubbed his chin. “Well, yuh likely ain’t got
nothin’ to worry about then, Danert. Plenty of time to worry about it
when she sets a date.”
“Then you do not object?”
“Yeah,” drawled Marshall seriously. “But Jess is twenty-five years old,
and I don’t reckon it’s any of my ---- business. Yuh must remember--I
ain’t marryin’ yuh, Danert.”
Danert laughed.
“I never know when you are joking, Marshall.”
“No-o-o?” Marshall squinted his eyes and looked across the hills
thoughtfully. “That’s what a hoss-thief said once-- and he was fool
enough to take a chance.”
Danert looked quickly at Marshall, but the old man was still gazing at
the rolling hills. Finally he turned as if having dismissed the subject
and said--
“Reckon we better eat before the grub gets cold.”
There was little conversation at the table. Marshall was silently
thoughtful. Farley and the two cowboys, Jim Horne and Bert Hart, ate
with the family, but were strangely silent. Farley glanced often
toward Danert, but Danert confined himself to Jess and her wants.
After the meal Farley and Marshall drifted out to the porch, where they
lighted their pipes and settled down against the porch posts. It was an
after-supper ceremonial with them.
“Jess goin’ to marry him?” asked Farley, jerking his head back toward
the living-room.
Marshall drew slowly on his pipe for a while and glanced sidewise at
Farley.
“He says she is, Bart.”
“What does she say?”
“I dunno.” Marshall shook his head slowly. “Wommen is queer cattle. Her
mother married me.”
“I don’t like him,” declared Farley savagely.
“You ain’t marryin’ him, are yuh? I don’t like him; but--that ain’t none
of my business.”
“I always thought,” mused Farley slowly, “that she was kinda waitin’
and----”
“Now I reckon that ain’t none of our business either, Bart. Jess
wouldn’t never marry a--a----”
“Mebbe not,” interrupted Farley, “but ‘Peace’ Parker, even if he was a
cow-thief, is a ---- sight better than Clell Danert.”
Marshall nodded slowly:
“Lord knows yo’re right, at that. But he’s a-wearin’ stripes, Bart; and
no woman would marry----”
Marshall spat angrily and resumed his smoking.
Peace River Parker had been Farley’s bunkie and a favorite with Cross L
Marshall. He was engaged to marry Jess Marshall. Then came rumors of the
misbranding of cattle. The men of Chinook Valley investigated, and guilt
pointed toward Peace Parker.
The bulk of the evidence was furnished by Jefferson Crane, who owned the
Five Dot brand; although other outfits suffered from the misbranding.
Chinook Valley did not take it to law--not then. They brought their
proofs to Peace Parker, and he could not disprove them. Chinook Valley
did not cry to high Heaven for punishment; but rode away, back to their
homes.
Peace knew that they were giving him a chance to prove his
innocence--which he could not prove. The work had been cleverly done.
In a cold rage Peace rode to the Five Dot ranch-house, where he met
Jefferson Crane and two of his cowboys. There was no arbitration, no
argument. When Peace rode away, Crane and his two cowboys were
temporary cripples, and Peace was drilled with bullets in several
places. He rode straight to Tarp City and gave himself up.
* * * * *
Jim Horne sauntered out on the porch and sat down with them. Horne was a
long, lean cowboy, with a melancholy cast of countenance.
“Heard tell that Jeff Crane done sold out down on Sandy,” he
volunteered. “Heard it in Tarp City yestiday.”
“Likely had to sell,” grunted Farley. “Wonder where he’ll head for now.”
“Not for Chinook,” stated Marshall. Farley grinned and shook his head.
“No, I reckon Crane’s had enough of Chinook. He likely got too crooked
for the Fossilshell and they made him sell out. Wonder somebody don’t
kill him.”
“Shippin’ a lot of sheep from Sun Prairie now,” drawled Horne.
“Train-load went out yestiday, and there’s about twenty thousand held
at the loadin’ corrals. They tells me that cars are scarce. The feed’s
all gone in Sun Prairie and they’ve got to move.”
“---- good thing,” grunted Farley. “I can smell ’em for fifty miles.”
Jess and Danert came out on the porch, and Danert untied his horse.
“I’ll be back in a day or two,” he stated as he swung into the saddle.
“I’ve got to make a trip into the Fossilshell to buy a few car-loads of
feeders. Good night.”
He turned his horse, smiled up at Jess and rode down toward the main
road. Jess watched him for a moment and went back into the house.
“He used to work fer Crane, didn’t he?” asked Horne.
Farley nodded.
Horne got to his feet and stretched.
“I wonder why he quit workin’ fer Crane.”
“Took a job buyin’ cattle,” grunted Marshall.
“He ain’t bought none in Chinook, has he?” asked Farley. “Why don’t he
buy them few cars of feeders from us instead of goin’ ’way down on the
Fossilshell?”
“He’s a purty son-of-a-gun, anyway,” grinned Horne. “I feel like takin’
off m’ hat every time I meet him.”
“Sh-h-h!” cautioned Marshall. “Jess is goin’ to marry him.”
Horne opened his mouth, held it open for a moment and closed it slowly.
“Oh, m’ ----! M’ ----! That’s the first teetotal e-clipse I ever seen.”
Marshall got slowly to his feet and went into the house. He wanted to
argue in favor of his daughter’s choice, but he felt as did Farley and
Horne. He had nothing personal against Danert, except that he did not
like him.
Danert had come into that country three years previously and had worked
as a cowboy for several of the outfits in Chinook and Fossilshell. He
worked for Jefferson Crane on Sandy Fork, after Crane and his outfit
had been run out of Chinook Valley. Now Danert was buying cattle, so he
said, for a Chicago packing-house. He was a good spender, a plunging
gambler; and the cowboys of the Fossilshell said he was almost too fast
with a six-shooter.
Jess was sitting in the living-room, half-curled up in a big
rocking-chair as her father came in, and did not look up at him. He
studied her for a moment.
“Jess,” he said softly, “yo’re old enough to know what yuh want to do;
but yore old dad would kinda like to know if yuh really wants to marry
Clell Danert.”
“I don’t know, Dad.” Jess did not look at him as she shook her head.
“When I am with him, I do.”
“And when yuh ain’t, yuh don’t, eh? Kinda like seein’ a purty flower on
the ground, I reckon. When it’s there yuh want it; but if it ain’t there
yuh never give it a thought.”
“Something like that, Dad.”
Marshall nodded and crossed the room, where he parted the curtains and
peered off across the hills. Suddenly he turned.
“Jess, I been thinkin’ a lot lately about Peace Parker.”
Jess did not reply and he continued:
“His time’s about up. Wonder where he’ll go. ----, I’d give a lot to see
his homely old face again. Didn’t he have the dangdest biggest mouth yuh
ever seen? And when he smiled----”
Jess Marshall got to her feet without a word and looked at him. He
squirmed under her gaze and started to speak, but she stopped him with
a weary gesture.
“Dad, don’t talk about him--please. He--he wasn’t--homely.”
She turned away and left the room. Cross L Marshall grinned softly and
slapped himself on the thigh.
“Branded a thief, a gun-fighter, and homely as ----,” he muttered to
himself. “Five years in the penitentiary and we helped send him there.
Jess ain’t mentioned his name in all these years; but she ain’t forgot
him. He ain’t like a ---- purty flower--Peace Parker ain’t.”
Cross L Marshall eased himself into a soft chair and took out his old
pipe, chuckling to himself--
“Clell Danert, yore cake is goin’ to be a lot of gobby dough, or I don’t
know women--our kind of women.”
* * * * *
Tarp City was a metropolis of at least a thousand population, huddled
away in a nook of the foot-hills; a metropolis of false-fronted
buildings, unpainted and weather-beaten. It was a supply center for
Fossilshell, Chinook Valley and Sun Prairie, which made it of vast
importance to the world.
To Tarp City came the cow-men, the sheep-men, the prospector.
Freighters’ wagons creaked up and down the dusty street. From the big
loading corrals at the edge of town came the bawling of cattle, the
rattle of stock trains. At times there came dust-gray, bleating bands
of sheep from Sun Prairie to fill the stock trains.
At night Tarp City celebrated. Of saloons there were many, and gambling
was wide open, with the sky for a limit. The Poncho saloon and gambling
house was the main attraction. It was a place where wine, women and
coarse song might be found, seen and heard; where high-heeled boots and
spurs were not barred from the dance floor.
At the outskirts of the town, facing the rear of a huddle of small
saloons and restaurants, stood a warped-appearing shanty. This was the
temporary home of Jefferson Crane. The interior was as unattractive as
the exterior; but Jefferson Crane had little taste in home decoration.
Just now he sat at a rough table, figuring on a torn piece of paper with
the stub of a lead pencil. Three bunks were built into the rear of the
shanty, and on one of them a man was sleeping, snoring deeply. This was
Pete Perez, a half-breed Mexican and Indian.
Tilted against the wall on a backless chair sat Gus Sinks, a hard-faced
type of cowboy, half asleep, an unlighted cigaret glued to his underlip.
Crane was a peculiar type of cow-man. He was below medium height, thin
of feature and hawk-eyed. A scraggly blond mustache, frayed at the ends
from much chewing, draped over a crooked mouth, and surmounting his
narrow head was a faded, nondescript hat, which at one time had been a
derby. Seasons of heat and cold had obliterated its color until it was
neutral in shade as well as shape.
Crane was narrow of soul and very close with his money. He asked much
and told little, but demanded detailed obedience from all who worked for
him. He was deadly with a gun and had the reputation of always shooting
at an unlooked-for moment.
Came a knock at the door. Crane dropped the pencil and his right hand
reached inside his unbuttoned vest, where a Colt automatic pistol
reposed in a shoulder-holster.
Sinks tilted forward in his chair, wide awake, one hand hanging loosely
beside the holstered gun on his hip. At Crane’s call the door opened
and Clell Danert stepped inside, followed by Rance Wylie, a tall, rangy
cowboy, who tossed his hat into a corner and sat down on the floor with
his back against the wall.
“Well?” said Danert, eying Crane closely.
“Got ’em,” stated Crane. “Twenty thousand head.”
“Wool and bones, eh?”
“Well, they ain’t fit for market,” admitted Crane, “but yuh got to
figure we got ’em cheap. They’ll stand another drive.”
Danert drew a box up to the table and sat down. Crane shoved the sheet
of paper across to him, and he studied the mass of figures for a while.
“That’s what you paid for them, Crane?”
“I paid half of it down--cash. They was ---- willin’ to take it. Sun
Prairie is sheeped out, and them twenty thousand head of sheep wouldn’t
pay for shipping. Where would they go? No, they was glad to sell at my
price, Danert. We’ll make money.”
“Looks like it, Crane,” Danert nodded, and then he leaned across the
table. “We’ll make money if we can put the sheep into that valley.
There is always an ‘if.’”
Crane removed his hat and rubbed his head slowly.
“I’ll put ’em in there, Danert. Here’s the scheme.”
Crane talked rapidly and softly, while Danert watched him closely. When
Crane finished, Danert half-smiled and nodded.
“Sounds good; but who will take the first bunch through the pass?”
“Not me,” interrupted Sinks. “I wouldn’t go into Chinook with a woolen
shirt on my back.”
Crane grinned and shook his head.
“Don’t worry, Gus--” and then to Danert--“I told Jim Holman to pick up
a sheepherder for me. Lot of drifters pass through Fossilshell, and he
can pick one for me. I told him to promise a hundred a month, and that
much money will bring one a-whoopin’.”
“He won’t live to collect anythin’----” This from Wylie, with a short
laugh.
“I told Jim to pay him a month in advance,” explained Crane. “I reckon
we can afford to bet a hundred dollars on this deal.”
Danert smiled slowly:
“I guess we can, Crane. But there’s one thing we must do, and that is to
see that this shepherd don’t talk. Close-herd him all the time. One word
in the wrong place and the scheme is busted.”
“By ----, I’ll see to that!” snapped Crane. “I’ve got every cent I own
tied up in this deal, Danert. Chinook Valley run me out, ---- em! They
shook a rope in front of me!” Crane got to his feet and struck the
table-top a resounding whack.
“I’m goin’ to make Chinook pay ---- big for that deal! I’m goin’ to
sheep out their tight little hole in the hills, do yuh hear me? That’s
goin’ to be Crane’s Valley after I get through with it. Crane’s goin’
to be the big man in there.”
Perez sat up on the bunk and glared around.
“W’y you yell? I’m ride all de way from Fossilshell and I’m sleep.”
“Perez packed my note to Holman,” said Crane.
“Why not let Perez drive the first bunch in?” suggested Danert.
Perez stared at Danert. As his meaning grew clear, his hand slid to
the pistol on the blanket beside him. Perez knew what would happen to
the first man over that pass with sheep, and he was going to defend
his position.
Danert laughed easily and shook his head.
“No, we can’t use any of our own men, Perez. I was joking.”
Perez’s white teeth flashed in a grin.
“_Bueno!_ It ees no job for friends, eh? We send de stranger. Ha, ha,
ha.”
“That’s right,” agreed Danert, and then to Crane--
“When do the sheep arrive here?”
“In the morning. We’ll have to let people think we can’t get any cars.
Maybe we’ll have to hold ’em a few days. We’ll pass the word that the
sheep belong to Jim Holman. Jud Evers will be in charge of them.
Whatever happens, don’t let anyone know I’m in on this deal, Danert.
Holman will send this herder to you; _sabe?_ I don’t want any one to
suspect me.”
Danert squinted at the table-top. This move did not exactly fit into his
plans; but he could not buck Crane and his men. Danert intended to marry
Jess Marshall; but he knew that this sheep move would kill all chances,
unless he was able to cover up his end of the deal.
“You watch for our man,” ordered Crane. “I dunno when Holman will find
the right one, but I hope it will be soon. Them sheep won’t stand much
delay.”
“One outfeet try to go into Fossilshell range,” volunteered Perez. “One
herder die, two t’ousand sheep go to feed de buzzard. Cowboy act fas’.”
“Likely lookin’ for ’em to cross the line,” observed Sinks.
Crane nodded quickly.
“Sure they was lookin’ for ’em. Chinook won’t be lookin’ for us. We’ll
fill the place with wool, fight ’em to a finish and make the law decide.
Sheep have the same right as cattle, according to law; but you’ve got to
have part possession. All we want is an even break in court and the
sheep will get it all, because the cattle can’t live on the same range.”
“You was over in Chinook yesterday, wasn’t you, Danert?” asked Wylie.
Danert nodded.
“Yes, I was in there. Had supper at the Cross L.”
“Yuh was in there two days before that, too,” said Crane slowly.
“Suppose I was--what about it?” queried Danert.
“Buyin’ cattle?” laughed Wylie.
Danert smiled and shook his head.
“No. I was just looking around.”
“Didja find her?” Sinks asked.
Danert turned and his eyes narrowed as he looked at Sinks, but Sinks
only smiled. Danert looked quickly at Crane.
“More of your spying, eh?”
“If yuh want to put it thataway, Danert.”
“By----, I’ll have no man following me!”
Danert’s face was white with rage, but Crane’s face was an impassive
mask as he replied softly--
“Then you keep away from the Cross L ranch.”
Danert stared at Crane for a moment in wonder--then remembered. Crane
had tried to make love to Jess Marshall. It was ridiculous even to
think of Jess Marshall and Crane in the same breath; but Crane was a
human being, in spite of his crooked nature; and human beings are all
capable of love or hate.
Jess had ignored his love, and Crane, like the dog in the manger, was
going to see that no one else won her love. Danert was angry at Crane
for spying on him, but was wise enough to conceal it now.
“I don’t want anybody dogging my tracks, Crane. I’m as deep in this as
you are and I don’t see why you can’t trust me.”
Crane was looking down at the floor as Danert finished. He glanced at
Danert, but did not reply. Finally he got to his feet.
“You know what I want yuh to do, Danert. Keep an eye out for the man
Holman will send in. Thassall, I reckon.”
Danert got up and went out of the door. He resented the domineering
voice of Jefferson Crane, and cursed softly to himself as he went
back to the street. So he had been followed and spied upon, had he?
Jeff Crane did not trust him. The lack of trust did not hurt Danert’s
feelings. As far as that was concerned, he did not trust anybody; so
why should he be trusted?
Danert looked up and down the street, wondering if Crane would trust
him, now that he--Danert--knew he was shadowed. Finally he turned and
went into a restaurant and sat down at a table. A waitress, a pretty
little thing, came from the kitchen and went straight to him.
“Clell, is it true that you are going to marry that Marshall girl?”
Danert frowned. It was rather embarrassing, as he was engaged to marry
this pretty waitress, Dora Frazer. He shook his head and smiled up at
her.
“Not a thing to it, Dora.”
She bit her lip and looked away.
“Why do they say it, Clell--if there is nothing to it?”
Danert squirmed in his chair. He liked Dora, and he knew that she could
cause him a lot of trouble if she wanted to. A woman of her type likes
to be confided in, and Danert rapidly sketched his plans regarding
Chinook Valley and the Marshall family.
“I’m the inside man,” he explained. “This love affair is only a blind,
don’t you see. It gives me a fine chance to know just what is going on.”
“Is it fair to the Marshall girl?” she asked after a moment’s thought.
Danert looked away. There was no accounting for a woman’s mind. Here
he had gone to the trouble of explaining his reasons for his seeming
unfaithfulness, thinking that Dora would be satisfied; but now she
sympathized with the other girl.
“Well, perhaps not,” he agreed, “but I am not going in to see her again;
so it doesn’t matter.”
Dora took his order and went to the kitchen, while Danert smiled to
himself. He had no intention of marrying Dora. He did intend to marry
Jess Marshall; but it was a long trip to the Cross L ranch, and Danert
craved amusement.
* * * * *
“Willing to do anything, eh?”
Peace River Parker nodded slowly, his blue eyes looking past the man
who had questioned him--looking out across the sage-covered hills.
The questioner was a middle-aged, businesslike man, whom Peace had
accosted in hopes that the man might know of some outfit in need of
a man.
“I ain’t particular,” said Peace softly. “I’m plumb broke.”
“Mind herding sheep?”
Peace smiled and pursed his lips.
“No, I don’t reckon so--if the sheep don’t.”
“I’ve got a job,” the man half smiled. “Friend of mine asked me to get
him a man who--who could take care of himself.”
“I reckon I can, but I ain’t been carin’ for myself much durin’ the
past five years.” Peace smiled grimly and held out his open hands,
palms up. “Eight-pound sledgehammer and no limit to the rocks. I’ve
worried a heap of rocks in the last five years. Warden said I was the
king-pin rock-buster of the zebra university.”
The man studied him closely, and did not wonder that Peace had come
unbroken from the prison grind. Peace was six feet three inches tall,
with long sloping shoulders, long arms and a massive head. Peace was
homely. His nose was thin and sensitive, his chin jutted belligerently,
and the lines of his face appeared as if carved deeply in bronze. His
mouth was abnormally wide and full of large white teeth. His eyes were
set in a mass of tiny wrinkles, which cross-hatched each other and
faded out over his high cheek-bones.
“I think you are the man for the job,” stated the man. “Hundred a month
and grub.”
“Hundred a month?” Peace rubbed his chin and squinted wonderingly at
the man. “Things has kinda changed in five years, ain’t they? When I
left----”
“I know,” quickly. “Punchers got forty a month and sheepherders thirty.
Will you take the job and how soon can you go to work?”
“I’ll take the job, and go to work right now. I want--” Peace turned
and stared out across the hills--“I want to get out there,
pardner--into--them--hills.”
Peace turned again slowly and looked at the man.
“You don’t know what I mean. Mebbe yuh think yuh do, pardner; but yuh
don’t. You ain’t never been penned up for five years, where you can’t
see no hills, no birds--nothin’ but plain men all around yuh--men who
ain’t got nothin’ on their minds but a certain date. Yuh can’t talk
to them.
“Get herded out in the mornin’ like animals, bust rock, march back
and hear the lock click shut. Every time it clicks yuh say, ‘That’s
one click off.’ Then yuh set there and figure out how many more times
it’s goin’ to click behind yuh. The first time I was locked in I says
to myself:
“‘That’s got to click for eighteen hundred and twenty-five night-locks
before you see them hills again.’ Pardner, can yuh imagine what that
means? No, yuh can’t. They said I was a good prisoner--if that’s any
satisfaction. When do I start work?”
“Come over to my office and I’ll give you the details.”
They crossed the street and went into an office, on the window of which
was the firm name, “Holman & Keller, Investments and Insurance.”
An oldish man was writing in a ledger and merely glanced at them as they
came in.
“I’ll give you a month’s salary in advance,” said Peace’s companion, as
he sat down at his desk.
He wrote rapidly for a minute, sealed the note in an envelop and handed
it to Peace, together with several bills.
“You take the stage right away to Tarp City, where you will find a man
by the name of Clell Danert. Give him this note and he will arrange the
rest of it for you. He will furnish you with a Winchester and six-gun.
If you lose the note, tell him that Holman sent you.”
Peace nodded.
“Much obliged, pardner. Mebbe I’ll make a good shepherd.” He nodded to
the oldish man, who was staring at him, and held out his hand to Holman.
“So-long. If yuh ever want to ask about me--my name’s Parker.”
Peace walked out of the office and hurried down the street, where the
stage was loading in front of the post-office.
The oldish man stared out of the window for a moment and then crossed
over to Holman, who was writing in a note-book.
“Know who that is, Holman?”
“Said his name was Parker,” looking up at his partner’s curious tone.
“Parker--yes. That’s Peace River Parker.”
“Peace River--oh, the gunman, who----”
“And you sent him to Tarp City. My----, that’s his home country,
Holman!”
Holman started to his feet, but from down the street came the rattle of
wheels as the stage started on its journey to Tarp City. Holman sank in
his chair and picked up his pipe.
“Well, what if it is, Keller? Has he any love for Chinook Valley?”
“Perhaps not, but it is a very sure thing that he has no love for
Crane.”
“No, that’s all true, but Crane isn’t going to show in this. Crane
wanted me to find a man who was willing to take a chance--a cat’s-paw,
Keller. The man who takes the job will never enjoy his hundred a
month.”
Keller stared out of the open doorway and turned back to his desk.
“I never did like Crane; but we’re handling his business and I suppose
we’ve got to help him out at times. Perhaps Parker will take the job
and see it through. He’s got the nerve of the ----, but--Holman, wasn’t
there something about him being engaged to marry a girl in Chinook
Valley?”
“Marshall’s daughter,” grunted Holman. “She’s going to marry Danert.”
Keller ran a hand through his thin hair and turned back to his work.
“Going to marry a girl is like putting off until tomorrow what you can
do today. I’ll believe it when the knot is tied.”
“It is all settled, I believe.”
“If it isn’t, it will be,” smiled Keller.
* * * * *
Five years had made little difference in the Fossilshell country, as
far as Peace Parker was able to see. Progress had not touched the
cattle country in the 90’s to any great extent. Peace had known few
people in Fossilshell, and he saw no familiar faces as he wended his
way to the stage office, where he paid his passage to Tarp City,
forty miles away.
Peace smiled grimly to himself as he perched up on the stage seat. He
had never intended going back to Tarp City. In fact, he had decided,
before leaving prison, to go North. He had dreamed of Alaska, Northern
British Columbia, but at times he pondered deeply over the purple
sage-covered hills of the Fossilshell; of the hazy, lazy range of the
Chinook, where the moon silvered the impassable ranges on either side.
In his dreams he had seen the shadowy figures of riders, heard the
muffled footfalls of horses, the creak of saddle-leather, as they faded
out over the silvered road through Poncho Pass. He could see Tarp City,
where hard-bitted men brought great herds to the terminus of the branch
railroad; where they shook off the dust of the range and made merry in
their own way.
But there was a harsh note in these dreams, a note which caused Peace
to scowl in his sleep. A man’s face--grinning. This man had the eyes
of a hawk, a scraggly blond mustache, which draped a crooked mouth,
and surmounting this grinning face was a faded, green derby hat.
The memory of this face came to Peace, as the prison gate clanged
behind him, and he stood in the middle of the dusty road which led
to town. It was late Spring. Overhead a belated flock of wild brant,
a glittering V in the sky, gabbled as they headed for the northern
lakes. Peace watched them, fascinated. They were going his way. Were
they? He turned and looked south. It was Spring, and he was free. He
shook his head slowly and headed for the town. Plenty of time to go
North. The Fossilshell and the valley of the Chinook were calling.
Now he was going blindly into the country which knew him for a thief and
a gunman, going back to face honest men, after they had banished him for
the good of society.
* * * * *
The driver was a surly individual, crabbed from much jolting over
rough roads. Beside him he carried a small box full of rocks, one of
which he ever and anon threw at his lead team, punctuating each throw
with profanity.
“Yo’re liable to make a bad throw and hurt one of them broncs,”
remonstrated Peace, after they had traveled into the hills.
The driver gave Peace a malevolent look, but did not reply. Peace
filled his lungs with sage-laden air and bared his head to the breeze.
The stage split through a herd of beef cattle, and the cowboys yelped
and waved their hats at the driver of the stage.
Peace itched for a chance to swing into a saddle again, wanted to talk
about it, but the driver’s sour visage precluded all chances for a
pleasant conversation. Finally Peace asked--
“What do they pay punchers around here?”
“Forty a month!” grunted the driver without turning his head.
“Oh, yeah. Same old price all over the West, I reckon. What do they pay
sheepherders?”
“Sheepherders?” The driver spat disgustedly. “I dunno. Ain’t none.
Over in the Sun Prairie country they pay ’em thirty a month. That’s
the nearest sheep country. Lookin’ for that kind of a job?”
Peace did not answer. He wondered why Holman was paying him a hundred
dollars a month--sixty more than the cowboys were paid and seventy
more than the sheepherders were getting. What was the idea? Peace knew
the Sun Prairie country and had no desire to go into that sheep-ridden
land.
He remembered the time he had ridden the length of the prairie--sixty
miles of sheep odors, where frowsy sheepherders bleated like sheep.
The buttes were as bare of foliage as a dirt road. In fact the whole
country was a barren waste, for sheep leave nothing in their wake.
What their teeth do not devour their sharp hoofs destroy. There were
dead-lines to this land of dust and sheep, and Peace smiled as he
remembered the cowboy patrol, which watched that no woolie might pass
into the cow-land. Suddenly he remembered that he had hired out to
herd sheep. He had accepted a month’s pay in advance. Well, he could
stand it for a month.
His musings were broken when the stage gave a violent lurch. One of
the lead team floundered into its mate, shaking its head madly. The
driver cursed wickedly and threw another rock. He struck one of the
leaders just behind the ear with a sharp chunk of granite as the
animal was striving desperately to keep its feet.
The driver wrapped the slack lines around his hands, braced his heels,
and threw the four horses rearing backward. Before he could slacken
his grip he felt the lines torn from his grasp. An instant later he
was jerked to his feet and thrown bodily off the stage seat and down
the embankment of the grade, where he lodged in the embrace of a wild
rose-bush.
He wiped the dust out of his eyes and looked back up the grade, where
Peace River was leaning over the side of the stage seat, looking down
at him.
The driver tore his way loose from the briers and drew his gun, mouthing
curses. Peace’s right hand flipped downward and a hunk of granite
crashed into the driver’s elbow, paralyzing his gun hand temporarily.
Then Peace kicked off the brake, chirped to the nervous team and rattled
around a curve, while the driver clawed his way to the road, spouting
curses and raving.
Peace River knew the stage route--knew every inch of the road. It was
good to be alive and free and to hold a set of lines again. A coyote
crossed the road ahead of the team, and Peace yelled a greeting at it.
Jack-rabbits flashed away into the sage, followed by a mighty whoop of
joy. He was like a kid out of school. Ordinarily a quiet man, he whooped
and sang with joy of it all, and the four horses needed no stinging lash
to make them cover the road.
The fact that he had knocked the driver off the seat and taken charge
of the stage did not worry Peace. The driver would have a twelve-mile
walk back to Fossilshell; but Peace considered this small punishment
for hitting a horse in the head with a rock.
He scanned the sage-covered hills, where drifting herds picked at the
new covering of bunch-grass; the deep-rutted hill trails, where for
years the cattle had come down to drink from the Fossilshell.
The past five years were wiped out in a day. Nothing had changed.
Barbed-wire had not yet arrived in the country, and the homes of the
nester were few and far between. The white alkali dust eddied up from
the horses’ hoofs, a blinding, choking mist; but Peace drank deep of
it all. Even alkali dust tasted good to his tongue.
It was late that evening when he drove into Tarp City. It was the same
old town. He drove the team up to the stage office and looked down at
the crowd who congregated to wait for their mail; but there were no
familiar faces.
No one questioned him, and he decided that the Fossilshell stage-line
was in the habit of changing drivers often. Two men began unloading.
Peace lifted the mailsack from between his feet and tossed it to a man
near the doorway.
“Where’s the stable?” asked Peace, and one of the bystanders pointed
out the stage-stable. Peace climbed back to the seat, swung the four
horses in a wide arc, drove into the open stable doors and helped the
hostler unhitch.
“First time this team ever came in on the jump,” observed the hostler,
slapping one of the horses on the rump. “Not a hair laid on ’em and
fifteen minutes ahead of time.”
“I never hurried a-tall,” grinned Peace.
“There’s drivers and drivers,” stated the hostler. “Some fellers has
to heave the rawhide all the way, which plumb ruins good hawses; other
fellers are drivers. Lots of difference between a driver and a herder.
Goin’ to be with us for a while?”
Peace shook his head.
“No, I don’t reckon so. Where can I find a feller named Clell Danert?”
The hostler squinted at Peace.
“Danert? Oh, yeah. Well, sir, I dunno where you’ll find him, but most
likely in a poker game. Friend of yours?”
“No-o-o, I can’t say he is, ’cause I don’t know him.”
“Then he ain’t,” replied the hostler enigmatically. “You ain’t his kind,
I’m bettin’. Know Tarp City very well?”
“Mebbe not.”
The hostler walked to the door with Peace and pointed out the possible
places where Danert might be found.
“If yuh find him,” stated the hostler, “you’ll likely see that he’s in a
poker game, settin’ in a chair which is against the wall.”
Peace smiled.
“Scared?”
“Per-tick-ler,” corrected the hostler. “Ever’ once in a while yuh find
one like that. Hope yuh find him. I’ve heard folks say that Clell
Danert’s handsome. If yore eyes treat yuh thataway, pardner, look for
beauty.”
Peace thanked him and wended his way to the nearest saloon. Oil lamps
were already shedding their yellow glow through the windows, and Tarp
City’s night life was ready to crawl out and start where it left off
the night before.
Peace looked at the games in the first saloon, but did not see any one
answering Danert’s description. Remembering that he had not eaten any
supper he crossed the street to a restaurant. The place was partly
filled with diners, and Peace took a seat near the rear of the room.
“Five years makes a lot of changes in faces,” mused Peace. “None of the
old gang around here. Mebbe they’re changed so much I don’t know ’em.”
Dora Frazer came to take his order and Peace caught her looking intently
at him. When she came back with his order he looked up and smiled at
her. For a moment she stared at him, and then, with a slight intake of
breath--
“I--I thought you was homely!”
The frank innocence of the remark both amused and pleased Peace and he
laughed boyishly.
“Ma’am, I don’t reckon yuh made a mistake the first time.”
“I was just thinking of the difference when you smiled.”
“That’s my mouth,” said Peace seriously. “Ain’t it awful for a human
bein’ to have his face gashed up thataway?”
They were both laughing, when the door opened and Clell Danert came in.
He looked at Peace and Dora and then came toward them. Dora turned and
looked at Danert, and Peace knew she was afraid.
Peace had never seen Danert in his life, but he instinctively disliked
him. The white silk shirt, tailored broadcloth suit, fancy boots and
the large Southwest type of Stetson did not please Peace Parker, who
mentally classed him as a tin-horn gambler.
Danert’s cold glance swept from the girl to Peace, accusingly. Peace got
slowly to his feet, feeling that trouble was imminent. The girl stepped
back and looked appealingly at Danert, who was watching Peace closely.
Peace’s eyes never wavered from Danert’s face.
Part of a stamped-leather belt and ornate buckle showed at Danert’s
waistline, and a slight bulge low on his hip told Peace that this man
was wearing a holstered gun.
Peace was unarmed and he knew that his only chance was at close
quarters. Their glances clashed as Peace got to his feet. The man was
evidently not sure whether Peace was anticipating trouble or whether
he had finished his meal.
A noise at the door caused them both to look that way. A man had come in
and was looking over the diners. Peace knew at a glance that it was the
stage-driver whom he had thrown off the Fossilshell stage that morning.
The man’s glance swept the diners; then he saw Peace. There was nothing
cautious nor delicate in the man’s actions when he sighted the man who
had set him afoot. With a bellow of rage he whipped out a gun and strode
down among the tables, heading for Peace Parker.
Peace flung himself into Danert, tripping him and tearing his coat away
from his hip, and as the astonished Danert plunged to the floor, Peace
sprang away from the frightened waitress, with a pearl-handled Colt
pistol in his hand. Diners upset their chairs getting out of the danger
zone, and there was a general stampede to the sides of the restaurant.
A bullet ripped through Peace’s shirt, burning its way between his
upper arm and side, but he did not flinch nor waver the muzzle of the
fire-belching gun which was held tense at his right hip.
Another bullet burned its way across his thigh, but the cursing
stage-driver was falling as he fired and his last shot powder-burned
the floor.
Peace leaned forward and watched him, but the man did not move. The
crowd merely stared at Peace. The handsome stranger got slowly to his
feet and Peace handed him the gun.
“I owe yuh for six cartridges,” said Peace calmly.
Danert took the gun, looked from Peace to the driver and shook his head.
“You’re welcome, stranger.”
Then he turned and faced the crowd, which was moving in closer to the
fallen man.
“You saw how this was done, didn’t you? Can’t make nothing out of it
except self-defense.”
A grizzled man stepped out of the crowd and Peace saw the flash of a
star on the lapel of his vest. He nodded and said:
“I seen it. I dunno why it was done, but the big stranger only done
what he had to do. I seen him take yore gun, Clell; which cinches the
fact that he wasn’t lookin’ for trouble.” Then he turned to Peace--
“There won’t be no investigation, stranger.”
“Much obliged,” nodded Peace and turned.
“Yore name Clell Danert?”
“Yes.”
Peace handed him the letter from Holman, and Danert read it slowly. He
squinted at Peace for a moment and put the letter inside his coat.
Men were removing the wounded driver, and a man in a white apron was
busily cleaning up the stains of conflict. The place buzzed with
conversation and nervous laughter. Tarp City was used to scenes of
violence.
“No use trying to eat in here,” said Danert. “Let’s go down the street
where nobody will bother us.”
As they started down the sidewalk Peace said--
“You was kinda on the prod yoreself, wasn’t yuh, Danert?”
“When I came in?” Danert laughed coldly. “Well, I thought you was
getting fresh with the little lady.”
“Shucks!” Peace’s tone was sorrowful. “I never got fresh with no lady,
Danert. You goin’ to marry her?”
Danert laughed and shook his head.
“No, I haven’t any use for a wife--not yet.”
“Pshaw!” breathed Peace. “I never thought about a man havin’ use for
a wife. Kinda sounds like a man packin’ an ax to cut wood with. Say,
Danert, I don’t want to criticize any man’s notions, but--do you like
them pearl-handled six-guns, or do yuh pack one ’cause it’s pretty?”
Danert hesitated for a moment and slowed his walk.
“I do not care to have any one tell me what I should wear. My business
is my business and concerns no one except myself. I hope you understand
what I mean.”
“Sure,” grinned Peace. “Go ahead and pack one of those pretty guns if
yuh want to; but some day she’ll slip in yore hand----”
Danert turned and went into a small restaurant, and Peace followed
him to a booth in the rear. They sat down and gave their order to a
Chinaman. Danert took out the letter and read it again.
“Holman does not give your name,” he remarked meaningly.
“That’s all right,” said Peace slowly. “Just call me Peace.”
“What’s your first name?”
“First name?” Peace pondered solemnly over it for a while and smiled at
Danert. “Ma told me once that they used to call me Little Sunshine, on
account of me havin’ red hair at that time. I reckon that was my first
name. After that they----”
“Oh ----!” Danert exploded his disgust, but Peace’s face broke into a
wide smile.
“You know anything about Chinook Valley?” growled Danert.
Peace’s eyes narrowed and he studied Danert.
Was the man trying to probe into his past?
“Chinook Valley? What about it, Danert?”
“That’s where you’re going to herd sheep.”
Peace was thankful that the Chinaman came in at that moment with their
orders, which gave him a chance to prepare for anything Danert might
say. When he went out Danert continued--
“I’ll tell you something about Chinook Valley, if you care to hear it.”
Peace cut slowly into a juicy steak and nodded without raising his eyes.
“Go ahead, Danert.”
“Chinook Valley is East of here, across the range,” said Danert. “The
only way to get in and out is by Poncho Pass, which is a pretty stiff
climb out of here. There are about ten cattle outfits in this valley.
These ten outfits have controlled the valley for years, although they
do not own more than a few hundred acres apiece.
“The biggest cattle owner in the valley is a man named Marshall, who
owns the Cross L brand. They call him ‘Cross L Marshall.’ The rest of
the brands own about the same amount of stock.
“A little northeast of here is Sun Prairie. Sheep have used that
locality for years, but it is worn out now. It is a case of a new range
or sell out. Some of the sheep-men have sold out--sold out cheap. Those
are the sheep you are going to herd--into--Chinook--Valley.”
Peace ate slowly while Danert talked, and did not look up when Danert
stopped.
“We told Holman to get a man with plenty of nerve and to pay him well,”
continued Danert. “You’ve got the nerve. Holman says he paid you a
month’s salary in advance.”
Peace nodded and cleared his throat.
“You goin’ to only send in what one man can drive?”
“No,” hastily. “It’s like this: You will take a thousand through the
pass at night and have them well down into the valley by daytime.
Get them as far as possible, you understand. Scatter them as much as
possible. If no one stops you at daylight, keep them drifting. Our
idea is to follow up the next day with twenty thousand head. We’ll
flood the valley with sheep.
“We’ll have at least twenty men in there the day after you get in. What
we want to do is to get the first bunch so far down into the valley that
it will take all their time to round ’em up.
“Your small bunch will travel faster at night, whereas a large bunch
would move slowly, and we’re using you to drive a wedge into the place.
The big herd is held just outside of here now. Everybody thinks we are
waiting for cars to ship ’em out. Several train-loads have already been
shipped East.”
“When do yuh aim to send in the first bunch?” asked Peace.
“Tomorrow night. Don’t mention it to a soul, because if a hint of it
was heard by the men from Chinook Valley you couldn’t drive a sheep
through that pass in a covered wagon. We’ve got every cent we own
invested in those sheep and we’re going to graze them in that valley
in spite of ----. Sun Prairie is a land of dust, the Fossilshell is
an impossibility, because they patrol a dead-line, which means a
battle before we can get started. Chinook has both feed and water,
and they’re never looking for any one to attempt to herd sheep into
their tight little place.
“You put that herd through the pass and into the valley, and we’ll do
the rest.” Danert got to his feet. “That hundred a month won’t look
very big to you, if you obey orders, and if you don’t--you won’t need
it.”
Peace got to his feet, smiling. Danert stepped to one side and removed a
chair to let Peace outside. Like a flash Peace grabbed him by both arms
and crashed him against the wall of the booth, where he held Danert
helpless.
“What do you mean?” snarled Danert, glaring at Peace.
“This much.” Peace spoke slowly and without effort.
“I’ve accepted a month’s pay and I’m willin’ to obey orders, but
no ---- man can threaten me, Danert.”
Loosening one hand, Peace lifted Danert’s gun from its holster and then
proceeded to take a handful of cartridges from Danert’s belt-loops.
“I’m doin’ this, ’cause I don’t trust yuh--not because I want this
pretty gun. Holman said you’d give me a Winchester and a six-gun, which
listens good; but I’m goin’ to be heeled until yuh do. _Sabe?_”
Peace released Danert and stepped back, loading the gun. Danert rubbed
his cramped arm and arranged his rumpled clothes. He was boiling,
inwardly, but outwardly cool.
Danert was a large man, but Peace had handled him easily, and it hurt
Danert’s vanity. He knew he was a fighter, knew he was stronger than
the average man, but Peace had made him feel that he was in the grip
of a machine rather than the grip of human muscles.
“Did I hurt yuh?” asked Peace quietly, a bit humorously. “I done it as
easy as I could. Hope you don’t begrudge me the use of the pretty gun.”
“That’s all right,” said Danert, forcing a smile. “You caught me when I
wasn’t looking.”
“Are yuh lookin’ now?” queried Peace meaningly.
“You and I can get along without any trouble,” said Danert hastily.
“We’ll let things go as they lay. Maybe we better not be seen together
after this. We can’t do anything before tomorrow evening. Suppose you
meet me in front of the Palace saloon at seven o’clock tomorrow evening,
and we’ll leave from there. I’ll have the guns for you at the herd, and
we’ll give you all your instructions at that time.”
“I’ll take orders,” nodded Peace. “_Adios._”
Peace walked to the door and watched Danert disappear up the street.
Across the street in front of the stage-station was a watering-trough, a
huge log hollowed and set up on log foundation. Peace crossed the street
and sat down on one end of this, while he tried to think.
From down the street came the tin-panny tinkle of a piano, blended
with the uncertain notes of a worn-out music-box. Wagons creaked
into the light of the oil lamps, men called greetings to each other
as they passed. Riders swung past, melting into the shadows at the
saloon hitch-racks.
Peace gave no heed to the passing night life of Tarp City. It was what
his soul had longed for, dreamed over for five years; but the one
sentence, “Sheep in Chinook,” drove all other thoughts from his mind.
He could see the gray bands sweeping the valley from Poncho Pass to the
Crazy Snake, to the utter ruination of the most wonderful cattle range
in the world.
Peace shook his head slowly. He would not be a party to this.
“Sheep!” he muttered to himself. “I’ve hated the ---- things all my
life, and here I am throwin’ in with ’em.”
He mused over it for a while, and it suddenly came to him: Why should he
protect Chinook Valley? What had Chinook Valley done for him? Nine of
the twelve jurors had been from Chinook Valley. The witnesses for the
prosecution were from Chinook. He was innocent; but they convicted him.
Why not let the sheep clean out the place? Sheep were going to supplant
cattle. It was only a question of time; so why not make it now?
Peace rubbed the palm of his hand over the butt of Danert’s pistol and
stared down at the ground. He had left there, branded as a dangerous
gunman; his homecoming had unfortunately sustained this reputation.
* * * * *
Jefferson Crane was humped on the bunk, spelling out the words of an
old newspaper when Clell Danert rapped at the door. With a flip of the
paper Crane extinguished the lamp, and picked up a Colt pistol, which
was beside him on the worn blanket.
“Come in!” he grunted.
Danert opened the door and peered into the dark interior.
“Danert?” snapped Crane.
“Yes.”
“Come in!”
Danert shut the door behind him and Crane lighted the lamp, cursing at
the hot chimney. He turned and peered at Danert, who sat down on a rough
stool.
“Holman sent us a man,” volunteered Danert, handing the letter to Crane,
who made no move to take it.
“Talk about him,” ordered Crane.
Danert started to describe Peace River Parker, but Crane stopped him.
“Tell me that again, Danert. Yuh say he’s over six feet tall, and kinda
stooped? Homely son of a gun?”
“Holman didn’t say what his name was,” said Danert, ignoring Crane’s
anxious questions. “I asked him what his name was an’ he said it was
Peace.”
“The ---- he did!” Crane’s teeth fairly snapped. “Peace, eh? Danert,
you ---- fool; that’s Peace River Parker!”
“The guy who shot up you and your outfit?”
Crane trembled with anger, and he nodded violently. “I forgot that his
five years were up. What in ---- did he come back here for?”
“Why ask me?” growled Danert. “Not for his health, that’s a cinch. He
filled the Fossilshell stage-driver full of lead in Davey’s restaurant
tonight--with my gun. I took him down to Louie’s place where we could
talk business, and he took my gun away from me again and held me
against the wall while he loaded it from my own belt. Said he would
keep it until I gave him a better one.”
Crane stared at Danert for a moment and broke into a cackling laugh,
which grated on Danert’s nerves.
“Took your gun, eh? He, he, he! Held yuh against the wall. He, he, he!”
“Stop your ---- cackling!” snapped Danert.
Crane stopped his unholy glee and wiped his eyes. It was not often that
Jefferson Crane laughed and the effort was almost too much for his vocal
cords.
“I’m not working for you and I don’t have to take your ---- orders;
so--” Danert was angry.
“Don’t let that itch yuh any,” advised Crane. “I got along before your
handsome carcass hove into view, Danert; and I can do it again.”
For several moments there was silence. Danert realized that the argument
was getting too warm for him, especially as he had no gun, and Crane’s
gun was on his lap. He knew that Crane would not hesitate to kill him if
it came to a show-down, and Clell Danert had no desire to die. Finally
he said slowly--
“Shall we let him take the herd in?”
“I dunno.” Crane fondled his gun. “Peace Parker is a wolf when he
hates; but the ---- fool comin’ back here kinda makes me wonder. Did
the penitentiary make him scared of trouble?”
“You can bury that kind of talk,” said Danert. “He is not afraid of
trouble, Crane; and five years in the pen hasn’t spoiled his six-gun
ability. He never lifted that gun from his hip, and I’ll bet that
every shot hit the target.”
Crane stared blankly at the wall, and his lips twitched for a moment.
Down deep in his narrow soul was a great fear--not exactly a fear of
death; and his soul cried out a “Why” for the coming of Peace Parker.
Then a crafty grin came to his lips, and he turned to Danert, who was
watching him closely.
“Clell, I reckon we’ll let him take the sheep in--if he’ll do it; and if
he won’t----”
Danert nodded. He knew what Crane meant.
“He knows what he’s goin’ up against,” said Crane. “It’s almost a
cinch that the first sheepherder into Chinook Valley will get filled
so full of lead that they’ll take him to the smelter instead of to
the undertakers.”
Danert nodded, and Crane continued:
“We’ve got to see that he goes in with them sheep. Post the boys to
trail him and watch every move. If he gets an idea that I’m behind
this deal he will yell it from the street. Tell the boys to stick to
him, Danert; and if he makes a break--kill him. Don’t let him talk
to anybody. _Sabe_ what I mean?”
Danert nodded quickly. “Leave that to me, Crane. I don’t think that
Holman knew who he was hiring. He paid Parker the hundred dollars.”
“I told him to pick a man who looked like he didn’t care what happened
to him,” said Crane, “and ---- bad luck sent Parker to him. Don’t let
on that you suspect him, Clell, and for ----’s sake don’t mention my
name to him. If he knowed I was behind this----”
“He’d give Holman back his money and kill you,” finished Danert.
“That’s none of your ---- business!” exploded Crane. “What’s between me
and Peace Parker is no affair of yours, Danert!”
“For which I give thanks,” grinned Danert. He turned back toward the
door, where he stopped. “I’ll be at Pasiooks when the sheep start into
the pass.”
“What for, Clell?”
“Well, I may be able to hinder some action.”
“Yeah?” drawled Crane sarcastically. “You ain’t afraid of Jess Marshall
hinderin’ us, are yuh?”
Clell Danert’s eyes narrowed, and he took a half-step back towards
Crane.
“My personal business is nothing to you, Crane. What I do in Pasiooks
is none of your ---- business, do you understand? You found that you
couldn’t get that girl; so yuh might as well get used to it.”
Crane’s evil face contorted with anger, and his skinny hands gripped the
heavy gun.
“What about that restaurant girl, Danert? You goin’ to turn her down?”
“None of your ---- business, Crane! I haven’t done her any harm. You
take care of your own morals.”
Crane glared at Danert, but made no reply.
“Marshall ran you out of Chinook Valley,” continued Danert tauntingly.
“I’ve heard it all. You was willing to sell your outfit for about half
what it was worth; so you must have valued your hide pretty highly.
Maybe that’s what Peace River Parker came back for.”
“Danert--” Crane slipped off the bunk and walked half way to him before
he continued-- “Danert, we’re into this sheep deal together--pardners,
if yuh feel thataway-- but--but your ---- tongue wags too much. You’re
nothin’ but a crook in dude clothes. Yes, I know you’ve got a rep as a
gunman, but that don’t scare me none a-tall. We’ll put our sheep in
Chinook Valley and then we’ll talk business. _Sabe?_”
“Any time,” nodded Danert, but added, “in the mean time I’m goin’ to
Pasiooks, Crane. _Adios._”
Crane did not reply, but he stared at the closed door for several
minutes after Clell Danert had gone into the night. Then he dropped the
heavy gun into his holster, snapping it out--back--in--out--in--out
until the draw was too swift to follow with the eye, and each time the
gun came level with the hammer at full cock. Then he tossed the belt
and gun on the bunk and sat down to think of Peace Parker.
Crane did not fear Clell Danert. He knew that he could shade Clell with
a gun, and that with an even break he would win. He would see that it
was an even break, if he had to start it himself.
Peace Parker was a different proposition. Peace had beat him on the
draw--beat him in a fair fight, and not only that but had whirled and
downed two of Crane’s cowboys, who were not rated as slow gunmen.
Peace had not gone unscratched, but was able to mount his horse and ride
to the sheriff at Tarp City and surrender himself to the law. Crane had
been the chief witness against Peace Parker--lying while under oath to
tell the truth.
Danert’s taunts had bitten deep into Crane’s narrow soul. He had
planned to win Jess Marshall for a wife, after Peace Parker’s exit,
but the wooing had been a dismal failure. He knew that the people of
Chinook Valley were laughing at him, and it had steeped his soul in
bitterness.
He had set his plans to control the valley. Some one had likened him
to Napoleon. Discreet questioning had brought him the information
that Napoleon had aspired to rule the world. Considering Napoleon’s
ultimate failure, Crane decided to cover less territory and play
safe, but a delegation of hard-eyed, sober cattlemen persuaded him
that Chinook Valley was a very poor place to attempt to start an
absolute monarchy.
Exhibit A was a half-inch, hard-twist rope. The jury requested that
Mr. Crane sign his name on a dotted line, accept a fair price for his
holdings in Chinook Valley and go some place where the people hankered
for a monarch. Mr. Crane signed, and he and his four cowboys--Gus
Sinks, Pete Perez, Jud Evers and Rance Wylie--were escorted to Poncho
Pass and ordered to stay away.
Crane’s brand had been a Five Dot. Barr Severn owned the Three Dot
outfit, whose brand is three dots in triangle form. The added two dots
changed it to Crane’s ownership. Such things, while not easy to prove,
are a violation of range etiquette.
Chris Sorensen owned the Bar X Bar. Chris was absolutely honest, and
when he found a Three Dot animal, which had been made over into Bar X
Bar, with four strokes of a running-iron, he took up the matter with
Barr Severn. Some one was trying to start trouble between neighbors.
At any rate Jefferson Crane left Chinook Valley and bought a brand
far out on the Fossilshell range, but he still remained Napoleonic in
his desires.
* * * * *
Peace Parker did not know that Crane was no longer a cattleman in
Chinook Valley, as news of this kind does not penetrate the walls of
a prison. He realized what sheep would mean to the valley, and he
knew how the cattlemen would greet the first man who drove in a band
of sheep.
The men who were going to invade Chinook Valley were determined, and he
knew that they would see that he either obey their orders or never live
to tell what their plans were.
His head was in a noose, especially as soon as they found out who he
was. He slept late and went to Davey’s restaurant for breakfast. The
same girl waited on his table, but she seemed nervous and glanced
often towards the door, as if expecting someone. Finally two men came
in and sat down near the door.
One was a swarthy man, whose features bespoke Mexican parentage. The
other was thin almost to the point of emaciation, with a weak, blond
mustache. Peace studied them for a moment and a half-smile moved his
thin lips.
It was Pete Perez and Gus Sinks, two cowboys who worked for Crane,
when Peace was with the Cross L outfit. Peace did not know either of
them personally, as they had joined Crane’s outfit shortly before
Peace’s conviction. Crane hired them to replace the cripples caused
by Peace’s gun. Peace remembered seeing them in the court-room.
Neither of the men gave Peace more than a passing glance, but he felt
that both of them recognized him. He looked up at the girl as she
placed a cup of coffee on the table, and he noticed that her hands
shook, spilling the coffee.
“What’s the matter, miss?”
Peace’s question was very abrupt, but scarcely above a whisper. The
girl’s hand went to her forehead and she flinched slightly, a look of
pain in her eyes; but she quickly recovered and tried to smile.
“Why--why, it is nothing,” and hurried back to the kitchen.
Peace wondered why the waitress was nervous; but decided that the events
of the night before had made her afraid that his presence meant more
trouble. He busied himself with his food, but studied the two men at the
other end of the room.
He knew the type. Perez, with his scarlet muffler and beaded vest, was
dangerous in his own way--a type which always strikes from behind. Sinks
was the opposite--an unemotional, cold-blooded killer, who does not fear
death, because his imagination pictures nothing beyond the bare word.
Neither of the men was paying any attention to Peace; but he felt that
they were there because of him. He switched his eyes to the door, where
more people were coming in.
It was Jess Marshall and Bart Farley. They were laughing as they went
to a table, on an angle between the table occupied by Perez and Sinks,
and Peace’s table. They had just sat down when the door swung open
again and Cross L Marshall came in. He was talking with some one just
outside the door, but turned and went straight to Jess and Farley, and
sat down beside Jess, facing Peace.
Peace watched them closely, hungrily. He watched the play of emotions
across Jess Marshall’s face as she listened to something her father
was telling Farley. Peace’s mind flashed back to a night in Spring,
five years before, when he and Jess had halted at the top of the pass
and watched the moon come up above the jagged skyline. That was the
night when he had talked haltingly, groping for words; while Jess had
looked up at him and supplied both the question and answer.
He had told Cross L Marshall of it all later on, and the old cattleman
had wrung his hand and said--
“Peace, I was afraid yuh wasn’t never goin’ to get up the nerve to ask
her.”
Peace watched them now as they talked. He wanted to get up and go
outside; but it seemed miles to the door, and he must pass them as he
went out. For the first time in his life, Peace Parker knew fear. He
glanced back and saw the waitress near the door to the kitchen, one
hand against the wall. She was looking past him at Perez and Sinks.
Marshall’s voice boomed out in a laugh as he leaned across the table,
talking earnestly with Farley, but suddenly he looked straight at Peace
Parker. Neither man showed surprize in his face. It was more the sharp
scrutiny that strangers often direct at each other.
Marshall turned back to Farley and continued their conversation. Peace
continued to eat slowly, at the same time watching Perez and Sinks, who
were paying no attention to the Marshall party.
Suddenly Peace glanced at Jess Marshall and found her looking straight
at him, a look of wonderment in her face. Her eyes shifted to her
father, but he was engaged with his food. Peace flashed a glance at
Perez and Sinks and caught them both watching the girl. Their eyes shot
a glance at him and both men began eating again.
Peace glanced up as the waitress came between himself and the Marshall
party and began removing the dishes. Without seeming to move her lips
the waitress said softly:
“Be careful. They are waiting for you to meet that girl and her father
and if they are kind to you, you’ll never leave here alive.”
Peace had begun eating as the girl spoke and did not look up until after
she had taken the dishes and gone away. He could see it now. If Jess
Marshall or her father shook hands with him, either Perez or Sinks would
try to kill him.
The powers that be were taking no chances on having their sheep venture
blocked. Danert had likely told the girl, and she feared gun-play.
Peace smiled at their caution. There was not the remotest chance in the
world that any of the Marshalls would recognize him--an ex-convict.
Hadn’t the jury declared him guilty? The judge had censured him severely
for the shooting at Crane’s ranch, believing that Peace had done it out
of revenge.
Peace wondered who was really behind the sheep deal. Some one who knew
him, that was certain. He felt that Clell Danert was merely one of the
pawns of the game. Jess and her father were not looking at him now, and
Perez and Sinks seemed interested solely in their food.
Peace got to his feet and walked slowly to the counter, where he settled
for his meal, paying no attention to any one.
Farley looked up at him as he passed and started to get to his feet, but
Marshall spoke quickly, and he sat down again. Farley had been a stanch
defender of Peace Parker, and a prison record would not interfere in any
way with his friendship for a man.
A grin passed between Perez and Sinks. Jess Marshall stared down at her
plate until she heard the door shut behind Peace Parker. She looked at
her father as if about to speak, but her glance took in Perez and Sinks
beyond and she shut her lips tightly.
“Five years--” muttered Marshall, staring down at his plate-- “five
years is a short time.”
Farley glanced at Jess. He knew it had been a long five years to her,
although she had never mentioned Peace Parker’s name since the day of
his conviction. Other men had paid court to her; but she would have
none of them until Clell Danert came. She was not the kind to mope in
memories; but Farley knew that she had not forgotten Peace Parker.
Perez and Sinks got up, paid for their meal and went outside. Farley
scowled at them as they went out. Jess and her father were both intent
on their own thoughts as Farley turned and said:
“I heard that Crane sold out his outfit on Sandy Fork, and I’m wonderin’
what his cow-rustlin’ punchers are goin’ to do for a livin’. It’s a
cinch that nobody will hire ’em.”
Marshall shook his head.
“I dunno, Bart. Crane is a bad _hombre_, I reckon. Danert told me a lot
of things about him.”
“Danert did, eh?” Farley slowly stirred his coffee. “Clell Danert
worked for him long enough to know a few things, I guess. If Clell is
so ---- upright, why did he work for Crane all this time? If yuh asks
me I’d say that Crane can likely tell a few things about Danert.”
“Don’t say that, Bart,” begged Jess. “You are prejudiced.”
“Yeah, by ----, I am!” Farley snapped his reply. “Clell is educated
and he’s slick enough to make yuh think the moon is a hunk of cheese.
Yeah, sure he can talk the handle off a pump and make it believe it’s
a windmill. He’s got a pretty face and nice hair and don’t wait for
Saturday night to take a bath; but there’s only one difference between
him and a rattlesnake--the snake is honest enough to rattle.”
“Quit it!” snapped Marshall. “If Jess says he’s all right, he’s all
right. If Bart says he’s a bad _hombre_, he’s a bad _hombre_.”
“What is your opinion, Dad?” asked Jess.
“Mine?” Marshall put on his hat and pulled the brim low over his eyes.
“My opinion is that I’d be a ---- fool to throw in with either one of
yuh.”
“Dad plays safe,” said Jess seriously.
“Y’betcha he does,” returned Marshall. “But that don’t mean I’m goin’ to
give three cheers for Clell Danert. Bart is right when he says----”
“Dad, are you going to be a ---- fool?”
“Excuse me.” Marshall got to his feet. “It’s kinda hard to keep neutral.
Mebbe Jess is right, Bart--I dunno. But there’s one thing I do know--”
Marshall placed one hand on Jess’ shoulder and looked down at the table,
speaking softly--“I know it hurt like ---- to have Peace Parker walk
past us thataway.”
Jess looked at her father. He had sworn by Peace Parker. His hard old
face was curiously twisted now. Jess looked at Bart Farley, who had been
Peace Parker’s bunkie. Farley did not look at her as he rubbed his hand
across his stubbled chin and said softly--
“As if he thought that bein’ in the pen made any difference.”
Jess put her hand on his arm, and he looked straight into her eyes.
“Jess, I don’t reckon that Gawd A’mighty himself could convince me that
Peace Parker was a thief.”
Jess did not speak, but turned away as her father went over to the
counter to pay for their meals.
Peace Parker did not ignore the Marshalls and Farley because he did not
want to speak to them, but he felt that they might speak to him out of
sympathy and old friendship, masking their true feelings against him.
After the warning from the waitress he knew that if he talked with
them it would mean a bullet in the back. He sauntered up the street
to the front of the Diamond Flush saloon. Looking back he could see
Perez and Sinks leave the restaurant, but they went in the opposite
direction. Their work was done.
Peace concluded that they knew Marshall was leaving Tarp City
immediately and would have no further chance to meet him again that
day. As he started into the saloon a familiar figure, wearing a faded
green derby hat, met him at the door. For a moment they stared at
each other, and Jefferson Crane tried to smile, but only succeeded in
twisting his face into a painful contortion.
“Huh--howdy, Peace River,” he stammered, holding out his hand.
Peace looked him over carefully. Jefferson Crane had ruined his
life--branded him a thief, caused him to be placed behind prison
walls for five years, cheated him out of the happiness with the girl
he loved--and now he wanted to shake hands. Jefferson Crane swallowed
hard and wished himself many miles away from that spot. Finally Peace
spoke:
“Crane, I ain’t goin’ to curse and swear at yuh and I ain’t goin’ to
shake hands. Yo’re a pizen little sidewinder, Crane.” Peace pointed at
the gun in Crane’s holster. “You’ve got a gun right handy, and you’ve
got a rep for bein’ sudden with it.”
Peace smiled softly and hooked his thumbs over his belt.
“Crane, I reckon I’m goin’ to kill you right away.”
“No!” breathed Crane. “No! Peace River, you can’t----”
“I ain’t got nothin’ to lose,” interrupted Peace. “You put a brand on
me, Crane-- the brand of a convict. ---- knows it’s a hard brand to
change. You lied before a judge; but yuh won’t lie before the one I’m
goin’ to send yuh to. No, yuh won’t lie to Him.”
Crane’s hands opened and shut spasmodically and his eyes flashed
sidewise, like the eyes of a trapped animal. He was coldblooded, hard
as flint, but he knew Peace River was going to kill him.
His gun-hand was nerveless and his stomach was nauseated, as his mind
flashed back to the day when Peace River had dared him to draw and then
downed him before his gun left its holster. Crane wet his lips.
“Peace, they’ll hang yuh,” he whispered thickly. “Think of it, Peace.”
“You dirty little coward,” said Peace coldly. “It won’t hurt yuh--much.
I’ll try not to cripple yuh, Crane. Put up a fight and it won’t hurt yuh
as much as though you stood and took it.”
“----!” Crane’s face contorted with agony as he looked at Peace. “Gimme
a chance, Peace--gimme a chance. Yuh can’t shoot a man down like that.
It--ain’t--human.”
Crane’s nerve was broken, and he whimpered like a child. Peace laughed
aloud, and Crane shrank back; but instead of drawing his gun, Peace’s
arm flashed out and he caught Crane by the collar. Crane’s knees buckled
under him, but Peace yanked him up. For a moment he glared into Crane’s
frightened eyes; then he removed the faded green derby and proceeded to
smash it to shreds over Crane’s head.
The job was very thorough. Crane staggered into the wall, covering his
head with his arms, but Peace jerked them down and only quit when his
hand held nothing but a wisp of the old hat-brim. Peace threw this
aside and stepped to the saloon door, where men were crowding out to
see what was causing the noise. Crane, white-faced, stared at Peace,
his lips moving as though talking to himself.
“That was the only way to ever make yuh get a new hat,” explained Peace.
The crowd laughed nervously, wondering why Crane did not resist Peace’s
act. Crane stared at Peace, amazed. His gaze shifted to the crowd, and
he swallowed painfully. Then without a backward glance, he half-ran,
half-staggered down the street.
“Thank ----!” said a man piously. “I’ve hated the sight of that old
hat.”
Peace smiled and walked on up the street. He had fully intended to kill
Crane--the smashing of the hat was an afterthought. Crane’s whining
cowardice had saved him, but from now on he would be a marked man.
He had shielded his face with his hands, while a man beat him over the
head with his own hat--had made no move toward the gun at his hip, and
went away like a whipped puppy.
Clell Danert had seen everything that happened from where he stood just
inside a store across the street, and he grinned joyfully, as he went
outside and followed Peace to the upper end of town. Danert felt that he
had a good argument to put up to Peace regarding the sheep--an argument
which would help, in case Peace suspected Crane.
He crossed the street and caught up with Peace. Danert was in a jovial
mood and did not seem to harbor any ill feelings for what had happened
the night before.
“I saw you having a run-in with Jefferson Crane,” smiled Danert.
“Yeah?” Peace River seemed indifferent.
“Peculiar character, that man Crane. You didn’t mention anything about
sheep, did you?”
Peace shook his head.
“No, we didn’t talk about sheep--” and then as an afterthought-- “Crane
still have a ranch in Chinook Valley?”
Danert smiled, but evaded the question by saying:
“I’m glad you did not mention sheep to him. You know how the cattlemen
feel about sheep?”
“Yeah, I know. I understand that Perez and Gus Sinks are still working
for Crane.”
“Yes,” replied Danert, and immediately wondered why Peace grinned so
widely. He had a sudden suspicion that Peace had a deep reason for
that question; so he said quickly:
“I’m not sure of that either. Come to think of it, I remember hearing
that they left Crane some time ago.”
“This here country,” said Peace softly, “ain’t rid of all its liars yet,
Danert.”
“What do you mean?” demanded Danert nettled.
“I mean that you’re a liar, Danert.”
Peace did not raise his voice above a low conversational tone, and he
smiled as he spoke.
“Why should I lie?” Danert’s voice carried no resentment.
“Mebbe Crane told yuh to.”
“Crane! For Heaven’s sake, why would Crane ask me to lie?”
“I dunno.” Peace shook his head slowly. “I dunno, but I think I’m goin’
to find out pretty soon.”
Danert reflected. He knew what the trouble was between Crane and Peace,
and he was afraid that Peace already knew too much about the sheep. A
word of warning in Tarp City and they would never be able to invade
Chinook Valley with their bands of sheep.
Danert knew there was no use antagonizing Peace, and he also knew that
diplomacy was apt to fail. Peace must be appeased at any cost; so Danert
grew confidential.
“I want you to understand that Crane is no friend of mine. He’d love
to block that sheep deal, and he will do it if he suspicions us for a
moment.”
“Yeah?” Peace was skeptical. He studied Danert for a moment and then--
“Who owns the sheep?”
Danert smiled and shook his head.
“I can’t tell you; if I could you’d be surprized.”
“Yeah?”
Danert knitted his brows as if deep in thought.
“Peace, I think perhaps I had better tell you, after all. I know that
you are Peace River Parker.”
If Danert expected Peace to be surprized over the statement he was
disappointed, because Peace merely nodded seriously.
“And you know Chinook Valley,” added Danert after a pause. “The price
of hides and beef has dropped since you lived here, and there is little
profit in the business. In fact the cattle business is no longer a
paying proposition. Now, suppose a big cattleman had foresight enough
to see that wool is going to be a money maker.”
“Somebody in Chinook Valley?” queried Peace.
Danert nodded slowly, and said--
“The biggest cattle raiser.”
“Cross L Marshall?”
Danert started to speak, but a man walked in behind them and they both
turned. It was the sheriff, who had been in the restaurant when Peace
and the stage-driver had battled with their guns. Danert spoke to him
and turned to face Peace.
“See you later, old man.”
Peace nodded and turned back to the sheriff.
“Sent the driver to Fossilshell today,” volunteered the sheriff. “He was
kinda bad off, and we ain’t got much of a surgeon around here.”
“Shucks! I’m sorry he acted thataway, sheriff.”
“I ain’t blamin’ you for the shootin’. He got what was comin’ to him.
What I want to talk to you about is the reasons for it. He tells me that
you stole his stage and kicked him off half-way between Fossilshell and
Sandy Fork. He got a horse from a ranch and came on.”
“He ain’t no liar,” smiled Peace. “I just about done that. He was
drivin’ his team with rocks and almost knocked an ear off one of his
leaders. He ain’t fit to drive a nail, sheriff.”
The sheriff nodded.
“I reckoned there was a good excuse. Too danged bad we shipped him out.
Yo’re a stranger, ain’t yuh?”
“Name’s Peace River Parker.”
“Peace River? You the feller that--” the sheriff hesitated.
“And that’s whatever,” agreed Peace.
The sheriff studied Peace. His term of office began long after Peace had
left the country, and he only knew Peace from hearsay.
“Goin’ to work around here, Parker?”
“Mebbe,” softly.
“Well, I reckon yuh can take care of yoreself,” drawled the sheriff
appraisingly. “I ain’t preachin’, yuh understand; but-- I’m tryin’ to
stop folks from throwin’ lead around here.”
Peace glanced behind him and saw Jud Evers standing looking in a window.
He was only a few feet away, apparently interested in what was going on
inside the building; but Peace knew that his ears were tuned to catch
every word that was said between himself and the sheriff. Peace turned
to the sheriff and said--
“You know Jeff Crane?”
“Y-e-s, I know him. Owns the Double Circle ranch down on Sandy Fork--did
own it, rather. Just sold it.”
“Ain’t he runnin’ cows in Chinook Valley no more?”
“No-o-o, not for a long time. Heard that he had a run-in with Cross L
Marshall and sold out.”
“That so?” Peace was interested. “Ain’t no money in cows nowdays,
anyway, is there?”
“There ain’t? Buyers in here most every day, Parker. Meat and hides are
worth more right on the range now than they used to be laid down in the
eastern markets. No money! Man, them Chinook cattlemen are gettin’ rich
as----”
“Cross L Marshall sellin’ a lot of stock nowdays?”
“I dunno, Parker. I know he drove two thousand head of feeders through
the pass a week ago and added ’em to his range. Bought ’em from the TF
outfit. That Chinook is one hy-iu range, y’betcha. I seen Marshall a
while ago--him and his daughter. Hear she’s goin’ to marry Clell Danert
pretty soon.”
“Is that so?” asked Peace softly. “What is Danert’s business?”
“He punched cows for Crane for a while and then for Marshall, but I hear
he’s buyin’ stock for some Chicago outfit now.”
“Any sheep botherin’ around here?”
“No-o-o, not much. The Sun Prairie country is sheeped out. Lots of
woolies have been shipped out of here lately, and a big bunch are
waitin’ for trains. I’m ---- glad to see ’em go.”
“I’ve just been wonderin’,” said Peace, “is there any law that keeps
sheep off the range which ain’t actually owned by cattlemen?”
“That is somethin’ for the undertaker to handle--not the law.
Pers’nally, that ain’t in my jurisdiction, and if it was I’d be there
too late to arrest any one.”
Peace grinned and nodded.
“Yeah, I reckon yo’re right, sheriff. I just wondered, that’s all. Too
bad about that stage-driver.”
“Like ---- it was!” snorted the sheriff. He nodded and went on down the
street.
Peace watched him for a moment. He knew the sheriff had not lied to
him, and he knew that Jefferson Crane was the man behind the sheep
deal. Danert was a party to the deal, and Danert was going to marry
Jess Marshall. He was the cat’s-paw. Holman had innocently hired
him, and Crane was more than willing to let him go ahead and drive
the sheep-wedge into Chinook.
Peace knew there were just three things left for him to do--obey orders,
escape from town or fight. He thought of going straight to Pasiooks and
warning the cattlemen, but it was almost a certainty that some of
Crane’s men would be on the watch for just such a move and ambush him.
No, it would be suicide to try to move. He knew that there were at least
four of Crane’s men in town, not including Danert.
He turned slowly and saw Rance Wylie cross the street near him and join
Evers in earnest conversation. Evers and Wylie were the two cowboys he
had crippled in the fight at Crane’s ranch five years ago, and he knew
that they were dangerous. With Perez and Sinks, both gunmen, it made the
odds badly against him.
The fact that Jess Marshall intended to marry Danert did not seem to
annoy him, for the simple reason that he couldn’t believe it. He did
not hate Danert for this, but he did detest him for what he was doing
against her father. The old saying that all is fair in love or war did
not connect with Peace Parker’s philosophy of life.
He would neither love nor fight unfair, because he did not believe in
anything except a square deal. If Jess Marshall wanted to marry
Danert--all well and good; but he was going to see that Danert won
her fair--if they didn’t kill him off before he got the chance. It
was plain to see that the Chinook Valley cattlemen were going to have
trouble.
Sheep travel slowly at night, especially in large bands. The small band
could get well into the valley by morning. This would be discovered and
cause much excitement. While they were rounding up this bunch the valley
entrance to the pass would be spewing its woolly horde uninterrupted.
Once inside and scattered it would be more than the cattlemen could
handle, especially as there would be well-armed men with them.
This would end in the courts, which, according to law, would give the
sheep man an equal right with the cattlemen. The only hope for Chinook
Valley would be to stop them in the pass.
Peace’s impulse was to seek out Crane and Danert. He went up the street
in the direction taken by Danert, but he was nowhere in evidence.
Gus Sinks and Jud Evers were drinking at the bar, Perez was in a poker
game and Rance Wylie was apparently half-asleep, tilted back against the
wall in a chair.
“Four to one,” mused Peace. “They’ll kill me and the sheep game goes
merrily on. I reckon I’m the poor guesser. They’ve kinda got a tail-holt
on yuh, Peace Parker.”
He turned and walked slowly down the street, watching behind him. Wylie
and Evers came out of the saloon and sauntered down the sidewalk behind
him. Sinks came out a moment later, but crossed the street and walked
slowly down the other side.
“Kinda taggin’ me around,” mused Peace to himself. “Goin’ to see that I
don’t open my heart to anybody. Mebbe them jaspers think that five years
of rock-bustin’ has ruined my gun-hand.”
Peace had approached the corner of a general store, and as he turned,
the door opened and Jess Marshall and Clell Danert stepped out. Peace
dropped his head and quickened his pace, as if to walk past them; but
Jess caught him by the sleeve and he looked straight into her face.
“Peace Parker, won’t you speak to me?” she asked wistfully.
Peace blinked his eyes and swallowed hard.
“Yeah, I--uh--Jess, I didn’t reckon yuh--uh----”
“I didn’t think you would turn down an old friend, Peace.”
Peace had not expected this and it shackled his tongue for a moment.
Danert seemed uncomfortable.
“I didn’t want to turn yuh down,” said Peace softly. “I thought that
mebbe--after what happened----”
“That is only the past, Peace,” softly, “and the past is all forgotten
as far as I am concerned. I feel that it was all a terrible mistake,
and--won’t you come to see us? Come out to the old ranch, Peace. I know
dad and Bart would be mighty glad to see you again.”
Peace turned away and glanced across the street. Evers was standing on
the sidewalk, looking across at them. Just beyond them, Perez and Wylie
had stopped and were looking in a window.
Peace turned back to Jess:
“That’s a’mighty nice of yuh, Jess--that is. I’d sure like to talk with
’em again. I hear that yore dad is goin’ in for sheep.”
“Sheep?” Jess’ brown eyes snapped wide in amazement. “Where on earth did
you ever hear such a thing, Peace?”
Peace shifted his eyes to Danert, whose face had flamed scarlet and then
turned gray with anger. He knew that Parker was ruining their scheme,
and he had no way to stop him.
“I heard he was,” said Peace slowly. “Seems a shame to sheep out old
Chinook.”
Jess glanced at Danert and back to Peace.
“Why, Peace--such a thing is ridiculous. I don’t understand why----”
“It is foolish to talk of such a thing,” said Danert. There was a world
of meaning in his words and Peace understood.
“Is yore dad in town, Jess?” asked Peace.
“No. Dad and Bart went home a little while ago.”
“I think we had better be going, Jess,” stated Danert impatiently.
Peace smiled at Danert’s eagerness to get away from him, and said to
Jess--
“Where’s yore horse?”
She pointed down the street, where two horses were tied to a hitch-rack.
“Down there. Mr. Danert is going to ride home with me.”
“Yeah?” Peace smiled widely. He knew that this was his one chance to
spoil the sheep deal--the only one. It was a long shot--four-to-one,
to be exact; but Peace Parker liked odds, and he was banking on Jess
Marshall’s ability to grasp the situation.
Danert started to walk on, but Peace stepped in front of him.
“Danert, you ain’t goin’ for no ride--” and then to Jess, without
turning his head--“Get yore horse and circle west to hit the road, Jess,
and ride like ----. I’ll foller yuh if I can. Tell yore dad that a herd
of sheep is comin’ into Chinook tonight, and----”
Danert lunged forward like a bull, crashing into Peace and they both
floundered off the sidewalk, locked in each other’s arms.
Danert twisted himself on top and tried to get loose, but Peace hugged
him tight and yelled to Jess--
“For ----’s sake, get goin’, can’tcha?”
Then with superhuman effort, Peace twisted from under Danert, and came
up with him in his arms. Jess ran down the street towards the horses,
while Peace, with the cursing Danert in his arms, staggered to the
middle of the street, keeping Danert between himself and Wylie and
Evers, who had come running at the first signs of trouble.
“Stop her!” yelled Danert. “She----”
Peace tightened his elbow and Danert’s vocal cords were too cramped to
function properly.
Jess had got on her horse by this time, and was just swinging around the
corner when Wylie seemed to grasp the purport of Danert’s words.
He whirled and raced for the hitch-rack, calling to Perez, who was
running down the other side of the street. Perez ran out to him and
they both ran for the rack, where their saddle-horses were tied.
Evers seemed undecided what to do as he did not understand what had
happened, but when he saw Wylie and Perez mounting hurriedly, he
started for the other horse at the rack, where Jess Marshall’s horse
had been.
Danert had been kicking and cursing and trying to get his gun, but now
Peace, when the danger from the others had passed, whirled and crashed
Danert against the side of the building, releasing him at the same
time. Danert dropped, stunned, to his hands and knees. Peace tore the
gun loose from Danert’s holster and ran down the sidewalk toward Evers,
who was having trouble mounting.
He managed to swing into the saddle, but the half-broke bronc whirled
against the hitch-rack. Evers saw Peace coming and whipped out his gun,
but Peace’s gun spat once and Evers’ right arm crumpled at the elbow;
his gun discharging from the jerk of tearing muscles.
The horse reared wildly, but Peace caught it by the head-stall and
eased Evers out of the saddle, letting him fall to his knees beside the
rack-post. The horse tried to tear away from Peace, but he grasped the
saddlehorn, cramped the animal’s head against its shoulder and swung
into the saddle.
Danert had got to his feet and was trying to run after him, but his
feet did not seem to track well. Men were running to see what was
going on, and Peace heard the sheriff yell at him from across the
street, demanding that he stop.
Peace swung the horse toward the narrow board sidewalk, and the animal
jumped it like a born hunter. Straight down a narrow alley dashed the
horse, swinging in behind a blacksmith-shop, where a blacksmith was
setting a tire on a wagon-wheel.
Peace caught a flash of the blacksmith dodging sidewise, waving a heavy
pair of tongs, as they vaulted the tire-rack, and then swinging clear
of buildings he circled away from town to strike the road which led to
Poncho Pass.
Peace stood straight in his stirrups and thrilled at the feel of a good
horse under him. It had been over five years since he rode a horse, and
this was a real horse. It was Danert’s, and Danert was as proud of a
good horse as he was of his personal appearance. The animal was only
half-broke, anxious to run, and Peace did not check it.
He thundered around curves, where brush blocked his vision, riding
with Danert’s gun swinging in his hand, and Danert’s other gun in his
holster. Suddenly he noticed that there was a Winchester swinging in a
scabbard under his right leg, and he laughed with joy. It was likely
filled with cartridges--six, to be exact--but six would be enough.
Peace knew that Perez and Wylie were going to capture Jess if possible,
and there was a strong possibility that they would strike the pass ahead
of her, as she had to make a wide circle to get to the road.
His only hope was to overtake her before she reached them, because he
knew they would hesitate at nothing to stop her from reaching home. If
she reached the pass ahead of them they would lose, because Jess was a
good rider and the Cross L horses were no common stock.
Now the road twisted and turned, climbing higher and higher. To the
right the mountain broke sheer for a hundred feet, boulder and brush
at the bottom of the gorge. The upper side was dense with mesquite
and sage.
The horse began to show signs of slowing up. Peace spurred it to further
efforts. The grade was only wide enough for one wagon, with turn-outs at
irregular intervals. Peace swung himself sidewise on the turns, watching
ahead.
Suddenly he whirled around a curve, and saw three horses about a hundred
yards ahead of him. Perez and Wylie had got to the pass ahead of Jess
and had captured her.
Peace threw his horse back on its haunches, but before he could make any
other move Perez fired with a rifle. Peace felt the impact of the bullet
as it struck the horse, but before he could swing out of the saddle, the
horse pitched sidewise and went over the grade with him.
Luckily the horse struck flat on the steep side of the bank, throwing
Peace free of the saddle; otherwise he would have been crushed, as the
horse rolled over and over to the bottom of the ravine. Peace struck on
his side in the brush, out of sight of Perez and Wylie and slid to the
bottom, where he lay in a doubled heap.
It would seem impossible for a man to fall off that grade with a
horse and not be killed, as the first sixty feet was almost sheer
drop. Whether from the bullet or not, the horse was stone dead when
it reached the bottom.
Peace did not move for some little time, and then it was only to open
his eyes and look up at the sky. He did not know how badly he was hurt,
but he was leaving that to be determined when there was no longer danger
from the men up on the grade.
Suddenly he heard several shots fired. The reports echoed in the hills,
making it difficult to tell just where they came from, but Peace felt
sure they were fired from above him on the grade. He did not hear the
bullets, which seemed to imply that some one else had mixed into the
game. He knew that there was nothing he could do for Jess Marshall--at
least not right away.
They would probably hold her a prisoner until tomorrow--but would they?
Chinook Valley would rise _en masse_ and treat the kidnapers to a sample
of swift justice. Jess would know the men who stopped her, and that
knowledge would be fatal to Perez and Wylie.
Peace knew that Crane and Danert would stop at nothing to accomplish
their ends. They were determined to put their sheep into Chinook Valley,
and they would not let Jess Marshall stand in their way.
It was very likely that Jess knew and recognized Perez and Wylie;
but they were merely hired gunmen, who would take their pay for the
deed and escape from the country. Crane and Danert would not show in
this--at least Crane would not. If Peace were killed, and Perez and
Wylie out of reach, it would be hard to prove anything.
Peace knew that Crane was foxy, and that he would have some plan formed
to throw the blame on others. Their one aim was to get the sheep into
the valley. Twenty thousand sheep represented a big sum of money. If
Jess Marshall had escaped them, they might as well let the coyotes and
buzzards have their herds. They were taking a desperate chance in
kidnaping Jess; but it was their only alternative.
Peace drew himself together and began to analyze his different bruises
and strains. He was cut in several places and his whole body seemed
one mass of bruises, but there were no bones broken. His revolvers had
been lost in the fall and were nowhere in evidence. He dragged himself
to where the horse was lying, intending to get the rifle, but found it
minus a stock and with the barrel bent. The saddle was broken and
torn--a useless hull. The rope was still intact, and might be of
assistance in getting back to the road.
He sat down and rolled a cigaret, while he tried to plan some action. He
might try to go on into Pasiooks but it was almost a certainty that some
one was guarding against just such a thing. No, his move would be to get
back to Tarp City as fast as possible. He worked his way into the open,
taking a chance to expose himself; but no one shot at him.
He worked on up the cañon for a distance, and then began his climb. A
narrow hogback afforded him a precarious footing; but he was able to
climb up to within about forty feet of the level of the grade.
He rested a while. Above him, at the edge of the grade, was the stub
of a jackpine. It was a long cast, almost straight up. Peace managed
to brace his feet sufficiently to make a cast with his rope. He had
been a good roper five years before; but his arm and eye had lost
their cunning. Cast after cast he made, swinging the loop almost
straight up, only to have it fall back. Finally it caught and held.
Even with the aid of the rope it was a hard climb. He sprawled beside
the road for a while, his bruised body protesting against such efforts.
His hands were cut-- his clothes torn; but he grinned as he rolled a
smoke.
He was near a curve in the road. The sun was still about an hour high
and Peace estimated that it must be about four o’clock. Finally he got
to his feet and began limping down the road toward Tarp City.
As he made the first turn in the road he almost stumbled over the body
of a man, lying face down in the middle of the road. Near the man stood
a saddled horse, its feet tangled in the bridle-reins. Peace stopped and
glanced quickly around. No one else was in sight. He knelt down beside
the man and turned him over.
It was the sheriff--stone dead. Peace examined him quickly. He had
been shot twice. Peace straightened up and looked around. He knew
instinctively what had happened. The sheriff had followed him, had
run into Perez and Wylie with Jess, and one of the men had killed
him. Those were the shots he had heard.
Beyond the body, almost buried in the dust, was the sheriff’s pistol.
Two shots had been fired and the gun was cocked; showing that the
sheriff had been killed before he could pull the trigger for the third
time.
Peace wiped the gun on his sleeve. At least he had a gun and a horse.
“I sure do change weapons and broncs real often,” he grunted aloud.
As he stepped toward the horse, several mounted men swept around the
curve just beyond him, with Clell Danert leading them. They were not
over a hundred feet away and riding fast. The sharpness of the curve
and the heavy dust of the road had muffled the sounds of their
approach.
Peace threw up the gun and pulled the trigger. The hammer barely moved
forward, and Peace realized in a flash that the cocked hammer had let
the action clog with fine dust, leaving the gun useless for the moment.
The riders were almost into him. Peace ducked to one side, as he
hurled the gun straight at Danert; and a moment later a horse struck
him, spinning him against the upper side of the grade and knocking
him unconscious.
* * * * *
The Eastern range and the high foot-hills of the Valley of the Chinook
glowed with the colors of sunset; but the western half of the valley
lay like a vast blue shadowland. The sky-line of the western cliffs
was high-lighted with sweeping splotches of gold and orange, where the
mighty rocks still showed their facets to the dying sun.
Down in the blue shadows, Cross L Marshall and Bart Farley sat on the
ranch-house porch, performing their evening ceremonial smoke. Both men
were very silent. Farley’s pipe was not drawing well and he dug savagely
at it with his pocket-knife.
Marshall slowly knocked the dottle from his pipe and got to his feet,
where he leaned against a porch-post and gazed at the fading sunset.
“I dunno,” muttered Farley looking up at him. “They was to start soon
after we left. It ain’t like Jess to stay like this.”
Marshall shook his head.
“I don’t like it, Bart. Jess knows danged well we’d worry about it. She
said she was goin’ to the store and get some cloth of some kind and then
they was goin’ to come right on.”
Jim Horne came out of the front door, rolling a cigaret. Jim was usually
the last one to quit the supper table. He sat down on the porch and
braced his back against the wall.
“Ain’t Jess come home yet?” he asked in his peculiar drawl. Neither of
the men answered him in words, but he knew that she had not.
“I dunno,” complained Farley nervously. “Peace Parker is in town, and
Crane’s there and----”
“Peace Parker, the cow-thief?” asked Horne.
Farley turned like a flash. “Take that back, Horne! Don’tcha say that!”
Horne’s mouth gawped open and his cigaret fell to a fold of his
shirt-front. It was not like Farley to explode like this.
“I--I takes it back,” stammered Horne, digging into his bosom for the
smoldering cigaret; “I didn’t know----”
“You ain’t never heard him spoken of as such around here,” reminded
Marshall softly.
“I never knowed him,” said Horne, “and I don’t reckon I ever heard any
of yuh mention him. I’ve only heard him spoke about at other places.
He’s been in the pen, ain’t he?”
Farley nodded.
“You don’t know him, Jim--or yuh wouldn’t speak against him.”
“I sure begs yore pardon, Bart. I reckon he’s been done wrong. Lot of
fellers serve time. Did he come back to find out who done him dirt?”
Farley glanced up at Marshall.
“I wonder, Cross L?”
Marshall rubbed his chin slowly and nodded--
“Mebbe.”
Bert Hart rode in past the corrals and galloped up to the porch, where
he swung down.
“I saw Barr Severn a while ago, Marshall. He just came in from Tarp
City. There was a shootin’ scrape on the street. That feller Peace
Parker is back from the pen. He plugged Evers, the cowboy who works
for Crane.
“They tells me that Parker tried to grab Jess, and him and Danert had
a ---- of a time. Jess got away on her horse and Parker took out after
her on Danert’s horse. The sheriff tried to stop him; but he got plumb
away. Barr didn’t see it himself, but he says everybody got excited,
except the sheriff, who got a bronc and follered ’em. Danert said they
hit toward Fossilshell. Barr says that Danert got ---- licked out of
him.”
“Where’s Barr?” snapped Marshall.
“Gone home to get his punchers. Said he’d be here in a few minutes. He
got into town about a half-hour after it happened, and came straight
here.”
“Yuh says that Peace Parker tried to grab Jess?” asked Farley.
“That’s what Barr said. I dunno what it means, Farley. Some of the boys
have headed down the Fossilshell country. I reckon everybody got excited
and didn’t know just what did happen. They said that Parker wrasseled
Danert all over the street and then slammed him into a building. He sure
is a proper heller, I reckon.”
“Saddle up!” snapped Marshall.
Farley, Hart and Horne raced for the stable. Hart yelled over his
shoulder to Marshall--
“I’ll saddle yore bronc for yuh.”
Four other riders, including Barr Severn, of the Three Dot, galloped
into the Cross L and swung in beside the stable. Marshall came running
from the house, buckling on his belt as he ran, and stopped beside
Severn, a rangy, solemn-faced cow-man, with a stringy black mustache.
“Got any idea a-tall, Barr?” asked Marshall eagerly.
“Nothin’ ’cept what I told Hart. I grabbed what info’mation I could and
came on in as fas’ as possible.”
“All set!” yelled Farley.
The four men swung into their saddles, settled themselves for a long
ride, and a few moments later eight silent riders faded out up the
yellow ribbon of road, which led to Poncho Pass--eight men whose
fingers itched for the feel of a trigger in defense of their women.
* * * * *
It seemed to Peace that he had been asleep only for a moment. He had
felt the numbing crash of the running horse striking him, and it seemed
as if he were slightly stunned. He could hear voices, but caution told
him to keep his eyes closed. He barely moved his fingers and could feel
the nap of a blanket.
He lay perfectly still, trying to understand what was being said. At
first it was a meaningless jumble of words, but as his brain cleared
he heard an earnest conversation, seemingly between three men.
“--pretty hard shock,” said a voice, which Peace decided belonged to a
doctor. “No bones broken. I do not understand where he received all
those bruises, though. Impossible to have received them by merely being
knocked down by a horse. Must have the constitution of a mule.”
Peace realized that he was in a house, but had no idea of whose house,
nor where. He must have been unconscious for some time.
“He likely fought with the sheriff,” Peace recognized Danert’s purring
voice. “We were unable to find the sheriff’s gun anywhere. This man
threw his gun----”
“Threw kinda straight, too,” grunted a voice. “Few inches lower and yore
beauty would ’a’ fled forever, Clell.”
Peace opened his eyes a fraction of an inch, giving him a blurred image
of Clell Danert, with his head bandaged.
“Doc, do yuh reckon he’s got his spine hurt?” asked the third party.
“Takes him a long time to wake up, don’t yuh think?”
“Hm-m-m--possibly. It is hard to determine right now. How did you happen
to bring him here?”
“Peculiar situation,” purred Danert. “The sheriff is dead and the deputy
is gone away. No keys for the jail. We thought he was dead; but wanted
to be sure. We’ll have to hold him.”
“Certainly, it will require an investigation.” This from the doctor.
“He killed the sheriff, that’s a cinch,” declared Danert. “He shot
Evers and stole my horse. The sheriff must have caught him on Poncho
Pass. This man’s gun had been fired twice and the sheriff was hit
twice. My horse is at the bottom of the cañon, dead.”
“Sheriff Langley was well liked,” observed the doctor.
“That’s the worst of it,” said Danert. “I’m strong for a square deal,
doc; and I know what Tarp City will do to this man when they find out
what he done.”
“Might save the county the expense of a trial,” growled the third man.
“This feller’s got a ---- bad rep, and the sooner he decorates a tree
the better. Shall we keep him here?”
“Perhaps it would be better to say nothing until he is safe in jail,”
suggested the doctor. “He is physically unable to do anything. I do not
like to see a man executed without a fair trial, and this man is in no
condition to give a coherent defense of his own acts.”
Peace grinned to himself and wondered if he really was in as bad shape
as they thought. He could see that Danert was framing everything against
him. The sheriff, not knowing the real cause of the trouble, had
followed him to Poncho Pass, where he had been killed. Many witnesses
would testify that the sheriff had followed Peace Parker.
“You stay here,” Danert ordered the third man as he and the doctor went
out of the room.
Peace could hear the guard rolling a cigaret. As he scratched a match
Peace peered through almost closed lids and saw that the guard was Gus
Sinks. He was tilted back against the wall in a chair, with a Winchester
across his lap. Clell Danert stepped softly into the room, came close to
Sinks and whispered.
“Gus, we can’t let this man go to jail. I’m going to town and let ’em in
on it. I think they’ll act fast; but if they don’t----”
“Whatcha want me to do, Clell?”
“I dunno--” admitted Danert, and after a long pause-- “Make it look
right, whatever you do, Gus.”
“If he tries to make a break--” said Sinks.
“You _sabe_ things,” agreed Danert and slipped softly out of the room.
Peace shut his eyes and tried to think out a plan. He had no way of
knowing just how badly he was injured. Danert would incite Tarp City
to lynch him, and Sinks was ready to kill him if he made a move. They
did not want him alive. They could not afford to let him tell what he
knew.
The doctor came back into the room with a lamp, which he placed on a
table near the bed. He felt of Peace’s pulse.
“Reckon he’ll pull through?” asked Sinks.
“I can not say; but I have hopes,” smiled the doctor and left the room.
“---- you and yore hopes!” growled Sinks.
Peace realized that it was growing late and that no time must be
lost if he blocked the sheep game. But what could he do? He could
see Sinks watching him, with the Winchester pointing toward the bed.
Peace studied Sinks, who was puffing slowly on his cigaret, a scowl
on his homely face. Sinks had been cut across the face at one time,
and the scar showed yellowish-white against his brown skin.
Peace did not dare to test his muscles for fear of what Sinks might do.
As far as Peace was concerned, he might be paralyzed. He seemed to have
no sense of pain. Finally he saw a way out--a desperate way. Without
moving a muscle he began moving his lips, muttering to himself. Over and
over he repeated aloud--
“Danert--double-crossin’--own--men.”
Sinks listened indifferently at first, but after Peace had repeated it
several times he tilted forward in his chair and watched him closely.
“Danert--double--crossin’--own--men,” droned Peace.
Sinks got up from his chair and backed to the door, keeping an eye on
the bed. He glanced quickly into the hall and came slowly back to his
former position.
“Danert--crooked--” muttered Peace. “Crooked.”
“Yo’re crazy,” muttered Sinks. “Whatcha talkin’ about?”
Peace kept muttering broken sentences, a jumble of “Danert
double-crossin’--own--men--all--for--himself----”
Sinks glanced back at the door and came to the bed, where he put his
hand on Peace’s shoulder and shook him.
“Whatcha talkin’ about? Who is Danert double-crossin’?”
Peace began murmuring a jumble of stuff, barely whispering. Sinks
leaned closer to hear it. He wanted to know all about Danert, and Peace
Parker’s mumblings might be true.
“---- yuh, why can’t yuh talk sense?” he growled, leaning closer and
glancing back toward the door.
As he turned back a brawny hand shot from under the blanket and closed
around his throat, while another arm hooked around his waist, jerking
him off his feet.
Peace lunged forward from the bed, every muscle on his body protesting
against the strain, and crumpled Sinks under him to the floor. The
attack had been so sudden, so unlooked-for that Sinks was half-throttled
before he could attempt a defense.
He managed to jerk his head sidewise, and half-tear away; but his body
was in a human vise, which crushed out his breath and seemed to drive
the life from his muscles. He tried desperately to cry for help, but
his voice was gone and he crashed to the floor, striking the back of
his head.
Peace staggered to his feet and looked down at Sinks. His body seemed
racked and torn and the blood pounded in his temples like trip-hammers.
He managed to remove Sinks’ belt and gun, which he buckled around his
own waist, and picked up the Winchester.
He heard the doctor come into the house and go into another room,
shutting the door behind him. Peace staggered to the door, where he
leaned against the wall, trying to overcome his dizziness. Behind him
came a sobbing curse, and he whirled to meet Sinks, who had recovered
sufficiently to put up a fight.
He rushed at Peace, apparently unconscious of the fact that Peace had
both of his guns. He crashed into Peace, striking and grasping, mouthing
curses which were mere whispers. Peace shook him off and drove in a
crashing uppercut to Sinks’ chin as he rushed again, and Sinks collapsed
like a wet rag, sprawling on his face almost under the bed.
Peace glanced at him, turned and went into a short hall. Behind him he
could hear the doctor in another room, hammering on wood and whistling
unmusically. Peace grinned. The doctor had been too much engrossed in
his own noises to hear the fight.
He opened the door and stepped outside. He was just at the outskirts
of Tarp City, at what was evidently the doctor’s home. At the gate he
could see the outlines of a horse and buggy and further up the fence
was a saddled horse. A big moon was coming up over the Sunset range
behind Gunsight peak, which masked a triangle portion at the bottom;
making it look like a huge yellow pie, with one piece removed.
Peace untied the horse and swung into the saddle.
He shut his lips against the pain of wrenched muscles and bruised flesh,
and rode toward the lights of the town, with the Winchester in the crook
of his arm. He rode slowly down the middle of the street. On either side
of him shone the yellow lights from the windows. Men were moving in
small groups, and there did not seem to be the usual hilarity connected
with Tarp City’s night life.
Peace knew what it meant. Sheriff Langley had been well liked, and Tarp
City was preparing to avenge his death. They were going to lynch some
one, and he was the marked victim.
Peace knew that Tarp City was like gunpowder; knew that Danert’s tale
would cause them to explode with indignation over the killing of their
sheriff; but still he rode down the main street.
A number of men were standing in front of a saloon, and as Peace rode
closer he could hear Danert’s voice. He drew up on his reins. Should
he kill Danert? Would Danert be any good to him dead?
Danert was telling those men of the killing of the sheriff; branding
Peace with the mark of a murderer. Peace looked up and down the lighted
street--lighted from the yellow glow of oil lamps. Some men crossed the
street near him, talking excitedly. One of them carried a coil of new
rope. Peace smiled grimly.
Suddenly there came the rattle of wheels, the pounding of a horse’s
hoofs, and into the street came a horse and buggy, coming furiously and
dangerously. The driver was standing up in the buggy as it flashed into
view, and he swung it between Peace and the saloon. The horse fell at
the edge of the sidewalk and one of the front wheels smashed to kindling
against a post.
For a few moments there was a surge of men, as they got the horse to its
feet and off the sidewalk. Peace moved in close enough to know that the
driver of the rig was Gus Sinks, and that he was reporting the escape of
Peace Parker. Men poured out of the saloon and joined the group.
Peace turned his horse and moved slowly away. He did not feel alarmed,
because no one would ever expect him to come to town following his
escape. He swung into a short side street and stopped. He felt sure
that Danert knew where Jess Marshall was held; but there would be no
chance for him to force a talk with Danert. There was just one chance
left.
He spurred his horse and rode swiftly toward the loading corrals, where
he knew the bands of sheep were being held. There was just a chance that
he would find some one there--some one who would talk.
Peace knew that he would have to work fast to do any searching for
Jess Marshall and to keep out of the hands of the mob. He wondered if
Marshall had been doing any searching for Jess. He knew that the sheep
would not be moved tonight, because the owners would never chance a
move of that kind, while things were upset. Chinook Valley would be on
the search for Jess, and men would be riding the pass.
Peace could hear the uneasy bleating of sheep, as before him loomed the
shadowy outlines of the corrals--huge enclosures, with narrow chutes
which led to loading platforms the height of a stock-car door. The tall
timbers of the chutes cast long shadows across his path, as he rode
through and scattered the bedded bands of sheep.
Beyond the corrals were a huddle of tent-houses, the home of the
sheepherders. In one of them glowed the light of a lamp, and Peace rode
slowly to this one, gun in hand. He dismounted in the shadow of the
corral, and was walking almost to the doorway of the lighted tent, when
a man rode in from a different direction. He dismounted and peered into
the lighted tent. Peace accidentally trod on a brittle stick, which
snapped sharply. The man turned his head and called--
“Pete!”
It was Jefferson Crane. Peace walked toward him, saying nothing.
“Whatcha doin’ out there?” demanded Crane, as Peace came closer to him.
“Sinks fell down on the job, ---- him! There’s ---- to pay and no----”
“Uh-huh,” grunted Peace, stepping in close and shoving the muzzle of his
rifle into Crane’s ribs.
“There’s ---- to pay and no pitch hot, Crane.”
Crane said nothing. Peace backed him into the tent-house, with Crane
cringing away from the gun, hands held even with his shoulders.
“You?” he breathed sharply. “You?”
“Me,” admitted Peace coldly. “I let yuh go once, Crane. Let yuh go
’cause yuh begged like a yaller pup; but beggin’ ain’t savin’ yore
soul tonight.”
“Why--I ain’t done nothin’ to you,” faltered Crane. “Why kill me,
Parker?”
Crane’s face was green with fright and his lifted hands opened and shut
spasmodically.
“Arguments are all closed,” said Peace slowly. “Sinks sure fell down
on the job, Crane; but yore hired coyotes have lied to honest folks
and they’re all yellin’ for blood--my blood. Mebbe they get me and
mebbe they don’t.
“If they do--you’ve gone to ---- ahead of me; and if they don’t--” Peace
shook his head--“the mem’ries of your demise won’t haunt me, Crane.”
Crane licked his lips and glanced around. He tried to swallow, but his
throat refused to function. Then:
“Parker, for ----’s sake, you--you--I’ll help you get away. They’ll
hang yuh sure. They’re after you now. Honest, I know a place where
they’ll never find yuh. I’ll take yuh to it and I’ll give yuh money
and I’ll----”
Peace shook his head.
“No! I want to ask you one question before I kill yuh, and I’m askin’
yuh to answer with the truth. Did you misbrand them cows--the job I
served five years for doin’?”
Crane clenched his teeth to keep them from chattering and nodded.
“Talk!” snapped Peace.
“Yes,” whispered Crane. “I done that job, Parker. I wanted to marry Jess
Marshall, and I had to get you out of the way.”
“And now Danert is goin’ to marry her, eh?”
“He thinks he is,” Crane’s face distorted wolfishly. “I’ll kill him
first. Lemme go long enough to kill him, Parker.”
“You were goin’ to sheep out Chinook Valley?”
“By ----, they kicked me out of there!” Crane shook like a man with the
palsy. “I’m goin’ to git even!”
Peace studied Crane for a full minute, and Crane squirmed under the
scrutiny and the menace of the cocked Winchester.
“Got a pencil and a piece of paper?” asked Peace.
Crane’s hand went cautiously to his vest pocket and took out the stub
of a pencil. In one corner of the tent was a large packing case,
upside down, and on the top of it were a number of old newspapers and
some blank wrapping paper.
Peace motioned Crane over to this box and shoved a piece of the wrapping
paper over to him with the muzzle of his gun.
“Write out what yuh know about misbrandin’ them cows,” ordered Peace.
“Where do I git off?” Crane whined the question.
“Write fast!” snapped Peace. “Then sign it.”
“Do I git off?”
Peace squinted at Crane. “Get off? Crane, yo’re a dirty, lousy,
pariah-dog; but I’ll give you a shootin’ chance--after I’ve got that
confession.”
Crane licked his lips and began writing. He wanted to stall for time.
Perez should be around there close. Crane was afraid to have even a
shooting chance with Peace. If he could stall long enough, help would
come. He wrote slowly. The lamp was nearly dry. Peace turned it higher
and it smoked a spiral of acrid smoke which eddied in the draft from
the doorway. Crane affixed his signature and shoved the paper across
to Peace. It read:
I branded them cows in Chinook Valley five years ago and
Peace Parker got sent to the pen for it. He was not to
blaim and I say so here.
(Signed) Jefferson Crane.
Crane watched Peace read it, and wondered how quickly he could draw the
gun from the shoulder-holster under his vest. He was afraid even to move
a hand toward it for fear Peace might take it from him.
“That’s let you off,” said Crane as Peace finished.
“Yeah?” Peace shoved the paper back to Crane. “You ain’t hardly started
writin’ yet, Crane. Now make out a bill of sale for every sheep yuh own.
Make it out to me and mark it paid in full.”
Crane nearly made a foolish motion toward his shoulder, but checked it
in time.
“To you?” he shrilled. “Why?”
Peace slid his thumb off the cocked hammer of the rifle, and his voice
was cold as ice.
“Yore lies made me work for five years, Crane. It was ---- hard work,
too. You made a convict out of me, and the least yuh can do is to pay me
for my hard work. Write fast, ’cause this gun is easy on the trigger.”
Crane’s thin face was white with anger, but he laughed harshly:
“I’ll do it, Parker; but ---- little good will they be to you. You can
kill me if yuh want to, but yuh won’t live ’till mornin’. Tarp City’s
got a rope, and they’re trailin’ yuh, Parker. You better be on the
run.”
“Go ahead and write,” said Peace coldly. “I’ll take a chance on my own
hide.”
Crane wrote the bill of sale and signed it. Peace glanced at it and put
it in his pocket, with the rifle still covering Crane’s chest.
“Anythin’ else yuh want?” asked Crane hoarsely.
“Uh-huh,” nodded Peace. “The most important of all.”
Crane squinted at him wonderingly and for a minute they looked at each
other. Crane licked his lips and tried to edge one hand toward his
concealed gun.
“Well, what in ---- do yuh want?” Crane fairly squealed.
“Where is Jess Marshall?”
Crane jerked back at the question. “Jess Marshall?”
“Where is she, Crane? Talk fast.”
Peace depressed the muzzle of his rifle to cover Crane’s stomach.
“Start talkin’.”
“I dunno,” croaked Crane, “I dunno.”
“When did yuh see Perez last?”
“Three or four hours ago.”
“You knew that Sinks failed to hold me,” said Peace softly. “You lie
when you say you don’t know that your men kidnaped Jess Marshall.
I’m----”
Came a rustle at the door and Peace whirled and saw Perez half inside
the doorway. As Perez saw him his hand flashed for his gun. Peace fired
from the hip, almost across the smoking lamp, and the concussion blew
out the light.
Perez’s gun sent a stab of orange flame into the tent-top, which showed
that he was falling as he fired. Crane’s pistol flashed almost in
Peace’s face and the bullet burned across the top of his ear, while the
powder burned into his chin and cheek.
Peace ducked and flung the rifle in Crane’s direction and heard the cry
of pain as it struck. Peace could hear some one moving inside the tent,
but could not exactly locate the sound.
He dropped behind the big packing case, and seemed to locate the sound
just behind him. He slipped his fingers under the edge of the case and
upset it in the direction of the sound. He heard Crane swear as the
box rolled into him, and then he seemed to feel the shaking of the
tent as Crane crawled underneath one of the walls instead of going out
the door.
Peace started forward on his hands and knees and his hands came in
contact with a body. He slowly drew his hands back, muscles tensed
for battle, but his fingers came in contact with a dishevelled mass
of hair, which never grew on a man.
Swiftly he explored the body and found it trussed with ropes. His
fingers found the face, half masked with a cloth gag. It was Jess
Marshall, gagged and bound and she had been hidden away under the big
packing case, the last place any one would expect to find her.
Peace picked her up in his arms and staggered out of the tent, stepping
over the body of Perez. As he came out into the moonlight a pistol
flashed beside one of the tents, and a bullet buzzed past his head; but
Peace staggered straight on with his burden.
The pistol flashed again from the shadow of the tent as he reached
his horse, and Peace heard the thud of a bullet striking his saddle.
He eased his burden to the ground and sent shot after shot at the
dark spot.
Then he dropped to the ground, loaded his gun, untied the ropes and
removed the gag.
“----buzzards!” he grunted softly. “Doin’ this to a girl!”
Jess Marshall mumbled through her bruised lips, slowly, painfully--
“Peace--Parker--”
“Uh-huh--it’s me,” whispered Peace. “How do yuh feel, Jess?”
“F-fine,” she whispered, bravely. “I--I--thought--you--were--killed.”
“No-o-o, I’m kinda livin’--yet. Can yuh stand up?”
He helped her to her feet, but the cramped muscles refused to work and
she crumpled. Peace swung her up to the saddle and she clung to the horn
dizzily.
“Can yuh ride, Jess?” anxiously. “Can yuh, girl?”
“I think so, Peace. I’m so numb all over and my mouth feels as big
as--as----”
“Mine,” added Peace. “Now yuh can see how I suffer all the time.”
“Don’t say that, Peace. Your mouth is ju-just the right size. Where do
you want me to go?”
“Ride north and swing into the dry cañon at the foot of Poncho Pass.
Wait for me there. Don’t try to go through the pass, ’cause it’s
guarded. If I don’t show up, stay there ’till mornin’ and go in with
some of yore own folks.”
“You’ll come, won’t you, Peace?”
“I’m figurin’ a heap on it,” softly. “I kinda want to know, and--” Peace
took Crane’s confession and bill of sale from his vest pocket and handed
it to Jess.
“Hang onto that, will yuh, Jess? If I don’t never come across the Pass,
yuh can show it to yore folks.”
“What is it, Peace?”
“Didn’t yuh hear what me and Crane talked about, when you was under that
box?”
Jess shook her head.
“No, I couldn’t hear what was said, Peace. That cloth was over my ears,
and all I could hear was a jumble of voices, and after a while those
shots were fired.”
“That’s my pay for five years of hard work, Jess. I wasn’t hired to
work that long; but the man who got me the job is payin’ me for doin’
it well.”
“I--I don’t understand what you mean, Peace?”
“I ain’t got time to tell yuh now. You ride out where I told yuh to,
Jess. I’ve got some more work to do around here before I can join yuh.”
As Peace finished talking he seemed to melt into the shadows of the high
corral fence. Jess Marshall listened, but not even a footfall told where
the big man had gone. She lifted her sore hands and guided the horse
around the corner of the fence.
She wanted to go back and help Peace Parker. He was in trouble, but
she did not know what the trouble was. No doubt it concerned the men
who had tied her up and brought her to the tent-house unconscious.
She seemed to remember the shooting of the sheriff, but it was only
a hazy remembrance.
She felt tired, sore. Her throat and mouth were raw from the gag, and
every muscle in her body ached from the tightly-drawn ropes. She rode
slowly out into the night, swinging to the northern flats on a big
circle toward the foot of Poncho Pass.
* * * * *
Peace had proof of Crane’s guilt in his pocket, but there was grave
danger that he might not last long enough to present his proofs. The
main street seemed deserted, except for the great number of horses
tied to the racks.
He walked down the opposite side of the street from the Poncho saloon,
and saw that the place was packed with men. A dull hum of conversation,
like the hum of a big machine, came to him, and he grinned in
realization that his actions had caused all this conversation. No one
had heard the shots at the corrals, which were some distance from the
center of town.
Peace crossed the street and went in behind the saloon. A high
board-fence was built against a shed and Peace managed to get to the
top of this shed. Above him was an open window, which lighted the
main hall of the balcony above the Poncho, and by making a short jump
he could grasp the sill.
It was a hard pull for sore muscles, but he managed to draw himself in
through the window, where he sat and rested for a while. Down the hall
he could see the tops of the shaded oil chandeliers, around which eddied
the smoke from the men below.
There seemed to be no rattle of chips, no clink of glasses; nothing but
the dull hum of serious conversation. Peace walked slowly down the hall
and out to the edge of the balcony, keeping concealed from those below.
Over a hundred men were in the room. He could see Cross L Marshall near
the end of the bar, listening to Clell Danert.
Through the crowded room came Jefferson Crane, and his voice sounded
shrill above the rest as he stopped near the center of the room. The
hum of conversation ceased as he shouted--
“Is Cross L Marshall here?”
Peace saw Marshall shove away from the bar and elbow his way to Crane.
Danert followed him.
“Peace Parker’s got yore daughter,” shrilled Crane. “Me and Perez ran
into them down by the corrals. He was tryin’ to put her on his horse.
He killed Perez.”
Crane stopped for breath.
“Don’t try to take him alive! He’s travelin’ by this time!”
A roar of anger went up from the packed mob, as they surged in closer
to Crane. They were like a pack of wolves at the scent of blood. Some
one tossed a rope high in the air and it hung to a hanging lamp.
Peace realized why Crane was lying about the kidnaping. Crane knew
that he was all through in that country and he wanted time to make his
getaway. He wanted to get his men together and pull into the hills. By
tomorrow, after the mob had talked with Jess or with him--Peace--there
would be no place strong enough to hold Crane and his gang. It was a
desperate move for Crane. He would have to give up his sheep, and race
against time to get out of the country; but his life was worth more
than money, and he was taking a long chance that the mob would kill
Peace Parker on sight, and that perhaps Jess would not know who was
responsible for her kidnaping.
Peace could see Wylie sitting on the bar, and further back in the room
was Gus Sinks, sitting on a card-table. Cross L Marshall climbed to the
top of a table and held up his hand for silence.
“Men, I ask yuh to use reason in this. Find Peace Parker first; but
give him a chance to defend himself against these charges. If he is
guilty--hang him; but first, be sure. Come on.”
The crowd surged toward the door. Crane and Danert made no move. Sinks
slid off the card table, but did not mix into the mob. Wylie remained
on the bar. There was no confusion.
Peace came slowly down the stairs and almost to the center of the room.
Marshall had stopped near the door, giving instructions to the men as
they filed past. Many of them were from Chinook Valley; and Crane knew
that Peace Parker would get a chance to tell his story in case he was
captured.
Peace stopped in the center of the room, within twenty feet of Crane
and Danert, who were watching the door. Peace saw the look which passed
between them, and knew that they were going to make their getaway as
soon as the mob was gone.
Marshall turned as the last man filed out and looked back into the room.
He looked at Crane and Danert--then past them.
He stared at Peace, blinking his eyes as though mistrusting his own
vision, while Crane, Danert, Sinks and Wylie looked at Marshall
curiously.
* * * * *
Peace stood in the middle of that big room, hatless, almost shirtless,
his face and hair plastered with gore. One leg of his pants had been
torn nearly all the way from bottom to thigh, and flapped widely, as
he stood, legs planted far apart, his body tensed forward and his gun
swinging in his right hand.
To the left of him, not over twenty feet away, half-turned away from
him, were Danert and Crane; while to his right, about the same
distance away was Wylie sitting on the bar, looking toward the door.
Between Crane and Marshall, leaning against a table, and looking
toward the door, was Gus Sinks. Outside everything was confusion, as
the men were mounting their horses; but inside the Poncho saloon all
was silence.
Marshall stared at Peace so intently that Wylie turned his head and
looked straight at Peace. Wylie did not move. His eyes opened a trifle
wider. Then Peace spoke.
“Jess -- is -- safe.” Peace spoke every word distinctly and spaced them
widely, that there might be no mistake.
Crane, Danert and Sinks whirled at the sound of his voice, and stared
open-mouthed at him. Sinks’ hand went to the table-top for support.
“Crane’s -- men -- kidnaped -- her,” said Peace slowly and ominously.
“They--were -- going -- to -- take -- sheep -- into -- Chinook --
tonight -- and -- she -- knew --it.”
Crane licked his lips and shot a glance at Danert, who was tense as a
fiddle-string. Wylie looked straight at the opposite wall, as though
afraid to move even his eyes.
“Wylie -- and -- Perez -- killed -- the -- sheriff,” Peace intoned the
statement without a single inflexion of his voice. “I -- killed -- Perez
-- and -- now -- I’m goin’ to get the rest of the crooked layout.”
Men seemed to move back to the doorway and windows, looking curiously
inside --looking for Cross L Marshall, who was to lead the hunt.
Marshall did not speak, but a look of understanding flashed across his
face and his right hand dropped to the butt of his six-shooter.
* * * * *
The room grew very still, and every man seemed a graven image, except
Peace, who swayed easily on the balls of his feet, head thrust forward,
his right hand tensed at his side.
Suddenly Gus Sinks dove for the door, like a frightened rabbit; but
Marshall flung him reeling back into the room. This seemed to break
the spell. Danert streaked for his gun.
Peace swung forward, as if to brace himself against the shock, and fired
from his hip--once--twice.
Danert’s gun spouted wildly, a fraction of a second too late; his
muscles jerking from the shock of heavy bullets as he went to his knees.
Peace felt a bullet tear through his arm, as Wylie fired down from the
bar; but he only felt the shock in a dim way, as he shot through the
smoke at Crane--pulling the trigger slowly and deliberately--once--
twice--three times.
He seemed to see Crane falling sidewise, his revolver twisted in his
hand. He knew that Wylie was falling from the bar and rolling across
the floor, shocked from bullets fired from over by the door.
As in a dream he saw a man dash through the smoke, and he tackled him
as he rushed past. They crashed into a roulette table and went down
in the wreckage. Men were crowding around him, shouting, swearing. He
realized that the man beneath him was Gus Sinks, and he laughed to
think that none had escaped.
Men lifted him to his feet and a babel of voices beat upon his ears,
questioning, wondering. He looked around and saw that Cross L Marshall
and Bart Farley were holding him up, and he laughed drunkenly.
Other men had pulled Sinks to his feet and were handling him roughly.
“Keep still!” yelled Marshall, and the noise died down.
He turned to Peace.
“Are you tellin’ the truth, Peace?”
Peace smiled and looked at Sinks.
“It won’t cost yuh nothin’ to tell the truth, Sinks.”
Sinks jerked his head to release his throat from a hand, which was
twisted in his muffler.
“Crane was to blame,” he babbled. “Him and Danert framed it all. Perez
killed the sheriff. I didn’t do any shootin’. I didn’t shoot any in
here. They--they was goin’ to put sheep into Chinook; but Parker busted
up their game. They was goin’ to kill him and then make me herd the
first bunch in.
“Honest, I never killed nobody. They caught that girl on the Pass
and they thought Parker was dead. The sheriff was after Parker and
he ran into them with the girl. Perez shot the sheriff. They thought
Parker was dead; so they brought him and the sheriff to the doctor’s
place--but Parker wasn’t dead--not by a ---- sight!”
Sinks turned appealingly to Peace.
“I tell yuh somethin’ else, Parker; Crane branded them cows five years
ago himself and sent yuh to the pen for it.”
Sinks turned back to the crowd.
“I’ve told all I know. Go ahead and do what yuh want to.”
“You’ve been trailin’ with a bad bunch, Sinks,” said Peace slowly, “but
I reckon you’ll be good now.”
“He sure will,” growled one of the men. “Good for a long time.”
The crowd assented eagerly. They had been worked up to a certain pitch,
and Sinks’ life was not worth a plugged cent. Sinks knew this, but was
game. He had not mixed in the battle, but he knew the crowd would not
stop to weigh evidence; so he gamely shut his lips tight over defeat.
Peace looked at him and back at the faces of the men.
“Folks,” he said slowly, “I got the man who killed yore sheriff.” His
eyes came back to Marshall beside him. “I saved yore daughter, Marshall,
and I blocked the sheep from Chinook.”
He lifted a hand and rubbed it across his eyes.
“Twelve of yore citizens found me guilty of somethin’ I never done and
sent me up for five years. Don’t yuh think that Chinook Valley and Tarp
City owe me somethin’?”
“Yore ---- well right they do!” exploded Marshall, and the crowd growled
an assent. “What do yuh want, Peace River Parker?”
Peace smiled at Sinks’ white face and turned to the crowd.
“Crane gave me a bill of sale for all his sheep. He kinda wanted to
pay me for what he done. Gus Sinks needs to be punished; so I--I kinda
thought I’d like to hire him to herd the ---- things for me, if yuh
don’t mind.”
It took this several moments to soak into the minds of the overwrought
crowd. Then some one laughed. A grin overspread the nearer faces.
Another man laughed aloud. The spell was broken--a man’s life saved.
Sinks gasped foolishly as the import of it came to him. He staggered
ahead, grasped Peace by the arm, muttering incoherently; trying to
thank the man who had given him back his life.
He knew that he was free and that men had slapped him on the back,
laughing as they did it. He was looking up at Peace, holding to his
sleeve, trying to say something.
“Quit pawin’ me, you ---- sheepherder!” croaked Peace. “Go back and take
care of my animated bunch of itch-producin’ underwear.”
Marshall put his arm around Peace’s shoulders and turned him toward the
door.
“Peace, I don’t know what to say to yuh--honest.”
Peace grinned.
“Tha’s all right, Cross L--don’t say anythin’. Get me a horse and head
me toward Poncho Pass, will yuh? I know where somebody is planted out
there--waitin’ for me.”
“If yuh mean Evers--he ain’t there, boss,” stated Sinks, touching Peace
on the arm. “They sent him to guard the Pass against yuh; but he seen
the killin’ of the sheriff and he pulled out. The Pass is as safe as a
church.”
“Yo’re goin’ to a doctor--that’s where yo’re goin’!” declared Marshall.
“Goin’ right now, Peace Parker.”
“Ain’t there a doctor in Pasiooks?” asked Peace.
“Yeah; but he ain’t much good,” replied Farley. “Yo’re goin’ to have the
best medicine we can get, old-timer.”
“Tha’s all right,” smiled Peace widely, “I’m goin’ to pick up my
medicine at the foot of Poncho Pass. C’m on.”
[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the May 10, 1923 issue of
Adventure magazine.]
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