by L. P. Holmes
“Sorry, Miss Donna … I see it different. They was soldierin’ on your uncle. The other boys were all on the job, earnin’ their wages. Layton and Vanalia weren’t. If they’d acted reasonable when I reminded ’em of it, nothin’ would have happened. But I called ’em and they wanted a fight. They got it.”
“But you’re making the ranch shorthanded,” argued Donna, realizing plainly that her arguments were useless, and furious because of it.
“I can get some more to take their places,” Buck said. He stood up and reached for his hat. “I’m sorry you don’t like the way I’m goin’ about things. But I was sent out here to run this ranch … and I’m gonna run it.”
His teeth clicked over this last statement and Donna could not meet the level power of his eyes. She turned and went out of the room.
Buck went down to the bunkhouse.
Layton and Vanalia were ready to leave. Buck handed over their time slips.
Red Scudder was lounging in the door of the bunkhouse, the cowpunchers’ empty guns dangling in his hands. At a nod from Buck he gave them to their owners.
Pete Vanalia holstered his weapon and swung into the saddle. Then he stared down at Buck with flat, deadly eyes.
“This thing ain’t finished, English,” he said thickly through swollen lips. “Our turn will come … one of these days.”
Buck shrugged. “Life works out that way sometimes, Vanalia. But I’ll remember you promised it.”
Vanalia cursed and spurred away, Layton falling in beside him.
Red Scudder watched their disappearing figures with narrowed eyes. “I would remember, Buck … was I you,” he murmured. “I’ll say this for Pete Vanalia. He’s got nerve … and a hell of a long memory. Layton’s the weak sister of the two.”
“I judged so,” agreed Buck. “Well, looks like I got to ride to town this afternoon and pick up a couple or more hands. Think you could stand the exercise, Red?”
Red’s blue eyes gleamed. “¡Bueno! I don’t mind sayin’, I like your style, Buck.”
Their eyes met and locked.
Buck smiled slowly. “I reckon we understand each other, Red.”
* * * * *
In the back room of the Silver King Saloon a conference was in session. Four men were present, seated around a scarred table on which rested a half-filled whiskey bottle and several glasses.
Curt Daggett, a tall man with narrow shoulders and a bulging, sagging waistline, was speaking. His pale, washed-out-looking eyes were gleaming with anger and perturbation and his thin lips scarcely moved as the bitter words dripped from them.
“No question about it … we’ve been working too slow and cautious,” he declared. “Now the going will be slower and tougher than ever. It doesn’t do any good for you to try and belittle Buck English to me, Curly. That jasper didn’t get his fighting reputation on hot air and bluff.
“If you don’t think he’s a tiger … ask Buzz and Pete. I was just out front talking to ’em a few minutes ago, and Pete … though it hurts his feelings to admit it … says that English is all he’s rated to be. On top of that, he’s made a friend of Red Scudder … and Red rates a pretty tough hombre himself. So our job hasn’t gotten any simpler, not by a damned sight. Question is … what do we do?”
Monk Canole blurted into speech. His nickname aptly described him. His physical makeup was strongly simian in type. His shoulders were sloped and stooping, with long, loose hanging arms. His legs were short and bowed. His nose was flat and spreading, his eyes little and round and set deep beneath beetling brows, above which his brow was low and sharply slanting.
“You shoulda listened to me a long time ago, Daggett,” he growled. “When you’re gamblin’ for high stakes, you gotta play your cards like you mean it. You cain’t keep ’em close to your vest. We been follerin’ your plan so far, and all we’ve done is put Carleton on his guard. He’s imported the fightinest hellion I know of to run his ranch. And English knows Wolf and Curly and me. I tell you, we’ve made a mess of things. How about it, Wolf?”
“You’re right, Monk,” Wolf Slonicker said, taking in the rest of the men with his sharp eyes. “Buck English bein’ on the job sure don’t help our chances none. We shoulda struck out hard and heavy before this. Now, I dunno just what to do.”
Slonicker was tall and thin and cadaverous, with long black hair, shallow eyes, and narrow, protruding features. At the moment he was chewing nervously on a splinter of wood he had whittled from the table edge.
“Seems like English has sure got you fellows buffaloed,” Curly Whipple said, sneering. “To hear you jaspers talk you’d think he was a company of United States cavalry all by himself.”
Canole cursed. “You always was a damned fool, Whipple. You can make a lot of big talk, but in a showdown you don’t amount to much. If you had the brains of an ant, you wouldn’t try to put that hogwash over about English bein’ a soft-shelled hombre. In your heart you know better … and you know you’re scared stiff of him. You’re jest whistlin’ to keep from breakin’ down into tears. Me, I’m honest enough to admit that I’d rather tackle a nest of bobcats than I would Buck English. I’d have more chance of comin’ out alive. So unless you can talk sense, shut up!”
“Monk’s talkin’ gospel, Curt,” said Slonicker to Daggett. “I tell you, English is a tiger.”
Daggett, who had been drumming his fingers on the table, lifted his head in decision. “I’ll take your word for it, boys. Which means … English has got to be removed … the quicker the better. Got any ideas?”
For a time there was no answer. Then Canole shifted restlessly.
“Dry-gulchin’ is the best bet I know. It won’t do to try and meet him face to face and call him out. Whoever tried it would be dead … pronto … and English would still be saunterin’ along. But a Thirty-Thirty slug sifted into him from ambush ought to do the trick … providin’ the fellow who tried it didn’t miss. Besides, that way we can still cover our tracks. Jack Carleton won’t be able to lay his finger on us.”
“Sounds reasonable … and safe,” Daggett said, nodding his approval. “And with English out of the way … we’ll quit the petty larceny stuff and make some real moves. Who’s a good rifle shot?”
Canole leered. “Whipple ain’t so bad, and he seems to think that knockin’ off English wouldn’t be much of a chore. Why not elect him?”
Curly Whipple paled. He was very passably good-looking until his eyes and mouth were studied. The eyes were pale blue and shifty. His mouth was pouty and weak. His sandy hair was attractively curly and there was a pink glow beneath the tan of his face. One’s first impression of Curly Whipple was favorable—but knowing him as he really was could promptly change that.
“Why pick on me?” he protested. “I’m just a ’puncher, drawin’ wages from the S C Connected spread. You three fellows got a lot more at stake than me. No, sir … I won’t do it.”
Monk Canole’s beady eyes turned red. “I reckon, Whipple … concernin’ everythin’ I know … you will do it … if I say so.”
Whipple licked his lips, started to say something but changed his mind and nodded. “Okay, Monk,” he mumbled.
* * * * *
The first stop of Buck English and Red Scudder when they reached town was Sheriff Jack Carleton’s office. By good luck they found Carleton in.
Buck came to the point immediately and briefly. “I gave Layton and Vanalia their time, Jack.”
Carleton smiled tightly. “So I noticed, Buck. They just left here. I gave ’em their checks. Little argument, wasn’t there?”
“Yeah … some. They got hostile when I told ’em they were all done. Red and me come in to see if we could pick up a couple of riders to take their place. Got any idea where we might find any?”
Carleton nodded. “Yeah. I got a line on a couple already. Look like pretty fair hands to me. You’ll find ’em at the hotel
. Names are Evans and Drake. Go and look ’em over. They suit me, if they suit you. I had a hunch you’d have trouble with Layton and Vanalia. Anythin’ else new out at the ranch?”
Buck rolled a cigarette carefully. He nodded. “What do you know about Slonicker, Canole, and Curly Whipple, Jack?”
Carleton was startled.
“Not a great deal. They’re our closest neighbors to the ranch. But they mind their business and …”
“I wonder,” broke in Buck crisply. “I wonder if they do mind their own business. How long they been here?”
“Lemme see. Somethin’ like five years for Slonicker and Canole. Whipple came in more recent. Why?”
“Five years, eh? That checks up. They must’ve come straight here from Welkin Valley and down there past the Madrigals. Well, Jack … they left Welkin Valley with an open noose waitin’ for ’em if they ever came back. Rumor had it that Whipple was connected with ’em, too. Sundown has been tellin’ me about things, and before I worry much about the Tonto Desert men, I’m gonna look the S C Connected over pretty darned careful.” Buck turned to face Scudder. “Red, it’s gettin’ late. Let’s pick up those two riders and hit the trail. So long, Jack.”
* * * * *
For some time after the two had left, Carleton sat in thought. Finally he shrugged and smiled grimly.
“I knew I wasn’t makin’ any mistake in gettin’ hold of Buck,” he muttered. “I knew Slonicker and Canole were off-color, but I sorta figured Whipple as bein’ a fairly decent sort. I reckon I better tell Donna to have nothin’ more to do with him. Buck seems pretty sure about all three of ’em.”
* * * * *
At the hotel Buck located the two riders, Slim Evans and Chuck Drake. He approved the moment he saw them. They were young fellows, but capable-looking—and square shooters if Buck knew anything about human nature. Forty and found evidently met their approval, for they rounded up their horses and rode out with Buck and Red.
Dusk caught them halfway up the mesa trail. Buck was in the lead, with Red Scudder, Evans, and Drake following in the order named. Where the trail cut around the head of a narrow, brush-choked ravine which angled downward across the flank of the mesa, Buck pulled in to breathe his horse, advising the others to do the same.
He rolled a cigarette and scratched a match, turning sideways in the saddle to shield the flame from the rising push of the night wind. As he bent his head toward the light, a lance of crimson flame spurted from the ravine, a gun bellowed in report, and some mysterious force cut the cigarette clean from his lips. At the same instant a queer, crunching spat sounded behind Buck, and Red Scudder slid from his saddle like an empty sack.
V
Donna Carleton was drowsing in an armchair, trying to make up her mind whether or not to retire for the night, when she was roused by a sharp, peremptory knock on the door. Startled, and with a premonition of trouble gripping her, she crossed the room quickly and opened the portal.
The light, slanting over her shoulder, showed the cold, intent features of Buck English.
Donna did not miss the expression of his eyes.
“Some … something has happened?” she stammered.
He nodded. “Yes. Red Scudder has been shot. A dry-gulcher cut down on us as we were climbing the mesa. He’s not dead. But I need hot water and bandages. You’ve got an emergency kit here, Sundown tells me.”
“Yes. I’ll get it for you. And I’ll have the cook rustle up some hot water immediately.”
She ran out of the room, called some directions to Sevila, the Mexican cook, then came hurrying back with a first aid kit. She handed it to Buck and drew on a light sweater.
“No need your comin’ down to the bunkhouse,” objected Buck. “I can fix Red up all right.”
Donna’s answer was to push by him. Buck shrugged and followed.
* * * * *
Red Scudder lay on a bunk, his eyes open, but full of pain. The rest of the cowpunchers stood about, quiet and serious. A dusty, blood-soaked neckerchief was bound around Red’s head. He managed a twisted smile for Donna.
“Sho’ now, Miss Donna,” he whispered. “There ain’t no need you botherin’ about me. Ole Buck’ll fix this head of mine.”
Donna’s face was a little pale, but she did not waver.
“No more talking, if you please, Red,” she ordered. “Steady now … until I get this filthy bandage off.”
Red was steady enough, but Donna herself was the one who grew shaky as she saw the ragged, angry, blood-clotted tear where the bullet that had been intended for Buck had ripped its vicious way across the top of Red’s head.
Buck gently but firmly pushed her aside.
“You can help,” he said, not unkindly. “But leave the main job to me.”
When the hot water arrived, Buck carefully shaved about the wound, cleansed it thoroughly, and drew it together with several rather expertly placed sutures. A clean, firm bandage in place and the job was finished.
“Now you roll over and go to sleep, you knot-headed old maverick,” said Buck to Red. “You’ll be feelin’ a heap better by mornin’.”
Red grinned through white lips. “Okay. Gimme another drink of agua.”
The light was shaded and the rest of the ranch hands followed Buck outside.
Jiggs Maloney caught Buck by the arm. “Are ye after finishin’ the job tonight, Buck?” he asked. “Begorra, me and the rest of the boys are sure itchin’ to pull on a rope.”
Buck shook his head. “No, Jiggs. I’m aimin’ to make that jasper talk and find out who sicced him on us. I leave it up to you and the boys to see that he doesn’t get away.”
“Sure, and ye need waste no worry over that!” exploded Jiggs. “’Tis meself who’ll roost on the spalpeen’s tail like a ghost after a scaredy cat. Shorty and me’ll be with him for the rest of the night.”
As Buck started for his office, Donna fell into step with him.
“What Jiggs just said … does that mean you caught the one who did the shooting?” she asked him nervously.
“Yeah, we nailed him. Rode him down and pistol-whipped him. He’s locked up in the saddle shed.”
“Who … who was it?”
Buck hesitated. “I reckon you’d feel better if you didn’t know,” he drawled finally.
“Bosh! I insist on knowing. If you won’t tell me … well, I’ll ask one of the boys. Who is it?”
Buck shrugged. “If you insist … Curly Whipple.”
Donna stopped stock still. She caught her breath in an unconscious gasp of protest.
“No … no! That can’t be true. Curly … Curly would never do a thing like that. He isn’t that sort. I tell you it’s a mistake. You’re wrong. I don’t believe it!”
“You saw Red’s head. There ain’t no mistake. We caught Whipple cold.”
“But why … why should Curly do such a thing?” she muttered as much to herself as to Buck.
“I reckon I could shoot pretty close to the answer,” Buck said grimly. “But I’m gonna let him tell it in his own words … tomorrow.”
Donna had the feeling that she was beating futile fists against a cold, implacable stone wall. This fellow Buck English moved straight ahead, unheeding, remorseless, heartless—or so it seemed to the girl.
“He’ll never admit to something he never did,” she flamed.
A sardonic smile twisted Buck’s lips. “Faith like you have is worthy of a better object, Miss Donna,” he told her. “But he’ll talk, never fear. There’s a lot of ways of makin’ a polecat like him open up.
“For shame! You speak like you were going to torture him … or … or something. You wouldn’t dare.”
“Wrong,” was the level statement. “I’d dare anythin’. That jasper tried to dry-gulch me. He missed … but he came close to killin’ Red Scudder … one of the first real friends I’ve made here o
n the ranch. Red saved me from bein’ shot in the back by Buzz Layton. Anybody who hurts Red Scudder from here on out … hurts me. And I don’t take kindly to bein’ hurt … not even by you. Now you better run along to bed … and forget Curly Whipple. He ain’t now … and he never was … worth one second of worry by you. Good night.”
The door of his office closed behind him.
* * * * *
Donna felt almost as though he had slapped her in the face. Until now, she had always considered herself as somewhat of an authority about the ranch. Sundown Sloan had always made it a point to talk over any major problem with her. But this … this … Donna gritted her white teeth in a rising rage.
Buck English ignored her entirely, as far as her opinions went. Thrust her aside as though she were a child—suggested that she run along to bed.
She went to her room, but not to sleep. That was out of the question just now. Her thoughts were chaotic, her emotions upset.
For a time she paced to and fro in the confines of her bedroom, stifling her anger. After a bit she quieted and curled up in a chair to think.
Curly Whipple locked up—charged with attempted murder! It was a nightmarish thought.
Donna looked back. She had known Curly Whipple for a little more than a year. She sincerely liked him. She knew that her feelings toward Curly had never gone any deeper than this. But she had liked him. They had been good friends—nothing more. Her Uncle Jack had never objected to Curly’s visiting with her. And surely—had Curly been off-color, as sheriff, her uncle would have known it.
On one occasion Curly had grown sentimental, but Donna had checked his advances brusquely and it had never happened again. They had ridden together many times, and on one occasion she had gone to a dance in Cedarville with him. He had always been attentive, decent, and considerate. Now he was charged with an attempt at dastardly, cowardly murder. Donna could not bring herself to believe it.
On the other hand, there was no refuting the evidence of Red Scudder’s wounded head. Someone had certainly fired the shot that did that. And Curly had apparently been caught in the act. But why? Why should he have attempted such a thing?