“You’re damned right we’ll scrap.” Wheeling abruptly, Montana quit the store and rejoined his men, who were waiting impatiently. In a few words he explained the situation. With muttered curses they wheeled their horses and raced for the stockyards.
“It’s a hell of a time to hold a herd, jaspers,” Montana said when the cattle had been turned from the yards and bunched in a great bend of Tongue River some half mile below. “But we’re into it now, and the Buzzard outfit don’t turn back. With Pop’s permission there’s a five-dollar increase in every man’s pay—scrapping money. We’re here to stay. Shag that sleepy cook out of the caboose. Hook onto that mess wagon and snake it down. Let’s get a fire started. Quick as the hay gets here we’ll feed. Then I’ll find Pop and wise him up to why we had to move. We figured to come onto this range peaceful. But if they want to fight, damn ’em, we’ll fight them to a standstill!”
CHAPTER EIGHT
OUTLAW POKER
The sultry August day, in which so much had occurred with such startling rapidity, was drawing to a close when Montana had finished feeding part of the hay which, true to his word, Whitey Hope in some way had managed to smuggle to the bawling brutes in the Tongue River bottoms. Then, having placed a double guard, the new foreman started for the village in search of Pop Masterson and to have a look in on the youngster at the hotel.
His mission in Thunder Basin was to deliver a letter to Al Cousins. Yet here he was, within a few short hours one of the central figures in the thick of range war. To turn aside now was to show yellow. To take the boy, complete his mission and pull out was—His teeth clicked grimly on the thought. There would be time later to deliver the letter—later when he had again encountered Smokey Tremaine—
He found himself staunchly defending Whitey for his revolt against the Thunder Basin clan; admiring him for the reckless courage he had displayed in running the gantlet with the hay. Behind Whitey’s outbreak he could realize something of the bitterness the former bronc peeler had been forced to endure in Elbar. And he thrilled to the thought that this man, who had dared defy the Buzzard’s foes, was his friend; felt secure in the knowledge that Whitey Hope was with him now, accepted by the men—as he, too, had been accepted—who recognized in the cool assurance and fearlessness a cowboy born to the range.
Montana broke off his musing as he rode across the railroad tracks and into the village, the huddled buildings looming like great hulks in the swiftly falling twilight. Here and there a coal-oil lamp sent forth feeble rays which failed utterly to pierce the gloom and became instead only thin fingers of light in a vast and ominous dusk.
Lifting his horse with the rowels, he loped up the street to pull rein before the Elbar Hotel.
Clem met him at the door, anxiety in his eyes.
“Gosh, pard,” the boy exclaimed. “I sure was scared something had happened.”
“It has,” Montana assured him. “We’ve landed a job already—foreman of a new spread. But come along, let’s put on the feed bag.”
The boy joined him quickly. Leaving his horse, the two strode up the street, presently to encounter Whitey Hope.
“Just looking for you, Montana,” said the youth, who had laid aside his “store” clothes for the flannel shirt and batwing chaps of the range.
“Talk while we’re eating,” was Montana’s brief word. “Where’s a good place?”
“That place we ate dinner,” Clem put in.
“Kind of stuck on that girl, aren’t you?” Montana teased.
“Did you ever see her, mister?” Clem demanded of Whitey as they entered Mother Hope’s Cafe.
The girl, Sally, came forward smilingly.
“Well, yes, I have met them,” Whitey smiled, waving to the woman in the kitchen and chucking the girl familiarly under the chin. “You see, Sally—meet Montana Ellis and—”
“She already knows us. And likes us,” Clem said.
“You’re lucky,” Whitey smiled. “Because if Sally likes you—”
“Does she like you too, mister?” the boy demanded.
“I hope so. Do you, Sally?”
“I sure do,” she smiled. “I love him.”
The boy’s eyes widened.
“Gosh, Montana, that’s too bad,” he blurted out. “I’d kind of hoped that—” He stopped short at the panic in Montana’s eyes.
“Sisters are supposed to like their brothers, aren’t they?” Whitey’s words broke the swiftly growing tension.
“Is she your sister?” Clem gasped.
“Nothing surer than that.”
“That’s different.” Clem’s relief was obvious.
When they had ordered, Whitey took Montana to the kitchen where he was introduced to Mrs. Hope, a large motherly woman to whom he was drawn instantly. Montana stood by while Whitey related the story of their meeting, how he had sold Montana the hay and accepted a job as a rider with the Buzzard spread.
“I can’t take it in the store business, Ma,” he blurted out. “I thought I could—I stuck for you—but when Tremaine goes to dictating who I can sell my own goods to, it’s time for me to do something about it.”
“Your pa was like that,” Mrs. Hope said. “And I don’t blame you. That Tremaine is dirty. I hope things pan out. But I’m afraid you two have got a hard row to hoe on Thunder.”
They went back to the lunch counter presently. Little was said during the meal, Whitey speaking from time to time to his sister and answering questions put to him by his mother. Montana, plainly ill at ease before the girl, was content to remain silent. Clem made no effort to conceal the fact that he was completely taken with Sally.
The meal finished, Montana sent Whitey back to camp, returned Clem to the hotel, where he saw him safely in bed, then mounting his horse, he rode directly to the Midway saloon. Dismounting, he tied his pony to the hitchrail, along with a score of other horses, and entered.
The big resort was packed with punchers. But by now their mood had changed. Liquor long since had routed the silence of the hours before. Paying no heed to the tipsy mob, Montana elbowed his way about looking for Masterson. After several minutes of futile search he had almost reached the conclusion that the cowman was not there when suddenly a burst of laughter, from a group around a poker table in the farthest corner of the room, came to his ears. Thinking perhaps to locate Masterson among them, and always a willing spectator to a poker game, he pushed his way toward the table. Presently he gained a point where he could see the players, some ten in number hunched over their cards.
While in the wan light shed by the flickering pendant lamps their faces were so deeply shadowed as to be scarcely distinguishable, he knew by their seamed and sun-darkened necks, by the wide-brimmed hats—pulled low over their brows to shield their eyes—and by the spur rowels jangling from time to time against the rungs of their chairs that they were cowmen fresh from the range. And another thing he noted. At the hip of every man was a forty-five, which jutted up above the rim of the table, within easy reach of the gnarled fingers that gripped their cards.
But after a few moments it was not so much the men themselves who held his attention. It was the boisterous fun they seemed to be deriving from the game. It struck him as singular for cowmen to play poker thus when it was ordinarily their custom to play the game silently, thoughtfully, with deadly earnestness.
“I’ll bust her for a critter,” came a rough voice, thick with liquor that caused Montana to start. Although he could not see the speaker the voice was that of Smokey Tremaine. “Who the hell isn’t in? Ante up you jaspers, if you’re aiming to buy cards in this game. Cows are cheap on Thunder.”
Puzzled by the strange manner of opening a jackpot in Elbar, and wondering what sort of men were these who could gamble with cattle instead of chips, Montana attempted to crowd closer only to be jostled back by others who were watching the game with breathless interest.
&nb
sp; Roaring with laughter at the opener, the entire group of players stayed with the bet. Nor did it seem to do other than increase their drunken glee when Tremaine stood pat on the draw and bet five more critters. Scarcely believing his ears, Montana gave up in his effort to push nearer and stood straining to hear if the others would stay with the heavy bet. But apparently the wager did not phase them, for they only howled the louder and each raised in turn against the pat hand.
“Let’s see,” one of the group remarked with mock seriousness. “At eight dollars a head, five steers would be worth forty dollars. Hell, that isn’t any bet in this man’s game. I’ve still got fifty critters left of my share of the herd. If they can top that eight-dollar market they’re worth four hundred bucks. I’ll just hike you those fifty critters, Smokey, and take a look at that bob-tailed flush you played pat!”
“They sure aren’t scared to bet ’em high, wide, and handsome in these parts, are they?” Montana remarked to a tipsy puncher at his side.
“Hell, no.” The fellow grinned. “But they would be if it was their own cows they were playing for. It’s easy to bet when it isn’t any skin off your shins whether you win or lose.”
More perplexed than ever by the reply, Montana went back to watching the game just as Tremaine, who had stood pat, gave vent to an outburst of oaths and threw down his cards.
“I’m cleaned of critters,” he growled, pushing back his chair while the others roared with delight. “Hell! And once I owned nigh onto a thousand head.” He got to his feet to stand swaying drunkenly. “Go ahead, you jaspers. Play your heads off.”
Prey by now to a consuming curiosity, Montana was on the point of putting another question to the man beside him when suddenly he caught sight of Pop Masterson directly behind Tremaine. He started toward the owner of the Buzzard spread only to halt as he caught Pop’s voice raised in anger.
“You fellows may think you are having a lot of fun at my expense,” the old cowman cried. “But if you do, you’re crazy.”
“Like hell we are,” threw back Tremaine, who now whirled to face Masterson, his broad back toward Montana. “Blackballed critters are anybody’s meat on Thunder range.”
“We’ll see about that too,” Masterson retorted. “Any time you fellows think you can play poker for my stuff you’ve got another think a-coming.”
Still Montana could not get head or tail to the thing, although one word crashed on his brain. Blackballed! To be blackballed on any range was the worst disaster that could befall a cowman. It meant that he could not gather his cattle unless he did it himself, for no pool roundup would handle them. If he did succeed in getting them bunched they could not be shipped from the county for they were under a cloud as black as quarantine.
Yet what right had Tremaine to mention blackballing in reply to Pop Masterson? It was usually the procedure against rustlers whose herds were known to include animals belonging to other outfits. But there could be no such suspicion directed against the Buzzard spread. Still, in the face of the underhanded opposition they already had encountered, Montana knew that it was not beyond the Buzzard’s foes to attempt a blackball in their efforts to intimidate them and keep them from gaining a foothold on Thunder range. Yet never a man to jump at conclusions, Montana held himself in check until he could obtain a better understanding of the whole affair.
“Well, we did play poker for your stuff,” Tremaine returned snarlingly, to explain to Montana in a flash the unusual merriment and wild bets of the game. “And I lost my split in them. But wait until these other jaspers get through. Then we’ll see who owns the Buzzard stuff—you or them.”
“You’re talking through your hat,” Masterson said with biting scorn. “It’s the liquor you’ve drunk boasting. If there is any blackballing to do it won’t be by a bunch of drunks around a saloon. It will be your County Stock Association. And they’ll have to show cause, and plenty of it, ever to blackball the Buzzard spread from this range or any other.”
“I’d like to know who the County Stock Association is if it isn’t us,” Smokey sneered. “Danged nigh every member of the Association is playing for your stuff here and now. Most of the critters on this range are represented here at this table. And when we say your Buzzard stuff is blackballed that is just what we mean. We told you how things stood when you came single-footing in here this afternoon. We gave you a chance to pull your freight. But you got tough and mouthy, tried to shove things down our throats and make us like it.”
He lurched around to face the players, who had paused in their game to listen to the apparent renewal of the altercation.
“Play them up, jaspers!” Tremaine roared maudlinly. “Those Buzzard critters will die of old age anyhow before they ever get shipped out of Thunder Basin. We might just as well go to splitting them. What don’t die of old age will starve plumb to death, because the outfit hasn’t any range.”
“Maybe we haven’t much range,” Pop continued the argument in a weary tone. “But we are willing to buy. You fellows don’t own all Thunder Basin. It’s mostly government land; most of it is open to homestead entry right now even though it is under your fences. I saw to that before I ever thought of moving in. What’s the idea of acting this way? I haven’t done anything to hurt you.”
“Your just being here is an insult,” shouted the drunken Tremaine, again turning his back on the nerve-taut Montana. “We’ve told you a dozen times that Thunder Basin can’t support any more stuff. That’s why we offered you eight dollars a head for them. But you wouldn’t talk turkey at our figure, even after we told you that you were blackballed. You got your old neck bowed and went hostile. So we just decided you didn’t know enough about cows to run them. That’s why we divided them up and played for them. The County Stock Association will get them anyhow in the long run.”
“I won’t stand for your—” Pop began furiously.
“You’ve got to, jasper!” Smokey cut him short. “Got to, because there isn’t anything else for you to do. If you’d only look at it sensible you’d see we did you a favor in taking those critters off your hands. You’d have to keep them under fence on that Dunning place you say you bought. It’s only a six-hundred-forty. Wouldn’t feed a flock of cottontails. Why, there isn’t even water on it. But there you would have stayed, jasper, because if you ever moved a hoof out onto the range we’d of done a damned sight worse to you than we’re doing now. And when you even think of homesteading the pasture land we’ve got under fence you’re just breeding yourself a bunch of hell you’ll wish you never had run into.”
“But you don’t understand,” Pop expostulated. “I’m—”
“We don’t care a damn who you are,” Tremaine interrupted again, sneeringly. “You’ll wonder who you are yourself before we get through with you. We’re not fooling. We mean business. If we hadn’t of taken those critters away from you we had you sewed up so tight anyway you’d have been squealing like a stuck pig pronto.”
“Sewed up?” Pop asked anxiously. “How?”
“Never mind how.” Tremaine’s words ended in a burst of laughter. “You’d have damned soon found out, wouldn’t he, fellers?”
“But boys,” Pop persisted. “I’ve got money to buy places. That’s what I figured on doing—buying more land. I’m not going to homestead your pastures. I’m no nester. I’m here to work with you, help you. You aren’t giving me a square deal. I haven’t hurt you. If I do, then raise hell about it. I tell you I’m—”
“And I say we don’t care a damn who you are,” Smokey grated. “You moved onto Thunder range without an invitation. That’s enough to make us against you and your lousy little wild-onion spread. We’re warning you for the last time—you shag yourself back to where you came from or we’ll—”
CHAPTER NINE
MERCILESS KILLING
Montana waited to hear no more. He pushed through the group and planted himself in front of Tremaine.
&
nbsp; “Hold on a minute, jasper,” he said in a tone which, for all its softness, still carried to every part of the saloon to quiet the boisterous crew and set booted feet to shifting uneasily. “You’re taking a little too much of a load on your own shoulders to my way of thinking. There’s a few things for you to try and get through that big head of yours quick. In the first place the Buzzard outfit isn’t any wild-onion spread. In the second place it isn’t moving off Thunder range.
“As for your betting the Buzzard critters at poker you’re either just plain fool or trying to hang the Injun sign on somebody. The two thousand head Pop Masterson brought with him is only feeder stuff. When he gets ready he’s going to move a real bunch of cattle in here.” He paused to sweep the crowd with a coldly glittering eye.
“I came to this town on business—nothing whatever to do with the Buzzard spread. I stayed on account of you, Tremaine. Now, damn you, if you’re feeling hostile you pick any fight you’ve got with me.”
Again his eyes bored into the little beady ones of the foreman of the Diamond A.
“So it’s you again?” Smokey blurted out, sobered somewhat by Montana’s sudden appearance and visibly nonplused at his fearless challenge. “Just what the hell business have you got butting in here?”
“I happen to be the new foreman of this Buzzard spread,” Montana shot back. “Tied up with them a purpose to force a square deal. I’m the jasper who is going to have just plenty to say about you collecting those poker stakes you’ve been playing for. I’m wise to your breed, Tremaine; you’re the walloper running up the Diamond A herd to blockade us in the yards; the smart jasper who tried to keep us from buying hay by intimidating the storekeepers. But get this, feller, we’re already out of the yards—out and fed in spite of you!”
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