He was startled from his meditation by the entrance of Big Montana.
“That’s the ticket!” the cowboy exclaimed at sight of his open eyes. “Doc said you would come to pronto if we let you rest. How do you feel now, Button?”
“Shaky,” the boy whispered. “Like there wasn’t all of me here. Where are we?”
“At the Diamond A. We’ll stay here until I talk with Cousins. You can rest up. Then we’ll pull out for the Buzzard spread.”
“I’m all right,” Little Montana said, rising up painfully on the edge of the bed. “Did you have any more trouble with Smokey after I—I passed out?”
“No.” Montana sat down beside the boy to stroke his bandaged head tenderly. “Tremaine is sorer than a dog-chewed skunk. He raised such a stink, claiming his horse fell, that they gave him a re-ride, him being champion. But shucks, I bucked into the finals with him dead easy. We ride it off in a month. And, buddy, I’m going to stick around and win those finals. It will give us a crack at the world championship next summer, and we might kind of lope down toward Cheyenne, you and me, and—”
“I sure hope you do skin the life out of him,” Little Montana whispered fiercely. “His horse didn’t fall with him. He threw it off its feet trying to tromp me down.”
“I know it, buddy,” Montana returned. “And I’m plumb sorry for that reason that I didn’t make the fourflusher eat more crow before that crowd. But what do you suppose he did it for?”
“I don’t know,” Little Montana answered. “I figure that he just thinks we are somebody he knows. Either that or he tromped me, aiming to get even with you.”
“Damn him,” Montana growled. “He has got us pegged for somebody else sure as shooting. Even Cousins made a mistake thinking me a jasper from the sheriff’s office. And Kent, the big—”
“Gosh-all-hemlocks, pard, you sloughed that bigmouthed cuss a dirty one,” Little Montana ventured admiringly.
“Yeah,” Montana said dryly. “Between him and Smokey Tremaine we aren’t going to be crowned Queen of the May around this spread, you can just bet the ace. But Cousins is our friend. My ride won the rodeo for him. He’s as tickled as a gaunt hog in green alfalfa. And he sure thinks you’re some pumpkins, Button.”
“And if it hadn’t been for me you could have had Kent and Smokey both for your friends,” Little Montana said bitterly. “It is me who has gotten you into all this trouble. If I hadn’t ever come to that river crossing, you could—”
“I don’t want Kent for my friend,” Montana interrupted sourly. “Nor Smokey either. And as far as you being to blame, shucks, pards stick together no matter who is to blame or what kind of merry hell breaks loose. Forget that line of talk. We’ll—”
“But Montana,” the boy faltered, “I’m scared around here. I guess I haven’t got much guts, but it just seems like I can’t stay here being scared thisaway.”
“What are you scared of?” Montana demanded.
“Of Smokey. And Kent. And I’m scared stiff something will happen to you. I’m just scared of the whole layout but Mister Cousins, I reckon.”
“I hate to pull out,” Montana said, “because that lousy Tremaine will think I’m quitting the flats because of him. But if you are scared you sure don’t have to stay, I can tell you that. I’ll see Cousins tonight after dark. I’ll give him this letter and find out what it says if I can. If it doesn’t tell any more than ours did we’ll pull our freight in the morning. We’ll go where we belong.”
“Where is that?” the boy asked eagerly.
“Our own spread, of course.” The cowboy grinned. “Now if you are feeling better we’ll eat. The cook allowed the beans were spoiling a long spell back. Then you can get to bed here and have a good snooze while I auger with Cousins.”
“There’s another thing that is kind of worrying me, Montana,” the youngster said shyly, lowering his eyes to trace idle patterns on the bed covers.
“That being?”
“Sally.” Clem tried vainly to cover his embarrassment. “She was so good to me in Omaha—and there at the rodeo grounds. And if it hadn’t been for her—”
“Forget her,” Montana cut in sharply. “She was with Smokey Tremaine today.”
“She just happened to be talking to him,” the boy defended. “And she said she liked you awful well.”
“Said she liked me?” Montana stared in utter amazement. “Who’d she say that to?”
“To me, back at the rodeo grounds when I said you was the best pal a little shaver ever had. And she said she wasn’t sore about mistaking you for Whitey and kissing you at the depot that—”
“Never mind what she said,” Montana growled. “Forget the gals, buddy. You’re too young. Besides, pards like us haven’t got any business hooking up with fillies. We’ve got work to do.”
“But she busted Smokey when he was hollering for those hazers to let that horse alone when it was on top of you at the rodeo,” the boy burst out hotly.
“She—busted—Smokey?” Montana demanded. “Well, that’s something in her favor. But right now us Two Montanas had better—”
“I’ve always wanted a sister or something just like her,” the lad said wistfully. “Seems like she’s the prettiest and kindest girl I ever knew. Far as the Two Montanas goes, we could change that to the Three Montanas if Sally would just—”
“Well I’ll be doggoned,” Montana ejaculated, lifting his hat to brush moist hair back from a brow that was knitted thoughtfully. “I believe you’re stuck on Sally Hope. Darn my pictures, Button, you’re too young to be getting moon-eyed over a filly. Just forget her now, and let’s put on the feed bag.”
“I’ll eat, all right,” the boy said wearily, “but I won’t forget Sally no matter what happens, ’cause she was the only woman that was ever nice to me. And you just don’t know how a little shaver like me misses a sister or a mother or—” Montana checked him by helping him to his feet and supporting him toward the door. Once outside Little Montana stood gazing about.
“What’s that big building down yonder?” he asked, pointing to a hay barn of mammoth proportions.
“That is the Thunder Basin dance hall, I understand,” Montana explained. “Folks come from all over the country to dances every week. They are going to have a big shindig down there tonight. Would you like to see it?”
“I sure would,” the boy exclaimed.
“Well, if you feel like it, you can come down there and watch them dance until I get through with Cousins. Then we will roll in and pull our freight the first thing in the morning. How does that strike you?”
“Great!” Little Montana beamed. “Do you suppose Sally will be there?”
Montana shot him a quick, quizzical glance.
“I reckon she’ll be there with bells on. If that will make your evening any happier.”
“It sure would. That is, it would if I wasn’t—”
“Wasn’t what?” the cowboy demanded.
“Wasn’t so danged scared,” the boy blurted out. “But I’m even scared of my shadow up here, it seems like. I hope you won’t be tied up with Cousins too long.”
“I won’t,” Montana assured him. “And you don’t need to be scared, because nothing is going to happen to you. I’m keeping an eye on Smokey Tremaine, and don’t you forget it.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
A KILLER FAILS
The dancing already had begun when the Two Montanas came from the mess shanty. The wail of the fiddle and the chording of a tin-panny piano set to sparkling the eyes of the boy, who, by now, was feeling much better.
“Go on down and watch them,” Big Montana urged. “But be sure and stick close. I don’t know just how long I’ll be.”
“I’ll stick around there all right,” Little Montana cried, starting toward the dance hall. “I’ll find Sally and—”
The rest of his w
ords were lost to Montana. With time weighing on his hands until darkness fell, when he was to meet Cousins, Montana idled about the ranch, which he found to be a miniature village. Its size and well-kept appearance struck him favorably, but thought of what he had been forced to endure at the hands of the Diamond A robbed the place of any attraction it might otherwise have offered.
Through his mind stalked the events of the preceding hours that had crowded down upon him with such amazing rapidity. From these unfortunate incidents his thoughts traveled on to the mystery of Thunder Basin—that the herder had mentioned the day of his arrival and that Cousins had revealed—the phantom rustler gang, and the note of warning that Cousins had received. The more he mulled over the thing the more convinced he became that it was no mystery at all. Rather, he decided, the cow thieves had eluded detection so successfully that the ranchers themselves had made a mystery out of the thing.
The warning, he was satisfied, had been written in a disguised hand. Probably the left, he reasoned. That the rustlers should take such a precaution when, Cousins had told him, no one ever had laid eyes upon them to know them, made the whole affair even more baffling. Presently he dismissed it from his mind. He was no detective. He would tell Cousins so and let him ferret the thing out as best he could. He had plenty of worries of his own without mixing into new ones. Already he had had too much trouble over things that did not concern him. The letters that had brought him into the Basin were his chief concern. They were mystery enough. The hostility of Smokey and Kent; thought of the two set the hot blood of anger to pounding in his veins. He would like to stay, to battle the thing out with them. But somehow, now, his first and only thought was of the lovable youngster, Clem White, who had admitted that he was terrified at the prospect of remaining at the Diamond A.
He broke off his musing, his mind made up. He would deliver the letter from his Uncle Nat to Cousins, find out its contents—if the rancher would reveal them—then he would—He glanced at the sky. Twilight had lowered in a blanket of purple over the mountains. One by one the stars were popping forth. Out of the far dusk came the boom of Piney River, a tributary of the Tongue he had learned, the plaintive wail of a coyote, and shouts and laughter from the dance pavilion. Above the voice of the caller and the scraping of feet he could catch snatches of the music. Somehow it seemed out of place in the vast creation that lay about him.
Waiting but a few minutes longer, he looked about carefully to make sure he was unobserved, then made his way to the barn.
True to his word, Cousins was waiting, a sinister shadow that detached itself from the barn and moved stealthily toward him.
“Let’s get right down to business now,” the rancher said in an undertone. “I gave you a general idea of things today at the grounds. There’s a gang of rustlers working here in the Basin, stealing the Diamond A ragged. We’ve had all kinds of detectives in here. Some of them have disappeared completely. Probably warned, and pulled out. Others have not been able to get head or tail to anything. There isn’t a soul who has ever laid eyes on a rustler; but critters are disappearing just the same.” He paused for breath, staring through the semi-light at Montana’s features, which were expressionless.
Kent and Tremaine flashed instantly to Montana’s mind at Cousins’s revelation. His experience with the two on the roundup had convinced him. But what would they gain by—He would, however, tell Cousins of the affair, if indeed, he did not already know. Then—
“That sure is too bad,” Montana remarked without interest. “It seems a danged shame there isn’t anything you can do about it. But as far as me getting in and getting my feet wet, I just want to tell you right off the bat that I am not—” Still the cowman gave him no chance to finish; no chance to state his position and correct the false impression he had thus far been unable to explain.
“You are my last bet,” Cousins said in a whisper. “I haven’t even taken King nor Smokey into my confidence this time. I’m playing a lone hand. The only thing that stumps me—It’s odd that I didn’t any more than write to Sheriff Crowe asking for another detective when I got that last warning from the gang. What do you make of it?”
Genuinely sorry for the old fellow, whose sincerity he could not question, and who, like a child, seemed to be laying his whole problem before him innocently, more to humor him, draw him out, than for any other reason, Montana asked, “How did you get the warning?” The instant he asked the question he regretted it. It was none of his affair. He had decided not to mix into it. Yet, somehow, he had taken a great liking to this cowman who plainly needed help so badly.
“In the mail.”
“Do you recognize the handwriting?”
“I never saw it before.”
“Have you any suspicion as to who wrote that note?”
“Yes.” The word came almost breathlessly. “After all these years of being robbed I have a damned good idea who is doing it.”
“So have I,” Montana said definitely. “But who do you—” Cousins sidled closer. But what he was about to say was never uttered. A jet of flame stabbed the darkness behind him. The report of a revolver, crashed down upon them. Cousins took a faltering step, pitched headlong into Montana’s arms!
Stunned for an instant by the suddenness of the attack, half blinded by the pencil of light that had come streaking out of the gloom, Montana stood motionless supporting the form of the rancher. Then he laid him down, whipped his forty-five from its holster and flattened himself against the side of the barn. He peered into the darkness, eyes straining, ears alert to every sound, ready on the instant for a movement by the mysterious gunman.
Seconds dragged by. Seconds without breath or motion. But no alien sound broke the vast stillness. Only the roar and boom of the river, the distant hubbub from the dance pavilion. Even above those sounds Montana caught the thin small whisper of a cricket, the croak of a bullfrog. But no sound of moving feet. Apparently Cousins’s assailant had been gone with the shot, his footsteps drowned by the laughter and music from the dance hall that now seemed to rise in a crescendo tumult in his straining ears.
Realizing that the sound of the shot also had been lost in the din, Montana lifted Cousins in his arms and made his way awkwardly to the ranch house. There he quickly summoned the cook and set to work on the unconscious cowman.
A hasty examination showed that the bullet had but creased Cousins’s scalp. While the wound was bleeding profusely, it had done little damage. Even before Montana had cleansed and bandaged it with hot water and rags, supplied by the frightened cook, the rancher opened his eyes.
“Get Kent,” he gasped out. “And Smokey. Then scout around. Don’t tell anybody I’ve been shot. Nor disturb the dance. I’ll be all right as soon as I get my wind.”
Satisfied that the cowman had suffered more from shock and pain than from the wound itself, Montana left him. Making his way outside, he strode down across the yard to the dance hall. A grim and determined Montana who looked neither to the right or left, but whose fingers rested lightly on the butt of his forty-five. At the door of the dance hall he crowded into the jam of perspiring swains and stopped to look around.
“Hammer on a fence post, roll your dough—” His face aflame with the heat, which even darkness had failed to dissipate, a gaudy kerchief tucked in his wilted collar, one booted foot tapping time to the music, the square-dance caller sent his hoarse voice rasping away into the night.
Everyone was gay. The orchestra was playing with an abandon never found beyond the confines of rangeland. Town girls laughed and danced with town men dressed in an extravagant attempt at cowland fashion, or flirted outrageously with the real punchers. The hall was a blaze of color. Suspended coal-oil lamps gleamed on silk gowns that seemed sadly out of place among the bright calicos and ginghams. Slim-waisted, demure little maids balanced shyly on the corners with boisterous punchers, who had sacrificed only their guns for the occasion and who dragged their spinni
ng spurs across the floor with each movement, or who yipped and howled with every change of chord.
At the far end of the hall Montana’s roving gaze came to rest on Sally, almost surrounded by cowboys. In spite of himself, his eagerness to locate Kent and bring him to Cousins’s side, he stared. She was dressed in a simple frock of white that accentuated her willowy slenderness. There was no denying that she was pretty, as Little Montana had said; and, the boy also had said, she liked him, but Montana tore his gaze from her with something of anger. He had no time to frivol away. No doubt with her pretty face—which he could not help but note was even prettier in the shadows cast by the flickering lights—pleasant, compelling with its rapidly changing color—she could attract men. There was something about her. Another time perhaps—Still she was pretty—the prettiest woman he ever had seen. And she had kissed him—unintentionally it was true, but—The memory of that kiss had haunted him. He wished for a moment that he was one of those nearest her, clamoring for a dance.
Off to one side of the girl he sighted Kent. Elbowing his way through the crowd he reached the cowman’s side. After a time he was able to whisper into his ear Cousins’s instruction. Kent whirled on him, anger in his eyes. Then, with a sullen grunt, he moved away toward the entrance.
Montana looked about for Little Montana. But the milling throng was so dense he could not locate him. Satisfied that the youngster was somewhere in the house, he set about in search of Smokey, deciding that when he had located Smokey and told him that Cousins wanted him, he would find the boy and turn in.
But a thorough search of the hall revealed no trace of either Smokey or the youngster. Suddenly prey to a growing apprehension that, for some unknown reason, tightened his nerves, he started about asking if anyone had seen them.
Breaking through the cordon about Sally he approached her with embarrassment.
“Pardon me, Miss Sally,” he essayed. “I was just wondering—” She turned quickly at sound of his voice. A strange light flared into her eyes. Brown eyes, he now noticed abstractedly. Great brown eyes that somehow—And she was smiling at him. A friendly sort of smile that upset him greatly. Far different from when she had left him at the station.
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