“If—if you’ll just let me breathe—a little—I’ll try and tell you,” Verna Loring gasped in reply.
Brant suddenly realized he was still holding her much tighter than the occasion now warranted. He colored beneath his tan, loosening his hold. Swinging down lithely from the saddle, he set her on her feet. She swayed slightly, and he slid his arm back around her slim waist to steady her. He noted absently that her curly head came barely to his shoulder.
“Feel better?” he asked anxiously. “Aren’t hurt any way, are you?”
“No, I’m not hurt,” she replied. “You just about squeezed the life out of me, that’s all.”
“Had to do something,” Brant grinned. “That is, if I wanted to keep any hide on my face. You were giving me a right smart going over.”
“I’m sorry,” Verna said contritely, “but I was so terribly frightened. I thought you were another of those men.”
“What men?”
“The men who shot at me.”
“Shot at you! You mean to tell me some sidewinder took a shot at a woman!”
“I don’t think they realized I was a woman,” Verna replied. “My hat was pulled down over my hair, and I wasn’t very close to them. It fell off when my horse ran away.”
“Uh-huh, you do look sort of like a boy in those overalls—from a distance,” Brant admitted. “Sort of cute, though.”
Verna blushed and hurried on with her story.
“I was taking a ride this morning,” she said. “I rode farther from the ranch house than I ever did before. Over the other side of that hill I saw two men beside a little fire. There was a calf or a young cow lying on the ground near them. They were doing something to it.”
“Blotting or altering a brand, the chances are,” Brant interrupted grimly.
“I don’t know,” the girl replied. “But when I rode toward them, one of them waved his hat at me.”
“Uh-huh,” Brant remarked, even more grimly, “wavin’ you ’round! When a cow thief is at a fire, working over a brand or running a brand and a jigger comes riding along, he waves his hat in a half-circle from left to right, that means ‘stay the heck away from here if you don’t want to stop hot lead!’ Then what happened?”
“I thought it was a couple of our boys,” Verna said. “I kept on riding toward them, and one of them shot at me. The bullet struck my horse. He squealed and jumped and nearly threw me. Then he whirled around and ran. I tried to stop him, but couldn’t. I couldn’t do a thing with him. Then I saw you riding toward me and I was terribly frightened. I had the pistol Uncle Nate told me to carry so I drew it and fired at you.”
“Uh-huh, so I noticed,” Brant nodded dryly, caressing his sore ribs.
“I’m sorry,” the girl said contritely, “terribly sorry. The bullet didn’t strike you, did it?”
“Nothing to pay any mind to,” Brant returned lightly. “But if it had been a couple of inches to the right, well, I reckon you would have gone down that cutbank along with your horse.”
“And I haven’t even thanked you for saving my life,” Verna exclaimed remorsefully.
“Was a plumb plea sure,” Brant returned. “I’d like to have the chore of doing it every day.”
“Well, I wouldn’t like to go through the experience, every day,” Verna declared with feeling. “My poor horse. I’m afraid he is killed.”
“ ’Pears like it,” Brant replied, glancing toward the sprawled brown shape a little ways up the draw. “I’ll take a look. Want to get your saddle off, anyhow.”
He walked to where the horse lay. A little later he returned, carrying the saddle and bridle.
“Busted his neck,” he said. “It was a good thing, though. Chances are you would have had to shoot him. He was bad hurt. That slug hit him in the flank.” His eyes were coldly gray as he spoke, his face bleak.
“I’d sure like to line sights with those sidewinders,” he said. “If that slug had been a little higher—” he broke off without finishing the sentence. But Verna Loring understood what was implied, and shuddered. She glanced up fearfully at the growth fringed lip of the draw.
“You—you don’t think they might come— looking for us?” she asked.
“Wish they would—I’d like to get a look at them,” Brant replied. “No chance, though. Reckon they hightailed in a hurry as soon as they slid their ropes off that critter. Well, I’ve a notion this draw peters out up to the north and we can get topside again. Reckon we might as well be moving.”
He lashed Verna’s rig behind his own saddle. Then he mounted Smoke and held the girl in front of him. Smoke offered no objections to the double load and Verna appeared content to travel that way. Brant was eminently satisfied with the arrangement and let Smoke take his time. With the result that it was well along in the afternoon when they at last reached the Bar O ranch house.
Old Nate Loring gave Brant a warm welcome. He swore luridly when acquainted with the day’s happenings.
“I’m beginnin’ to wonder if I was so smart, after all, to come to this section,” he growled. “Oklahoma was gettin’ bad enough, but this ’pears to be worse and gettin’ no better fast. There was a bad shootin’ over to town the other night. Two jiggers planted in Boot Hill and another one in a bad way.”
Brant nodded soberly. “I’m afraid this is just the beginning,” he said. “We’re in for more trouble and soon. The ranges are too crowded down in the skillet. The Panhandle is the natural outlet. They’re headed this way from the Brazos country, from the Nueces, the Trinity, the Colorado rainsheds. Right now the real big spreads are in central and south Texas. But soon the Panhandle is going to see such outfits as have never been known in Texas before. Things are going to boom, but it isn’t going to last. Nesters and small owners and homesteaders and grangers are already beginning to come. More and more of them will come. The big spreads will be cut up into farms and townships. And everywhere you look there’ll be wire.”
“You really believe it?” old Nate asked, skeptically.
“Yes,” Brant replied, “I do. The oldtimers don’t. They say the grassland will never change. They’re wrong. The change is taking place right under their noses, only they can’t see it. But in the end it’ll be a change for the better. There’ll be law and order, homes, better cows, and better markets. But there’ll be hell a-plenty first.”
Old Nate shook his grizzled head. He glanced at his niece who was listening, wide-eyed.
“Scairt I shouldn’t have brought you inter such a section, younker,” he said.
“I’m glad you did,” the girl returned sturdily. “This is a growing country, and I want to grow with it. I like it here.”
“It’s sure getting to be a nicer and nicer country to be in, all the time,” Brant declared heartily. Old Nate chuckled. For some reason, Verna blushed.
Included among the comfortable furnishings of the Bar O ranch house was, to Brant’s surprise, a small piano.
“Packed it all the way here by wagon,” old Nate chuckled. “Verna insisted on bringin’ it. Had one dickens of a time keepin’ it from gettin’ wet and spiled crossin’ the rivers, but there she is, all roped and hawgtied. I’m goin’ out to the kitchen to help the cook stir his stumps. Mebbe Verna’ll play you some music.”
So Verna Loring played for him, while the shadows lengthened, the sky flamed scarlet and gold above the western hills, and the hush of evening descended on the rangeland.
Brant declined a pressing invitation to spend the night at the Bar O.
“Want to be back at the spread in the morning,” he told his host. “Lot of chores that need looking after.”
He rode home beneath the stars, the rangeland a blue and silver mystery blanketed in silence. As he rode, he whistled gaily, or sang snatches of love songs in a voice that caused Smoke to flatten his ears and snort in abject dismay.
Chapter Nine
Brant had plenty to do. Among other things, he made a careful survey of the cows on the spread in order to ascertain the possibi
lity of another trail herd without delay. In the course of this activity he learned things that caused his black brows to draw together.
“You’re right, we’re losing critters,” he told his range boss. “More than I’d figured on. Not only calves, but a heap of prime beef critters. We’ve got to organize regular line riding, night and day. We can’t afford the losses we’re suffering. I sure wish the Old Man and the rest of the boys would get back pronto.”
A week later, much to Brant’s relief, old John Webb and the outfit roared into camp.
“Everything went hunky-dory,” said Webb after he and Brant had shaken hands. “I got a sight more for the remuda than I’d hoped for. Shanghai Pierce sure did me a good turn. Incidentally, he sent regards to you. A nice feller, old Shang.”
Brant was counting noses. He missed a familiar face.
“Where’s Cole Dawson?” he asked abruptly.
Webb shrugged his big shoulders. “Damned if I know,” he replied. “He came to me the morning you rode out of town and asked for his time. Said he calc’lated to stick around Dodge for a spell. Said he might have a try at buffalo hunting for a change. Ain’t seen him since. Just as well. He’s been on the prod for quite a while, and he sure wasn’t better at all after you hauled him out of the Cimarron at the Crossin’, and then saved his hide in Dodge. Feller would think you’d handed him a dirty deal of some sort, instead of savin’ his wuthless carcass. He’s a queer jigger.”
“But a mighty good cowman,” Brant interjected.
“Uh-huh,” agreed Webb, “but I can get plenty of them without havin’ to put up with Cole’s loco notions. I’m glad he drew his wages. By the way, speakin’ of pesky critters, I saw that big feller Doran up at the Crossin’, the one they say owns the Deadfall. He was in a helluva shape. All stove up. Had one arm in a sling and was walkin’ with a cane.”
“Must have fallen down and hurt himself,” Brant commented.
“Uh-huh,” Webb returned dryly, “off a cliff, from the looks of him.”
Another busy week followed. Brant had plenty to do, but he did manage to find time to drop in at the Bar O ranch house a couple of times. Old Nate was glad to see him, and Verna did not appear particularly displeased. One day Nate Loring rode part of the way back to the Running W with his young friend. In the course of the ride, Nate discussed something that caused Brant to do some serious thinking. They were inspecting a bunch of Loring’s longhorns, estimating their weight for possible shipping.
“There’s too much length and bone in those darn critters,” Loring remarked. “You don’t get the meat off their carcasses you should, and meat is what brings in the money. Reminds me of somethin’ up in Oklahoma. A feller up there from back East owns a little spread. Bought it when he came west. Raised critters up in New En gland, he said. Well, that feller, Tom Sutton, sent back East for some bulls like what he used to handle there. He called ’em Herefords. Well, he crossed them Herefords with Longhorn cows and them crosses showed a weight of three hundred pounds and better more than critters from a scrub bull. That feller had a notion. Might work down here, if a jigger could just get the bulls. But them Herefords don’t travel well over rough country—their hoofs won’t take it. Reckon folks hereabouts will hafta wait until the railroads come along before they try anything like that.”
Brant nodded, his eyes thoughtful. “You happen to know that feller?” he asked.
“Uh-huh,” Loring replied, “know him well. Nice feller.”
“Reckon he has quite a few of those Hereford bulls on hand by now.”
“Uh-huh, reckon he has. He brought them in and some other bulls he called Galloways. Kept his pure stock bunch up that way.”
Brant nodded again, but did not pursue the conversation. He had already learned, in the course of talks with Loring, from just where in Oklahoma the old man originated.
Another busy week followed. Then, one morning, John Webb received some disquieting news.
“A nester’s moved in down on the southwest range,” one of his line riders informed Webb. “He’s shoved in a big herd and is buildin’ a ranch house. Got a salty lookin’ bunch of hands with him.”
Webb let out a roar of rage. He summoned Austin Brant and half a dozen of his most trustworthy hands.
“We’ll just see about this,” he raged as they saddled up. “No blankety-blank nester is goin’ to squat on my range. I got enough troubles without that. Come on, you hellions, stir your stumps. We got things to do.”
South by west they rode, at a fast clip. As they drew nearer the location in question, a peculiar sound reached their ears, coming from beyond a long straggle of thicket they were paralleling. It was a metallic whining and creaking, punctuated by a rhythmic clicking which Brant soon catalogued as the ring of axes on wood. They rounded the thicket and came upon a scene of great activity.
Over to the left was a fairly deep and narrow canyon, one of the many off-shoots of the Palo Duro. From its wooded depths came the clang of axes. On the near lip were clustered a number of men.
“Cutting timber down in the gulch and bringing it to the surface with wire pulleys,” Brant said. “Look, there goes a wagonload now.”
Rumbling across the prairie some distance ahead was a huge wagon drawn by eight horses. It was loaded with newly cut logs. Even as the Running W outfit drew near, a ponderous log came dangling up the canyon wall at the end of a long cable drawn by a windlass on the lip of the gorge.
“No sod huts for that jigger, whoever he is,” Brant apostrophised the nester. “He’s going in for a regular casa. Means business.”
“I’ll business him!” growled old John, glaring at the workers on the canyon lip, who had paused from their labors and were silently watching the approaching troop.
Brant said nothing. He had an uneasy premonition that Webb might run into considerable difficulty in the pro cess of “businessing” the unknown nester.
The Running W bunch did not pause at the scene of operations on the canyon lip.
“They’re just hired hands—no use argifyin’ with them,” Webb said. “I want to do my talkin’ to the jigger responsible for this.”
Following the course taken by the wagon, they rode on. Soon they sighted a low rise whereon grew scattered trees. On the crest of this rise the walls of a ranch house were already rising. Webb snorted like a steer tangled in a cactus patch. He quickened the pace of his horse. In a compact body the Running W outfit charged up the hill.
As they drew near, they noted two men sitting their horses a little to one side of some construction and watching their approach. One was a huge man, massive with the solid massiveness of a granite block. His companion was slender and sat his magnificent bay horse with the natural grace accentuated by a lifetime in the saddle. Brant suddenly uttered an exclamation. Old John swore under his mustache as they pulled up within a dozen paces of the motionless pair.
“Cole Dawson!” Webb bellowed. “Where in blazes did you come from? And what are you doin’ here,Kane?”
It was Norman Kane who replied, an amused note in his musical voice. “Gettin’ my spread in shape,” he replied.
“Gettin’ your spread in shape!” bawled Webb. “Are you the hellion nestin’ down here?”
“Reckon I’m the hellion you’re talkin’ about,” Kane returned imperturbably, “but I don’t get the nester part of it. What do you mean?”
“What do I mean!” roared the irate Running W owner. “This is my range you’re on.”
“Don’t think so,” Kane returned. “I got a notion it’s mine.”
Old John turned purple and breathed with apparent difficulty. Norman Kane appeared to take no notice of these alarming symptoms. He nodded cordially to Brant.
“How are you, fellow?” Kane inquired. “Glad to see you made it back all right.”
Old John broke in. “Kane,” he stormed, “I’m tellin’ you to get your truck and your cows off my land.”
“Webb, it is not your land,” Norman Kane replied evenly. “I
t never was your land. It has always been federal land—open range. I have leased this section, and I expect to get complete title before long. Want to see the papers?”
“Damn you,” sputtered Webb, “I’ve run my cows on this range for thirty years, and my Dad run his on it before me!”
“And neither of you took the trouble to get title to it,” Kane replied imperturbably. “By the way, have you got title to the rest of your holdin’s, other than your north range, where your ranch-house is? If you haven’t, take a little friendly advice and hustle to do it. There’ll be other folks headed this way before you know it. Don’t get caught settin’ again, Webb.”
Webb was about to make a hot reply, but Austin Brant laid a restraining hand on his angry Boss’s arm.
“Hold it, John,” he cautioned. “If he’s telling us straight, and I figure he is, there’s not a thing you can do. No sense in rarin’ and chargin’. We’re outsmarted, and that’s all there is to it.”
Webb set his mouth hard, mastering himself by an effort. “The round-up ain’t over till the last brand’s run,” he growled.
Brant was eying Cole Dawson with a speculative gaze. “I see now,” he remarked, “why you two jiggers had your heads together there in the Deadfall. So Cole lined you up on conditions down here, Kane?”
“Damn double-crosser!” exploded Webb.
“I got the first double-cross,” Dawson returned truculently. “Why didn’t you give me the foreman’s job like I had it comin’, ‘stead of handin’ it to that sprout? I can hand back what’s handed to me, anytime. I’m on my own now, Webb, and workin’ for a man who appreciates me.”
Norman Kane’s perfectly formed lips quirked slightly at the corners, but he made no remark. Old John snorted, glared at Dawson, and abruptly whirled his horse.
“C’mon, let’s get out of here, before I bust a cinch,” he told his men.
Brant lingered a moment as the others rode away. Kane nodded to him again in friendly fashion.
“Hope there’s no hard feelin’s, Brant,” he said.
“Not over this deal,” Brant replied. “It’s just a matter of business. Webb got caught setting, that’s all.” He started to ride after the others when a thought suddenly struck him.
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