Rimrock Trail

by Dunn, J Allan

A stout man came out, not so heavy, not so big as Mormon, but sheathed in flesh with the armor of ease and good living. He peered up at Sandy, then let out a shout.

  "You long-legged, ornery, freckle-faced, gun-packin' galoot, Sandy Bourke! Light off'n that cayuse, you an' yore lady friend. Where in time did you-all drop from?"

  "Come across the mesa. Like to git washed across through Paso Cabras," said Sandy. "Miss Casey, let me make you 'quainted with Chuck Goodwin, one time the best hawss-shoer in the seven Cactus States, now sellin' oil an' gasoline at fancy prices, not to mention machines fo' which he is agent."

  "Got a few oats left fo' yore hawsses, Sandy. Miss, won't you come inside the office? Where you bound, Sandy?"

  "We was aimin' to catch the seven o'clock train east, makin' fo' New Mexico an' the Redding Ranch, where Miss Casey is to visit fo' a spell, but we found the trail bad an' a cloud-bu'st finally set us back so we quit hurryin' an' loafed in. Chuck, have you got a machine you c'ud rent us, with a driver?"

  "You can have anything I got in the place with laigs or wheels, an' welcome. Goin' to the old Redding Ranch? Give my howdedo to Miss Barbara, or Mrs. Barbara as she is now. But—" He looked at the wall clock. "It's a quarter of ten. Yore train's been altered to suit main line schedules. She don't come through till nine-thirty an' she's gen'ally late makin' the grade. I ain't heard her whistle yet. I wouldn't wonder but what you can make it. Not that I'm aimin' none to hurry you."

  The ex-blacksmith reached for the telephone and got his connection.

  "Runnin' twenty minutes late," he announced. "Hop in my car an' we'll jest about make her. She don't do much more'n hesitate at Caroca when she's behind time."

  He hurried them out on the street to where a car stood by the curb. Molly and her few belongings got in behind, Sandy mounted with Goodwin.

  "You'll take good care of the hawsses, Chuck?" he said. "I'll probably be back for 'em myse'f in three-fo' days."

  "Seguro." Goodwin stepped on his starter and the flywheel whirred to sputtering explosions. Another car came limping down the street, flat on both rims of one side, its paint plastered with mud, one light out, the other dimmed with mire. The driver called to Goodwin.

  "Which way to the depot?"

  Goodwin, his hand on the lever, foot on the clutch, was astounded to hear Sandy hissing out.

  "Don't tell 'em. Scoot ahead full speed." Then, over his shoulder to the girl, "Crouch down there, Molly." Goodwin was still a man of action and he knew Sandy Bourke of old. Out came the pedal, the gears engaged and the car shot ahead, beneath a swinging arc light. Sandy's hat-rim did not sufficiently shade his face or Molly's action had not been swift enough. There came a yell and a string of curses from the crippled car which backed and turned and followed, its torn treads flapping.

  Goodwin asked no questions of Sandy. If the latter wanted ever to tell him why he required a quick exit out of Caroca, or why he was followed, he could. If not, never mind. He slid his gears into high and dodged around corners recklessly. A red lantern showed ahead in the middle of the road. They crashed through a light obstruction of boards and trestles, overturning the lantern and plowed on over rough stones.

  "I'm mayor," said Goodwin with a grin. "Breakin' my own rules but I figger that broken stone'll bother 'em some. We'll chance it."

  They lunged through, regardless of tires and, behind them, the pursuing car rattled, lurched, skidded. A third tire blew out and as Goodwin swung a corner with two wheels in the air the sheriff's machine smashed viciously across the sidewalk, poking its crumpling radiator into a cottonwood.

  "Brazen bulls!" shouted Goodwin. "There she blows! You got to run."

  The depot was ahead, to one side of the road-crossing. The train, its clanging bell slowing for the stop, ground to a halt, the conductor swinging from a platform to glance at the "clear" board. He waved "ahead" as Sandy and Molly raced up and clambered to the platform from which the trainman had dropped off. Now the latter remounted while the train restarted, gathered speed.

  "Where to?" he asked Sandy, surveying the pair of them curiously.

  Sandy did not answer. He was watching four running figures coming down the street. A star flashed on the breast of one of them, a star dulled with mud. Goodwin had disappeared. Jordan pulled up, Plimsoll close behind him, and the depot building shut off Sandy's view.

  "Where to?" asked the conductor again. "Got reservations?"

  "Bound for Boville, New Mexico. On the El Paso and Southwestern. What's the charges? No reservations, but we rode fifty mile' across the mesa to make the train."

  Sandy produced his roll and at the same time he grinned in the light of the conductor's lantern. And Sandy's smile was worth much more than ordinary currency. It stamped him bona-fide, certified his character. The conductor's profession made him apt at such endorsements.

  "We take you to Phoenix," he said. "Change there for El Paso. I can give you a spare upper for the lady."

  Molly, all eyes, tired though they were, was staring at the Pullman Afro-American, flashing eyes and teeth and buttons at her and even more at Sandy.

  "Fine!" said Sandy. "Smoker's good enough fo' me. He's got a bed for you, Molly. See you in the morning."

  He waited, countenancing her while she climbed the short ladder to the already curtained berth. Molly's system might be aquiver with wonder but she never showed loss of wits or poise. She might have traveled so a hundred times. Back of the curtain she curled up half-undressed but, even as Sandy registered to himself with a low chuckle: "She never turned a hair or shied."

  He found the smoking-room empty and rolled cigarettes. Presently the conductor came in to go over his batch of tickets and accounts.

  "Cattle?" he asked Sandy.

  "Yes, sir. Three Star Ranch, nigh to Hereford."

  "Business good these days? Beef's high enough in the city."

  "It's fair in the main," answered Sandy. "Sometimes we seem right happy an' prosperous an' then ag'in," he added with a twinkle in his eyes, "we're jest a jump ahead of the sheriff."

  "Boss," said the porter to the conductor, later, "Ah reckon that's a bad man fo' suah. Carryin' two of them six-guns. You figgah he's elopin' wiv that gal?"

  The conductor surveyed his aide disdainfully.

  "You've been seeing too many cheap picture-shows lately, Clem," he said. "Eloping with that young girl? I wouldn't hint it to him if I were you. Don't you know a he-man when you see one?"

  * * *

  CHAPTER X

  SANDY RETURNS

  Eight days passed before Sandy came riding back on Goldie, leading the bay, reaching the Three Star at the end of sunset. Mormon was in his chair with the one letter that Sandy had written on his lap. It was almost too dark to read it. Mormon's eyes were beginning to fail him at anything short of long distance but he knew the contents by heart, yet he liked to keep the letter near him as a dog loves a favorite bone long after all the nourishment from it has been absorbed. Mormon was still penitent. He knew that the sheriff had just failed to make the train, but he did not cease to blame himself for submitting Sandy and Molly to so close a chance, neither did Sam forget occasionally to remind him of his lapse of tongue.

  Sandy pulled in the mare beyond the corral. He could hear the sound of Sam's harmonica and pictured him with the instrument cuddled up under his great mustache. Sam was playing The Girl I Left Behind Me and he managed to breathe a good deal of pathos into the primitive mouth organ.

  "It's sure good to be home, Goldie," said Sandy. The mare whinnied. The bay nickered. Answers came back from the corral. Pronto, Sandy's first string horse, came trotting cross the corral, head up.

  "Hello, you ol' pie-eater!" said Sandy. "You sure look good to me. C'udn't take you erlong this trip, son, but we'll be out ter-morrer together." Then he let out a mighty, "Hello, the house!"

  Sam's lilt ceased abruptly. The riders came hurrying. Sam appeared, with Mormon waddling after, too swiftly for his best ease or grace of motion, both grabbing at Sandy, swatting
him on the back as he off-saddled.

  "Lemme go," said Sandy. "I'm hungry as a spring b'ar. Where's Pedro? Pedro, I'm hungry—muy hambriento. Despachese Vd. Pronto! Huevos—seis huevos—fritos! Frijoles! Jamon! Cafe! Panecilos! Todo el rancho! Pronto!"

  "Si, señor, inmediatamente." And, with a yell for Joe the half-breed, Pedro hurried away, grinning, to prepare the six fried eggs, the ham, the coffee, the muffins, everything in the larder!

  His two partners watched him eat, plying him with food and then with question after question about the trip, about Barbara Redding and about Molly's going to school. Mormon made abject apology for talking too much and Sandy told how close a shave it had been.

  "I don't cotton to playin' jack-rabbit to Plimsoll and Jordan's coyotes," said Sandy. "Speshully Plimsoll, who's at the bottom of the whole thing. Nex' time he may not have the law backin' him, an' I won't have to run. How's the sheriff?"

  "Sort of tamed. They've been kiddin' him a mite. Seems he done some boastin' 'fore he started. His car's laid up fo' repairs. Jordan's layin' low. Miss Bailey, she's at the head of the Wimmen's League to gen'ally clean up politics an' the town, one to the same time. I figger the first thing their broom's goin' to locate'll be either Jordan or Plimsoll. They're sure goin' into all the dark corners an' under the furniture. She's a hustler an' she's thorough, is Mirandy Bailey."

  "Where'd you learn all this, Mormon? Over to Herefo'd?"

  "'Pears Miss Bailey's took a great interest—in Molly," said Sam, with a grin. "She's been over here twice to see if there was news. Mormon entertained her. He seems to be the fav'rite. Beats all how one man'll charm the fair sect, like honey'll bring flies, while another ain't ever bothered."

  Mormon changed the trend of the conversation by demanding to know about the school.

  "Molly's got an outfit Barbara Redding bought her," said Sandy. "Trunk an' leather grip, all kinds of do-dads. School costs fifteen hundred bucks a year. The rest of Molly's money is banked. Barbara picked out a school in Pennsylvania she said was the best. Here's an advertisement of it."

  He handed the magazine leaf to Sam who read over the items with Mormon looking over his shoulder, forming the words with his lips. Sam read:

  CORONA COLLEGE

  "Developing School for Girls. Development of well poised personality through intellectual, moral, social and physical trainin'.

  "Extensive Campus—(whatever that is)—Elective Academic—(Sufferin' Cows!)—Domestic Science, Household Economics, Expression, Supervised Athletics.

  "Horseback Riding—(Huh, I never see an eastener yet who c'ud ride)—Swimming, basketball, country tramping, dancing, military drill."

  Sam made heavy going of many of the words that left him in the dark as to their meaning. Sandy tried to elucidate, repeating the explanations Barbara Redding had given him.

  "Campus is the College Field, Sam," he said.

  "Then why in time don't they say so? Ain't they goin' to teach her to talk United States? I s'pose them things is all fine an' necessary fo' the female eddication but, dern me, if I can see where she's goin' to find time to eat an' sleep."

  "It's been all-fired lonely with both you an' her gone," said Mormon. "An' the dawg ain't eat a mouthful, I don't believe. Mebbe you can coax him, Sandy. Set around an' howled like a sick coyote fo' fo'-five days—mostly nights. If the gel balks at all that line of stuff I'll stand back of her to quit an' come back to Three Star."

  "An' have Jordan git her away an' put her under Plimsoll's guardeenship?"

  "He c'udn't do that. Mirandy Bailey 'ud block him."

  "He c'udn't do anything," said Sandy. "I got myse'f app'inted legal guardeen to Molly while we was in Santa Rosa, one day Barbara an' Molly was shoppin'. John Redding's lawyer fixed it up."

  The months passed without especial incident at the Three Star. Sandy purchased a Champion Hereford bull for the herd out of the ranch share of the faro winnings. Other improvements were added, and the three partners seemed on the fair way to prosperity. Sandy's theory that better bred and better fed beef, bringing better prices, would pay, began to demonstrate itself slowly, though it would take three years before the get of the thoroughbred stock was ready for marketing.

  Occasional letters came from Molly. Homesickness and unhappiness showed between the lines of the first epistles, despite her evident efforts to conceal them. Her ways were not the ways of the other girls who were developing a well poised personality through intellectual, moral, social and physical training. She apparently formed no friendships and it seemed that none were invited from her.

  "But I'm going to stick with it till I get same as the rest—on the outside, anyway," she wrote. "I don't know how some of them work inside. It ain't like me. But I've started this and you-all want me to go through so I will, though I get lonesome as a sick cat for the ranch. I don't swear any more—I got into awful trouble for spilling my language one time—and I can spell pretty good without hunting up every word in the dictionary. I reckon I'm a hard filly to break but then I was haltered late. I don't think it would be allowed for me to have Grit, so you'll have to look out for him and not let him forget me. I hope you won't do that yourselves. Some of the other girls are nice enough. It will be all right soon as we get to understand each other. Don't think I'm starting out to buck or that I'm unhappy, because I'm not."

  "If she's happy, I'm a Gila lizard," said Mormon. "What's the sense of havin' her miserable fo' the sake of a li'l' book learnin'. She's gettin' to spell so I can't make out what she's writin' about."

  At last Molly wrote that she had made the basketball team and won honors and favors. She gained laurels for Corona in swimming and tennis, and life went more merrily. Mormon looked up tennis outfits in his mail catalogue and sent for a book on the game, which he soon abandoned.

  "You have to learn a foreign langwidge before you start to play," he said. "Leastwise a code. The langwidge ain't what you'd expect them to be handin' out in a young lady's college. All erbout deuce an' love. I'd a notion we'd fix up the game fo' her so she'd c'ud keep it up but I dunno. It sure ain't a fat man's game. It's a human grasshopper's."

  * * *

  CHAPTER XI

  PAY DIRT

  In September there was a killing in the Good Luck Pool Room, the murder of a stranger whose friends made such an investigation, backed by the real law-and-order element of Hereford, that the exposure brought about forfeiture of all licenses and a strict shutting down on gambling and illicit liquor. Plimsoll left Hereford for his horse ranch, deprived of the sheriff's official countenance, and Jordan began to worry about election.

  One evening in early October a little body of riders came to the Three Star, all strangers to the county, men whose faces were grim, who cracked no jokes, whose greetings were barely more than civil. They were well armed and they acted like men of a single purpose.

  "This is the Three Star, ain't it?" asked the leader of a cowboy, who nodded silently, taking in the appearance of the visitors.

  "Bourke, Peters and Manning?"

  "One and all," answered the Three Star rider. "Find 'em at chuck, I reckon. You-all are jest in time. If you aim to stay overnight I'll tend yore hawsses an' put 'em in the corral."

  "You seem hospitable here."

  The tone was half sarcastic.

  "Rule of the ranch," replied Buck. "Folks arrivin' after sun-down, the same bein' strangers, is expected to pass the night, if they're in no hurry."

  Sandy personally backed the invitation a moment later and steaks were being pan-fried as the men dismounted and lounged on the porch, awaiting their meal. The leader introduced himself by the name of Bill Brandon, claiming previous knowledge, without actual acquaintance, of Sandy, Mormon and Sam in Texas. Sizing each other up, man-fashion, eye to eye, appraising a score of tiny things that aggregated sufficiently to tip the mental scale, the crowd grew more familiar and welded with supper, exchanged anecdotes with digestion, to get confidential over the tobacco.

  "We're out after a man w
ho's been collectin' hawsses too primiscuous," said Brandon finally. "We know you gents by past reputation an' by what they say of you in Herefo'd. Also, by that last reckonin', I ain't figgerin' you as any speshul pal of the man we're tryin' to round up. I reckon you know who we mean. Jim Plimsoll, who owns what he calls the Waterline Hawss Ranch, sixteen miles east of you, more or less; an' who gits more fancy breeds out of the mangy cayuses he shows his breedin' mares an' stallions, than there is different fish in the sea. From all I can figger most of his mares must have fo' foals a year.

  "Some of us are from this state—Mojave County—two of us from Nevada. Me, I'm from California. We've all been losin' hawsses off an' on an' we've final' got together an' compared notes. Seems most of the missin' stock sorter drifted across the Arizony line somewheres between Mojave City an' Topock. Most of 'em have been sold or passed on. All of 'em have been faked an' doctored more or less. Talk points to Plimsoll, so do some facts, but not enough. An' this Plimsoll has got some mighty close friends where they do the most good. You'd have to prove a damn sight more than we got to even sight a blank warrant."

  "You been over to his ranch?" asked Sandy.

  "Jest come from there. He's slick an' cool, is Plimsoll. We was supposed to be lookin' over hawsses for buyin', but he's careful who he sells to. We saw some. An' we recognized some. But you know how it is, Bourke, it ain't hard to change a hawss. Dock its foretop, do a little doctorin', an' how you goin' to prove it? I'll say this for the man, he's the finest brand-faker I've met up with. He suspicioned what we was after an' we didn't see all he had. But we're goin' to git him yet an', when we do, there won't be any more hawss-stealin' an' fakin' in Coconino County, Arizona. Hawss-stealin' was a hangin' matter when I first come west an' I reckon there's some feels the same way now. Speshully when the courts back up a man like Plimsoll. Lead's cheaper than rope, but somehow it ain't so convincin'."