by Zane Grey
By the time he was within five hundred yards, all the riders were together, three of them dismounted. Lincoln felt it might prove ticklish business, this bold approach. But there was no help for it, and he knew that boldness was the only logical attitude he dared show. After sighting several hundred yearlings in a single bunch, he concentrated his attention upon the riders.
Lincoln hardly expected to be held up, although the fact that neither Kit Bandon nor her niece was in sight made the situation rather uncomfortable, especially if these riders were the kind to resent intrusion. They all packed guns; that he could see even at this distance. He caught the glint of a rifle on one saddle. They were lean, rangy, ragged riders like almost any other cowboys, but at closer view he saw that they were young and wore short, fuzzy beards. They had still, intent eyes, hard to look into under their worn sombreros.
Leisurely riding up to them, the Nebraskan reined in Bay and slipped out of his saddle. He did not want to risk gunplay mounted on a strange horse.
“Howdy,” he drawled, dropping his bridle and stepping clear of Bay. Then he felt comparatively easy.
“Howdy yourself,” replied the nearest cowpoke, gruffly.
In build and feature they appeared to be brothers. Their attitude was one of intense curiosity, but little if any friendliness.
“Miss Bandon offered me a job,” said Linc, blandly. “I rode out to see whether I’d like it or not. But if she was home she didn’t answer my knock.”
“Which Miss Bandon?” queried the spokesman of the quartet.
“Is there more than one? It was Miss Kit Bandon.”
“She’s gone to Rock Springs with her niece, Lucy.”
At this information Lincoln’s heart skipped a few beats, and a strange feeling of relief flooded over him. This would account for Lucy’s failure to meet him.
“When did they go?” he asked, in apparent disappointment.
“They left on the morning stage.”
“And when will they get back?”
“Not very soon. It’ll take us several days to drive to Rock Springs.”
“Ahuh. Cutting out a big bunch, I see. All yearlings and calves. Nearly five hundred head, if I know my cowboy business.”
“There will be six hundred, if it’s any of your business,” returned the rider, curtly.
“Well, it’s a hell of a lot of my business, if you want to know,” flashed Lincoln, suddenly changing his approach. “Where did Kit Bandon get so many calves?”
To this blunt query the rider answered readily. “That’s not our worry. We’re hired to drive them to the railroad.”
“You’re all Mormons, I understand.”
Their silence manifestly affirmed that assertion. Presently the Nebraskan spoke again: “Even if you are Mormons you’ve no call to act so suspicious of a Gentile.”
“Aren’t you the gunman Bradway?”
“Yes, I’m Bradway, but packing a gun and shooting up some low- down hombres doesn’t make me a gunman.”
“We don’t make friends over here, even with cowboys,” returned the spokesman, shortly.
“That’s not hard to see. Is it because you are just naturally hostile — or are you taking orders from Kit Bandon?”
That query seemed a shrewd guess, and though it was answered briefly in the negative, Linc could see that falsehood was distasteful to this Mormon. He concluded that if there were anything shady in this deal the fault was the woman’s responsibility.
“What’s your name?” asked Lincoln.
“Luke Mathews.”
“Well, Luke, you probably think me a low-down meddling cowhand. But if I look that way to you, you’re mistaken. My best friend, Jim Weston, was murdered out here, and I’m on the trail of the hombre who did it. I’d be right friendly with you if you’d let me. I liked your looks as soon as I saw you. I don’t know what sort of a deal you cowpokes are in with the Bandon woman. But you’re probably willing to take the risk.”
“How so? It’s legitimate work. We get paid and ask no questions.”
“Hasn’t it occurred to you to ask yourself where these calves and yearlings come from?”
“Yes, we’ve been curious, but it’s none of our business.”
“They were all mavericks and you burned that brand on them.”
“No, we didn’t. And we had no idea they were mavericks,” declared Mathews, positively.
“Ahuh. Well, I’ll be damned. I’m not so smart as I thought I was.. . . Somebody branded those calves and it’s got the appearance of hurried bungling work, as you can see.... Luke, I’ll ask one more question. Have you ever heard them call Kit Bandon the Maverick Queen on this range?”
“No. We never heard that.”
“Well, that would seem to let you out. But take a hunch from a Nebraska cowman who knows tricks of the range you Mormons never heard of. Make this your last drive!”
With these words of advice Linc stepped astride his horse and turned back toward the ranch. A glance over his shoulder showed Mathews standing in profound thought, and the other riders still motionless and staring after the Nebraskan.
“If they tell Kit Bandon, she’ll scalp me alive. But hell! What else could I do? I have to find out whether they were in this thing with the Maverick Queen.” And he fell again into his old habit of self-examination. What would be the legal status of the case if Kit Bandon were really inducing cowboys to steal mavericks from the ranchers and selling them to her? There could not be any legal status on a new range where there was no law. It was a question that undoubtedly was keeping the ranchers awake at night, now that they had begun to suspect what was going on. Linc was convinced they did suspect it and that it was the reason behind Burton’s actions and Lee’s offer of a job leading the vigilantes. On a vast new range where hundreds of thousands of cattle were grazing, and more arriving every day, where more and more cowboys into whose past history the ranchers had no time to inquire, were an absolute necessity, it seemed to the Nebraskan that the black-eyed Maverick Queen had selected a profitable deal. She could claim that she did not know nor care where the mavericks came from. What a unique and clever and almost foolproof way to amass a herd of cattle! People could suspect, but proof was difficult to obtain. Then there was the personal element. Kit Bandon would have had the best of the cattlemen even if she had been a homely unattractive woman, but beautiful as she was, to whom conquest was a passion, she could keep them all at her heels. You don’t question too closely the motives and acts of the woman you want to marry! Yet Linc knew, through his experience with Texans like Lee, that if Kit Bandon kept on riding this range in her ruthless and unscrupulous fashion, if she continued to break the hearts of cowboys upon whom she depended for the building up of her herd, and to ride roughshod over the desires of matured and lonely cattlemen, in the end she must come to grief. But she was as cunning as she was bold. There was a possibility that before things went too far she would marry one of them, or a cowboy, and leave the range with her fortune, or settle down to honest cattle raising.
Reaching the corrals, the Nebraskan deliberately rode around inspecting them. Presently, down a lane between two fences of peeled poles, and hidden behind the long shed, he found what his inquisitive, suspicious mind had hoped to find. A smaller corral had been built against the back of the shed. It was empty, so far as livestock was concerned. In a corner he found a neatly stacked pile of wood, carefully split into small pieces. With such wood a cowboy could kindle a hot fire in a few minutes! Under the eaves of the shed was a shelf upon which lay branding tools. Lincoln’s restless eye espied the remains of little fires scattered all over the ground in the little corral. He dismounted to examine the heaps of ashes. One of them had been built within the last forty-eight hours. Another was scarcely four days old. Many calves had been branded in this hidden corral, and probably all of them at night by the light of the little fires.
Here again, however, was nothing that constituted damning evidence against Kit Bandon. Many ranchers branded cal
ves in corrals instead of on the open range. Yet in Linc’s mind’s eye he envisioned a cowboy riding into that corral in the dead of night, dragging or packing a maverick, quickly building a little fire and hurriedly heating an iron to burn a brand.
“But why the hurry?” pondered Lincoln. He knew cowboys. Many of the bold and callous type would do that work leisurely and effectively, smoking a cigarette during the process, perhaps with a sardonic grin on his lips. “Those brands I saw out there were botched. All done in a hurry!... Scared of being caught? Hell no!” Lincoln planned to spend a night or two hiding in the shed, watching until he caught one of these cowboys red-handed. There was a chance it might mean gunplay, but he had to know.
Having learned everything it was possible to discover for the time being, Linc headed Bay back on the road toward South Pass. The afternoon was far gone, with sunset not an hour away. The air already was getting cool. Snow clouds hung over the peaks and their dark veils streamed down to the foothills. The loneliness of the waste of gray sage fitted in with the mood of the cowboy as he started back to South Pass.
“Well, horse, let’s see what you’ve got,” he said to Bay. It developed, presently, that Bay owned a long, easy, swinging lope like that of an Indian mustang. It was a fine gait and a ground- gainer.
Lincoln’s thoughts revolved around his plan to take the stage next day for Rock Springs and find Lucy Bandon if he could not locate the man whom Burton had called Hank Miller. He scarcely noted the passing of time. At sunset he reached the bluff, and looked up to see the rim rock where he had stood with Lucy. He let Bay choose his own gait up the zigzag road. The deep-chested horse seemed tireless and never once halted of his own accord. Once on top Lincoln rested him while he turned to watch the sunset, a marvelous pageant of painted clouds in long stripes and streamers, red, yellow and mauve. Soon he rode on again deep in thought, pondering how he could achieve a meeting with Lucy Bandon, in spite of her aunt.
Soon after dark Lincoln arrived at Headly’s livery stable, where he turned over his horse and inquired for Vince. That worthy had not been in evidence all day according to Bill. Lincoln hoped to find his partner at the Chinese restaurant, but again was disappointed. He began to feel a bit anxious. He had his supper and went outside to wait. But Vince did not show up. Finally Linc went to his lodging and to bed, worn out more from worry about Lucy and now Vince than from the day’s activity.
In the morning he was up early. He gave unusual attention to his appearance, as he did not want to meet Lucy Bandon without looking his best. He had never found it so hard to choose a scarf. He decided to wear a coat with large pockets in which he deposited articles indispensable to himself on this particular trip. Vince failed to show up again either at the restaurant or the stable. Lincoln left a message with Bill to the effect that if he did not return from Rock Springs within a week Vince was to follow and hunt him up.
When the westbound stage rolled out of South Pass Lincoln was on the seat with the driver, an ex-teamster named Slocum. He was the kind of westerner that Lincoln regarded as the salt of the earth. Raw-boned, rugged of build, with a leathery visage and eyes like slits of gray fire, he showed his years of hard contacts with the frontier. There were eight passengers inside the coach, and a full complement of baggage and express. Before starting, Slocum had been loquacious with his passengers, especially two young women from the East. While waiting at the hotel he had given Bradway an appraising glance, and later, after someone no doubt had acquainted him with the cowboy’s status there, he deliberately looked the Nebraskan over to make his own estimate. Linc knew he would not have to open a conversation. But they had surmounted the long grade out of South Pass and were bowling along through the sage before Slocum spoke.
“Bradway, whar you hail from — Deadwood or Abiline?” he drawled.
“Nebraska. I was born in Missouri. But I know both those towns,” returned Lincoln, in an agreeable tone.
“Wal, you have the look of them range-ridin’ fire-eaters I’m thinkin’ of. Boy, you’re out of your latitude hyar.”
“How so?”
“Ain’t it kinda slow fer you?”
“I haven’t noticed it.”
“From Missoury, eh? So’m I. I was born in Westfork before they called it Kansas City. Never was a cowboy, but I been everythin’ else. Scout, soldier, pony-express rider, teamster. Seen a sight of western life, in my time.”
“Which is telling me you know western men,” rejoined Lincoln.
“Wal, I ought to. The Dakotas, Montana, Wyomin’ are open books to me, knowed all the desperados. Been friends with Wild Bill and Calamity Jane, an’ all the gunmen of their day.... Anythin’ you want to know about Wyomin’, son?”
“What makes you think I might want to know something?” inquired Bradway.
“Wal, you rode with me on this stage from Lander. You had thet look. An’ I’ve heerd what you done to them fourflushers in South Pass.... Son, you’re lookin’ for someone.”
“Slocum, you hit it plumb center,” admitted his passenger. “Did you happen to know a cowpoke named Jimmy Weston?”
“Not personal. But he’s daid.”
“Yes. That’s why I’m here.”
“I see. Weston was yore pard, I reckon. You figger there’s somethin’ queer about his death?”
“I figured that before I came out here. Now I know it.”
“Wal, it looked queer to me. That is to say — it didn’t ‘pear all open an’ simple, like the run-o’-the-range deaths of cowboys, whether by violence or bein’ piled off a hoss. But I don’t know anythin’.”
“Did you happen to see Hank Miller in Rock Springs?”
“I shore did. How’d you know he was there?” asked Slocum, in surprise.
“Heard it down in the valley yesterday.”
“Yes, I seen Hank. He interest you?”
“Yes, he does, a little,” returned Lincoln, with a short laugh.
“You lookin’ for Hank?”
“Yes. Rather.”
“Somethin’ agin him?”
“I’ve never seen the man. I haven’t a thing against him — that I can prove. All the same I’ll kill him if he doesn’t come clean with how and why he hauled my dead friend from somewhere in the valley to Emery’s joint in South Pass.”
Slocum slapped his long reins and urged his four horses to a somewhat brisker trot. His leathery visage betrayed nothing, but there was a thoughtful look in his bleak eyes. Linc saw where the main road turned away from the head of the Sweetwater Valley. Bold bare mountains heaved up in the west. A herd of antelope crossed the road and turned to gaze, long ears erect.
“Son, I reckon you know more’n I do about thet deal,” spoke up Slocum. “Thet is, about whatever is gossip in South Pass. Yesterday I dropped mail back at the forks we jest passed. One of Hargrove’s riders. An’ I told him I’d seen Hank Miller in Rock Springs. But I didn’t tell him what I’m goin’ to tell you. An’ I’m tellin’ you because I had a pard once, close as a brother.”
“Go on!” urged the cowboy, as the driver paused and seemed to lapse into thought.
“Three days ago Hank Miller came to me in Rock Springs,” continued Slocum. “He’d been soakin’ up consid’able red likker. An’ he looked mighty mean. He asked me if Kit Bandon had come on my stage. I told him no. An’ he bit out: ‘You tell her when you git back to the Pass thet by Gawd she’d better meet me hyar pronto, as she agreed!’?”
“Well!” exclaimed the Nebraskan. “I wonder what Miller meant by that.” Here was news of tremendous significance, if he could fit it in with what he already knew.
“I couldn’t git thet message to Kit by word of mouth,” went on Slocum. “She wasn’t in town.”
“Kit’s Mormon riders told me yesterday that she had taken the stage for Rock Springs.”
“Missed me by a coupla days, by Judas! Wal, mebbe it’s jest as wal I didn’t git thet message to her. She’d kill Miller.”
“If she doesn’t, I will — unless
he talks.”
“Wal, you can kill him, but thet won’t make him talk. I’d go slow if I was you. The cowboys out hyar ‘pear a queer breed.... Bradway, how you figger thet message of Miller’s to the Bandon woman?”
“How do you?”
“Wal, since I spilled it to you... but no! you tell me, an’ if I agree, I’ll say so.”
“Fair enough.... I figure that if Miller actually hauled Weston’s dead body from somewhere in the valley to South Pass, then Kit Bandon had something to do with it.”
“No doubt at all, son... an’ I’ll be damned!”
“Slocum, you’re thinking that it’s a long lane that has no turning.”
“Nope. I was thinkin’ how the pitcher thet keeps goin’ to the well always gets broke in the end.”
Lincoln snapped his fingers in the air with that peculiar characteristic of his when something that had puzzled him suddenly cleared itself up in his mind, or when one of his uncertain ideas was definitely falling into place.
“Slocum, you’re the first man I’ve met in Wyoming who has had the courage to meet me even halfway in respect to my opinion of this Bandon woman.”
The stagecoach driver coughed and replied, almost apologetically: “Wal, Bradway, mebbe I’m one man who doesn’t feel inclined or obliged to knuckle down to Kit Bandon. An’ again, mebbe it’s because you’re like my old pard of the Injun days.”
“Plenty reason, and thanks,” returned Lincoln, feeling depressed. He discovered that despite all the damning evidence against the woman he had come upon he yet did not want to find Kit Bandon to be guilty. He could not explain it. In his heart he knew that the Maverick Queen in some way was implicated in the death of his best friend. Yet, such was the magnetism of this beautiful outlaw woman that he wanted to think her guiltless. Was it because she had shown him so plainly that she loved him? It was something hard for a man to resist — even when he knows that she has revealed her passion to a dozen other men.