Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 01 - The Range Robbers(1930)

by Oliver Strange

  ‘Grit a move on,’ said one of them. “Cut out as many as we can handle an’ start the rest in the other direction. We gotta hustle; we shall have the whole darn crowd here soon, now this blamed fool has given the signal,’ and he kicked the unconscious boy viciously in the ribs.

  With the expertness of men who knew their job the raiders got to work. A portion of the now uneasy herd was separated from the main bunch and driven in a north-easterly direction. It does not take much to turn a herd of contented cattle into a torrent of mad, unreasoning fear, a fact the rustlers were fully aware of. No sooner were the stolen beasts sufficiently far away than two of the riders returned, and with shouts and flapping saddle-blankets soon stampeded the already scared herd, sending it thundering olindly to the shout. They had barely accomplished this when madly pounding hoofs brought another horseman on the scene.

  “Charlie, where in ‘ell are yu?’ he called. “I heard yore signal. What’s up?’

  Then he suddenly grasped that something was wrong, and with an oath, he jerked out his gun and fired. The spit of flame stabbed the darkness, and one of the raiders cursed. His companion, dropping his blanket, appeared to lift something from his saddle and raise his arm. Then came a peculiar twang, and the cowboy gasped and almost fell from his horse. But the instinct of a man who spends nearly all his waking hours in the saddle came to his aid, and gripping with weakening knees, he whirled the pony and headed for the ranch.

  “He won’t never make it,’ said one of the raiders. “Did he git yu?’

  ‘Creased my shoulder, blast him ! An’ it’s bleedin’ like blazers, but it can wait; we gotta punch the breeze. C’mon.’

  Spurring their mounts in the direction taken by the rest of the band, they vanished in the night.

  Meanwhile the gallant little cowpony, with its almost senseless burden, made unswervingly for home, and as though it understood the need for haste, never slackened speed until it slid to a stop in front of the bunkhouse door. One of those within, hearing the patter of hoof-beats, came out to see who was arriving. His shout brought the others. The senseless form, drooping over the saddlehorn, was lifted down, carried into the bunkhouse and laid on a bench. One of the men raced to fetch the boss.

  “Why, it’s Lucky, an’ he’s got an arrow through his shoulder,’ cried one. “What in ‘ell’s doin’?’

  Leeming, the owner of the Frying Pan, hurried in. Who is it, an’ what’s the trouble?’ he asked.

  “It’s Lomas, an’ it shore looks as if there’s trouble aplenty,’ replied Dirk Iddon, his foreman, who was bending over the wounded man.

  Cutting away the shirt and vest, he laid bare the wound, and disclosed the arrow buried to the feathered end in the white flesh, with the vicious barbed point protruding from the back.

  “That’s a ‘Pache war-shaft,’ he commented.

  With deft tenderness, he snapped the shaft just below the feathers and turning the hurt man on his side, gripped the head of the arrow and drew it gently from the wound, which was then sponged and bandaged with care and thoroughness which would not have discredited a professional healer. Dirk had doctored many hurts, and some community lost a good physician when he ran wild and drifted to the West.

  “He’s shore livin’ up to his name, Lucky is,’ remarked he, regarding his handiwork with satisfaction. “Couple o’ inches lower down an’ it would’ve been through the lung. As it is, he’ll be as good as new in two-three weeks. How the ‘ell he stayed on that hoss beats me.’

  The sick man’s eyes fluttered and opened; he made an effort to sit up, only to sink back wearily. Dirk handed him a tot of whisky, holding it to his lips.

  “Tell us what happened, Lucky, if yu can,’ he said.

  The strong, raw spirin, and the sound of the familiar voice of his foreman brought the cowboy back to consciousness, and gave him strength to speak.

  “Injuns,’ he said. “Stampeded the herd. They musta got old Charlie. I heard shootin’ an’ bumped right into ‘em; think I nicked one.’

  He sank back exhausted, oblivious to the tumult his information had aroused. Every man was furious, but the anger of Job Leeming exceeded them all. A shortish, choleric man, his violent outbursts of temper had made “the impatience of Job’ a byword in the district. For the rest he was a square dealer and a good employer. At the moment he was almost beside himself.

  “Jump to it, boys,’ he cried. “Hosses an’ guns for all o’ yu. Cook—where’s than blasted cook? Oh, here yu are. Why in ‘ell don’t yu come when I call yu? Rustle some grub, pronto, an’ then look after Lomas. We’ll get these murderin’ dogs if we have to foller ‘em to the Pit.’

  “Shore we’ll get ‘em,’ said Dirk. “We’ll bring enough scalps to make Lucky a ha’r bridle.’

  In less than fifteen minutes a dozen men were racing for the spot where the herd had been. They soon reached it, and scattered to search for the missing cowboy. It was Dirk who happened upon the huddled, prostrate form; at his call, Leeming and the others came scampering up. The foreman knelt and examined the injured man, his fingers encountering a sticky smear of blood across the forehead.

  “Show a light, somebody,’ he said.

  The flame of several manches revealed the extent of the damage.

  “Roped him an’ knocked him cold with a gun,’ stated Dirk. “He ain’t hurt bad—his head must be made o’ granite, I reckon. I’ll do what I can.’

  Under his ministrations the patient came to, and in a faltering voice confirmed the foreman’s theory of what had taken place. “I thought the blamed sky had dropped on me,’ he said. “I shore saw all the stars there is.’

  Held in the saddle by another of the outfit, he was also despatched to the care of Cookie at the ranch-house, and having attended to the wants of his wounded, Leeming now felt that he was at liberty to take up his own affairs. Here a difficulty presented itself. Even in the faint light of the early dawn it was possible to see what had happened, and Dirk, who had been carefully scanning the tracks, summed up the situation.

  “They’ve gone nor-east with a bunch o’ cattle, headin’ for Big Chief, an’ they stampeded the rest o’ the herd in the opposite direction. Chances is, they’ve left four times as many as they lifted. What yu aim to do about it?’

  “We’ll have to split,’ Leeming said. “Yu take five o’ the boys an’ follow the ‘Paches; the rest of us will round up the herd. I’d come with yu, but we can’t both leave the ranch, an’ yo’re too darned good at readin’ sign to leave behind. How many do yu figure they got?’

  “Tidy bunch—near a hundred, I guess,’ Dirk replied. “Means one thing—they’ll travel all the slower with that lot; we oughtta come up with ‘em, spite o’ the start they got.’

  “Shoot every one o’ the durn copper-coloured thieves when yu do,’ snorted the other, adding a string of lurid oaths as he turned away to commence the wearisome task of collecting the scattered herd. To describe him as an angry man would be putting it very mildly indeed. At least a week’s work destroyed in a single night, and all to be done again, to say nothing of the probable loss of about five-score valuable beasts; for though he would not admit it even to himself, Job had little hope that his steers would be recovered. He knew but too well the wildness of the country, and the many hiding-places it afforded a cunning predator.

  That this raid, like the one on his neighbour, was the work of Indians, he did not doubt for an instant, and with the white man’s instinctive hatred for the redskin, his resentment was the greater.

  Late on the afternoon of the following day the foreman of the Y Z strode into the bunkhouse with a look of malicious triumph on his face.

  “Green, the Old Man wants to see yu, pronto,’ he said. “The Injuns have got away with a big steal o’ Frying Pan cows, an’ ‘Old Impatience’ is up there a-raisin’ Cain.’

  If he expected the cowpuncher to ask for any details he was disappointed; Green simply nodded and went out. At the ranch-house he found Simon and Leeming in the big livin
g-room, the latter pacing up and down, and evidently in a state of eruption. Simon plunged at once into the business.

  “Green,’ he said. “Meet Mr. Leeming, owner of the Frying Pan. Yu heard he’s been raided?’

  “Blaynes just said somethin’ about it; I ain’t got no particulars,’ replied the puncher, acknowledging the introduction by a nod at the visitor.

  “Night before last it happened. Laid out two o’ my outfit, an’ got away with about a hundred head,’ snapped Leeming. “What yu gotta say about it?’

  “Tough luck,’ said Green, quietly.

  “Tough luck?’ vociferated Leeming angrily. “Tough luck? That’s a helluva note, ain’t it? An’ yo’re the feller that’s agoin’ to stop the rustlin’, huh? Why, it’s been worse’n ever since yu took a hand. Seems to me yu ain’t no more use than a busted leg.’-

  The cowpuncher’s face flushed through the tan, his jaws clenched, and his eyes narrowed as he listened to this tirade. Leeming, still stamping up and down the room, had completely lost control of himself, but the object of his abuse was outwardly calm.

  “Yu payin’ any o’ my wages?’ he asked.

  Like a shot from a gun the simple question, which put him utterly in the wrong, knocked the irate cattleman off his balance. But he was in too vile a temper to recognise this. “What’s that gotta do with it?’ he stormed.

  “Everythin’,’ replied the puncher coolly. “There’s only one man who has the right to bawl me out if I don’t do my work an’ that’s the man who pays me.’

  The words were spoken evenly and without a trace of passion, but there was a deadly meaning in the low voice. Leeming stopped his perambulations and looked at him.

  “Well, I’m damned if yu ain’t got yore nerve,’ he said. “For two bits I’d…’

  Green slipped his hand into his pocket, produced the coins named and laid them on the table without a word. No challenge could have been more plainly given. Leeming’s face became suffused with blood, but before he could speak, Old Simon interposed :

  “That’s enough,’ he said brusquely. “Job, yu gotta remember that yu are in my house, an’ speakin’ no one o’ my outfit, an’ I won’t stand for it nor ask him to. If yu don’t ride that temper o’ yores it’s goin’ to thow yu bad one o’ these days.’

  For a moment the angry man looked madder than ever and then all at once his face changed and he laughed aloud. “Sorry, Simon,’ he said. “Yo’re right. I’m a plain damn fool to go off the handle like this. No offence meant to either o’ yu. It’s my beast of a temper—can’t help it—always had it—my old folks used to say that I cussed my nurse before I had any teeth. The Frying Pan boys understand—they just let me shoot off my mouth, an’ laugh behind my back, damn rascals.’ He looked at Green. “No hard feelin’s, I hope?’

  “None here,’ replied the puncher, with a smile.

  And indeed, the change about was so sudden and complete that it could not be otherwise than amusing. Yet one could sense that it was not in any way due to cowardice; Leeming had plenty of pluck and would have pulled his gun and shot it out with the cowboy just as cheerfully as he apologised, and Green understood this, and respected the owner of the Frying Pan the more for it.

  “Well, that’s all right,’ said Simon, obviously relieved at the way things had come out. “Tell him about it, Job.’

  Leeming told the story of the raid and Green listened in silence until he had finished. Then came a question.

  “Yu say they headed north-east for Big Chief? Then they must ‘a crossed the Y Z near the line-house.’ He turned to Simon. “Do yu happen to know which of our boys were there night before last?’

  “I asked Blaynes the same thing, an’ he said Durran an’ Nigger—two experienced men,’ he explained to Leeming. “I’ve met ‘em,’ said Job in a non-committal tone.

  “An’ yore foreman lost the trail on Sandy Parlour?’ pursued the cowpuncher.

  “Yes, an’ he’s a good trailer too, but a desert an’ Injuns is a strong combination.’

  “Yu can cut out the redskins—they ain’t nothin’ to do with yore losin’ cattle.’

  “But my boys saw ‘em, an’ that arrow through Lucky’s shoulder ain’t no dream,’ protested the cattleman.

  ‘Green reckons it’s whites pretendin’ to be Injuns to razzledazzle us,’ explained Simon. “It shore would be an easy play to make.’

  “I ain’t reckonin’, I know it’s so,’ the puncher said, “but I’m not advertisin’ it.’

  “Shore,’ agreed Leeming. “Anythin’ else yu can tell us?’

  The other shook his head. “Can’t prove nothin’,’ he said. “Soon as I’ve got the goods I’ll put my cards on the table. All I’m shore of at present is that it ain’t just a small gang liftin’ a few cows now an’ then; they are organised, and there’s a big man somewhere pullin’ the strings.’

  “What makes yu think that?’ asked Simon.

  “Just one or two things I happened to overhear,’ was the reply. “Yu shore o’ yore outfit?’

  The question was addressed to the owner of the Frying Pan, and he was quick to answer it. “I’ll go bail for every one,’ he said confidently. “Are yu suggestin’?’

  “I’m only askin’,’ replied Green. “I don’t know any of ‘em, an’ even in the best o’ ropes there may be a weak strand. What’s yore opinion o’ Dexter, of the Double X?’

  “Don’t like him—dunno why, but I don’t,’ was the blunt reply. “Yu got anythin’ on him?’

  “No,’ Green had to confess, “but it was some of his men hung me over the cliff—yu heard o’ that—joke, I reckon?’

  “Shore, an’ o’ the one yu played on Snub in return,’ laughed Leeming. “Silas told me he never saw a man imitate a chunk o’ rock as well as Snub did while yu was shavin’ his upper lip for him.’

  “He did stand awful still, for a fact,’ responded the puncher, a twinkle of devilment in his eyes at the memory. “Two more o’ that outfit bushwhacked Lunt.’

  This was news to the Frying Pan owner. “The hell they did?’ he said. “They musta felt pretty shore o’ gettin’ him; Snap’s hands are jest about a shade quicker’n my temper, an’ I can’t say more than that. What are they after him for?’

  “I dunno, but it looks like some of us ain’t wanted around here,’ Green replied. “Me, I’m aimin’ to stay, just the same.’ When he had gone, Simon turned to his visitor and said, “How does he strike yu?’

  “Well, I’d sooner have him with than against me,’ was Job’s verdict. “Know anythin’ about him?’

  “Not a darn thing,’ said Simon. “Barton fetched him along after he’d beat up Poker Pete most to death. Said he was huntin’ a job. He certainly is wise to his work, but I can’t place him. Blaynes thinks he might be in with the rustlers.’

  “Which just means that yore foreman don’t like him,’ said Leeming shrewdly.

  “And who is it that our respected foreman does not approve of?’ asked a fresh young voice.

  “Hello, Miss Norry,’ cried Job heartily, turning round to shake hands with the girl. She had just come in from a ride, and her flushed cheeks, dancing eyes, and trim figure were good to look upon. “Hang me if yu don’t get prettier every time 1 see yu. When are yu comin’ to take charge at the Frying Pan, eh?’

  It was an old joke between them. Leeming, a confirmed bachelor, always protested that he was so solely on account of Noreen.

  “Not until I’m no longer wanted at the Y Z,’ she laughed and added saucily, “I should be afraid of your dreadful temper.’

  “I’ve lost it, Norry,’ Leeming said.

  “What, again?’ retorted the girl merrily, and then, “But you haven’t answered my question.’

  “We were talkin’ o’ the new hand, Green,’ Job explained. “What’s yore opinion of him?’

  “Since he came to my help when I was in danger, I am naturally prejudiced,’ the girl replied soberly. “I think he’s a good man. And now, if you two have done
talking secrets, I expect supper is about ready. As Cookie says down at the bunkhouse, “Come an’ git it.”’

  Chapter X

  VISITORS to Hatchett’s Folly were rare and therefore mostly welcome; visitors with plenty of money to spend were rarer still and correspondingly more welcome. So that when Mr. Joe Tarman and his friend and companion, Mr. Seth Laban, rode in, they had no cause to complain of their reception. The first-named, in fact, would have been well received anywhere, for he bore every appearance of prosperity, and he radiated with generosity, thus capturing every loafer in the town at a blow.

  He was a big fellow, standing over six feet, with a broad, well-muscled frame denoting strength above the average even for men of his height, and he was still on the right side of forty. His hair, eyebrows, and carefully-trimmed beard were deep black and gave him a striking appearance. A captious critic might have suggested that the face was too fleshy and the rather small eyes too close together, but ninety-nine women out of every hundred would have voted Joe Tarman a very handsome man.

  In this he differed entirely from his companion; Seth Laban could have no such pretensions. He was a slight man of between forty and fifty, with a pronounced stoop which made him appear shorter than he really was. He had a long nose, receding forehead and chin, and small eyes, a combination which produced a rodent-like impression. Believers in the Buddhist theory of the transmigration of souls have said that his previous existence must have been that of a rat, while others, of a less charitable nature, might have held that he was still a rat, and would not have been too wide of the mark at that.

  This curiously assorted couple, having installed themselves at the hotel, at once gravitated to the Folly, followed by a number of the inhabitants..Tarman, having introduced himself and his companion no the bartender, at once struck the right note by ordering drinks for the crowd. He made no secret of his object in coming to Hatchett’s.