“I thought so,” Whitey chuckled. “So you skin out and I tend to the details. They’d have you in jail before you even got started in Elbar. Me, they’ve got nothing on me but these steers, and I can swear you did it. I’ll handle the boy—turn him over to Mother and Sally—Say!” He exploded, “We look enough alike to be doubles. We both noticed it. We’ll just never be seen together from now on. I’ll make out like you’re dead in the rapids yonder. You be Whitey Hope—I’ll be Whitey Hope. Deliver your letter to Cousins if you want. Do any damned thing—but do it fast. We’ll keep in touch at the Dunning place—”
“It might work.” Montana lifted his pony with the rowels. “It’s worth trying—But if anything happens to you, Whitey, I’ll feel like a coward the rest of my life. Get the boy lined up and meet me at the Dunning place as quick as you can.”
“Ride, jasper,” Whitey grinned after him as he disappeared over the river bluff, then whirled his horse to face the oncoming riders, who presently came up over a hogback and galloped down upon him. “I framed you with the flip of that coin, but I haven’t a thing to lose. And I’d just as leave crack down on Tremaine or Kent now as any time. It’s bound to come sooner or later.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
HIDING FROM THE LAW
Montana had been gone but a short time when the horsemen, ten in number, galloped close enough for Whitey to recognize them. In the lead of the party rode Kent, his long legs stiff as rails, his huge body braced against the cantle of his saddle. Beside him loped Smokey Tremaine, standing in his stirrups to ease the bandaged arm from the jolting motion of his horse.
Then came the sheriff, sight of whom set Whitey’s nerves to strumming, although he could not suppress a chuckle at thought of the manner in which he had tricked Montana into making his timely getaway. Behind the officer were several others whom he knew to be Diamond A punchers—and two T6 men. Came to him a flash of wonder at the presence of the latter, especially in view of what Montana had told him of Hartzell’s proffered friendship. Yet he had no time to ponder the thing.
“Oh, it’s you, is it?” Kent snarled, pulling rein in front of the youth.
Whitey met his glare fearlessly and with no outward show of emotion.
“Who did you think it was?” he asked impudently. “The King of England?”
“None of your lip, jasper,” Kent Hared. “We thought you were that Buzzard killer, Montana. We’ve come to have a showdown with him. Where is he?”
Whitey sized up the crowd with cool speculation.
“Montana?” he repeated in perplexity. “What do you want him for?”
“Lots of things,” Kent growled. “Chief among them being for the murder of Kirk Masterson!”
“For the murder of Masterson?” Whitey gasped.
“Montana killed Masterson last night in the Midway saloon,” Kent bawled. “Shot him down in cold blood. There were three shots fired. Tremaine shot once—at Montana and missed. Montana fired the other two shots. One at Smokey and one at Masterson.”
“He must be powerful quick on the trigger to shoot twice while two-gun Tremaine yonder is unlimbering and only shooting once,” Whitey observed sarcastically. “And by the looks of that arm Smokey is toting in a sling, Montana must be even better at scoring a bull’s-eye than he is fast.” He ignored the ugly glance Tremaine cast him, his mind busy pondering the full import of Kent’s accusation. That Montana, his new-found friend, who to him had appeared so wholesome and trustworthy, could have killed his employer seemed the height of improbability. Yet—Instantly he hated himself for even thinking of such a thing. No matter what they said, Montana was innocent.
“Of course, they held an inquest. The coroner looked at Montana’s gun, didn’t he?” Whitey inquired lazily.
“Sure,” Kent snorted. “And if the damned fool coroner had of had any sense he’d of arrested Montana then and there because there were two exploded cartridges in his gun. This county is going to have a new coroner on the strength of this deal, you can bet your sweet life. But we haven’t time to sit here auguring all day. I can see by the way you are stalling that you’ve seen Montana. You tell us where he is or we’ll take you for aiding and abetting.”
Although Whitey made no reply his mind was working swiftly. He shot a glance at Kent. Then his gaze flew to Tremaine. But if the waiting men thought by the slight surge of color into his cheeks that he was on the point of revealing Montana’s whereabouts they quickly realized their mistake. For a cold hard light glinted in his eyes as they centered on Tremaine.
“A few other things have come up since you jaspers played poker for the Buzzard stuff,” Whitey said slowly. “And I reckon—”
“That proves you’ve seen him,” Kent bawled. “That killer told you that—”
“And I reckon as long as you accuse him of killing Masterson you might just as well blame him for those other things, too,” Whitey went on, ignoring the interruption. “The burning of the Buzzard camp, for instance.” He had the satisfaction of seeing Kent start guiltily. “Considering all the hell your Thunder Basin gang has raised with the Buzzard it strikes me that it was one of you, not Montana who plugged Masterson. What did you take a sneak for? Where did you go after the killing?” he fired point-blank at Tremaine. “How does it come you weren’t held for the inquest?”
“None of your damned business.” The Diamond A foreman’s lips curled scornfully.
“Well, I’ll make it some,” Whitey said with maddening calm. “It won’t do you any good to get tough with me, Tremaine. I’ve showed you time and again that you can’t buffalo me. And when your gang accuses Montana of killing Masterson you’re barking up the wrong tree. You’ve got two forty-fives. Did you show them both?”
“He didn’t have to,” the sheriff chipped in. “Tremaine only shot with one gun—the left. He showed me the exploded cartridge.”
“Why didn’t you make him show you his right gun?” Whitey persisted. “He’s a two-gun man—or claims to be.”
“I’ll run my own business,” the sheriff blazed. “Right now we’re after that Montana. We know you’ve seen him. And you better be telling where he is. I’ve got all his men in jail.”
“All his men in jail?” Whitey blurted out. “What for?”
“For driving the Buzzard herd into the Diamond A last night and stampeding our stuff, that’s what for,” Kent answered. “We’ll show this damned—” He broke off to give vent to a violent oath as his gaze chanced to fall on one of the dead steers. “And you’ve killed Diamond A critters to boot! I’ll—”
“You’ll choke to death if you don’t quit bellering,” Whitey cautioned dryly.
“You—You—” Kent ranted. “You’ll go to jail. Where is Montana? Quick!” He started for his gun. Before he could jerk it from its holster Whitey had the crew covered and was backing his horse away.
“Not so fast,” the youth warned coolly. “If I go to jail it will be for killing either you, Kent, or that snake-eye, Tremaine. You’ve made life hell for me ever since I hit Elbar. Now it’s going to be my turn for a while.” His eyes were blazing, his finger trembling on the trigger.
“You’re so dead anxious for a showdown, Kent, let’s have one, now. When you say our men stampeded your Diamond A’s you’re a liar. It was just the other way around. You stampeded our stuff. Did it deliberately, just like Tremaine bragged he would when he warned me yesterday not to sell the Buzzard a spear of hay. If we had any officers in this county instead of cowardly snakes”—he shot a withering glance at the sheriff, who bristled with indignation—“they’d have sent you and Tremaine over the road long ago. But you’ve got this jasper, who calls himself a sheriff, buffaloed so hard he’ll eat out of your hand. If anybody but you had accused Montana of killing Masterson I might have listened. But damn you, Kent, you or Smokey Tremaine did that killing and you know you did. You framed the inquest to make a getaway. And you’ve fra
med this sheriff.”
He paused for a breath, a deadly terrible light in his eyes.
“You’re damned right we killed Diamond A’s—Because they were leading the stampede. And the only regret I have is that we didn’t kill more of them. But you’ve evened things up a-plenty. Burned our camp and arrested our men when we needed them the worst. And these Diamond A’s we downed won’t anywhere near pay for the Buzzards you ran into the river, you dirty—”
“I’ve heard all I’m going to,” Kent thundered. “You can’t say those things to me. You killed my critters and you’re going to pay for it. You mixed herds on purpose to do it. Round up those cattle, sheriff. There are Diamond A’s among them. And there are dead Diamond A’s here too—shot for spite. We’ve got to stop this kind of business. The law is on our side. I’ll attach this herd of Buzzards to pay for the stuff I’ve lost.”
“Why don’t you let the feller who won them in that poker game at Elbar take them?” Whitey taunted. “As long as you have made your brags about them being blackballed why don’t you buy them from your lousy Stock Association for eight dollars a head like you offered Masterson? Don’t go to planning to attach these critters, Kent, when you’ve already figured every other way you can to get them without rustling. But let me tell you that’s the only way you or your Stock Association ever will get them—rustle them. I’m working for the Buzzard spread; and I’d like to see any Diamond A jasper who ever lived, or any four-flushing sheriff either, try and take one of them. Stay back, sheriff!” he warned, making a gesture with his forty-five as the officer roweled forward, his face contorted with fury. “I’m not in a mind to kill an officer of the law—but I will if I have to, to protect this herd.”
“We haven’t any scrap with you, Whitey,” Smokey put in craftily. “Put up your gun. It’s Montana we want. I tell you he killed Masterson.”
“You’re a dirty liar, Tremaine,” Whitey said between clenched teeth. “You never saw the day you could tell the truth—about anything. Like hell I’ll stash my gun, you back-shooting lobo. You or King Kent killed Masterson. You and King Kent blackballed the Buzzard, framed the inquest, and bought off this sheriff. You and King Kent fired those wagons and had our men arrested. You and King Kent mixed those Diamond A’s into our herd and stampeded them. You and King Kent ribbed up that poker game for our stuff to buffalo poor old Masterson, thinking you could scare him off. Now, damn you, if you aren’t both yeller clean to your socks, let’s see you even look like you want to take a single Buzzard critter!”
“You’re under arrest,” the sheriff bellowed. “You can’t bluff us with big talk like that. Where’s Montana? Spill your guts, jasper.”
Prey to a consuming rage which, now that it finally had burst its bounds, was sweeping him on recklessly and blinding him to reason, Whitey was on the point of blurting out the truth and defying them in their attempts to capture his friend.
“Montana is dead!” he found himself announcing sadly.
“Dead?” the group echoed incredulously. “How?”
“When your Diamond A’s stampeded the Buzzards, Montana tried to mill them.” Whitey blinked back an imaginary tear. “His horse fell over the cliff yonder in the dark. The poor devil went into the rapids during the high water. I’ve looked since daylight—but I don’t reckon we’ll ever find a trace of his body.”
“Damned good riddance,” Tremaine snarled. “Just saves us the trouble of swinging him. And you,” he hurled at Whitey, “you’d better back down while you’re all together. I’ve kept my mouth shut so far. But the sheriff says you’re under arrest. And you are.”
With a quick movement that brought a twinge of pain he shifted his crippled arm. One gloved hand swooped down, up. But the forty-five gripped in his fingers never spoke. For at that instant Whitey Hope fired. With a hoarse bawl Tremaine’s horse dropped, pinning its hapless rider’s leg beneath it.
Pandemonium broke loose. Curses, snorts, shouts rent the air. But no man attempted to go for his gun. Whitey sat his mount calmly surveying the crew.
“I’m riding, jaspers,” he announced. “Riding away and deserting this herd because I can’t hold it against such odds. They’re scattered from hell to breakfast, just like you figured. But mark my words—don’t touch a one of them, because I’ll get three Diamond A’s for every missing Buzzard and my meat supply to boot!”
“Five hundred, dollars to the feller who plugs him!” Kent cried. “From this day on you’re a hunted man, Hope—a fugitive with a price on your head. You could have been one of us; now it’s too late. You threw in with that Montana. And it’s a lucky break for him that his horse saved us the trouble of stringing him up.”
“I’d rather be a fugitive than one of your gang any day,” Whitey threw back. “If Montana hadn’t died he’d have made Thunder Basin a living hell for you. But he’s gone, so it’s up to me. And remember, Kent—three Diamond A’s for every missing Buzzard and my meat supply to boot! You’ve put a price on my head. But before anybody collects it there’ll be a bullet through yours. And yours,” he spat at Tremaine, still stretched on the ground beside his struggling horse. “I’m going now. Don’t try to follow me, because I’m itching to get the first one of you who bats an eye.”
He started his horse backing away, his gun sweeping the thoroughly cowed crew. And he timed his escape well. Barely from range, Tremaine began bellowing for help. The punchers dismounted to ear down the horse and aid the cursing Smokey. Whitey wheeled his pony, gave it the rowels and raced into the brakes of Tongue River.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
BAITING A TRAP
Days lengthened into weeks, weeks into months. Thunder Basin took on the garb of fall; endless buff prairies, graying sage, multi-colored splashes where the frost of crisply cold nights had touched the quivering leaves of aspens at the water holes. Came Indian summer to cast its lazy, hazy spell over the region, distorting the hogbacks, veiling the distant box buttes and turning the horizons into floating, undulating seas of pearl.
Then, almost overnight, came winter, bitter, savage winter that lashed the country with Arctic fury. Freezing winds stripped the rustling leaves from the cottonwoods, screaming on to leave them gnarled and barren and lifeless things, standing lonely vigil along the washes and ravines. Blizzards snarled and tore across the flats, driving half-frozen cattle to shelter in coulees and beneath cutbanks.
March blew itself out in a burst of withering cold, leaving behind a world banked high with drifts of snow that defied the onslaughts of the rains of a raw and furious April. The illimitable sweep of prairie was a dull white expanse, its surface level, unbroken save for jutting rocks or the frost-nipped helms of greasewood and sage. A cold, rain-laden wind howled day and night, crusting the humped backs of the half-starved cattle with ice, driving them deeper into the shelter of the brakes where they huddled, spent and shivering, or, with the optimism of range stock, pawed the snow hopefully for a stray morsel of frozen, matted grass. The bony hand of death hovered above Thunder Basin, dotting the dreary wastes with carcasses and tightening across staring ribs the hides of the fittest of the brutes that managed to survive the fury of the elements.
April, too, dragged to a sullen, soggy end, taking with it the last spear of hay, which even while it had lasted, had proved utterly inadequate to satisfy the pitifully few animals lucky enough to come within range of the frost-rimmed eyes of the line riders.
Then, in a dying gasp, the wind cleared the sky of clouds and howled its own requiem. A blistering sun burst forth to start rivulets of melted snow down the hogbacks, fill the water holes to overflowing and send Tongue River on a rampage. Harassed cattlemen heaved sighs of relief and abandoned their pitchforks for skinning knives and throw ropes to begin scouting the bog-holes that claimed a heavy toll among the cattle, which, once in their treacherous mire, had not the strength to help themselves. The prairie carpet changed from white to green. The wind came back
to howl and whine. But now it was slow and hot and spicy with the tang of blistered sage and fennel.
Ranchers, who, but a scant month before had cursed the snow and cold, now eyed the tumbleweeds rolling lazily across the flats with worry-wrinkled brows. The whirlwinds that spun about like miniature tornadoes filled them with apprehension.
June came. The heat grew stifling. The sun glared down brassily to cure the greening grass. Again the prairie carpet changed its hue. But now it was buff; the vegetation on its vast expanse seared and withered. The whining winds became like sickening breath from the mouth of a blast furnace. Great, ugly fissures were opened in the gumbo by the sun that sucked the moisture from the water holes, leaving them but tepid, brackish pools infested with vermin. Flies and gnats swarmed in clouds against the flaming heavens. Range stock milled frantically to escape the merciless heat and the endless pests that buzzed at their heads and heels or lay in sheets along their necks. Summer, it seemed, had set out to prove itself mightier than winter, the lingering death it wrought through drought more terrible than the ravages of snow and cold.
And if the terrific heat had turned Thunder Basin into an inferno it had done but half of what it had accomplished in the village of Elbar. The big supply wagons no longer rumbled in from the ranches to load back with provisions. Business was stagnant. The town was in a torpor. Scarcely a soul ventured onto its streets during the broiling days. A few cattlemen, who could spare the time, or who already had seen their herds wiped out, passed idle hours within the saloons.
From that night when Montana had ridden out of Elbar, after having made arrangements for returning Pop Masterson’s body to Omaha for burial, nothing had been heard of him. That he had died in the turbulent waters of Tongue River, along with the scores of Buzzard cattle, everyone now accepted as a fact.
The boy, Clem White, had disappeared from Elbar as mysteriously as had Montana himself. Sally Hope also had gone. Some said the boy had gone with her while she finished her nursing course in Omaha. No one knew for certain. Whitey had seen to that. No one cared save possibly Tremaine, who made no secret of his fondness for the pretty sister of Whitey Hope and who, in his periodic drunken sprees, had boasted of his intention to marry her.
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