“Don’t care if I do, miss,” Montana gulped. “That is—What will you have, buddy?”
“He’s already drinking his milk.” The girl laughed, a friendly, musical laugh; and her voice was low, sweetly low and husky.
He fell to eating ravenously to cover his embarrassment, cursing himself under his breath for being such an idiot before this strange girl, a waitress in a cow-town cafe. Yet never before had he seen her like. Never before had he seen a woman that routed his last vestige of control, although, he admitted to himself, he never had been entirely at ease around women.
“By the way, Lewis,” he said presently. “I’m looking for a jasper by the name of Al Cousins. Know the gent?”
“Al Cousins!” the old fellow exclaimed. “Why, Cousins is the big squeeze of the Diamond A spread. Smokey Tremaine is his foreman.”
“Huh?” Montana grunted. “And to see Cousins I’ve got to go right into this Thunder Basin country under Smokey’s nose? Now isn’t that a tough break?” he demanded of the boy in mock seriousness. “Glad you came along, Button?”
“I’m not afraid as long as I’m with you,” Clem was able to mutter for all his crammed mouth.
“Shucks, you’ll be getting me stuck on myself if you keep on.” Montana grinned. Then to Lewis: “What makes all these folks so hostile to strangers?”
“Elbar and Thunder Basin have never been healthy places for outsiders,” the old man answered in an undertone. “They’re even worse right now.”
“Why?” There was careless indifference in Montana’s voice.
The herder looked around cautiously, although they were alone in the cafe.
“For a good many reasons,” he said. “Mebbeso that is one of them.” He jerked a gnarled thumb behind him. Montana glanced across the neat room with its plank floor scrubbed almost white. On the wall was a placard. He strained to read it.
$5,000 DEAD OR ALIVE!
For “Three-Finger” DeHaven, alias “Slick” Nogstrum, alias “Butch” Franklin. Wanted for murder and rustling. Identifying marks first and second fingers of right hand missing. Fugitive is a killer. Officers are warned to take no chances. Notify
Jim Crowe, Sheriff,
James County, Wyoming.
When he had finished reading, Montana shrugged and shot a glance at the gaping boy before his gaze shifted to a second placard—a glaring placard in red, with the picture of a pitching horse—the announcement of a rodeo. Before he turned back to his food he caught the name, Diamond A Rodeo.
The herder watched him closely for a moment as though trying to read his thoughts. But Montana’s face suddenly had become expressionless, veiling every thought or emotion.
“I’m not saying Three-Finger DeHaven is back in Thunder Basin, understand,” the old fellow offered. “I’m just tipping you off that the Basin isn’t any place for strangers.”
“How’s that?” The words were the only evidence that Montana was even listening. He finished his steaming coffee in a gulp and pushed his cup across to the girl, who was hovering near by, attempting, with poor success, to find something to interest her outside on the dust-swept, blistered street.
With a smile that again brought the blood into Montana’s face, she refilled the coffee cup and placed it beside him.
“Thanks,” he muttered.
Another dazzling smile was his reward.
“Because you might be another detective, that’s why,” the old herder whispered when the girl had moved off a short distance, to busy herself polishing the lunch counter. “I’m telling you, strangers are about as welcome as blackleg in here. It’s a bad mess, feller.”
“Rustlers?” Montana asked indifferently, his fascinated gaze, over which he seemed to have no control, following every movement of the girl.
“They’ve been working in the Basin for years,” the herder replied. “You see, the Diamond A owns danged near the whole of Thunder Basin, Al Cousins and King Kent—Al’s a fine old gent, common as dirt. Kent’s a stubborn bull bat and uppish. They do what they can against the rustlers. But they don’t seem to get anywheres. Nor the law doesn’t, either. The detectives they’ve hired to go in there just naturally disappear. So do the cow thieves. They must have wings. Nobody ever gets so much as a glimpse of them.”
“What’s the matter with their foreman, Smokey Tremaine?” Montana asked. “He’s tough enough to tangle with rustlers, ain’t he?”
“They don’t come any tougher,” the herder growled. “And you’re the only jasper who ever had the guts to call his hand that I know of. He’s cock of the Basin; and Kent swears by him. Cousins don’t say much. But it don’t take only half an eye to see he hasn’t got any use for Smokey. Reckon he only puts up with him because Smokey is the best cowman in these parts; knows cows to a fare-you-well. But then again, poor old Al hasn’t been accountable for years.”
“Loco?”
“Sane as you or me. But he had a kid—a little shaver of a boy. Raised him by hand after his ma died. Some ten years back the kid, just then learning to walk, turns up missing. They hunt high and low for him. Finally, they fish his hat out of Piney river, near the Diamond A, making it pretty certain that he fell in and was drowned.”
“Knocked the pegs out from under the old gent, Cousins, huh?” Montana surmised.
“Plumb. Thought for a while he was going loco. After that he just seemed to lose interest in everything. His foreman—let’s see, what was that jasper’s name? Danged if I recall now. But anyhow, he pulled out about the time the kid disappeared; Kent, who was a common puncher, just kind of oozed into charge. He’s the big bull on the range now; head of the Stock Association and everything else. He goes to managing the Diamond A and snakes Smokey Tremaine, his side-kick, up from a thirty-dollar job as top rope and makes him foreman. Al just seemed to turn everything over to them.”
“Still owns an interest, doesn’t he?”
“Nobody knows, because Al isn’t the talking kind. Kent’s the one who shines at that. Al just sort of slides along moping and grieving for that lost kid. But, even then, I’ve always said they’d better look out for him. There’s fire in the old boy, you see.” He indicated the placard on the wall advertising the rodeo. “As far back as anybody can remember, the Diamond A holds that rodeo. Folks from all over these parts come to see it. It used to be open to all comers. But Smokey Tremaine has cleaned up so long now nobody will compete with him. He’s as good a bronc peeler as ever threw a leg over an outlaw—good as he is a cowman. Al don’t make any bones about hating to see Smokey take top money every year. So the rodeo has just settled down to a war betwixt the two of them. But for all Al has been able to do, Smokey is the champion twister on Tongue River. Smokey cleaned up completely in the rodeo, held just a couple of days ago. That’s why he’s in here celebrating, raising hell. He’s cock of the roost for another year.”
“I’d fire him if I was Cousins,” Montana growled.
“So would I,” Lewis agreed. “But then, we ain’t on the inside and don’t know the whole deal. Al and Smokey don’t go at it hammers and tongs. They’re more like a couple of prize fighters waiting for an opening so they can tangle for a knockout. But this man Kent—he’s where Smokey gets his drag, because Kent thinks the sun comes up and goes down in him. And Smokey is slick enough to keep Kent egged on to holding the annual rodeos just to show old Al up. But Al is game even if he is heart-broke. He thought the world and all of that kid of his.”
“How do you get down to Thunder Basin?” Montana asked shortly.
“Thirty mile due east. But if you should happen to be a detective hunting Three-Finger DeHaven and those rustlers, take a fool’s advice and stay out.” Lewis got up from his stool.
“Much obliged,” Montana said, offering his hand, which the old fellow took eagerly. “I can tell you in danged few words I’m no detective. But I have got business in these parts. And I may
be crazy enough to hang around—if I can land something in the way of work.”
“Work? Say—But then I don’t reckon—You wouldn’t mind a little trouble with that work, would you?”
“I’m not dodging any,” Montana said.
“I’m not deliberately steering a man into a mess,” Lewis responded. “But if it’s work you’re really wanting, why not lope down to the stockyards? There’s a fellow down there I used to know when I was in cows. He’s unloading some stuff. That’s the other reason they’re not particularly struck on strangers in Elbar right now. But that fellow is white—all white and square. A man to be proud of on any range. If you really want a job, I’ll put in a bid for you—tell him you’re riding down to see him, if you want.”
“Do that,” Montana said quickly. “I’d sure be much obliged.”
“I wouldn’t do it without I’d seen you back Smokey Tremaine down,” Lewis countered pointedly. “This newcomer is going to need help, because of snakes of Tremaine’s caliber. Either that or they’ll run him out.”
“Tell him I’m his man,” Montana said. “The reception I got here don’t make me particularly loving on any of the citizens. But I’m crazy enough to want to stick. You tell that jasper I’m dead anxious to work and rarin’ to go. And you—So long. We’ll probably meet up again sometime.”
“I hope so. I’m proud to shake hands with the man who made Smokey Tremaine eat crow—and to know his name.”
“My name?” Montana chuckled. “Shucks! I’m Big Montana. And this here is Little Montana. We’re just the Two Montanas, giving your Wyoming range the once-over.”
He smiled after the old fellow as he turned quickly and ducked out through the kitchen into the alley.
“Are you through, sonny?” Montana heard the girl ask the boy as he turned back to the counter. Clem gulped down a huge mouthful of pudding and spun around. “Sure you’re full up? Can’t eat any more?”
“I can chew but I can’t swallow,” the boy mumbled. “I don’t reckon I ever et so much. Did you, Montana?”
“I’ve done right smart, buddy.” Montana grinned. “And now we’d best—”
“Come in again, Little Montana,” the girl invited cordially, leaning across the counter to pat the youngster on the shoulder.
“How did you know my name?” the lad demanded, startled.
“I just heard this gentleman telling Mr. Lewis that you were Little Montana and that he was—”
“And what’s your name?” the boy interrupted to ask. “You knowing mine, I ought to know yours.”
“Sure you had,” she laughed. “I’m Sally Hope. Mother runs this restaurant.”
“You’re awfully pretty, Sally,” the boy blurted out, much to the embarrassment of both the girl and Montana. “About the prettiest woman I ever saw. And I’m sure proud to know you. I want you to meet my pard—the best pard a little jasper ever had—Montana Ellis.” The girl nodded and then—Montana choked on his last mouthful of pudding. For no reason at all that he could see she extended her hand. Her shapely white fingers were lying in his great bronzed paw. He clasped them gingerly. She drew her hand away.
“I’m sure pleased, Miss Hope,” he found himself saying above the sudden staccato pounding of his heart. “Hello, we’ve got visitors in town,” he observed as a large group of horsemen came thundering down the street.
“It’s the Diamond A boys,” the girl said, moving quickly to the window and peering after the riders. “It looks like there is trouble brewing.”
“Trouble?” Montana queried.
“That new outfit moving onto the range that Mr. Lewis mentioned,” the girl said. “The stockmen are up in arms about it. I hope there won’t be any—”
“Come on, sonny,” Montana said suddenly. “We’ve got to trot along and tend to our horses. Good-by, Miss Hope.”
“Good-by.”
The two quit the restaurant. As he turned to pull shut the door, Montana looked back. The girl stood gazing after them. And she smiled sweetly to his nod.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE NEW RAMROD
Outside the restaurant Montana and the boy secured their horses, mounted, and rode on up the street to the livery barn. During the time they had been in the cafe the deserted village had become crowded with cowboys, while horsemen still came thundering in from the greasewood.
“Things sure have picked up since we rode in,” Montana observed as they reached the livery stable and dismounted. “Must be a meeting of the cowmen on that new spread the girl and Lewis were telling us about.”
Turning their ponies over to a hostler the two went back outside and started down the street of Elbar, which had jerked itself from its lethargy, and plainly was in a tempest of excitement.
Broad-shouldered, lean-hipped cowboys paced about. Punchers squatted on their haunches, backs to the gusty wind that chased sheets of dust across the brush-clotted flats. In the alleyways cowboys leaned idly against their ponies, which stood three-legged, heads down, rumps to the stinging blasts. About the livery stable were other punchers riding in or surveying the score of gaunt buildings in silence. The air was impregnated with a tenseness that threatened momentarily to explode and send the crowd clawing for the guns holstered at every hip.
“I’m taking you over to the hotel, buddy,” Montana said shortly. “I don’t like the look of things around here.”
“But what are you going to do?” the boy asked anxiously.
“Mill around and find out what’s up. There’s trouble in the air sure as shooting. I never saw a storm come up any quicker. Everybody’s got blood in his eyes.”
“You don’t suppose your scrap with that Smokey Tremaine started it, do you?” the youngster asked as they strode along toward the hotel.
“A little set-to like that sure wouldn’t cause all the cowmen in the country to come riding in here hell-bent for election like these fellows are piling in,” Montana answered. “It’s something big. And somehow, I see grub money in it for us.”
They reached the hotel. Entering, they finally aroused a sleepy-eyed, half-dressed clerk. Montana registered. Then, with instructions to the boy to remain close to the hotel, he went back into the street. Although but shortly after midday the blazing sun was dimmed by clouds of dust scuffed up by galloping hoofs and driven before the whining wind. Fluffy white thunderheads were sailing up from the west.
Far more elated at the prospect of action than he would even admit to himself, and determined to have a look at this new spread, against which all Thunder Basin apparently was massing, Montana secured a fresh horse at the stable and rode toward the stockyards below the village. Reaching them presently, he peered through the poles at the men unloading the cars shunted onto a siding. Then he crawled up to straddle a top pole.
Directly below was a jolly, fat little fellow with snow-white hair, who pulled violently each time he was compelled to move about on his flea-bitten pony. Obviously the owner of the herd—branded Crossed Sevens—he cursed and mopped his brow while his crew of ten punchers yowled and cursed at the frightened cattle.
“It’s beastly hot,” Montana could hear the old fellow complaining. “Get a move on you jaspers. I’ll be laid up all winter just as sure as the devil if I have to stay out in this heat much longer.”
“If you’d move around a bit, Pop, instead of setting that crowbait of yours like a knot on a log, you wouldn’t be so hot,” one of the punchers advised good-naturedly. “The fact is, I can’t see the sense of you being down here. Go on uptown and cool off. You’ve still got that permit to hold the stuff in the yards, haven’t you?”
“The one I got from the railroad official in Omaha?” the old fellow demanded testily. “You don’t think I’d throw it away after going to all the trouble I did in getting it, do you? We can hold the critters here as long as we want to without monkeying with the local agent. But me going now wou
ld leave us shorthanded.”
“Not if it’s a cowman you’re looking for,” Montana put in, leaping down from the poles to land beside the startled pair.
The old fellow turned in his saddle to size him up in a swift and critical glance.
“You being?” he demanded.
“Montana Ellis.”
“I’m Kirk Masterson—owner of the Crossed Sevens or Buzzard brand.”
“Heard about you,” Montana said.
“And I’ve heard about you,” Masterson shot back. “Fellow by the name of Lewis was down here a while back. I used to know him years ago, in Omaha. And I never knew him to pick a man wrong. He told me of your little set-to uptown. And that you’re looking for work. He gave you a fine send-off. Coming from Lewis that means—I’m needing a foreman bad. My man, who’s been with me for years, took sick suddenly and died in Alliance. We’ve come through shorthanded.”
“I’m your ramrod,” Montana assured him. “I’m not the smartest fellow in the world. But I know cows. I was born on a roundup, I reckon.”
“I was aiming to go uptown later and look you up, on the strength of Lewis’s recommendation,” Masterson admitted. “But now you’re here—Course, I’m shooting blind. But I don’t often go wrong on human nature. I like your looks.” His keen blue eyes were sweeping over Montana critically. “I like what I heard about you calling that jasper uptown. You’re hired. Shoot square and deliver the goods. You’ll never regret it.”
Montana stuck out his hand. Masterson took it warmly.
“It ain’t just the thing to admit, but I reckon I’ve got a little personal grudge in this Thunder Basin ruckus,” Montana said. “Nothing big, but I’m snorting to tangle with a certain gent if he gets too tough. That’s one reason I want particular to tie up with your spread. I like to see a square deal. Another is, I’m needing grub money. If you care to check on me, I’m from the Yellowstone. Nephew of an old cowman up there—Nat Ellis.”
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