First Skyhorse Publishing edition published 2014 by arrangement with Golden West Literary Agency
Copyright © 2010 by Golden West Literary Agency
“Marble Range” first appeared under the title “The Maverick of Marble Range” as a seven-part serial in Street and Smith’s Western Story Magazine (12/10/27-1/21/28). Copyright © 1927, 1928 by Street & Smith Publications, Inc. Copyright © renewed 1955, 1956 by Street & Smith Publications, Inc. Acknowledgment is made to Condé Nast Publications, Inc., for their co-operation. Copyright © 2010 by Golden West Literary Agency for restored material.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.
Cover design by Brian Peterson
Print ISBN: 978-1-62914-378-1
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-63220-042-6
Printed in the United States of America
Chapter One
Spring had flung her mantle of green over Marble range. The trees along the river in the south were in full leaf. The colors lay in broad stripes against the sides of Marble Dome. Cattle by the thousands grazed peacefully in this vast domain. The sun, climbing steadily in the east, shed a golden glory over the land.
Yet all was not serene on the range. Midway between the butte and the river a strange scene was being enacted. A lone rider was coming westward at a fast pace, and some distance behind him several other riders were pushing their horses, evidently in a strenuous effort to overtake him. Now the first rider would spurt and widen the distance between himself and the others; again he would slacken his pace as if to encourage them, only to spurt again and leave them farther behind.
All this was being observed by a man who sat his horse at the edge of the trees some distance ahead of the oncoming horsemen. His face wore a puzzled expression as he watched the drama being enacted before him. He was a middle-aged man, gray at the temples, keen-eyed, who sat his mount with something of a soldierly bearing. At first glance he would give one an impression of suppressed authority. A little exclamation escaped his lips as a puff of smoke drifted above the pursuers. Even as the echo of the gun’s report reached his ears, he saw the man ahead lean low over his horse’s neck and spurt so that it seemed as if the animal flew over the ground. There was no need for more shots for in a twinkling the pursuers were left hopelessly behind.
The man murmured aloud in admiration, drew his gun, and spurred his horse out as the rider approached. The rider saw him immediately and eased his pace. Shortly he came up to the other and drew rein. After a quizzical inspection he spoke: “I wonder what that outfit back there think they’re doing . . . playing a game?”
“It looked to me as if you were playing the game,” was the reply. “And no wonder, with that horse.”
“I was experimenting,” said the stranger. “I wanted to see if they’d fire at me. Well, they did. Now shooting at a man you don’t know who he might be, and shooting at him you don’t know what for is right ornery, uncertain business.”
“They are members of my outfit,” the other observed, noting that this rider was dark, young—about twenty-eight, he surmised—well set up, good-looking, and dressed more or less elegantly and expensively for the range country. Silver shone from his bridle and saddle; the butt plates of his gun were pearl.
“And what outfit is this?” the rider asked.
“This is the Half Diamond M,” was the answer, “commonly called the Half Diamond.”
At this point the pursuing cavalcade arrived, led by a burly, glowering, red-faced individual with a stubble of red beard and small beady eyes of a mean brown.
“What was your play in pullin’ that stunt back there?” he demanded of the stranger. “What you doin’ on this range?”
“I was just taking my morning exercise,” was the tantalizing reply.
“You mean you was runnin’ away because you was sizin’ up the cattle down there,” the leader accused harshly.
At this point the man who had met the stranger broke in. “I’ll attend to this, Hayes,” he said sharply. “Go back up where you belong.”
The man called Hayes frowned darkly, made as if to reply, met the other’s eyes, whirled his horse, and led his men away, leaving a string of curses in his wake.
“Nice amiable disposition,” the stranger observed. “You’d think he’d be better natured on a fresh, spring morning like this, even if he does look like a train robber.”
“That was Big Bill Hayes, foreman of this ranch,” said the other sternly, “and he had a right to ask you what you’re doing on this range. Now I’m asking it.”
The stranger nodded and his eyes narrowed slightly. “What right you got to ask it?” he inquired coolly.
“I’m Henry Manley, manager of this ranch, and who are you?”
“I’m Bannister, manager of this horse.”
“Yes?” Manley was surveying the new arrival closely and was frowning. “That’s a smart answer. As long as you’re on the Half Diamond, I’ve a right to ask you questions, and I want to know where you’re from and what you’re doing here.”
“I don’t aim to be smart,” Bannister drawled. “It’s just the way you ask your questions that I don’t exactly take to. And just because I happen to be here is no reason why I should tell you where I’m from, is it? And I’ve the right to refuse to answer your questions, for that matter, but just to be sociable I’ll answer one of ’em. I’m here because I want to find out the way to the next or nearest town.”
“Well, then, why did you run away from Hayes and his men?”
“I didn’t like the way they came racing down there,” was Bannister’s reply. “They acted plumb hostile. How’d I know but what something had been pulled off around here and I might be mistaken for somebody else? Caution isn’t a bad thing to carry up your sleeve.”
Manley considered this and slowly his frown faded. “You crossed the river at the upper ford, I suppose,” he conjectured.
“I crossed it up by that butte,” said Bannister, pointing toward Marble Dome.
“Are you a cowhand?” Manley asked curiously.
“Well . . .”—Bannister eyed the other speculatively—“I suppose yes,” he conceded. “I was born on the range.”
“You don’t exactly talk like a cowhand,” Manley observed. “And you’re sure and certain not dressed like one. Maybe you’re one of Cromer’s men.”
Bannister shook his head. “I don’t know who Cromer is, and I’m not one of his men. And I had just enough schooling when I was younger to learn how to talk halfway decent, and I’ve kept at it. I’ve got tougher clothes than these in the pack on the back of my saddle.”
Manley appeared impressed. “Maybe you’re looking for a job,” he ventured. “I’ll confess you look capable.”
“I am that,” Bannister agreed.
“Well, we need men on the Half Diamond,” said Manley in a very civil tone. “If you want a job, I’ll give it to you.”
“I can’t take you up this morning,” said Bannister. “You see day after tomorrow is Decoration Day and I just have to be in town on holidays. Sometimes I edge in when it isn’t a holiday. I suppose there’s a town around here somewhere?”
“Twenty miles west,” Manley grumbled. “Come along and I’ll put you on the road.”
They proceeded westward along the river, Bannister looking straight ahead and maintaining a silence that Manley, for some reason he could not determine, did not feel inclined to break. The Half Diamond manager studied him with a puzzled frown on his face. There was something about the man’s personality that stirred his interest. He didn’t believe the holiday story for a minute. He doubted that Bannister was a cowhand, yet he wasn’t sure. He had caught a peculiar flash in the man’s eyes two or three times that belied his age. And he was certainly unacquainted with the country. Why had he flirted with Hayes and his men? Why?
“Would you mind telling me who owns this ranch?” Bannister asked suddenly. “It’s just curiosity on my part.”
“The Half Diamond is owned by Florence Marble,” Manley replied tartly. “This is the famous Marble property. Maybe you’ve heard of it?” He paused, but Bannister shook his head. “Well, it’s the greatest ranch on the north range,” Manley went on, somewhat nettled. “And it’s a mighty good outfit to work for,” he added hopefully. He needed men badly, and, if Bannister knew anything at all about working cattle, he could use him. Anyway, stockmen didn’t usually ask for recommendations when hiring men.
“I reckon so,” was Bannister’s comment.
Manley shrugged. “I was wondering,” he said, “since you got up here rather early and spick-and-span . . . I was wondering where you were last night.”
“I was down at the Macy ranch,” Bannister volunteered. “And old man Macy didn’t ask any questions, either. I just rode in and he said . . . ‘Howdy, stranger. Put up your horse and I’ll tell the cook to slap down an extra plate in the bunkhouse.’ He was plumb hospitable.”
“Oh, Macy’s all right,” said Manley in a patronizing tone. “He’s one of the old school of stockmen. Big place, too. Didn’t he tell you the way to town?”
“Said to ride north and get the road, which is how I got in here,” Bannister replied crisply.
They came to some bottom lands where there were hay fields, then pastures where thoroughbred horses grazed, then grain fields, a garden, and finally a windbreak of towering cottonwoods. Bannister glimpsed some of the ranch buildings through the trees, and by their size and number realized that this was truly a big outfit.
Manley led him around the windbreak, thus avoiding the buildings, and up a road to a high bench. He pointed westward.
“Prairie City is twenty miles west on this road,” he said.
“Fair enough,” said Bannister with a flashing smile. “I’ll push along. Much obliged.”
Manley stared after him both irritated and puzzled. That remark about Macy not asking questions and his hospitality had been a dig at him. Moreover Manley was a man who didn’t like mysteries, and Bannister was a mystery. I bet he’s one of Cromer’s men just the same, he mused as Bannister disappeared in a racing cloud of dust. He turned back toward the ranch buildings.
* * * * *
Two hours later Bannister rode into Prairie City. He walked his horse down the dusty street, looking for the livery. A man in shirt sleeves with a gleaming star on his vest saw him from the doorway of a resort, looked after him, stepped out into the street, and walked after him.
Bannister found the livery behind the hotel, put up his horse, and went into the hotel to engage a room. While he was at the desk, the man of the star strolled in, observing him closely. When Bannister had gone upstairs with the clerk to be shown his room, the deputy stepped quickly to the desk and scanned the name inscribed upon the register.
Then he went out hurriedly.
Chapter Two
Prairie City was the terminus of a branch railroad from the transcontinental line in the south. It was also the county seat and as such was naturally the headquarters of the sheriff. On this noonday, Sheriff Campbell sat in the front office of the jail with a pipe in his mouth, leaning back in his swivel chair with his feet on his desk. Business was slack.
The door opened and the deputy, a large, round-faced man, came in.
“Chief,” he said with some excitement, “a man rode in town just now who is a dead ringer for The Maverick.”
The sheriff was unperturbed. He was a short, stout man who looked like anything but an officer of the law. He removed the pipe from his mouth slowly.
“Van Note,” he drawled, “if I was to follow up all your hunches about men who look like The Maverick, I wouldn’t have time to do anything else. You get a suspect on an average of once a week.”
“But this is the best hunch I’ve had,” Deputy Van Note protested. “He’s got the height, he’s got the build, he’s got the eyes, the cleft in the chin, the dark complexion, and packs a pearl-handled gun.”
“Yes,” drawled Campbell, “and you’ve suspected every man with a pearl-handled gun that’s shown up here in the last two years.”
“I wish you’d take a look at him,” said Van Note desperately. “I bet he’ll start you guessing, anyway. And it’s natural he’d show up here now if he’s planning a job in this section. There’ll be money floating like water here the next few days, for they’re coming in from all directions to celebrate. The bank will be loaded with cash, the safe of every resort in town will be crammed, why, it’s as good a time for a clean-up as the Fourth of July.”
“No doubt,” said the sheriff. “But we’ve had a lot of holidays here and there’s never been a clean-up yet. What’s more, I’m going to swear in half a dozen special deputies or more. I’ll have a man stationed in every place in town where big amounts of cash are handled.”
“All right,” said the deputy, “but I’m going to keep an eye on this fellow who signs himself as Bob Bannister.”
“I’m going over to the hotel to eat,” said Campbell. “Do you suppose he’ll get his dinner there?”
“He’s registered there, so I suppose he will,” Van Note grumbled.
“Then I’ll take a look at him,” the sheriff announced, rising. “I reckon I’ll be able to pick him out.”
It so happened that Bannister did go into the hotel dining room for his dinner. He didn’t for a moment suspect the identity of the short, stout man who sat down at his table and, after ordering, engaged him in casual conversation. He, in turn, made some inquiries—where were the squarest games run, and the like. The sheriff went back to his office with a satisfied look on his face.
“Listen, Van Note,” he said pleasantly. “I sat across from your man at dinner. I talked with him. The fellow is a gambler for he asked me about games and such. Another thing, he talks good. His eyes haven’t got the hard look that the eyes of a man like The Maverick would have. A man who’s a killer and a bandit shows it in his eyes first off. What’s more, he’s neat. Do you think an outlaw like The Maverick would take the trouble to keep his fingernails clean? He doesn’t wear the kind of clothes this Maverick would have on. A man like The Maverick is tough, and he shows it in his look, his talk, his actions, and his clothes. I’ve seen enough of that stamp to know.”
Although the holiday was two days away, Prairie City was already making carnival. Festoons and streamers of bunting were everywhere; flags fluttered in the breeze. The town was rapidly filling with celebrants. Dust spirals on the roads and on the plain signaled the coming of men from the ranches, stockmen with their families in buckboards and spring wagons, cowpunchers on their ponies. Morning and evening incoming trains were crowded. For Prairie City was the only town of any size within a radius of nearly a hundred miles.
Bannister looked the town over in the afternoon and brought up at The Three Feathers, the largest resort in the place. It was a large room with bar, gaming tables, dance floor, and lunch counter combined. It was here that
he chose to try his luck, first at the roulette wheel, and then at stud poker. His winnings were negligible, for he did not indulge in high play. The high play, as he knew, would be in the private rooms in the rear. At midnight he went to the hotel.
As he idled about the lobby, smoking a cigarette before going to bed, a poster on the wall caught his eye. It read:
BUY NOW BEFORE IT IS TOO LATE!
Only a Limited Amount of Stock in the
MARBLE DOME
LAND AND IRRIGATION CO.
Will be offered to the Public
$10.00 a Share at Par.
REMEMBER!
A soon as the stock issue is sold—which will be soon—it is certain to increase in value. A dollar invested NOW in this great enterprise, which means so much to this community, will be worth TWO within six months!
INVEST NOW AND YOU WON’T REPENT!
Send subscriptions to or call at the office of
MARBLE DOME LAND AND IRRIGATION CO.,
PRAIRIE CITY, OR
ON THE PROPERTY
AT MARBLE DOME.
SYDNEY CROMER, President
Bannister studied this notice with a puzzled frown on his face. Cromer? Where had he heard that name before? After a time he had it. Manley of the Half Diamond had asked him that morning if he was one of Cromer’s men. He turned to the sleepy clerk.
“Where is this irrigation project?” he asked.
The clerk roused himself. “Up north of the Half Diamond,” he answered, yawning. “Named after the big butte on the Marble range. Lots of work up there if you’re looking for work.” Then he again relaxed in his chair.
The information did not particularly interest Bannister. It was merely the name that caused him to put the query. He threw away his cigarette and went upstairs to bed.
In the morning after breakfast he strolled to the livery to take a look at his horse. As he reached the barn door, he heard the thunder of hoofs. He turned and saw a magnificent bay come dashing around from the street. He had to leap aside to avoid the animal as it came to a rearing stop at the very door of the barn. The rider was out of the saddle in a twinkling, laughing joyously, his eyes shining as he flung up a hand in greeting. He was young, this rider, not more than eighteen, tall, well-built, good-looking.
Marble Range Page 1