Guardians of the Sage

by Harry Sinclair Drago

  “Now you’re talkin’,” Quantrell exclaimed. “We can begin to get busy inside of a week. And we’ll milk this thing dry. When we get through, if old Slick-ear wants to buy the place—at my price—okay! Let him put the money on the line.”

  CHAPTER IX REPRISAL

  MONTANA learned nothing from the old Indian. Plenty Eagles met them on the plateau. At Jim’s urging, the boy harangued his father in Piute, but nothing came of it. If Thunder Bird knew anything, he was afraid to speak.

  “I don’t want you to mix it up with Quantrell over this,” Jim warned the boy. “He’s my meat. You go on up to the Needles now, and when you go out or come in again take the Iron Point road.”

  “Not got job,” Plenty Eagles explained. “Mebbe staying up there two, three weeks.”

  Montana spoke to the boy at length and then turned his horse toward the valley. The sun was sinking by the time he reached the Big Powder. He followed the creek south for several miles.

  Once he thought he was being followed. He drew up sharply and listened. It was only a coyote slipping through the brakes.

  “Nerves getting jumpy,” he smiled to himself as he turned east for the Skull and the Box C.

  The day had developed little that was definite. If he was more suspicious than ever of Quantrell, it was a matter personal to him ; and he decided to say nothing to Crockett. For the present he was content to play a lone hand.

  The Box C looked so peaceful as he rode in that it was hard to believe that death stalked the range. The supper bell rang as he walked his horse into the yard. After they had eaten, they repaired to the bench outside the kitchen as usual. Nothing had happened in his absence.

  “They’ll get busy again to-night,” Gene predicted. “Mebbe we’ll git it this time.”

  “We’ll be watchin’,” his father assured him. “I ain’t worried so much about bein’ burned out down here as I am about the stuff we got on the range. Mebbe it’ll look like backin’ down,” he went on soberly, “but I don’t care. To-morrow we’ll take the mowers and go down on the reservation. I’m gain’ to cut my grass there and see if I can’t make a crop of hay. Soon as we git it stacked, we’ll move our cattle down there. It may keep us out of trouble.”

  His decision did not please his sons.

  “What’ll folks say?” Gene demanded angrily. “Mought as well let the Bar S have it all as do that! It’s our range, Pap’ Why should we pull our stuff off?”

  “Dead steers ain’t no use to no one,” Dan replied. “I’ve got to have some beef to sell this fall.”

  By this arrangement, old Ben, rifle across his saddle bow, patrolled the Box C range on the south bank of the North Fork. The others toiled on the reservation for the better part of the week. Stock was being killed every night.

  “We’ll git it,” Brent Crockett warned. “We ought to be out there day and night instead of stackin’ hay.”

  “We’ll be through to-morrow,” his father reminded him. “If they’ll jest hold off a mite longer we’ll get our stuff moved.”

  That evening, just after supper, one of old Lance’s boys rode in with the news that the Bar S had brought more men into the valley.

  “Must be nigh onto forty of ’em here now,” the boy said. “Ole Slick-ear is with ’em. They’re fixin’ up Eph Mellon’s house.”

  It was unpleasant news. Inevitably it meant more strife.

  “Where did you get your information?” Montana asked. “Were you scouting up there?”

  “I had a good look around, all right,” the youngster replied. He was not over sixteen. “Eph never should have sold out on us.”

  Montana was not concerned about that, nor was he surprised to learn that Mr. Stall was on the ground now. The thing that bowled him over was that boys as young as this were in the fray.

  “Do you know you’re apt to get killed scouting that country?” he asked. “It’s a damned shame to see boys as young as you getting into this.”

  “Reckon I can take keer of myself,” the lad replied. “I know how to use a rifle.”

  Before the boy left he got Gene and Brent aside. What passed between them Montana did not know. Later, the two brothers were aloof and uncommunicative. About midnight they stole out of the house. Jim heard them ride away. It was not the first time he had heard them leave late at night.

  “They’ll get over their heads,” he thought. “Slaughtering Bar S cattle will grow pretty tame before lang.”

  Although they did not return home until three the following morning, they were up again at dawn, ready for work. Ben came in while they were eating breakfast. The air was soon blue with his cursing.

  “What is it?” Dan demanded sharply.

  “That white-faced bull!” Ben boomed. “Deader ’an a mackerel! He was right on our own range, too! Somebody got him with a high-power from across the creek!”

  “Oh, Lord!” Dan groaned as he fell back into his chair.

  The white-faced bull was one of the few Herefords in that country at the time. Dan had paid a fancy price for him, in an effort to improve his herd.

  The boys kicked their chairs out from under them and raged like two madmen. It was on Jim’s tongue to tell them that if they killed Bar S cattle it was only natural to expect that their own would be killed in return. But he said nothing. He had made up his mind that if they wanted his advice they would have to ask for it.

  The incident provided the Crocketts with a topic of conversation for the day that—as far as the boys were concerned—grew more bitter the longer they discussed it.

  All hands toiled after sundown without finishing their task. Nevertheless, Dan said he would move his cattle down in the morning.

  A great preoccupation rested on him. After the dishes were cleared away, he got out an old worn Bible. He read aloud as his wife washed her pots and pans. The boys had drawn off to the barn. Montana found himself quite alone.

  “‘And the Lord shall deliver them——’”

  It was Crockett, his voice solemn and sepulchral as he read on.

  “Amen!” the boys’ mother intoned reverently.

  Jim fell to listening. Such religion as he had was born of the lonely places and the sun and the stars. Mrs. Crockett had finished her chores. He could see her shadow on the wall as she sat at the table with her husband, her thin frame weary with the toil and drudgery of a lifetime spent making a home in the wilderness.

  Dan put the Book away at last and sat deep in thought. He broke his silence finally.

  “The Book says to have faith and the Lord will help us,” he said. “I reckon my faith will see me through, but there’s times when it comes pretty hard. All our lives we been hardworkin’; we fetched the boys up to be God-fearin’ men. Awhile back it looked like we mought have our reward and find a mite of comfort. Now all this trouble had to come . . . It don’t seem right fair to us, Mother.”

  “‘The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away,’” she quoted. Nancy Crockett had first heard the words in a humble mountain cabin in the far-away Cumberlands of Kentucky. For her they had softened the futility of life and its bitter disappointments. “It’s His will, Dan’el.”

  Montana was filled with a strange melancholy. They weren’t young any longer. It was this or nothing; they’d never have another chance. It made what litde he had done for them worthwhile.

  He got up to walk down to the creek and back before going to bed. The evening was soft and balmy. He was halfway to the Skull when old Nell, the ranch dog, began to howl dismally. Ben must have come to the door of his cabin and shied a boot at her, for she stopped suddenly.

  In the moodiness that gripped him, Montana found his thoughts straying to Letty Stall. The bitter struggle in which he was taking part proved how far removed she was from the environment that was his life.

  “She’ll never get the right of this,” he thought, “nor understand what I’m trying to do.” He could imagine the contempt in which Bar S men held him now. She would share that feeling. “You couldn’t hardl
y ask her to feel any other way about it,” he admitted.

  It was well enough to say that she never bothered to think of him. That didn’t end it. He knew her good opinion was the most precious thing in the world. There was some satisfaction in thinking he had never given her reason to suspect his love for her.

  “I’ve often made a fool of myself,” he muttered unhappily, “but at least I never was the presuming kind.”

  The boys were in bed when he got back to the house. Half an hour later he was sound asleep himself. It seemed but a short while, though it was really nearing midnight, when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

  “Jim! Wake up!” It was Dan Crockett. “Where are the boys?”

  Montana sat up, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. “Why—what’s wrong?” he asked.

  “I’m worried, Jim. You know how they been talkin’ all day. I don’t want them packin’ off into trouble. I didn’t want to lose the bull, but I don’t want them to git shot up over it.”

  “It isn’t the first night they’ve ridden out,” Montana felt justified in saying.

  “What? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Well, I fancy they wouldn’t relish my spying on them, for one thing. My talk doesn’t seem to set well any more. I know old Lance’s boy brought them some message this evening. I began to put two and two together right then. Sure as shooting, Dan, those boys have organized themselves into nightriders.”

  Dan ran his hand under the blankets of Gene’s bed. “Ain’t been gone long,” he said. “The bed’s still warm.” He stood up, his cheeks cavernous in the light of the candle. Montana saw him reach a decision. “Jim, I’m goin’ out to git ’em,” he announced. “Do you mind comin’ along?”

  “It’ll be like looking for a tick on a sheep’s back. Where are we going to find them?”

  “If they’re raidin’ the Bar S, they’ll go around by the head of North Fork, or try to cross it lower down.” All the placidity Jim associated with Crockett was gone. The man’s face was white and drawn. “You pull on your pants, Jim,” he ran on. “I’ll go up by the way of the Skull and swing over to the North Fork. You go around by the east. Mebbe we’ll run into ’em. Whether we do or not, I’ll meet up with you in the coulee below Lance’s place.”

  Outside, old Nell began to howl again.

  “My God, why’s she a doin’ that?” Dan cried. “You hurry up, Jim!”

  He had their horses saddled by the time Montana reached the corral. Before he rode off he paused to repeat his instructions.

  “And if you meet up with ’em, Jim, tell ’em I want ’em to home. It’s an order from me!”

  Montana found himself in an utterly ridiculous position. He knew the boys would not listen to him, should he find them. They had shown him all too plainly that they wanted nothing to do with him.

  Once away from the Box C, he slowed his horse down to a walk. For one thing, he didn’t share Dan’s anxiety. The boys had been slipping out repeatedly. He had no reasons to believe that this night held any more danger for them than had the others. The route he was following was the shorter. It was his intention to time himself so that he would arrive at the coulee about the time Dan did.

  The night was bright enough for him to see a long way. It also made him an easy mark for any lurking foe. However, he reached the head of the North Fork without difficulty. An hour later he entered the big coulee.

  “Reckon we’ll never get a flash of them,” he thought. But five minutes had not passed before he pulled his horse up short. The night wind had brought him the murmur of voices.

  “Somebody down there,” he told himself. He slid from his saddle and went ahead on foot. He had not gone thirty yards when a gun was poked into his back.

  “Stick ’em up!” one of his captors commanded. “Now walk ahead, and don’t take yer hands down if ye don’t want to git hurt!”

  One of the others called out a warning to those down below. In a few moments Montana found himself in the grassy dell at the bottom of the coulee. Not less than twenty boys sat on their horses, waiting, guns drawn. A second glance revealed Clay Quantrell. The big fellow was urging his horse forward.

  “Who you got there?” he asked gruffly.

  “Jim Montana!” answered the boy who held his gun to Jim’s back. Montana recognized him then. It was Joe Gault’s son.

  “Montana?” a dozen voices echoed. The angry muttering that followed told Jim how unwelcome he was. He saw Gene Crockett leap to the ground and rush at him.

  “What are you doin’ here—spyin’ on us?” he whipped out, his face twisted with rage.

  “I’ll let your father answer that when he gets here,” Jim replied. “I expect he’ll be along directly.”

  “So you got Pap out tryin’ to ride herd on us, too,” Gene sneered. “Listenin’ to you has done a lot of good, ain’t it? Listenin’ to you and your take-it-easy talk is makin’ an ole woman out of him! It’s about time you learned your place, Montana! We don’t need you. We can pick our own leaders.”

  A wave of angry approval broke from the crowd.

  “So I see,” Jim said. His tone was chilling in its intensity. “The kind that doesn’t draw the line at sending boys out to get killed but who take damned good care of their own hides.”

  “I take it you’re referrin’ to me,” Quantrell threatened.

  “You take it right!” Jim flung back. “This thing’s bad enough without getting kids into it.”

  “Yeah?” Quantrell knew his audience was with him and he made the most of the moment. “The trouble with you, Montana, is you were a Bar S man once, and right down in your heart you’re a Bar S man yet!”

  By the way the boys received it, Jim knew it had been said before. The next moment young Gene proved to him how the thought had flowered.

  “When you were in Wild Horse we thought you were our friend,” the boy exclaimed. “In seemin’ to side with us mebbe you was only pullin’ the iron out of the fire fer old man Stall. How do we know you ain’t with him lock, stock and barrel?”

  Jim knew where he had got that. It was almost as though Quantrell were speaking. As he hesitated over his answer, a boy rode in to warn them that someone was commg.

  “It’ll be Pap,” Brent Crockett told his brother. “We better git goin’.”

  “You’re right, Brent. We got some work to do, and if it’s any news to you, Montana, we’re crossin’ the creek and firin’ their range. We don’t aim to be stopped by you.”

  Finding Quantrell running things had made Jim change his mind about interfering. He decided that Gene and Brent should wait there with him. He told them as much.

  “Better not try it,” Gene warned. “We’re fannin’ it out of here in a hurry!”

  Montana was not underestimating his danger. His smile meant nothing. His eyes were colder than ice. He had asked for cards, and he had to play them now.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “The others can go if they want to, but you and Brent are staying here with me!” Before they could stop him, he had jerked out his guns. “Get going, the rest of you!” he barked, his eyes on Quantrell.

  It was his undoing. Ira Gault was behind him. He raised his pistol and brought it down with force enough to fell Montana. Senses reeling, Jim heard their wild cry as they raced away, riding like demons.

  They had scarcely crested the long hill to the north when Montana heard Dan calling him. What Jim had to say left Crockett speechless for a moment.

  “The young fools!” he got out with an effort. “They must be crazy, Jim!”

  He was for following them. Montana said no.

  “You can’t stop them now. The sensible thing to do is head for home.” The back of his head was wet with blood. “Whoever fetched me that clip had his heart in it,” he muttered. “You’ll find my horse in the brush. If you’ll get him, Dan, we’ll start back.”

  They stopped at the creek and Montana bathed his head. His thoughts were bitter.

  “I’d hate to have it said that a tin-hor
n ran me out,” he declared, “but I’m almost minded to move along, Dan.”

  “I won’t hear of it!” Crockett answered loyally. “I know you’re with us heart and soul. I’ll have this out with the boys, and with Quantrell, too, for the matter of that.”

  “Better not,” Jim advised. “Quantrell’s welcome to his opinion of me. I certainly have mine of him.”

  Dan refused to go to bed when they reached the ranch. Over toward the North Fork the sky was a dull red.

  “I’ll wait up for ’em,” he said.

  Long after Montana had thrown himself down on his blankets, head throbbing, he could hear him pacing back and forth across the yard, mumbling to himself.

  CHAPTER X THE HYPHEN FLASH OF DEATH

  AN HOUR before dawn a cry aroused Montana. He pulled on his boots and stepped out. Brent Crockett was riding into the yard. The boy sat stiffly erect, his eyes stained with tragedy.

  Two others were with him. They were talking, and their voices were charged with a grim determination.

  “You couldn’t do no good a-goin’ back for him,” Montana heard one of them say. The boy was addressing Brent. “Reckon we got to be men about this.”

  “Damn ’em,” the other muttered. “They’ll pay for it; we ain’t done yit.”

  Dan held up his lantern, his hand shaking. The snatch of conversation that had come to them permitted but one conclusion.

  “Jim—he’s come back without Gene!” There was a sob in Crockett’s throat.

  “Yeah—” Montana answered tonelessly. “The fools,” he added to himself.

  It was only a moment or two before the three boys pulled up their mounts in front of the two men.

  “Where’s Gene? What’s happened to him?” Dan demanded before Brent could slip out of his saddle. Anxiety was written in every line of his weather-beaten face.

  Jim saw a dry sob rack Brent. He hung his head and couldn’t answer. The others seemed strangely reluctant to speak.

  “Come on,” Dan urged sharply, his voice thin and strained. “What is it, Brent?” The old man was suddenly a pathetic figure. Sight of him seemed completely to unnerve Brent. He broke down and began to cry.