With a mighty effort Montana conquered the hot anger that flared up within him. Something in the coroner’s unfriendly tone, the manner in which he had managed to shift responsibility for the affair from Tremaine and Kent to Masterson and himself, warned him to silence. Getting to his feet he left the saloon and plunged into the unlighted street, followed by the sheriff and coroner.
At a small frame building below, the sheriff, to Montana’s surprise, left them. The coroner opened a door and stepped back for Montana to enter. Once inside, the cowboy looked around. Short as had been the time since the affray, already there was a score or more men assembled. Yet, he noted, neither Tremaine nor Kent was present. Wondering, he held his tongue and took a seat.
The impaneling of a jury, none of whom Montana knew, was a matter of routine. Then, in a manner that suggested the whole affair was distasteful to him and he was eager to be finished with it, the coroner started the taking of testimony. Everyone smoked, laughed, and talked at once. Utterly disgusted with the procedure, which he quickly saw was nothing but a farce, a travesty on justice which he was powerless to prevent, Montana sat mute and motionless.
Nor was he asked to testify. A few of the now sober onlookers gave their version of the affair as they had witnessed it through liquor-glazed eyes. That was all. Neither Tremaine nor Kent put in an appearance. The bartender was not called. Before Montana believed the inquest to be well under way the jury withdrew to return almost immediately with its report.
“We, the jury, find that Kirk Masterson came to his death as the result of a gunshot wound inflicted by a party unknown!” The slow anger that had been smoldering within Montana since first he had challenged Smokey Tremaine flared out of bounds. He leaped to his feet.
“Killed by a party unknown,” he scoffed in the same soft tone that had set the same tipsy bunch edging back in the Midway. “Why, you lying coyotes, you saw Smokey Tremaine shoot Pop Masterson down in cold blood.”
“There is no testimony to prove that Tremaine did this killing,” the coroner observed in a tone of judicial thought. “You, being the jasper who picked the scrap and wounded Smokey naturally would blame him. But this inquest isn’t the place to unload a lot of personal spite. If you can prove Smokey did it we’re willing to hear you. If you can’t, then you’d best keep your mouth shut. There are a lot of Tremaine’s friends here; and I’m not so sure the sheriff is through with you yet, either.”
“There were three distinct shots,” Montana held his rage in check to point out coolly. “I fired one of them. Tremaine had two guns. He shot Pop Masterson with one and took a pot shot at me with the other.”
“Is that so?” the coroner sneered. “Well, I only saw one exploded shell in Smokey’s gun—in the left one.”
“It’s a damned lie!” Montana blurted out, although hazily recalling that he had been conscious at the time of the gunplay that only one of Tremaine’s forty-fives—the left one—had been smoking. “Tremaine fired two shots. I fired one. I can prove it by my gun here.” Breaking the chamber of his forty-five he offered it for inspection, only to stop and stare blankly. Instead of one exploded cartridge there were two in his gun! Then suddenly he remembered. He had sent a second shot ripping through the door as Kent dragged the wounded Tremaine outside. “I dropped Tremaine with the first shot—then I fired at him again—”
“Did anyone hear this jasper shoot twice at Smokey?” the coroner interrupted.
Everyone shook their heads.
“That settles it,” the coroner said. “You haven’t proved anything by Smokey having two guns. The fact is, you’re only incriminating—”
“Kent had his gun too,” Montana put in hotly. “And that feller, Hartzell—”
“Well, which one of you shot Masterson then?” The coroner yawned wearily. “You’re the man with two exploded cartridges in his gun. Here, Hartzell!” he ordered the T6 man, who had not testified but who had paid strict attention to the proceedings. “Just to satisfy this, let’s have a look at your gun.” Without a word, Bob Hartzell passed over his forty-five. The chamber was full of unexploded cartridges.
“I never said Hartzell did it,” Montana flared. “I said he had his gun out. He’s the only one of your tribe that has acted like a white man. Him and Jerry, the bartender. You said you saw Tremaine’s guns. I want to see them.” Convinced by the strange twist in the affair that the nicked, copper-jacketed bullet he had found in Masterson’s clothing—and which had it not been for the bartender he would have thrown away—would place the guilt, he played his last trump.
“Smokey has his guns,” the coroner said. “There was no need of me keeping them. He—”
“Tremaine and Kent saw you before I sent for you, didn’t they?” Montana accused.
“I’m a doctor,” the coroner admitted plainly before he could check himself. “I fixed Smokey’s arm.”
“And fixed this inquest, that’s what he did,” Montana shot back. “Fixed it just like he and Kent have fixed everything else on this range. Where is Tremaine now?”
“How should I know?” the coroner snarled.
“Isn’t it customary to make it your business to find out where a suspect in a murder is?” Montana demanded.
“I questioned Smokey—examined his guns when I fixed up his arm where you shot him. I’m running this inquest, not you.”
“And a hell of a fine job you’re doing,” Montana snorted disgustedly. “Every man who saw that shooting ought to be hauled in here and made to testify to the truth. You had no business letting Tremaine and Kent leave. Tremaine killed Pop Masterson and you know it!”
“Unless you can prove it the verdict of this jury, that Masterson came to his death at the hands of a party unknown, stands!” the coroner shouted angrily. “Your gun has got the only two exploded cartridges in it I’ve seen.”
“You mean to intimate that I shot Pop Masterson?” Montana asked with almost a croon in his voice.
“We don’t know you; stranger things than that have happened.”
Montana bounded across the room.
“Say that again and I’ll bend this forty-five double over your worthless head! I’ve run into longhorns before, but I never in my life tied up with such a bunch of lying, four-flushing hypocrites as you jaspers. I demand the arrest of both Tremaine and Kent.”
“For what?”
“For the murder of Kirk Masterson.”
“Arrest King Kent?” the coroner exclaimed. “Why, it would be the biggest fool move you could make. He owns half the town and county. You’ve got nothing on him—or Smokey either. If you’re smart you’ll let this verdict ride. Then, if you can get proof—”
“Proof, hell,” Montana muttered. “You don’t want proof. If you did you’d be hunting some yourself. That’s what you’re paid for—to find clues.” Thought of the nicked bullet popped into his mind. “You haven’t even looked for the bullet.”
“I have,” the coroner jerked out—nervously, Montana thought. “I probed for that bullet before I started the inquest. It went clean through. As long as we haven’t got it I reckon it won’t cut no ice.”
“Mebbe not,” Montana conceded grimly. “But I’m repeating, you arrest Tremaine and Kent or—”
“Or what?” the coroner demanded frozenly.
“Or—” Turning, Montana studied the faces about him. Not one of them was friendly save perhaps the sneaking one of Bob Hartzell.
“You win, jaspers,” he said presently in a deadly quiet tone. “The deck is stacked against me—again. We’ll let your verdict ride for now. But get this, and get it straight. If you represent the law in Elbar it’s time some of us were taking it into our own hands. No matter what you decided, Pop Masterson is dead—shot down in that saloon. And I’m going to bring the man who did it to justice.” He wheeled and started for the door.
“Hold on!” ordered the coroner. “We aren’t thr
ough with you yet.”
Montana’s only answer was to bang the door shut behind him.
Then Montana was outside in the dimly lighted street. The wind, whining in from the greasewood flats, cooled his hot face, the scalding blood of anger boiling through his veins. Gone now was all thought of quitting the Basin. Forgotten for the moment was his mission in coming to Elbar. One thing hammered above all else in his mind. He would fight the thing to the bitter end—bring Smokey Tremaine and King Kent to justice!
Routing out a sleepy-eyed station agent, he sent several telegrams to addresses he found in Pop Masterson’s pocket. Notifying the man, Bert Jones, Pop had mentioned with his dying breath, and completing arrangements for the return of Masterson’s body to Omaha for burial, he left the station and went to the hotel. There he assured himself that the boy was safe and sleeping soundly. Then going back to the Midway he secured his mount, rode it to the livery barn, exchanged it for his own horse, by now somewhat rested after putting into Elbar, and loped across the tracks in the direction of camp. Far up the river a storm was lashing the horizon, vivid streaks of lightning, distant, grumbling thunder. Out of the far dark of the moonless night came the bark of a coyote, followed by a long and quavering wail that blended with the wind whining through the draws. Somehow the dismal sound found answer in the loneliness that lay heavy upon him.
A short way from the Buzzard camp he jerked from his lethargy and pulled his pony to its haunches. Out of the gloom ahead suddenly came a sound—a sound not unlike the rumble of the distant thunder. But Montana knew it was not thunder. To his trained ear it carried a more ominous meaning than the mere growling of a storm.
“It’s the herd,” he muttered grimly. “And they’re running like hell!” He lifted his horse in a gravel-flinging lunge. It snorted savagely, leaped away in the direction from whence came the sound.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
STAMPEDE
How long he pounded through the darkness Montana never knew, nor did he care. The reckless pace of his horse seemed to ease his violent emotions. He was only vaguely aware that from a rumble the sound of running cattle had grown in volume until it had become a steady hum, like that of a great planing mill.
Past the smoldering embers of the campfire he raced. In a single glance he saw that the men were not in their bedrolls, still piled near the mess wagon. A few snorting horses in the rope corral—the remnant of the cavvy—told him plainer than anything else that the Buzzard punchers were on the job. His thoughts flew to Whitey Hope. Whitey’s was the foresight that had held the cavvy in an emergency; he was the cause of the men being on duty. He was a top hand, indeed, well worthy of the trust that had been imposed in him.
Rounding the wagon, a shapeless bulk in the darkness, Montana again gave his horse the rowels. It thundered on, taking the gullies in great muscle-straining leaps, miraculously maintaining a footing in the brush, ever pulling and fighting against the taut reins. Louder and louder grew the noise of hammering hoofs ahead.
A mile or more from camp some impelling force drew his gaze back over his shoulder. The pent-up anger within him flared into a consuming rage that for a moment blinded him. A curse left his lips. He jerked his horse savagely to its haunches to stare at a finger of fire that suddenly had sprung up. Fanned by the wind it mounted higher and higher until it became a dazzling, writhing pillar in the Stygian heavens. Came a great burst of flame, a shower of sparks like a gigantic pyrotechnic display, then a rolling cloud of smoke even blacker than the sky beyond.
“Oil!” he cried in despair. “They’ve drenched the wagon, bedrolls and hay with oil and fired them!” His teeth clicked grimly. “But it’s too late to stop it now. If we can mill the critters and save them we’ll be lucky. I reckon this is some more of the work of Smokey Tremaine—” He waited a moment longer, then wheeling his mount he thundered along after the stampeding herd, the sound of which, in the brief seconds of delay, had died almost to a throb on the distant night air.
Clumps of brush and rocks flew by with amazing speed beneath the hoofs of his lather-smeared horse—a chimera of hazy, indistinct objects which loomed stark and ominous for an instant beside him, then sped away to become a part of the ebon void. Once again the steady hum began to increase in volume. Inch by inch his straining pony crept up on the running lags which, although undistinguishable, still gave to the darkness an undulating movement that was sinister.
Then he had closed the gap and was abreast of the column. The wind stung his cheeks, brought tears to his eyes. But he paid no heed. Dangerous as it might be, his place was at the head of the running cattle which were lumbering along like a river at flood stage, sweeping before them everything that dared resist the devastating advance.
More by sense than by sound, Montana became aware of a horse blowing beside him.
“Who’s there?” he shouted at the top of his voice to make himself heard above the turmoil.
“Whitey Hope,” came back the answer. “That you, Montana?”
For the first time in hours the sound of a voice filled Montana with hope.
“Yes, Whitey,” he yelled. “What happened?”
Out of the darkness loomed a figure.
“I don’t know,” Hope cried. “Knowing what we were up against instead of letting the men roll in, I kept the whole crew on guard—even the cook. I held the cavvy and had the horses saddled. Of a sudden the critters quit the bedground like they’d seen a haunt. Quicker than you could bat an eye they were running. We did our best to hold them. But it wasn’t any use. Once I thought I heard other cattle bellering—I wasn’t sure, though. We shagged along after them. But we didn’t have any more chance of stopping them than a snowball in hell. It makes it worse because they’re on strange range and they’re headed for the river rapids. Been storming up the river for an hour—Afraid of a flood. But we did our best, Montana.”
“I know you did, Whitey,” Montana said earnestly. “But a feller’s best don’t amount to much against the snakes we’re tying into. They killed Pop Masterson.”
“What?” Whitey cried incredulously. “Who did it?”
“The coroner’s jury said a party unknown,” Montana answered grimly. “But it was either Smokey Tremaine or King Kent. They both had their guns out. So did a feller by the name of Hartzell.”
“Hartzell! What about him?”
“He had his gun out,” Montana returned. “But he’s the only one in the bunch who was white enough to offer his friendship. Him and Jerry the—”
“Listen, Montana.” Whitey roweled his snorting mount closer and leaned over in his saddle. “I don’t like that Hartzell jasper. He’s the one man on the whole range who has treated me white. But I don’t like him. He’s got a snakey eye—He’s yaller—He’s scared to call his soul his own when Smokey is around. But when you come right down to it, I’ve heard he’s the crack shot of the whole range. He—” He broke off suddenly as he chanced to glance back over his shoulder. “Montana!” he cried. “The camp is afire!”
“It’s gone by now, I reckon,” Montana told him bitterly. “Some more of Tremaine’s work probably. He killed our boss, fixed the inquest and burned our camp. And I’ll bet my last dollar it was him and his gang that stampeded our herd with those Diamond A’s they moved up to block us in the yards. But I got in one good lick at them. I winged Smokey Tremaine.”
“Winged Smokey!” Whitey exclaimed exultantly. “Good for you. I knew I wasn’t picking any bob-tailed flush to draw to when I tied up with you. Winged Smokey! It’s a pity you didn’t kill him. He’s the one who is stirring up all this hell. Him and old King Kent. They’ve given us a jolt, too, pard, but they haven’t got us whipped yet, have they?”
“You damned know it, they haven’t,” Montana flashed back. “And until they have—”
“They’d better double their own guard,” Whitey finished. “Listen!”
Montana strained for t
he sound that his companion had heard. Presently he caught it above the bedlam about him. The crash and boom of turbulent water.
“The river!” he cried hoarsely. “Rapids. Isn’t there somewhere we can cross, Whitey?”
“Back a ways. Not down here. And we never can turn them now. Reckon after all the other trouble it’s good-by to the critters. But we’ll do our damnedest, Montana.”
Particles of earth pelted Montana in the face as Whitey gave his horse its head and roweled away. Montana too, urged his mount to greater speed. Slowly they crept up on the lumbering column. Out came their Colts to belch jets of flame into the gloom. But the angry barks were but puny pops, all but drowned in the uproar. Then of a sudden the river boomed directly ahead. Montana’s heart sank. There was little hope now of stemming the frenzied rush of the animals flying on, with no sense of direction, no heed of impending doom, a blinded, hurtling mass, amenable only to the whim of the panting brutes thundering at their head.
Side by side Montana and Whitey threw themselves into the terror-stricken mass. By main strength and daring they succeeded in turning the leaders. Around and around they flew, their ponies slipping dangerously, now falling on their knees to bump along a few paces, then springing up to race on at redoubled speed. It was deadly, dangerous work. But the two gave no thought to the risk. They only knew that to mill the maddened brutes would break the backbone of the stampede.
“They’re coming our way!” Montana shouted. “Don’t let them bust now, Whitey!”
His exultant cry went unanswered. He cast a glance over his shoulder into the darkness. Apparently Whitey had taken some other course for no longer could Montana hear the blowing of his horse. But he dared not stop to investigate. Kicking, cursing, fighting his unwilling pony, he strove with might and main, with belching Colt and throat-slitting yells, to mill the crazed brutes. Once he thought he would succeed. But hope died as it was born. The animals broke wildly about him. He barely had time to gain the outer edge of the torrent as it swept past in a new burst of speed. Many times the hand of death hovered over him as his pony was sucked into the vortex of merciless hoofs. Each time some miracle saved him.
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