The 7th Western Novel

by Francis W. Hilton

  “What about his sister, Sally, in the restaurant, Smokey?” someone far back in the crowd cried teasingly.

  “I’ll handle her just like I do him, any time I want to,” Smokey bawled back. “And I’m warning you all—Lay off of her. I’ve picked her myself.”

  In spite of the dangerous glint in the eyes of the drunken Tremaine, Hartzell was prone to thresh out every detail, although it was evident from the furtive manner in which he regarded the foreman of the Diamond A, that he was deathly afraid of arousing his ire. Hartzell was known as the “yes” man in Thunder Basin; a nervous, rattle-headed cowman who never thought for himself, who was willing and eager to follow any leadership and who, in his sneaking, servile way, was but putty in the hands of King Kent and Smokey Tremaine.

  “All right,” he conceded presently in an unctuous tone. “Just suppose you handle this Whitey Hope. Once his hand is fouled the Buzzard spread can’t buy a pound of hay. The Diamond A’s will move in and surround the stockyards. Kent sees the agent and blocks the chances of this Masterson getting a permit to stay in the yards more than another day. There’s only one thing for them to do—turn their critters out. They’ve been warned there’ll be merry hell to pay if they mix herds. But just supposing they’ve got a hole card stashed somewheres that we’re not on to? Or supposing they do get feed? What then?”

  “Borrowing trouble again just like you always do, you lousy coward,” Tremaine snarled. “It’s getting so of late I hate to waste the time auguring your damned fool notions with you—trying to get anything through your mullet head. But just taking the time now to try and make you understand something, supposing they have got a hole card stashed? The Buzzard spread, or any other wild-onion outfit, hasn’t any business on a range without making arrangements for enough land to handle their stuff. That’s an unwritten law of Rangeland, although you probably never heard about it. Kent is the big squeeze in the County Stock Association. If everything else fails we can blackball them, can’t we?”

  The stinging scorn in Tremaine’s voice lashed the color from Hartzell’s face. He slunk back crestfallen, plainly fearful of attempting a reply to the Diamond A foreman, who stood defiantly, his whole attitude one of overbearing challenge.

  “That’s the way out!” Kent exclaimed. “We’ll blackball them if they out-smart us in any way, shape, or form. We’ll bar their ‘rep’ from riding with the pool roundup. We’ll make them put out a wagon of their own—do their own riding and gathering. We’ll block them from ever shipping a single head of stuff. Don’t get me wrong. We won’t touch one of their critters.” His mood was mockingly serious as he eyed the group. “That is—unless for roping practice or when our meat supply is low. Of course, slicks—” He shrugged and winked broadly. “Might be a little different proposition—one on which a cowman might strain a point if he was sure. If we work it right it won’t take very long to bust this wild-onion spread wide open—unless they’ve got a bank or two behind them. Now here’s just the way we’ll figure.… If they should happen to squeeze through this blockade at the stockyards, they’re blackballed in Thunder Basin and their stuff is legitimate prey for every man in the country.

  “Smokey,” he called out as his foreman pushed away from the bar and lurched on unsteady legs toward the door, “you shag somebody down the river with word for the boys to gather up and crowd through those five hundred Diamond A’s and surround the yards. Tell them to move along like all hell was after them. Then see the station agent. You,” he ordered Hartzell, “see to posting the storekeepers not to sell this Buzzard outfit a pound of hay.”

  “Me post the storekeepers not to sell the Buzzard hay?” Hartzell almost whined. “What are you doing, aiming to pass the buck to us so if anything comes up your Diamond A spread will be setting in the clear. Are you scared Al Cousins won’t stand for your—” Kent stopped him with an explosive snort of contempt.

  “Not by a damned sight!” he bawled. “Al Cousins will do just as I say. Smokey here will tend to lining up Whitey Hope. You handle the other storekeepers. They’ll be for us. I was just figuring on saving Smokey for more particular work later on. There’s no sense in him mixing into this penny ante stuff.”

  “You—mean—gunplay?” Hartzell demanded hoarsely.

  “You’re damned right,” Smokey snarled, patting the butts of his forty-fives. “No wild-onion spread is going to run a whizzer on us and start a grub line for starving critters in Thunder Basin or my name isn’t Smokey Tremaine.”

  He stood swaying on his feet, a savage gleam in his liquor-dulled eyes. Seconds ticked by; seconds of palpitating stillness, unbroken save for the shifting of nervous feet. Many times the crowd had seen the brutal foreman of the Diamond A in action. Twice he had faced a court on a charge of murder. Both times Kent had managed to get him off. And now Smokey Tremaine had pledged himself before them all that the Buzzard outfit never would gain a foothold in Thunder Basin. It could mean but one thing. Bloodshed!

  “Another drink for the bunch on me, Jerry!” Kent broke the piercing silence in a hollow tone. “And then we’ll start the ball rolling to make Mister Masterson hard to catch.”

  The tension snapped. Pent-up breath soughed forth. Obviously thankful for the respite, the group crowded up to the bar.

  “Drink her down,” Smokey yelled. “A hot shot for a hot day. To the end of another wild-onion spread on Thunder!”

  Hartzell stood gripping his glass with bloodless fingers.

  “I’m against the Buzzard outfit,” he said in a voice high-pitched, quavering with nervousness. “But I’m saying here and now, the T6 will be no party to murder!”

  In a single stride Tremaine was before him.

  “Drink her down—and like her,” he snarled. “Drink to the end of the Buzzard spread—one way or another. Drink or I’ll pour it down your throat!”

  Hartzell cast one fearful look at the grim-set faces about him. Then he swallowed the fiery liquid in a single gulp.

  Tremaine whirled, with a throaty chuckle reeled from the saloon.

  “I’ll post the station agent,” he flung back from the door. “And if any of you see that strange jasper who got mouthy this noon just tip him off I’m gunnin’ for him.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  UNEXPECTED HELP

  While even in the short time he had been in Elbar, Montana sensed something of the hostility in which the Buzzard outfit was held, he was scarcely prepared for the frigid reception he got from the first two storekeepers he approached in his search for hay.

  “We haven’t got any,” was the curt reply of both, who glared at him for an instant, then turned back to their work to ignore him completely.

  By the time he reached the door of the third and last store a slow anger had been aroused by the unfriendliness. Youth though he was, Montana had faced opposition before. The laughter died in his blue-gray eyes, which grew hard and cold. His lean, tanned jaws bulged with the pressure of set teeth. With a word to his men to wait for him, he jerked open the door and stepped into the store.

  “A ton of hay delivered to the stock—” He stopped to gaze at the storekeeper in blank amazement. Save for a shock of hair bleached almost white by prairie sun—and which was lighter than Montana’s own sandy thatch—and mild blue eyes, it might have been himself to whom he was talking. Never before had he encountered a man who bore him such a striking resemblance. Their bodies could have been cast from the same mold. The fellow had the loose-hipped, easy grace of a cowboy. His face was pleasant, bore the stamp of youth—the same carefree, reckless youth that impressed all who met Montana.

  And if Montana noticed the resemblance it was no less obvious that the storekeeper too, had noted it, for he stared in unconcealed surprise. There came to Montana a flash of wonder if this resemblance had been what Smokey Tremaine had noticed; if this could account for the gleam of puzzled recognition in the puncher’s eyes? Yet the Diamond A foreman
also had seemed to recognize the boy.

  “Well I’ll be damned if I ever knew I was twins before,” the storekeeper blurted out. “But I either am or I’m seeing things. If you’ll trade your gray eyes for my blue ones, and your sandy hair for my white layout I reckon you’d be me and I’d be you, wouldn’t I?”

  The manner of the fellow was so cordial, his smile so winning, that Montana felt himself being drawn to him irresistibly.

  “Reckon we’re about as near doubles as human beings get.” He grinned. “And I’m hoping to know you better. Me, I’m a stranger in Thunder Basin. But I don’t aim to be for very long.”

  Instantly the storekeeper’s smile faded. A worried look flashed into his eyes.

  “Oh,” he said quickly, “you belong to the Buzzard spread?”

  “Foreman,” Montana returned. “And I want hay.”

  “Sorry.” The youth turned back to resume his interrupted task of sorting case goods. “I haven’t any.”

  “Isn’t there a place in town handles hay?” Montana asked. “Aren’t there any cows in this country? Or horses?”

  “Lots of them.”

  “What do they feed them?”

  “Hay.”

  “Where can a feller get some, then?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Listen, jasper.” Montana leaned against the counter to size up the light-haired youth with cool speculation. “You’re lying to me. The other storekeepers in this town might have gotten away with it, but you can’t. You’re too much like me—a poor liar. You’ve got hay.”

  The storekeeper spun about.

  “You’re right, feller,” he returned coldly. “I have got hay—lots of it. But it isn’t for sale. Mebbeso you’ll like that better.” He started around the counter with the slow, cautious movement of a stalking cat, his eyes never leaving the face of Montana, who straightened up to stand easily, thumbs hooked in his cartridge belt. “I was lying. But I don’t aim to be told so by any stranger—even if he could pass for my double.” A few paces from Montana he halted.

  Completely at a loss to understand the fellow’s sudden hostility which, it seemed, was not so much the result of his accusation as a pent-up fury touched off by raw nerves, Montana regarded him coolly.

  “Listen, jasper,” he said presently in a voice that had become soft and persuasive, “I’m not here looking for a row. I’m looking for hay. If you aren’t a liar, after claiming you didn’t have any hay then admitting you did have, I’m willing to apologize. But now that I know you’ve got it I’m going to have it if I have to—”

  “To what?” cut in the white-haired youth, meeting his gaze with eyes in which there was not so much as a flicker of fear. “To what, jasper? If you figure to come into Elbar and bull your way through you’re going to find out mighty quick that you’ve tied into the wrong bunch. You’re up against a hard proposition—you and your Buzzard spread. You can’t buffalo me and if you’ll take a fool’s advice you’ll pack your critters into those cars and shag your freight right back to where you came from.”

  “You mean skin out like a yaller dog just because a few lying jaspers r’ar up and get hostile?” Montana demanded softly but with biting scorn. “Hell, feller, you don’t know me—nor the Buzzard spread. We don’t run worth a damn. But I don’t get your play. You sure aren’t in the store business for your health. Yet you’ve got hay and won’t sell it. What’s the joke?”

  “I’ve got orders not to sell you any hay, if that’s a joke,” the light-haired youth blurted out. “I hate it, jasper.” Friendliness of a sudden had replaced the belligerent note in his voice. “I know what you’re up against. I used to follow cows myself—over on the Snake where they have real punchers instead of lying, sneaking tinhorns. And I know what hungry critters are. But I’ve got to make a living in this town. They—”

  “Who are they?” Montana asked, although it took but a glance along the crowded street to know. “What are you talking about?”

  “All of them,” the white-haired youth cried. “The minute I came to this tomtit of creation they call Elbar, they tried to hang the Injun sign on me. They didn’t do it. I’m not scared of them. To hell with them. But they’re my bread and butter. Smokey Tremaine—”

  “Who’s he?” Montana asked only to keep conversation going.

  “Foreman of the Diamond A—the big gut spread on Thunder range. He’s bad, tough, dirty—the kind that will plug a walloper where his galluses cross—a two-gun man. I’m sorry, jasper. Plumb. I’d sell you hay, but—”

  “I don’t quite get the drift yet,” Montana encouraged. “What has Smokey Tremaine got to do with you selling me hay?”

  “Smokey hates my guts. Because he can’t buffalo me, and he’s in town today drunk, drunk and hunting trouble. He warned me not to sell you hay. I’m not scared of him, understand—not a damned bit. But I’ve got to think of my business.”

  The light of understanding flashed into Montana’s eyes.

  “So that’s it, huh?” he mused grimly. “Tremaine has warned you storekeepers against selling hay to the Buzzard outfit. We’ll see about that later. What is your name, feller?”

  “Whitey Hope.”

  “Mine is Montana Ellis. I’m not much on bluffing or scrapping. And I reckon you, being almost my double, aren’t either. But I’m telling you plain, Whitey, now that you’ve admitted having hay you’re going to sell it to me or—”

  “Or what?” To Montana it seemed that mention of their resemblance had set the barest trace of a smile to hovering on the lips of the youth. “Or what, jasper?”

  “Or I’m going to take it away from you,” Montana finished coolly. “You aren’t monkeying with any wild-onion spread, Whitey. We’re cowhands. We’ve got the cash and we’ve got the critters. And we’ll have the range, too, if they get funny. Now show me that hay.”

  The white-haired youth shrugged. Montana watched him closely. But he saw no evidence of fear. In fact, the mild blue eyes seemed to be laughing at him.

  “And supposing I won’t?” Whitey countered. “Then just what do doubles do?”

  Montana was positive now that the youth was laughing at him. Scarcely before he realized it his hand had fallen to his gun.

  “You’ll sell it to me or, like I said, I’ll take it away from you! That’s what this double will do.”

  Whitey stepped back a pace. A smile worked its way slowly over his face. But instead of going for the forty-five within easy reach on the counter he stuck out his hand.

  “Put her there, jasper!” he grinned. “You’re acting just like I would if I had hungry critters. You’re right, any walloper who has as homely a mug as mine, like you have, can buy my hay. I’m not scared of that gun of yours—nor nobody else’s. I’m a cowhand, a bronc peeler. I went into the store business after I hit a lucky streak and unloaded my homestead for cash. But my feet are itching, itching to feel steel. To hell with the store business! To hell with Elbar! I got fifty ton of hay on hand. It’s yours, jasper, yours and the Buzzard’s. The hellions around here have ridden me, boycotted me, raised hell with me as long as they are going to. I’ve had to swallow it because I was playing a lone hand on a hostile range. I’ve seen other spreads move in like yours is doing; but they were all yaller, buffaloed from the jump and moved out.

  “You’re different, jasper. You’d shoot for that hay. I like the way you tote your iron—like the ornery squint in those eyes of yours when you’re sore. I like everything about you—even your face that is as homely as mine. My store isn’t worth a tinker’s damn when I sell you that hay. But here she sets, jasper. The Buzzard gets her for cost—on one condition—You give me a riding job. Then if the Diamond A, or any of the rest of them, try to tell me what to do they’ll find me setting where I don’t have to take it—and snorting to tie into them. What do you say? Is it a go?”

  Montana heard the outburst in a
n amaze too swift to hide. With the instinct of a Westerner who early learns to read human nature in the eyes of men, he watched the light-haired youth closely, striving to see beyond his mild blue eyes and know the true character of this cool yet nervous man, who bore such a striking resemblance to himself. And what he saw sent his fingers edging back along his belt from his gun. The strange impelling force that first had drawn him to the storekeeper again took hold upon him. A wave of gladness that somehow he had won the fellow’s friendship instead of his enmity swept over him. Here was a man of his own kind, a man whom he knew he could trust, a fearless friend in whom he could place the utmost confidence.

  With a quick movement he took the extended hand.

  “They sure must have ridden you powerful hard to make you blow up thisaway, Whitey,” he said. “And I admire your guts for kicking over the traces and showing fight. I’ll guarantee you don’t lose anything on the deal. From now on you’re riding for the Buzzard. As for the store—I’m new with the spread myself.” Quickly he related how he had ridden into Elbar, his set-to with Tremaine and of his line-up with the Buzzard. “But I think the Old Man will see my way. Let’s understand each other. We’ll stick together, us two, until hell freezes over, huh, feller? I’m sorry I even made a move toward my gun—against my double.”

  “Sorry, hell!” Whitey flashed warmly. “I’m glad—plumb glad. It showed me you were the jasper I’ve been waiting to hook up with. A man who will stand up for his rights, not a back-shooting, four-flushing hellion like Tremaine or Kent or Hartzell. We’re too near doubles to scrap. We’ve got to team up. Who knows, the way we look alike might come in handy on this range before the ruckus is settled.” His mood changed. His face grew lean and serious. The worried look came back into his eyes.

  “We’ve got to move fast. Tremaine has posted the storekeepers not to sell you any hay. We’ve beat him there because I can furnish you with plenty. But that isn’t all Tremaine has done. He’s moving a herd of Diamond A’s in to block you in the yards. They’re going to warn you not to mix, then make you do it and stampede your stuff from hell to breakfast. I’ll get the hay to you if I have to shoot my way through. Turn your stuff onto the flats quick! We’ll feed outside and guard them. Then if they want to fight I reckon we can oblige them, can’t we?”