The Range Boss

by Seltzer, Charles Alden

  Presently he began to ride with more caution, for he wanted to surprise Hagar. A quarter of a mile from the cabin he brought Patches to a halt on a little knoll and looked about him. He had a good view of the cabin in the clearing, and he watched it long, for signs of life. He saw no such signs.

  “Abe’s out putterin’ around, an’ Hagar’s nappin’, I reckon—or tryin’ on her new dresses,” he added as an after-thought.

  He was about to ride on, when a sound reached his ears, and he drew the reins tight on Patches and sat rigid, alert, listening.

  The perfect silence of the timber was unbroken. He had almost decided that his ears had played him a trick when the sound came again, nearer than before—the sound of voices. Quickly and accurately he determined from which direction they came, and he faced that way, watching a narrow path that led through the timber to a grass plot not over a hundred feet from him, from which he was screened by some thick-growing brush at his side.

  He grinned, fully expecting to see Abe and Hagar on the path presently. “Abe’s behavin’ today,” he told himself as he waited. “I’ll sure surprise them, if—”

  Suddenly he drew his breath sharply, his teeth came together viciously, and his brows drew to a frown, his eyes gleaming coldly underneath. For he saw Willard Masten coming along the path, smiling and talking, and beside him, his arm around her waist, also smiling, but with her head bent forward a little, was Hagar Catherson.

  The color slowly left Randerson’s face as he watched. He had no nice scruples about eavesdropping at this moment—here was no time for manners; the cold, contemptuous rage that fought within him was too deep and gripping to permit of any thought that would not center about the two figures on the path. He watched them, screened by the brush, with the deadly concentration of newly aroused murder-lust. Once, as he saw them halt at the edge of the grass plot, and he observed Masten draw Hagar close to him and kiss her, his right hand dropped to the butt of his pistol at his right hip, and he fingered it uncertainly. He drew the hand away at last, though, with a bitter, twisting smile.

  Five minutes later, his face still stony and expressionless, he dismounted lightly and with infinite care and caution led Patches away from the knoll and far back into the timber. When he was certain there was no chance of his being seen or heard by Masten and Hagar, he mounted, urged Patches forward and made a wide detour which brought him at length to the path which had been followed by Masten and Hagar in reaching the grass plot. He loped the pony along this path, and presently he came upon them—Hagar standing directly in the path, watching him, red with embarrassment which she was trying hard to conceal; Masten standing on the grass plot near her, staring into the timber opposite; Randerson, trying to appear unconcerned and making a failure of it.

  “It’s Rex!” ejaculated the girl. Her hands had been clasped in front of her; they dropped to her sides when she saw Randerson, and her fingers began to twist nervously into the edges of her apron. A deep breath, which was almost a sigh of relief, escaped her. “I thought it was Dad!” she said.

  Evidently Masten had likewise expected the horseman to be her father, for at her exclamation he turned swiftly. His gaze met Randerson’s, his shoulders sagged a little, his eyes wavered and shifted from the steady ones that watched him.

  His composure returned quickly, however, and he smiled blandly, but there was a trace of derision in his voice:

  “You’ve strayed off your range, haven’t you, Randerson?” he said smoothly.

  “Why, I reckon I have.” Randerson’s voice was low, almost gentle, and he smiled mildly at Hagar, who blushingly returned it but immediately looked downward.

  “I expect dad must be gone somewhere—that you’re lookin’ for him,” Randerson said. “I thought mebbe I’d ketch him here.”

  “He went to Red Rock this mornin’,” said the girl. She looked up, and this time met Randerson’s gaze with more confidence, for his pretense of casualness had set her fears at rest. “Mr. Masten come over to see him, too.”

  The lie came hesitatingly through her lips. She looked at Masten as though for confirmation, and the latter nodded.

  “Catherson is hard to catch,” he said. “I’ve been over here a number of times, trying to see him.” His voice was a note too high, and Randerson wondered whether, without the evidence of his eyes, he would have suspected Masten. He decided that he would, and his smile was a trifle grim.

  “I reckon Catherson is a regular dodger,” he returned. “He’s always gallivantin’ around the country when somebody wants to see him.” He smiled gently at Hagar, with perhaps just a little pity.

  “It’s getting along in the afternoon, Hagar,” he said. “Dad ought to be amblin’ back here before long.” His face grew grave at the frightened light in her eyes when he continued: “I reckon me an’ Masten better wait for him, so’s he won’t dodge us any more.” He cast a glance around him. “Where’s your cayuse?” he said to Masten.

  “I left him down near the ford,” returned the other.

  “Right on your way back to the Flyin’ W,” said Randerson, as though the discovery pleased him. “I’m goin’ to the Flyin’ W, too, soon as I see Catherson. I reckon, if you two ain’t got no particular yearnin’ to go prowlin’ around in the timber any longer, we’ll all go back to Catherson’s shack an’ wait for him there. Three’ll be company, while it’d be mighty lonesome for one.”

  Masten cleared his throat and looked intently at Randerson’s imperturbable face. Did he know anything? A vague unrest seized Masten. Involuntarily he shivered, and his voice was a little hoarse when he spoke, though he attempted to affect carelessness:

  “I don’t think I will wait for Catherson,” he said, “I can see him tomorrow, just as well.”

  “Well, that’s too bad,” drawled Randerson. “After waitin’ this long, too! But I reckon you’re right; it wouldn’t be no use waitin’. I’ll go too, I reckon. We’ll ride to the Flyin’ W together.”

  “I don’t want to force my company on you, Randerson,” laughed Masten nervously. “Besides, I had thought of taking the river trail—back toward Lazette, you know.”

  Randerson looked at him with a cold smile. “The Lazette trail suits me too,” he said; “we’ll go that way.”

  Masten looked at him again. The smile on Randerson’s face was inscrutable. And now the pallor left Masten’s cheeks and was succeeded by a color that burned. For he now was convinced and frightened. He heard Randerson speaking to Hagar, and so gentle was his voice that it startled him, so great was the contrast between it and the slumbering threat in his eyes and manner:

  “Me an’ Masten is goin’ to make a short cut over to where his horse is, Hagar; we’ve changed our minds about goin’ to the shack with you. We’ve decided that we’re goin’ to talk over that business that he come here about—not botherin’ your dad with it.” His lips straightened at the startled, dreading look that sprang into her eyes. “Dad ain’t goin’ to know, girl,” he assured her gravely. “I’d never tell him. You go back to the shack an’ pitch into your work, sort of forgettin’ that you ever saw Mr. Masten. For he’s goin’ away tonight, an’ he ain’t comin’ back.”

  Hagar covered her face with her hands and sank into the grass beside the path, crying.

  “By God, Randerson!” blustered Masten, “what do you mean? This is going too—”

  A look silenced him—choked the words in his throat, and he turned without protest, at Randerson’s jerk of the head toward the ford, and walked without looking back, Randerson following on Patches.

  When they reached the narrow path that led to the crossing, just before entering the brush Randerson looked back. Hagar was still lying in the grass near the path. A patch of sunlight shone on her, and so clear was the light that Randerson could plainly see the spasmodic movement of her shoulders. His teeth clenched tightly, and the muscles of his face corded as they had done in the Flying W ranchhouse the day that Aunt Martha had told him of Pickett’s attack on Ruth.

/>   He watched silently while Masten got on his horse, and then, still silent, he followed as Masten rode down the path, across the river, through the break in the canyon wall and up the slope that led to the plains above. When they reached a level space in some timber that fringed the river, Masten attempted to urge his horse through it, but was brought to a halt by Randerson’s voice:

  “We’ll get off here, Masten.”

  Masten turned, his face red with wrath.

  “Look here, Randerson,” he bellowed; “this ridiculous nonsense has gone far enough. I know, now, that you were spying on us. I don’t know why, unless you’d selected the girl yourself—”

  “That’s ag’in you too,” interrupted Randerson coldly. “You’re goin’ to pay.”

  “You’re making a lot of fuss about the girl,” sneered Masten. “A man—”

  “You’re a heap careless with words that you don’t know the meanin’ of,” said Randerson. “We don’t raise men out here that do things like you do. An’ I expect you’re one in a million. They all can’t be like you, back East; if they was, the East would go to hell plenty rapid. Get off your horse!”

  Masten demurred, and Randerson’s big pistol leaped into his hand. His voice came at the same instant, intense and vibrant:

  “It don’t make no difference to me how you get off!”

  He watched Masten get down, and then he slid to the ground himself, the pistol still in hand, and faced Masten, with only three or four feet of space separating them.

  Masten had been watching him with wide, fearing eyes, and at the menace of his face when he dismounted Masten shrank back a step.

  “Good Heavens, man, do you mean to shoot me?” he said, the words faltering and scarcely audible.

  “I reckon shootin’ would be too good for you.” Again Randerson’s face had taken on that peculiar stony expression. Inexorable purpose was written on it; what he was to do he was in no hurry to be about, but it would be done in good time.

  “I ain’t never claimed to be no angel,” he said. “I reckon I’m about the average, an’ I’ve fell before temptation same as other men. But I’ve drawed the line where you’ve busted over it. Mebbe if it was some other girl, I wouldn’t feel it like I do about Hagar. But when I tell you that I’ve knowed that girl for about five years, an’ that there wasn’t a mean thought in her head until you brought your dirty carcass to her father’s shack, an’ that to me she’s a kid in spite of her long dresses and her newfangled furbelows, you’ll understand a heap about how I feel right now. Get your paws up, for I’m goin’ to thrash you so bad that your own mother won’t know you—if she’s so misfortunate as to be alive to look at you! After that, you’re goin’ to hit the breeze out of this country, an’ if I ever lay eyes on you ag’in I’ll go gunnin’ for you!”

  While he had been speaking he had holstered the pistol, unstrapped his cartridge belt and let guns and belt fall to the ground. Then without warning he drove a fist at Masten’s face.

  The Easterner dodged the blow, evaded him, and danced off, his face alight with a venomous joy. For the dreaded guns were out of Randerson’s reach, he was a fair match for Randerson in weight, though Randerson towered inches above him; he had had considerable experience in boxing at his club in the East, and he had longed for an opportunity to avenge himself for the indignity that had been offered him at Calamity. Besides, he had a suspicion that Ruth’s refusal to marry before the fall round-up had been largely due to a lately discovered liking for the man who was facing him.

  “I fancy you’ll have your work cut out for you, you damned meddler!” he sneered as he went in swiftly, with a right and left, aimed at Randerson’s face.

  The blows landed, but seemingly had no effect, for Randerson merely gritted his teeth and pressed forward. In his mind was a picture of a girl whom he had “dawdled” on his knee—a “kid” that he had played with, as a brother might have played with a younger sister.

  * * *

  CHAPTER XII

  THE RUSTLERS

  At about the time Randerson was crossing the river near the point where the path leading to Catherson’s shack joined the Lazette trail, Ruth Harkness was loping her pony rapidly toward him. They passed each other within a mile, but both were unconscious of this fact, for Randerson was riding in the section of timber that he had entered immediately after crossing the river, and Ruth was concealed from his view by a stretch of intervening brush and trees.

  Ruth had been worried more than she would have been willing to admit, over the presence of Chavis and his two men in the vicinity, and that morning after she had questioned a puncher about the former Flying W foreman, she had determined to ride down the river for the purpose of making a long distance observation of the “shack” the puncher and Randerson had mentioned as being inhabited by Chavis. That determination had not been acted upon until after dinner, however, and it was nearly two o’clock when she reached the ford where she had passed Randerson.

  The puncher had told her that Chavis’ shack was about fifteen miles distant from the Flying W ranchhouse, and situated in a little basin near the river, which could be approached only by riding down a rock-strewn and dangerous declivity. She had no intention of risking the descent; she merely wanted to view the place from afar, and she judged that from the edge of a plateau, which the puncher had described to her, she would be able to see very well.

  When she passed the ford near the Lazette trail, she felt a sudden qualm of misgiving, for she had never ridden quite that far alone—the ford was about ten miles from the ranchhouse—but she smiled at the sensation, conquering it, and continued on her way, absorbed in the panoramic view of the landscape.

  At a distance of perhaps a mile beyond the ford she halted the pony on the crest of a low hill and looked about her. The country at this point was broken and rocky; there was much sand; the line of hills, of which the one on which her pony stood was a part, were barren and uninviting. There was much cactus. She made a grimace of abhorrence at a clump that grew near her in an arid stretch, and then looked beyond it at a stretch of green. Far away on a gentle slope she saw some cattle, and looking longer, she observed a man on a horse. One of the Flying W men, of course, she assured herself, and felt more secure.

  She rode on again, following a ridge, the pony stepping gingerly. Another half mile and she urged the pony down into a slight depression where the footing was better. The animal made good progress here, and after a while they struck a level, splotched with dry bunch-grass, which rustled noisily under the tread of the pony’s hoofs.

  It was exhilarating here, for presently the level became a slope, and the slope merged into another level which paralleled the buttes along the river, and she could see for miles on the other side of the stream, a vista of plain and hills and mountains and forest so alluring in its virgin wildness; so vast, big, and silent a section that it awed her.

  When she saw the sun swimming just above the peaks of some mountains in the dim distance, she began to have some doubts of the wisdom of making the trip, but she pressed on, promising herself that she would have a brief look at the shack and the basin, and then immediately return. She had expected to make much better time than she had made. Also, she had not anticipated that a fifteen-mile ride would tire her so. But she believed that it was not the ride so far, but the prospect of another fifteen-mile ride to return, that appalled her—for she had ridden much since her coming to the Flying W, and was rather hardened to it. In one of his letters to her, her uncle had stated that his men often rode sixty miles in a day, and that he remembered one ride of ninety miles, which a cowpuncher had made with the same pony in twenty-two hours of straight riding. He had told her that the tough little plains pony could go any distance that its rider was able to “fork” it. She believed that, for the little animal under her had never looked tired when she had ridden him to the ranchhouse at the end of a hard day.

  But these recollections did not console her, and she urged the pony on, into a gallop that
took her over the ground rapidly.

  At last, as she was swept around a bend in the plateau, she saw spreading beneath her a little valley, green-carpeted, beautiful. A wood rose near the river, and at its edge she saw what she had come to see—Chavis’ shack.

  And now she realized that for all the knowledge that a look at Chavis’ shack would give her, she might as well have stayed at the Flying W. She didn’t know just what she had expected to see when she got here, but what she did see was merely the building, a small affair with a flat roof, the spreading valley itself, and several steers grazing in it.

  There were no other signs of life. She got off the pony and walked to the edge of the plateau, discovering that the valley was much shallower than she thought it would be, and that at her side, to the left, was the declivity that the puncher had told her about. She leaned over the edge and looked at it.

  It was not so steep as she had expected when listening to the puncher’s description of it. But she thought it looked dangerous. At the point from which she viewed it, it was not more than fifteen or twenty feet below her. It cut into the plateau, running far back and doubling around toward her, and the stretch below her, that was within range of her eyes, was almost level. The wall of the cut on which she stood was ragged and uneven, with some scraggly brush thrusting out between the crevices of rocks, and about ten feet down was a flat rock, like a ledge, that projected several feet out over the level below.

  She was about to turn, for she had seen all she cared to see, when an impulse of curiosity urged her to crane her neck to attempt to peer around a shoulder of the cut where it doubled back. She started and turned pale, not so much from fright as with surprise, for she saw a horse’s head projecting around the shoulder of the cut, and the animal was looking directly at her. As she drew back, her breath coming fast, the animal whinnied gently.