Guardians of the Sage

by Harry Sinclair Drago

  “Now why did you let her do that?” Montana protested. “I could have made a little coffee.”

  “She wouldn’t have it that-a-way. The batter was all made; so she fried some cakes for you. She’s lying down now. Mrs. Gault ought to be here directly. She’s a capable body to have around.”

  “Well, I’ll go in if you insist,” Jim offered, “but I’m not hungry.”.

  “Mebbe you’d best make a meal of it, Jim,” Crockett said. “I’m going to ask you to drive to Wild Horse. Be almost evenin’ before you git there. Wouldn’t think of askin’ it of you after your bein’ up half the night if it didn’t seem as though you was one of the family.”

  “You don’t have to say anything like that,” Montana chided him. “I won’t mind going at all.”

  “I knew you’d say that. Mother says she’d feel better if we had a minister to help lay Gene away. I think Reverend Gare would come if you can find him. He knows we can’t pay much.”

  “I’ll manage to locate him,” Montana assured him. “I ought to be back here by the middle of the afternoon tomorrow.”

  “It’ll mean pullin’ out of Wild Horse long before daylight, Jim. I would appreciate it if you could git here by then. Brent and me will make the box. Mother wants Gene buried among the trees above the Skull. We’ll find a pritty spot where he’ll be comfortable.”

  Neighbors would dig the grave. Later they would carry the coffin on their shoulders to its final resting place. It was grim, even stark, but their very remoteness from those softening influences of civilization permitted no greater ceremony. It was seldom indeed that an ordained minister of the gospel was present to pray for the departed and solace the bereaved.

  Dan sat at the table with Montana. He insisted on a detailed account of how Jim had found the boy. Montana told him, making light of his brush with the Bar S men. Crockett was strangely embittered.

  “I don’t blame them so much for what happened,” he said. “All these boys know how to handle guns. You can’t aixpect a man to stand up and let them throw lead at him without shootin’ back. It’s one life against another. The mistake was in ever lettin’ ’em go. Just one man’s responsible for this—and you know who he is as well as I do.”

  Montana got up and pushed his chair back.

  “You bet I do, Dan,” he said, “and some day I’m going to collect in full for it.”

  Together they hitched a team to a light rig. When Jim had filled a canvas water-bag and tied it to the end-gate, he was ready to leave.

  “The grays will move right along for you,” Dan informed him. “If you happen to think of it you might buy sunthin’ for mother. One of them black shawls would be nice. Just ask Mr. Ruchter to charge it to me.”

  Montana followed the old reservation road. It took him south to the Malheur and then east by way of the Furnace Creek ranch. It required patience and a liberal amount of faith to believe that this ever-winding road would ultimately bring one to Wild Horse. In the rolling hills east of Furnace Creek it became a never-ending series of switchbacks. When one hill was ascended another rose before you. Beyond it were a hundred others. From the crests, it was possible to look back and locate the spot where you had been an hour gone. With all that country spread out around you, man suddenly became very unimportant, his worries and trials of no consequence.

  True to Crockett’s prediction the grays moved along without urging. They seemed to have sensed that their destination was Wild Horse, and they suited their gait and stamina to the length of their journey.

  The day was not uncomfortably warm but by noon the dust-devils were dancing in the haze that layover the hills and valleys. It was country with which Montana was thoroughly familiar, but as is uniformly the case with outdoor men, each new vista held something of interest to him. He had the road to himself, and the world, too, for that matter, seeing no one, save for a glimpse of a distant rider in the bad lands beyond Cow Creek Butte.

  Only those who are familiar with that big country will easily understand his feeling of complete detachment and the sense of pleasant isolation that descended on him. He was able to review the events of the past few days with startling clearness. He had no cause to regret what he had done. On the other hand, he found little to encourage him. Men could best be judged by their past performances. Knowing Henry Stall as he did, he knew the Bar S would not give an inch. Gene’s death would solidify the feeling against him below the North Fork. Undoubtedly it would lead to retaliation in kind. The best he could hope for was that the killing of Gene Crockett might so discredit Quantrell that the man would no longer be an important factor in the struggle.

  “He’ll be ready with a plausible excuse,” he thought, “but people will get the right of this affair last night, and some of them will be suspicious of him.”

  In the late afternoon he caught his first glimpse of Wild Horse while still some miles from town. The road was down-hill now and the horses began to move faster. His coming attracted little attention. He drew up before the sheriff’s office and tied the team. He looked inside for Rand and was disappointed to find him out. There seemed to be an unusual amount of excitement around the railroad corrals at the other end of the town. He was about to walk down when Graham Rand came out of the courthouse. Graham hailed him and they repaired to his little office.

  “Well, we always put on a show for you, Jim,” Rand said, jerking his head in the direction of the corrals. “What do you think of that?”

  “I don’t know. What have they got down there?”

  “About three hundred head of wild horses. A bunch from Boise have been out rounding them up. They’re putting ’em aboard the cars now. Some Belgian has a factory up there and is grinding ’em up for chicken meat.”

  “The skunks!” Montana muttered angrily. “Only a few wild things left and they’ve got to kill them off. I knew they were doing it over in Wyoming, but I didn’t think they’d be over here rubbing it in our nose for a while yet.”

  “I figured you’d feel that way about it,” Rand answered. “I guess it’s profitable enough, with the hides and the oil; but it gets under my skin. We’d never have moved into this country or nailed it down for our own without horses. I figure we owe them a better deal than this. But that didn’t bring you to town, Jim. Why are you here?”

  “Dan Crockett’s boy, Gene, was killed last night, Graham . . . You act as though you knew about it.”

  “Yeah. Reb sent a couple men over here all banged up. I got the news from them.”

  “That’s right,” Jim agreed. “Reb told me he had them on the way here.”

  Rand’s eyebrows went up. “Reb?” he queried. “You been talking to him?”

  Montana had to explain. The explanation involved Quantrell. Rand expressed his opinion.

  “You want to remember this, Jim; Quantrell isn’t interested in anyone but himself. He’d sell out his mother. I’ve known him longer than you. He’s always been turning sharp corners. I knew he was grafting when he was freighting for the Government. When he pretends to get excited about looking out for other people’s rights—watch him; he’s got something else on his mind.”

  “That’s exactly what I think,” Montana agreed. “But it’s pretty hard to lay back and wait for him to trip himself.”

  “You won’t have to wait long,” Rand declared. “He’s always played an under-cover game, getting somebody to pull the chestnuts out of the fire for him. He’s out in the open now, and he’ll overplay his hand sure as you’re born. He’s a tin-horn, and I never knew one who didn’t over-reach himself.”

  Montana rolled a cigarette deftly. A look of grim determination had settled on his face.

  “There’s no question in my mind but that he picked Billy off,” he said stonily. “I aim to square that some day—and I’m not going to wait so long there’ll be any chance of my forgetting. I don’t know where this trouble is going to end, but I’m sticking to the finish.”

  Rand asked about old Thunder Bird, the Piute.


  “He’s hiding out near the Needles,” Jim informed him. “Plenty Eagles is with him.” He told Rand how he had met the young Indian and what had come of it. “For no reason at all,” he added, “I haven’t got over the idea that the old chief knows something about what happened to Billy.”

  “If he does, Jim, you’ll have to wait him out; he won’t tell you until he gets ready. I’d fix up a gunny sack full of grub for him if I thought you’d be going up that way before long.”

  “I been figuring on taking a pasear up there,” Montana told him. “I’ll just throw in with you on what the stuff costs. You get it, Graham, and toss it into the rig. I’ve got a little business to do for Dan. If you think the minister is home I’ll go there first.”

  “You’ll find him home. He’s been out haying all week, but he came in this noon. Had a wedding over at the church. When you get through, come back here; we’ll have supper together.”

  Montana knocked some of the dust off his clothes and was about to leave when a young man passed by. He nodded to the sheriff.

  “There goes your successor, Jim,” Rand explained with a sly smile. “He’s an Easterner; name is Vickers. Not a bad boy, but he don’t know anything about this country.”

  Montana tarried.

  “What does he have to say?” he asked.

  “Not much. He ain’t the talking kind. But he dropped something the other day that I thought might interest you.”

  “Yeah?” Jim’s eyes narrowed with apprehension as he gazed sharply at Rand. The sheriff’s manner suddenly became serious. “What was it, Graham?”

  “Well—he said the sale of the Reservation might be set aside.”

  Montana sat down again. “He said that, eh?” he queried. “What did he have on his mind?”

  “I can’t say, Jim. You know that Stall and Matlack stand pretty well with the U. S. Land Office. Old Slickear threatened to take the matter to Washington. I reckon that’s what his attorneys have done. If he can have the sale set aside on the ground that you had no right to refuse his script, there’s going to be hell to pay.”

  Montana did not answer at once. This news was thoroughly disquieting.

  “You couldn’t get anything else out of him?” he asked finally.

  “No, he closed up quick enough; but you can tell when a man knows more than he’ll say.” He paused as he saw the effect of his words on Montana. “I wouldn’t make too much of it, Jim,” he went on. “There’s nothing you can do about it.”

  “Except worry,” Montana ground out. “My God, Graham, this is going to be terrible if it comes now. It would have been better to let Mr. Stall have the land in the first place. I know I was within my rights; but apparently that isn’t enough if the other side has a political drag.” He got up and took a turn about the little room. He stopped abruptly and faced Rand. “Do you suppose this fellow Vickers would talk to me?”

  “You know better than that, Jim,” the sheriff answered with some feeling. “You leave him to me; I’ll see what I can do. If I get any news I’ll manage to get it to you at once, even if I have to go over with it myself.”

  “Don’t forget, Graham,” Montana pleaded earnestly. “You know what this means to me. In the meantime, all I can do is sit tight. If a hint of this reaches Squaw Valley they’ll follow Quantrell into anything.”

  That iron restraint which was so characteristic of Rand came to the surface now.

  “You never were one to borrow trouble,” he said casually. “I’ve known you to sit tight before without getting jumpy. No sense getting buck fever.”

  Montana knew his advice was well meant. It pulled him up.

  “I’ll allow anybody a little ague when he gets hold of a wild cat,” he smiled. “When you’re bucking the Bar S you’re taking in a lot of territory.” He gave his Stetson a jerk that brought it low over his eyes. “I’ll get along now and be back as soon as I can.”

  He found the Reverend John Gare at home as Graham had predicted. He was a huge man with the horny hands of a rancher rather than a preacher of the gospel. He received Jim in his shirt sleeves and promptly consented to leave at three the following morning for Squaw Valley.

  “You know Dan is pretty hard pressed for money,” Jim informed him.

  “Say, Montana, there’s no price on my religion,” the big man scolded. “The man or woman who wants it can have it for nothing or what they want to give. I’ve been putting my brand on the devil for a long while, and I’ve enjoyed every minute of it. As long as I can stack hay or get an honest day’s work, I’m going to keep on trying to hog-tie that maverick. So you rest easy about paying me. If money was what I wanted I perhaps would be running a still somewheres. You can see what money and greed do. They killed this boy, didn’t they?”

  “I reckon that answers it in the end,” Montana admitted. The Reverend Gare was no stranger to him. The man was a zealot, but there was no trace of cant about him. He was a tireless giant, and he threw himself into the task of saving souls with all the energy he used in the hayfield. His combat with the devil became almost a physical battle. When he spoke, a stranger would have been hard put to decide whether he was riding herd on sinners or cattle, for his language savoured more of the range than of the vineyard of the Lord.

  He would not suffer Montana to leave until they had discussed the situation in Squaw Valley. Jim was surprised to find him so conversant with matters there. When he had finished, John Gare communed with himself for a few moments. He shook his great head gravely.

  “I hardly know what word to bring those people,” he said at last. “‘Vengeance is mine,’ sayeth the Lord. They must not forget that; but I do not take it to mean that when a man is riding an outlaw he must sit in the saddle without using his spurs until the horse throws him. It would appear that they started in using the prod at the first buck; and I can’t understand that, Montana. They are a patient people, slow to anger, even though they are the sons of feudists—and hard-thinking, too. I can understand Quantrell’s influence, with his appeal to their prejudice and passion; but I cannot understand what his game is unless this is a three-cornered fight.”

  The statement was startling enough to arouse Jim’s interest.

  “I don’t know whether I follow you or not,” he declared.

  “Well, you’ve seen two buzzards fighting over a dead rabbit, haven’t you? While they’re lambasting each other a third one flies off with the meat. Something like that may be happening now.”

  It planted an idea in Montana’s mind that lingered long after he had finished his business in Wild Horse and was ensconced in his favorite chair in Rand’s office. He mentioned it to Graham.

  “It’s only in line with what I said to you this afternoon,” the sheriff replied. “What’s his game? What’s he after? Quantrell never was a fire-eater before. Now he suddenly blossoms out as a champion of other people’s rights. You tell me why and I’ll give you the answer to all this.”

  “I guess that’s it in a nutshell,” Jim was forced to agree. “I’m not foolish enough to think that under cover he is working for Mr. Stall. You couldn’t make me believe that the old man would stoop to anything like that.”

  “Hardly. If Quantrell killed the kid he did it deliberately, not because Billy was trespassing. I’m fool enough to believe that he did it for the effect it would have. He knew the kid was popular among the Bar S crowd. They’d be sure to strike back no matter what the old man’s orders were.”

  “But that was only making the fight certain,” Montana argued. “Why should he have done that? How was he to win that way? His game was to hold on to what he had and try to avoid a showdown—unless he’s playing both sides against each other.”

  “You’ve put a big if in it now, Jim,” Rand exclaimed weightily.

  “I don’t know about that. I don’t think it’s such a big if after all. I’m beginning to see this better than I did before. Without being able to put my finger on the answer right now I’m convinced that John Gare was right; Quantrell is
out for himself. As soon as the funeral is over I’m going up to the Needles and smoke the pipe with Plenty Eagles and the old man. If they know anything I’m going to get it out of them.”

  “It’s worth trying,” Rand yawned. He got to his feet and put his pipe away. “I suppose you’re about ready to turn in. Three o’clock gets around in a hurry.”

  Jim glanced at his watch.

  “Ten minutes to nine,” he announced. “Time I was going to bed. Didn’t have much sleep last night.”

  Rand locked the office and they started toward the hotel. A light in the court-house attracted Montana’s attention. It came from the room he had occupied for over a year.

  “Vickers is burning the midnight oil,” he mused aloud. “I’d give a dollar to know what he’s doing.”

  Rand laughed.

  “I’ll tell you, and it won’t cost you a cent, Jim. He’s writing to his girl. Does it every night. He’s talking about bringing her out.” They walked on without speaking for a moment.

  “Funny you never got taken that way,” Graham said without warning. “Always figured you would.”

  It gave Jim a start. But Graham had no reason to suspect his interest in Letty Stall.

  “Just goes to show how mistaken a man can be,” he retorted dryly.

  “Don’t it. Maybe you’re gun shy——”

  “Maybe I am,” Montana drawled.

  CHAPTER XII HOME ON THE RANGE

  NEEDLESS to say, the events of the night on the creek, which led to the killing of Gene Crockett, were viewed in quite another light above the North Fork. Reb, still smarting from coming off second best in his encounter with Jim Montana, had been summoned to the house to make a report. He sat facing the old man, twisting his hat and having a very unhappy time of it. He was fiercely loyal to his men; so if his tale was colored in their favor it was no more than was to have been expected. It left a lot to be desired, even to him, and he did not have to wait for Mr. Stall to speak to gather that he was greatly annoyed.