The Range Boss

by Seltzer, Charles Alden

  “Are you always right?”

  “Bless you, ma’am, no. I’m scarcely ever right. I’ll get to believin’ a thing, an’ then along will come somethin’ else, an’ I’ll have to start all over again. Or, I’ll talk to somebody, an’ find that they’ve got a better way of lookin’ at a thing. I reckon that’s natural.”

  They did not go out to shoot again. Instead, they went out on the porch, and there, sitting in the shade, they talked until the sun began to swim low in the sky.

  At last he got up, grinning.

  “I’ve done a heap of loafin’ today, ma’am. But I’ve certainly enjoyed myself, talkin’ to you. But if you ain’t goin’ to try to hit the target any more, I reckon I’ll be ridin’ back to the outfit.”

  She got up, too, and held out her hand to him. “Thank you,” she said. “You have made the day very short for me. It would have been lonesome here, without aunt and uncle.”

  “I saw them goin’,” he informed her.

  “And,” she continued, smiling, “I am going to ask you to come again, very soon, to teach me more about shooting.”

  “Any time, ma’am.” He still held her hand. And now he looked at it with a blush, and dropped it gently. Her face reddened a little too, for now she realized that he had held her hand for quite a while, and she had made no motion to withdraw it. Their eyes met eloquently. The gaze held for an instant, and then both laughed, as though each had seen something in the eyes of the other that had been concealed until this moment. Then Ruth’s drooped. Randerson smiled and stepped off the porch to get his pony.

  A little later, after waving his hand to Ruth from a distance, he rode away, his mind active, joy in his heart.

  “You’re a knowin’ horse, Patches,” he said confidentially to the pony. “If you are, what do you reckon made her ask so many questions?” He gulped over a thought that came to him.

  “She was shootin’ at the target, Patches,” he mused. “But do you reckon she was aimin’ at me?”

  * * *

  CHAPTER XVIII

  THE GUNFIGHTER

  Red Owen, foreman of the Flying W in place of Tom Chavis, resigned, was stretched out on his blanket, his head propped up with an arm, looking at the lazy, licking flames of the campfire. He was whispering to Bud Taylor, named by Randerson to do duty as straw boss in place of the departed Pickett, and he was referring to a new man of the outfit who had been hired by Randerson about two weeks before because the work seemed to require the services of another man, and he had been the only applicant.

  The new man was reclining on the other side of the fire, smoking, paying no attention to any of the others around him. He was listening, though, to the talk, with a sort of detached interest, a half smile on his face, as though his interest were that of scornful amusement.

  He was of medium height, slender, dark. He was taciturn to the point of monosyllabic conversation, and the perpetual, smiling sneer on his face had gotten on Red Owen’s nerves.

  “Since he’s joined the outfit, he’s opened his yap about three times a day—usual at grub time, when if a man loosens up at all, he’ll loosen up then,” Red told Taylor, glaring his disapproval. “I’ve got an idea that I’ve seen the cuss somewheres before, but I ain’t able to place him.”

  “His mug looks like he was soured on the world—especial himself. If I had a twistin’ upper lip like that, I’d sure plant some whiskers on it. A mustache, now, would hide a lot of the hyena in him.”

  Owen stared meditatively at the new man through the flames. “Yes,” he said expressionlessly, “a mustache would make him look a whole lot different.” He was straining his mental faculties in an effort to remember a man of his acquaintance who possessed a lower lip like that of the man opposite him, eyes with the same expression in them, and a nose that was similar. He did not succeed, for memory was laggard, or his imagination was playing him a trick. He had worried over the man’s face since the first time he had seen it.

  He heaved a deep breath now, and looked perplexedly into the flames. “It’s like a word that gits onto the end of your tongue when your brain-box ain’t got sense enough to shuck it out,” he remarked, lowly. “But I’ll git it, some time—if I don’t go loco frettin’ about it.”

  “What you figger on gettin’—a new job?” asked Taylor, who had been sinking into a nap.

  “Snakes!” sneered Owen.

  “Thank yu’, I don’t want ’em,” grinned Taylor with ineffable gentleness, as he again closed his eyes.

  Owen surveyed him with cold scorn. Owen’s temper, because of his inability to make his memory do his bidding, was sadly out of order. He had been longing for days to make the new man talk, that he might be enabled to sharpen his memory on the man’s words.

  He studied the man again. He had been studying him all day, while he and some more of the men had worked the cattle out of some timber near the foothills, to the edge of the basin—where they were now camped. But the face was still elusive. If he could only get the man to talking, to watch the working of that lower lip!

  His glance roved around the fire. Seven men, besides the cook—asleep under the wagon—and Randerson, were lying around the fire in positions similar to his own. Randerson, the one exception, was seated on the edge of the chuck box, its canvas cover pushed aside, one leg dangling, his elbow resting on the other.

  Randerson had been rather silent for the past few days—since he had ridden in to the ranchhouse, and he had been silent tonight, gazing thoughtfully at the fire. Owen’s gaze finally centered on the range boss. It rested there for a time, and then roved to the face of the new man—Dorgan, he called himself. Owen started, and his chin went forward, his lips straightening. For he saw Dorgan watching Randerson with a bitter sneer on his lips, his eyes glittering coldly and balefully!

  Evil intent was written largely here—evil intent without apparent reason for it. For the man was a stranger here; Randerson had done nothing—to Owen’s knowledge—to earn Dorgan’s enmity; Randerson did not deliberately make enemies. Owen wondered if Dorgan were one of those misguided persons who take offense at a look unknowingly given, or a word, spoken during momentary abstraction.

  Owen had disliked Dorgan before; he hated him now. For Owen had formed a deep attachment for Randerson. There was a determination in his mind to acquaint the range boss with his suspicions concerning Dorgan’s expression, and he got up, after a while, and took a turn around the campfire in the hope of attracting Randerson’s attention.

  Randerson paid no attention to him. But through the corners of his eyes, as he passed Dorgan, Owen noted that the man flashed a quick, speculative glance at him. But Owen’s determination had not lessened. “If he’s suspicious of me, he’s figgerin’ on doin’ some dog’s trick to Wrecks. I’m puttin’ Wrecks wise a few, an’ if Dorgan don’t like it, he c’n go to blazes!”

  He walked to the rear of the chuck box and stood within half a dozen feet of Randerson.

  “Figger we’ve got ’em all out of the timber?” he asked.

  There was no answer from Randerson. He seemed absorbed in contemplation of the fire.

  “W-r-e-c-k-s!” bawled Owen, in a voice that brought every man of the circle upright, to look wildly around. Taylor was on his feet, his hair bristling, the pallor of mingled fear, astonishment, and disgust on his face. Owen grinned sardonically at him. “Lay down an’ turn over, you wall-eyed gorilla!” admonished Owen. He turned his grin on the others. “Can’t a man gas to the boss without all you yaps buttin’ in?” he demanded.

  “What for are you-all a-yowlin’ that-a-way for?” questioned a gentle-voiced Southerner reproachfully. “I was just a-dreamin’ of rakin’ in a big pot in a cyard game. An’ now you’ve done busted it up.” He sank disgustedly to his blanket.

  “He thinks he’s a damned coyote,” said a voice.

  “You’re thinkin’ it’s a yowl,” said another. “But you’ve got him wrong. He’s a jackass, come a-courtin’.”

  “A man can’t get n
o sleep at all, scarcely,” grumbled another.

  But Owen had accomplished his purpose. For during the exchange of amenities Randerson had answered him—without turning, though:

  “What you wantin’, Red?” he said.

  “You figger we’ve got ’em all out of the timber?” repeated Owen.

  “Shucks.” Randerson’s voice was rich with mirth. “Why, I reckon. Unless you was figgerin’ to use a fine-toothed comb. Why, the boys was all a-nappin’, Red,” he added gently.

  He did not look around, so that Owen might give him the warning wink that would have put him on his guard. Owen would have tapped him on the shoulder, but glancing sidelong, he saw Dorgan watching him, and he did not. A ripple of scornful laughter greeted Randerson’s reply, and with a sneering glance around, Owen again sought his blanket.

  The reception that had been accorded his effort had made him appear ridiculous, he knew. It would be days before the outfit would cease referring to it.

  He stretched himself out on the blanket, but after a few moments of reflection, he sat up, doggedly. He had been imagining all sorts of dire things that Dorgan might have in mind. He had a presentiment of impending trouble, and so deep was it that his forehead was damp with perspiration.

  Several of the men, disturbed by Owen, had sat up, and were smoking and talking, and when he heard one of the men, named Blair, refer to a gunman, Watt Kelso, who had formerly graced Lazette with his presence, a light leaped into Owen’s eyes, his teeth came together with a snap, his lips formed into straight lines, and he drew a slow, deep breath. For that was the word that had eluded him—Kelso! And Kelso—how plain and simple it seemed to him now—Kelso was Dorgan, sitting opposite him now! Kelso minus his mustache, looking much different than when he had seen him last, but Kelso, just the same—undeniably Kelso!

  So great was Owen’s excitement over this discovery that he was forced to lie down and turn his back to the fire for fear that Kelso might look at him and thus discover that he was recognized.

  As he lay there, his brain yielded to a riot of speculation. What was Kelso doing here? Why had he come, minus the mustache, assuming the name, Dorgan? What meant his glances at Randerson?

  He provided an explanation presently. Memory drew a vivid picture for him. It showed him a saloon in Lazette, some card tables, with men seated around them. Among the men were Kelso and Randerson. Randerson had been a mere youth. Kelso and Randerson were seated opposite each other, at the same table. Kelso had been losing—was in bad temper. He had charged Randerson with cheating. There had been words, and then Kelso had essayed to draw his pistol. There was a scuffle, a shot, and Kelso had been led away with a broken arm, broken by Randerson’s bullet—blaspheming, and shouting threats at Randerson. And now, after years of waiting, Kelso had come to carry out his threats. It was all plain to Owen, now. And with the knowledge, Owen’s excitement abated and he sat up, coldly observant, alert, to watch and listen.

  For, while Owen had been thinking, Blair had continued to talk of Watt Kelso, of his deeds and his personality. And Owen saw that for the first time since joining the outfit, Kelso seemed interested in the talk around him. He was watching Blair with narrowed, glittering eyes, in which Owen could see suspicion. It was as though he were wondering if Blair knew that the man of whom he spoke now was at that minute sitting close to him, listening. But presently, Owen became convinced that Kelso thought not, for the suspicion in the gunman’s eyes changed to cold, secret amusement.

  “Kelso’s pulled his freight from Lazette,” declared Blair, during the course of his talk. “It’s likely he’ll drift somewhere where he ain’t so well known. It got to be pretty hard pickin’ for him around here—folks fight shy of him. But he was sure a killer!”

  Blair paused. “I reckon I might mention a man that he didn’t kill,” said a man who lay near Blair. “An’ he wanted to, mighty bad.”

  “We’re wantin’ to know,” returned Blair. “He must have been a high-grade gun-slinger.”

  The man nodded toward Randerson, who apparently was not listening to this conversation. There was a subdued chuckle from the man, and grunts of admiration or skepticism from the others. Owen’s gaze was fixed on Kelso; he saw the latter’s eyes gleam wickedly. Yes, that was it, Owen saw now; the recollection of his defeat at Randerson’s hands still rankled in the gunman’s mind. Owen saw him glance covertly at Randerson, observed his lips curl.

  One of the other men saw the glance also. Not having the knowledge possessed by Owen, the man guffawed loudly, indicating the gunman.

  “Dorgan ain’t swallerin’ your yarn about Randerson puttin’ a kink in Kelso,” he said to Blair.

  Randerson turned, a mild grin on his face. “You fellows quit your soft-soapin’ about that run-in with Kelso,” he said. “There ain’t any compliments due me. I was pretty lucky to get out of that scrape with a whole hide. They told me Kelso’s gun got snagged when he was tryin’ to draw it.”

  So then, Randerson had been listening, despite his apparent abstraction. And Owen sat rigid when he saw the gunman look coldly at Randerson and clear his throat.

  Plainly, if Kelso had been awaiting an opportunity to take issue with Randerson, it was now!

  “Yes,” he said, “you was mighty lucky.”

  There was a sneer in the words, and malevolence in the twist of his lips as his voice came through them.

  A flat, dead silence followed the speech. Every man held the position in which he had been when the gunman had spoken; nothing but their eyes moved, and these were directed from Randerson to the gunman and back again, questioningly, expectantly. For in the hearts of the men who had been talking until now there had been no thought of discord; they had spoken without rancor. But hostility, cold, premeditated, had been in the new man’s speech.

  Randerson moved his head slightly, and he was looking straight into Kelso’s eyes. Kelso had moved a little; he was now sitting on his saddle, having shifted his position when Blair had begun to talk, and the thumb of his right hand was hooked in his cartridge belt just above the holster of his pistol.

  Randerson’s face was expressionless. Only his eyes, squinted a little, with a queer, hard glint in them, revealed any emotion that might have affected him over Kelso’s words.

  “Yes, Dorgan,” he said gently, “I was mighty lucky.”

  Kelso’s lips curved into a slow, contemptuous smile.

  “I reckon you’ve always been lucky,” he said.

  “Meanin’?”

  “Meanin’ that you’ve fell into a soft place here, that you ain’t fit to fill!”

  Again a silence fell, dread, premonitory. It was plain to every man of the outfit, awake and listening, that Dorgan had a grievance—whether real or imaginary, it made little difference—and that he was determined to force trouble. Only Owen, apparently, knowing the real state of affairs, knew that the reference to Randerson’s inefficiency was a mere pretext. But that violence, open, deadly, was imminent, foreshadowed by Dorgan’s word, every man knew, and all sat tense and pale, awaiting Randerson’s reply.

  They knew, these men, that it was not Randerson’s way to force trouble—that he would avoid it if he could do so without dishonor. But could he avoid it now? The eyes that watched him saw that he meant to try, for a slow, tolerant smile appeared on his lips.

  “I reckon you’re plumb excited—Owen wakin’ you up out of your sleep like he did,” said Randerson. “But,” he added, the smile chilling a little, “I ain’t askin’ no man to work for me, if he ain’t satisfied. You can draw your time tomorrow, if it don’t suit you here.”

  “I’m drawin’ it now!” sneered the gunman. “I ain’t workin’ for no pussy-kitten specimen which spends his time gallivantin’ around the country with a girl, makin’ believe he’s bossin’, when—” Here he added something that made the outfit gasp and stiffen.

  As he neared the conclusion of the speech, his right hand fell to his gun-holster. Owen had been watching him, and at the beginning of the mov
ement he shouted a warning:

  “Look out, Wrecks!”

  He had been afraid to tell Randerson that it was Kelso who was facing him, for fear that the information, bursting upon Randerson quickly, would disconcert him.

  But Randerson had been watching, understanding the drift of the gunman’s words. And when he saw the shoulder of his gun-arm move, his own right hand dropped, surely, swiftly. Kelso’s gun had snagged in its holster years before. It came freely enough now. But its glitter at his side was met by the roar and flame spurt of Randerson’s heavy six, the thumb snap on the hammer telling of the lack of a trigger spring, the position of the weapon indicating that it had not been drawn from its holster.

  Apparently not a man in the outfit had noticed this odd performance, though they had been held with dumb astonishment over the rapidity with which it had been executed. But they saw the red, venomous streak split the night; they heard the gunman’s gurgling gasp of amazement, and they watched, with ashen faces, while he dropped his weapon, sagged oddly forward and tumbled headlong into the sand near the fire. Then several of them sprang forward to drag him back.

  It had seemed that none of the men had noticed that Randerson had seemed to shoot his pistol while it was still in the holster. One, however, had noticed. It was Red Owen. And while the other men were pulling the gunman back from the fire, Owen stepped close to Randerson, lifted the holster, and examined it quickly. He dropped it, with a low exclamation of astonishment.

  “I was wonderin’—Holy smoke! It’s a phony holster, fixed on the gun to look like the real thing! An’ swung from the belt by the trigger guard! Lord, man! Did you know?”

  “That Dorgan was Kelso?” said Randerson, with a cold smile. “I reckon. I knowed him the day he asked for a job. An’ I knowed what he come for—figurin’ on settlin’ that grudge.”