“You don’t want mine; they’re too numerous and heavy.”
Frothingham raised his eyebrows. “Surely not so numerous and heavy that sufficient capital could not eliminate them.”
Matt laughed grimly. “Oh, no. If I had ten thousand dollars cash I could do somethin’; but I’m shy of that amount by some nine thousand, eight hundred and fifty.”
“Why haven’t you come to me?”
Matt nearly swallowed his knife. “Huh? Never thought of it; didn’t figger it would do any good. I ain’t got no bonds to put up for collateral.”
“You have something more valuable than bonds, Mr. Billings. You have a lifelong reputation for honesty and square-dealing. I’d rather lend my money on such collateral than on all the gilt-edged bonds in the world.”
“That’s funny talk from a banker!”
“Is it? Maybe I’m a funny fellow. Tell you what I’ll do. I’ll lend you ten thousand dollars on your own note.”
“Who’ll I git to endorse it?”
“Nobody. Give me a mortgage on this place. Personally I wouldn’t require even that; but we do have to adhere to some banking regulations. I want to see this Basin thrive. I can’t raise cows myself, but I can get behind the men who can.”
Matt eyed him steadily, his weathered cheeks slightly flushed. “Say, Mr. Frothingham, you’re a man to tie to! That means I can build up my herd, make some repairs— Say, you ain’t jakin’, are you?”
“Not at all. If you want ten thousand dollars with this ranch as security, come into the bank tomorrow morning and we’ll fix things up.”
“By Judas, I’ll do it! Say, this calls for some celebratin’. I got me a jug of blackberry wine some folks back East sent me five, six years ago. We sure will sample it right now.”
“There’s another thing I wanted to see you about,” said Frothingham a bit later. “I’ve heard it rumored that you intend to run for sheriff at the next election.”
“I’d figgered some on it. Jeff Hope and Harry Webb and some of the others have been proddin’ me. But I don’t reckon it’ll do much good; Sam Hodge has got Horace Moley and his money behind him.”
Frothingham took a couple of cigars from his pocket and politely handed one to Matt. “Mr. Billings, I consider it your duty to run. Look here: I’ve been in Mescal a comparatively short while, but anybody can see with half an eye that Sam Hodge is—well, let us say inefficient. Take that Slater case. Barry Weston described the ones who waylaid and shot him, and we are agreed that the guilty party is Tug Groody. The rustling on the Cinchbuckle and the Flying W is also blamed on Tug. Sam has his description and knows that he hangs out in the south hills; but what has he done about it? Nothing; absolutely nothing. I tell you, we need you in the office of sheriff, Mr. Billings, and I for one am ready to back you to the limit.”
Matt’s face was tight. “If I was sheriff, you can bet I’d camp on that jigger’s trail until I got him.”
“That settles it. You’ll be our next sheriff. If you need any campaign funds, come to me. We’ll have to fight trickery with trickery. If Sam starts a vote-buying campaign, we’ll boost the ante and beat him at his own game.”
“I’m buyin’ no votes,” said Sam flatly.
“Of course not. Others will take care of that for you.”
“No, sir, they won’t. I won’t stand for it.”
Frothingham eyed him in mock admiration. “Mr. Billings, you impress me more and more. But if we don’t buy votes, we’ll use the money for propaganda. We’ll have to educate the people who vote honestly. You draw on me for what funds you need; I’ll advance them on your personal note.”
That was, in effect, the end of the matter. They talked for some time and consumed a quantity of blackberry wine; but Frothingham had said what he wanted to say, and he took his departure as soon as he could gracefully do so. Matt gripped his hand and told him haltingly how much he appreciated the loan which Frothingham was about to make him.
The banker laughed. “Forget it, Matt. I’m not doing you any favor. I’ll make money for my bank through the interest you pay. I’ll draw up a demand note which I can call and renew from time to time when you have a little spare cash. That will protect me and won’t hold you to payment on any definite date. Drop in tomorrow and we’ll fix it up.”
Once out of sight of the house and its grateful occupant, Frothingham chuckled. “The old geezer swallowed it, hook, line and sinker. I hope the others are as easy.”
Not knowing of Barry’s disappearance, he stopped at the Flying W on his way to the Bar 70 of Harry Webb. He found Mrs. Lewis on the gallery, which she was now able to reach by her own efforts.
“I don’t know where Barry is,” she told him. “Chet says he rode away sudden last night. You might find him at the Cinchbuckle.”
“I’ll see him some other time,” smiled Frothingham, and rode on. The smile vanished as soon as he had turned his back. The thought that Barry might at that moment be enjoying the company of Barbara Dawn was not a pleasing one.
He reached the Bar 70 about mid-afternoon, and was fortunate enough to find its owner repairing a corral fence. They sat down on a log and chatted for a short while, the conversation finally turning to Matt’s candidacy.
“I’ve about persuaded him to run,” said the banker, and went on with the line he had given Matt about the inefficiency of Sam Hodge. He still clung to “inefficiency,” but Harry Webb was not so particular of his language.
“Sam’s a clanged crook; always has been and always will be. Between him and Horace Moley, they about run the town. Horace wants to buy my place, but I’ll see him in Tophet first, much as I’d like to clear out.”
Frothingham looked about him. “You have a nice spread, Mr. Webb; why do you want to leave it?”
Webb shrugged. “I don’t like the climate. Jerry Weston and me was old friends. I’ve seen his widow rustled blind. Last year Charley Dawn died, and now the Cinchbuckle is on the down grade. Matt lost everything through sickness. George Brent was closed out by your bank. That leaves just Jeff Hope and me.”
Frothingham spoke earnestly. “I had something to do with the Brent case, but that was before I knew how things stood. Between you and me I’ll say that I was stampeded into taking action against Brent. I’ve bitterly regretted it ever since, and I’d give a lot to undo what has been done. You Basin ranchers are my bread and butter; I want to work hand in hand with you.”
Once started, he spread it on thick. Harry Webb, at first skeptical, became interested, and interest in time became conviction. This Frothingham was a right decent hombre; he seemed sincere in wanting to help. And it was true that only by aiding the ranchers could he expect to profit himself. Harry wound up accepting Frothingham’s offer to lend him five thousand dollars, the deal to be closed the following afternoon.
“I’d just as soon you didn’t mention it to anybody,” said Webb as they parted. “I’d made up my mind to get out, but that five thousand will enable me to do what repairin’ and improvin’ the place needs, and also to help Matt a bit. If he’s elected things will be different; if he ain’t, I’ll sell out and settle with you.”
“Don’t think of it,” begged Frothingham. “We can’t lose.” He neglected to mention, however, just who he meant by “we.”
Jefferson Hope also proved to be an easy victim. All the ranchers had been hit by the two years’ drought, and all of them needed ready cash. Astute enough in the breeding and selling of cattle, they were apt to be a bit hasty in accepting a man’s word; for here in the West a man’s word was his bond. Honest and square-dealing themselves, they measured others by their own standards. Frothingham was a banker and apparently very sincere in his efforts to secure their cooperation. That line about their well-being meaning his own prosperity appealed to their sense of logic. Here, they decided, was a go-getter—a man courageous enough to back their game and stand or fall with them. In the parlance of the range, Alonzo J. Frothingham would do to ride the river with.
Je
fferson Hope, of the Anchor, was caught by the banker at the tag end of a particularly disheartening day. He was a sad-faced man, with a pair of handle-bar mustaches which accentuated his appearance of gloom. Alonzo J. had supper with him, and when he finally left, Jeff’s eyes were moist as he hoarsely thanked him for allowing him to borrow ten thousand dollars, the cash to be delivered two days hence.
“You can bet I’ll git behind old Matt,” he declared earnestly. “I aim to spend some of that dinero where it’ll do the most good. Matt wouldn’t think of buyin’ a vote, but we fellas will sure take care of that. We’ll put him in office and bust Sam Hodge and Horace Moley right loose from their eye teeth.”
Besides the Slash B, which, of course, was not on his schedule, Frothingham had missed one Basin ranch on his visit. That was the Cinchbuckle. For one thing, it was out of his way; for another, he knew that Barbara would not borrow any more from him. The knowledge piqued him and at the same time stirred a vague feeling of admiration for the girl.
“Anyhow, she’s hooked for seven thousand,” he consoled himself. “I guess that’s all I can get for her, unless Horace thinks up something else.”
Horace had thought of something else. When Frothingham returned to Mescal he went to the Palace. Horace Moley was standing at the bar. At a table sat his son, Steve, and young Clay Dawn. A little adroit fishing had convinced Steve that Barbara had not mentioned him to her brother in connection with the rustling, and the burden of his conversation at the moment was that he had not been to blame when Clay was struck over the head, and that the young fellow had lost his money honestly. Steve felt it his duty, however, to give Clay a chance to win it back, and would be glad to hold himself at young Dawn’s disposal.
Frothingham stepped to the bar beside the lawyer, greeting him as one casual friend would greet another. When the bartender was out of earshot Moley whispered, “What luck?”
Frothingham chuckled. “Excellent. The suckers are biting today, Horace. Ten thousand each to Billings and Hope, and five to Webb. Weston wasn’t home and I did not have time to visit the Cinchbuckle.”
“No need to visit it. Steve is talking Clay into another poker game. When Steve leaves, you might stop for a word or two. Clay is part owner of the Cinch-buckle, and any debt he contracts is binding on the whole outfit. He might accept a loan where the girl would refuse.”
They parted almost at once, Horace Moley hurrying to his supper, Frothingham to the table occupied by Clay Dawn, Steve having sauntered away. The boy mechanically waved an invitation to the banker to join him. They talked a while over their glasses, then Alonzo J. came to the point.
“I was over to see Matt Billings this morning. He’s going to restock and put the MB on its feet again. I’m glad of it; would like to see all the Basin ranchers do the same. Take the Cinchbuckle; it’s a beautiful spread, well watered and well grassed.”
“You should have said greased. The cows slip away fast enough.”
“We’re going to remedy that. Matt Billings will run for sheriff; with him in office I’ve an idea the rustling will cease.”
“Fat chance he’s got.”
“He has a very good chance. The people in the Basin are awaking to the fact that Sam Hodge is not the man for the job. Webb and Hope are backing Matt with real money, and I am going to take a little hand myself. My interests are tied up with those of the ranchers; I aim to work hand in hand with them for the betterment of the community.”
Clay had heard it before, but it still sounded convincing.
“I’d like to help the Cinchbuckle,” said Frothingham, “but being interested in your sister puts me in a difficult position. I don’t want to risk offending her by offering to finance the ranch, and I know that her pride would prevent her accepting any offer I might make. You’re different; you’re a man and I can talk with you straight from the shoulder. Incidentally, you’re a partner in the enterprise, and there is no reason in the world why you should not accept a loan from me.”
“Barbara wouldn’t stand for it,” Clay said slowly.
“Is it necessary that she know of it at once? Surely you are discreet enough to handle money of your own. You can put it in a little at a time, and when you have built up sufficiently to justify your action, you can tell her about it. You can repay me when you are making money again.”
Dawn’s eyes were glistening. “Sounds reasonable.”
“It is reasonable.” Frothingham looked at his watch. “After banking hours, but I have a key and know the combination of the vault. Let’s run over and fix it up now. How much can you use?”
“I’d better start off easy like. Say a thousand.”
“Better make it two. You can’t do much with one.” So another fish was netted. Clay, blood tingling, his reluctance to take the step without consulting his sister smothered beneath a sense of his own importance, duly signed a demand note which he was assured could be renewed at any time, and departed with two thousand dollars. Steve Moley was waiting for him outside, and repeated his offer to let Clay get even. The boy, suspecting nothing, and really believing his luck must turn, accompanied Moley to the poker room, and soon was plunged deep into a game with Steve and two companions.
Alone in the bank, Alonzo J. Frothingham, alias Bert Alonzo, sat back in his swivel chair and grinned at the upper northwest corner of the room.
“Good fishing,” he murmured, and rubbed his hands delightedly together. “Very good fishing indeed!”
CHAPTER X
TUG SETS A TRAP
NIP AND TUCK, in accordance with Barry’s instructions, came over to the ranch house for breakfast to find a disheveled and triumphant Chet Lewis in command of the kitchen. Chet had emptied the bottle, and his courage had risen accordingly.
“Barry went away last night and left me in charge. You fellas can roll your blankets and vamose. You’re through.”
For a moment they stared at him, then exchanged significant glances.
“That’s funny,” said Nip. “Barry left Chet in charge, Tuck.”
“Yeah,” agreed Tuck, “Chet’s the big boss now.”
“And he said we’re fired. Seems like we can’t hold a job a-tall.... You start the fire and I’ll rustle some breakfast.”
“You ain’t eatin’ here,” declared Lewis. “I said you was fired.”
“He said we was fired,” repeated Tuck.
“That’s what he did.... Rustle that wood; I’ll be slicin’ some bacon.” Nip went to work, talking as he sliced. “You know, Tuck, some fellas are right funny. And forgivin’ too. Now you take Barry Weston; he just whopped the devil out of that ornery step-father of his, then turns right around and makes him boss of the spread.”
Chet’s bloodshot eyes were blazing with wrath. Lurching forward, he grasped Tuck by the arm and swung him away from the stove. “I said to git out, dang it!”
Tuck examined him curiously. “Nip, I do believe our new boss forgot to wash his face this mornin’.”
Nip came up to them and peered eagerly into the wrathful countenance of Barry’s step-father. “Danged if you ain’t right! Can you imagine the boss of a nice clean cow spread like the Flyin’ W goin’ around with a dirty face? Grab holt, Tuck.”
Before Lewis knew what was happening they had seized him and raised him from the ground. Twisting, kicking, and cursing, he was borne from the kitchen. There was a watering trough near the horse corral, and half a dozen feet away from it they halted.
“One—two—three!” counted Nip, and Chet Lewis described a short arc through the air and landed with a splash in the trough. As his head emerged from the water it was promptly pushed below the surface again, an operation which was repeated until Chet was cold sober and gasping for breath.
The two cowboys stood back and watched while he dragged himself from the trough and stood shaking with cold.
“It might help,” said Nip, “if you told us just where Barry went.”
“I d-don’t know; he d-didn’t s-say.”
“Bu
ild a fire in the bunkhouse and dry out,” said Nip. “Eat your breakfast there too. It’s clanged funny that Barry rode away without sayin’ anything to us about it.”
“Somethin’ haywire,” growled Tuck. “Somethin’ awful dawg-gonned haywire.”
They ate breakfast; then, remembering Barry’s mother, went to some pains to fix a meal for her. To her question concerning Barry’s whereabouts they lied cheerfully, assuring her that they knew all about his absence and that they expected him back soon.
They worked industriously, cleaning up and washing their dishes, then went outside, perplexed and worried. Smoke from the bunkhouse chimney told of a wet and bedraggled Chet Lewis. They questioned him again, but Chet, knowing that the preservation of his hide depended upon his entire ignorance of Barry’s whereabouts, stuck to his story that Weston had awakened him during the night and told him he was riding away on some business, cautioning him to look after the ranch until his return.
“Our firin’, then, was your own idea?”
Chet sullenly admitted that it was.
“Then we’re hired until Barry says different. You look after Miz Lewis, fella, and if you even speak to her uncivil we’ll make you hard to find.”
Barry’s horse was gone, and they examined the ground about the corral carefully. It told them that he had departed in the company of at least six others. Nip shook his head worriedly.
“I don’t like it, Tuck. Let’s ride to town.”
“He’ll show up. Trouble with us is we got the willies. Let’s sing.”
They found Mescal quiet, with but a handful at the Palace. Among them was the girl, Lola, seated as before at a table in a corner of the room. She smiled invitingly, and the cowboys, after giving their orders, joined her.
“The tall señor, Bar-ree Weston ees not come weeth you ?”
“No, he didn’t.” They exchanged uneasy glances, then Nip explained. “To tell the truth, Lola, we don’t know where he is. He disappeared last night.”
Wolves of the Chaparral Page 9