A Man Four-Square

by Raine, William MacLeod

  "Makin' up some lost sleep, Joe?" inquired the owner of the ranch amiably.

  "I been out nights a good deal tryin' to check the rustlers," answered Yankie sullenly. He had been caught asleep in his clothes and it annoyed him. Would the old man guess that he had been in the saddle all night?

  "Glad to hear you're gettin' busy on that job. They've got to be stopped.

  If you can't do it I'll have to try to find a man that can, Joe."

  "Mebbe you think it's an easy job, Webb," retorted the other, a chip on his shoulder. "If you do it costs nothin' Mex to fire me an' try some other guy."

  "I don't say you're to blame, Joe. Perhaps you're just unlucky. But the fact stands that I'm losin' more cattle on this range than at any one of my other three ranches or all of 'em put together."

  "We're nearer the hills than they are," the foreman replied sulkily.

  "I don't want excuses, but results, Joe. However, I came to talk about that gather of beeves for Major Strong."

  Webb talked business in his direct fashion for a few minutes, then strolled away. The majordomo watched him walk down to the corral. He could not swear to it, but he was none the less sure that the Missourian's keen eye was fixed upon a sweat-stained horse that had been traveling the hills all night.

  Chapter XXIII

  Murder from the Chaparral

  Webb was just leaving for one of his ranches lower down the river when a horseman galloped up. The alkali dust was caked on his unshaven face and the weary bronco was dripping with sweat.

  The owner of the Flying V Y, giving some last instructions to the foreman, turned to listen to the sputtering rider.

  "They—they done run off that bunch of beeves on the berrendo," he explained, trembling with excitement.

  "Who?"

  "I don't know. A bunch of rustlers. About a dozen of 'em. They tried to kill me."

  Webb turned to Yankie. "You didn't leave this man alone overnight with that bunch of beeves for Major Strong?"

  "Sure I did. Why not?" demanded the foreman boldly.

  "We'll not argue that," said the boss curtly, "Go hunt you another job.

  You'll draw yore last pay-check from the Flying V Y to-day."

  "If you're loaded up with a notion that some one else could do better—"

  "It's not yore ability I object to, Yankie" cut in the ranchman.

  "Say, what are you insinuatin'?" snarled the segundo.

  "Not a thing, Yankie. I'm tellin' you to yore face that I think you're a crook. One of these days I'm goin' to land you behind the bars at Santa Fé. No, don't make another pass like that, Joe. I'll sure beat you to it."

  Wrayburn had ridden up and now asked the foreman a question about some calves.

  "Don't ask me. Ask yore boss," growled Yankie, his face dark with fury.

  "Don't ask me either," said Webb. "You're foreman of this ranch, Dad."

  "Since when?" asked the old Confederate.

  "Since right this minute. I've fired Yankie."

  Dad chewed his cud of tobacco without comment. He knew that Webb would tell him all he needed to know.

  "Says I'm a waddy! Says I'm a crook!" burst out the deposed foreman.

  "Wish you joy of yore job, Wrayburn. You'll have one heluva time."

  "You will if Yankie can bring it about," amended the cattleman. He spoke coldly and contemptuously just as if the man were not present. "I've made up my mind, Dad, that he's in cahoots with the rustlers."

  "Prove it! Prove it!" demanded the accused man, furious with anger at

  Webb's manner.

  The ranch-owner went on talking to Wrayburn in an even voice. "I've suspected it for some time. Now I'm convinced. Yesterday mornin' I found him asleep in bed with his clothes on. His horse looked like it had been travelin' all night. I made inquiries. He went to Live-Oaks an' was seen to take the trail to the Ruidosa. Why?"

  "You've been spyin' on me," charged Yankie. He was under a savage desire to draw his gun but he could not shake off in a moment the habit of subordination bred by years of service with this man.

  "To let his fellow thieves know that he meant to leave a bunch of beef steers on the berrendo practically unguarded. That's why. I'd bet a stack of blues on it. You'll have to watch this fellow, Dad."

  The new foreman took his cue from the boss. None the less, he meant just what he said. "You better believe I'll watch him. I've had misgivin's about him for a right smart time."

  "He'll probably ride straight to his gang of rustlers. Well, he can't do us half as much harm there as here."

  "I'll git you both. Watch my smoke. Watch it." With a curse the rustler swung his horse round and gave it the spur. Poison hate churned in his heart. At the bend of the road he turned and shook a fist at them both.

  "There goes one good horse an' saddle belongin' to me," said Webb, smiling ruefully. "But if I never get them back it's cheap at the price. I'm rid of one scoundrel."

  "I wonder if you are, Homer," mused his friend. "Maybe you'd better have let him down easy. Joe Yankie is as revengeful as an Injun."

  "Let him down easy!" exploded the cattleman. "When he's just pulled off a raw deal by which I lose a bunch of forty fat three-year-olds. I ought to have gunned him in his tracks."

  "If you had proof, but you haven't. It's a right doubtful policy for a man to stir up a rattler till it's crazy, then to turn it loose in his bedroom."

  The Missourian turned to the business of the hour. "We'll get a posse out after the rustlers right away. Dad. I'll see the boys an' you hustle up some rifles and ammunition."

  Half an hour later they saw the dust of the cowpunchers taking the trail for the berrendo.

  "I'll ride down an' get Billie Prince started after 'em. I can go with his posse as a deputy," suggested the ranchman.

  To save Webb's time, Dad rode a few miles with him while the cattleman outlined to him the policy he wanted pursued.

  The sun was high in the heavens when they met, not far from Ten Sleep, a rider. The cattleman looked at him grimly. In the Washington County War just ended, this young fellow had been the leading gunman of the Snaith-McRobert faction. If the current rumors were true he was now making an easy living in the chaparral.

  The rider drew up, nodded a greeting to Wrayburn, and grinned with cool nonchalance at Webb. He knew from report in what esteem he was held by the owner of the Flying V Y brand.

  "Yankie up at the ranch?" he asked.

  "What do you want with him?" demanded Webb brusquely.

  "I got a message for him."

  "Who from?"

  Clanton was conscious of some irritation against this sharp catechism. In point of fact Billie Prince had asked him to notify Yankie that he had heard of the rustling on the berrendo and was taking the trail at once. But Go-Get-'Em Jim was the last man in the world to be driven by compulsion. He had been ready to tell Webb the message Billie had given him for Yankie, but he was not ready to tell it until the Missourian moderated his tone.

  "Mebbe that's my business—an' his, Mr. Webb," he said.

  "An' mine too—if you've come to tell him how slick you pulled that trick on the berrendo."

  Jim stiffened at once. "To Halifax with you an' yore cattle, Webb. Do you claim I rustled that bunch of beeves last night?"

  "I see you know all about it?" retorted Webb with heavy sarcasm.

  "Mebbeso. I'm not askin' yore permission to live—not just yet."

  Webb flushed dark with anger. "You've got a nerve, young fellow, to go up to my ranch after last night's business. Unless you want to have yore pelt hung up to dry, keep away from any of the Flying V Y ranges. As for Yankie, if you go back to yore hole you'll likely find him. I kicked the hound out two hours ago."

  "Like you did me three years ago," suggested Clanton, looking straight at the grizzled cowman. "Webb, you're the high mogul here since you fixed it up with the Government to send its cavalry to back yore play against our faction. You act like we've got to knock our heads in the dust three times when
we meet up with you. Don't you think it. Don't you think it for a minute. If I've rustled yore cattle, prove it. Until then padlock yore tongue, or you an' me'll mix it."

  "You're threatenin' me, eh?"

  "If that's what you want to call it."

  "You're a killer, I'm told," flashed back Webb hotly. "Now listen to me. You an' yore kind belong in the penitentiary, an' that's where the honest folks of Washington County are goin' to send you soon. Give me half a chance an' I'll offer a reward of ten thousand dollars for you alive or dead. That's the way to get rid of gunmen."

  "Is it?" Clanton laughed mockingly. "You advise the fellow that tries to collect that reward to get his life insured heavy for his widow."

  If this was a boast, it was also a warning. Jimmie-Go-Get-'Em may not have been the best target shot on the border, but give him a man behind a spitting revolver as his mark and he could throw bullets with swifter, deadlier accuracy than any old-timer of them all. He did not take the time to aim; it was enough for him to look at his opponent as he fired.

  The young fellow swung his horse expertly and cantered into the mesquite.

  "I'll give you two months before you're wiped off the map," the cattleman called after him angrily.

  At the edge of a heavy growth of brush Clanton pulled up, flashed a six-shooter, and dropped two bullets in the dust at the feet of the horses in the road. Then, with a wave of his hand, he laughed derisively and plunged into the chaparral.

  Webb, stung to irritable action, fired into the cholla and the arrowweed thickets. Shot after shot he sent at the man who had disappeared in the maze.

  "Let him go. Homer. You're well quit of him," urged Wrayburn.

  The words were still on his lips when out of the dense tangle of vegetation rang a shot. The owner of the Flying VY clutched at his saddle-horn. A spasmodic shudder shook the heavy body and it began to sink.

  Wrayburn ran to help. He was in time to catch his friend as he fell, but before he could lower the inert weight to the ground the life of Homer Webb had flickered out.

  Chapter XXIV

  Jimmie-Go-Get-'Em Leaves a Note

  Prince and his posse were camped in a little park near the headquarters of Saco de Oro Creek when a trapper brought word to Billie of the death of Webb. The heart of the young sheriff sank at the news. It was not only that he had always liked and admired the bluff cattleman. What shocked him more was that Jim Clanton had killed him. Webb was one of the most popular ranchmen on the river. There would be an instant, widespread demand for the arrest and conviction of his slayer. Billie had taken an oath to uphold the law. His clear duty was to go out and capture Jim alive or dead.

  Not for a moment did Billie doubt what he would do. He had pledged himself to blot out the "bad man," and he would go through no matter what the cost to his personal feelings.

  A slow anger at Clanton burned in him. Why had he done this wanton and lawless thing? The boy he had known three years ago would never have shot down from cover a man like Webb. That he could have done it now marked the progress of the deterioration of his moral fiber. What right had he to ask those who remained loyal to him to sacrifice so often their sense of right in his favor?

  The old intimacy between Billie and Jim had long since waned. They were traveling different roads these days. But though they were no longer chums their friendship endured. When they met, a warm affection lit the eyes of both. It had survived the tug of diverse interests, the intervention of long separations, the conflict born of the love of women. Would it stand without breaking this new test of its strength?

  With a little nod to Goodheart the sheriff retired from the camp-fire.

  His deputy joined him presently on a hillside overlooking the creek.

  "I'm goin' back to Live-Oaks to-night, Jack," announced Prince. "You'd better stay here a few days an' hunt through these gulches. Since that rain yesterday there's not one chance in fifty of runnin' down the rustlers, but you might happen to stumble on the place where they've got the cattle cached."

  "You're goin' down about this Webb murder?"

  "Yes. I'm goin' to work out some plans. It will take some strategy to land Clanton. He's lived out in the hills for years and he knows every foot of cover in the country."

  Goodheart assented. To go blindly out into the mesquite after the young outlaw would have been as futile as to reach a hand toward the stars with the hope of plucking a gold-piece from the air.

  "Watch the men he trains with. Keep an eye on the Elephant Corral an' check up on him when he rides in to Los Portales. Spot the tendejon at Point o' Rocks where he has a hang-out. Unless he has left the country he'll show up one of these days."

  "That's what I think, Jack, an' I'm confident he hasn't gone. He has a reason for stayin' here."

  Goodheart could have put a name to the reason. It was a fair enough reason to have held either him or the sheriff under the same circumstances.

  "How about a reward? He trains with a crowd I'd hate to trust farther than I could throw a bull by the tail. Some of 'em would sell their own mothers for gold."

  "I'll get in touch with Webb's family an' see if they won't offer a big reward for information leading to the arrest of the murderer."

  Within the week every crossroads store in the county had tacked to it a placard offering a reward of five thousand dollars for the man who had killed Homer Webb.

  No applications for it came in at first.

  "Wait," said Goodheart, smiling. "More than one yellow dog has licked its jaws hungrily before that poster. Some dark night the yellowest one will sneak in here to see you."

  On the main street of Los Portales one evening Billie met Pauline

  Roubideau. She came at him with a direct frontal attack.

  "I've had a letter from Jim Clanton."

  The sheriff did not ask her where it was post-marked. He did not want any information from Polly as to the whereabouts of her friend.

  "You're one ahead of me then. I haven't," answered Prince.

  "He says he didn't do it."

  "Do what?"

  "Shoot Mr. Webb. And I know he didn't if he says he didn't."

  The grave eyes of the young man met hers. "But Dad Wrayburn was there. He saw the whole affair."

  Pauline brushed this aside with superb faith. "I don't care. Jim never lied to me in his life. I know he didn't do it—and it makes me so glad."

  The young man envied her the faith that could reject evidence as though it did not exist. The Jim Clanton she had once known would not have lied to her. Therefore the Jim Clanton she knew now was worthy of perfect trust. If there was any flaw in that logic the sweet and gallant heart of the girl did not find it.

  But Billie had talked with Dad Wrayburn. He had ridden out and gone over the ground with a fine-tooth comb. Webb had been killed by a bullet from a forty-four. Of his own knowledge Prince knew that Clanton was carrying a weapon of this caliber only three hours before the killing. There was no escape from the conviction of the guilt of his friend.

  The sheriff walked back to the hotel where he was staying. On the way his mind was full of the young woman he had just left. He had never liked her better, never admired her more. But, somehow—and for the first time he realized it—there was no longer any sting in the thought of her. He did not have to fight against any unworthy jealousy because of her interest in Clanton. Of late he had been very busy. It struck him now that his mind had been much less preoccupied with the thought of her than it used to be. He supposed there was such a thing as falling out of love. Perhaps he was in process of doing that now.

  Bud Proctor, a tall young stripling, met Prince on the porch of the hotel.

  "Buck Sanders was here to see you, sheriff," the boy said.

  Since the days when he had been segundo of the Snaith-McRobert outfit Sanders had declined in the world. Like many of his kind he had taken to drink, become bitten with the desire to get rich without working, and operated inconspicuously in the chaparral with a branding iron. Much wate
r had poured down the bed of the Pecos in the past three years. The disagreement between him and Clanton had long since been patched up and they had lately been together a great deal.

  Prince went up to his room, threw off his coat, and began to prepare some papers he had to send to the Governor. He was interrupted by a knock at the door.

  Sanders opened at the sheriff's invitation, shoved in his head, looked around the room warily, and sidled in furtively. He closed the door.

  "Mind if I lock it?" he asked.

  The sheriff nodded. His eyes fixed themselves intently on the man. "Go as far as you like."

  The visitor hung his hat over the keyhole and moved forward to the table.

  His close-set eyes gripped those of the sheriff.

  "What about this reward stuff?" he asked harshly.

  An instant resentment surged up in Billie's heart. He knew now why this fellow had come to see him secretly. It was his duty to get all the information he could about Clanton. He had to deal with this man who wanted to sell his comrade, but he did not relish the business.

  "You can read, can't you, Sanders?" he asked ungraciously.

  "Where's the money?" snarled his guest.

  "It's in the bank."

  "Sure?"

  From his pocket-book Billie took a bank deposit slip. He put it on the table where the other man could look it over.

  "Would a man have to wait for the reward until Clanton was convicted?" the traitor asked roughly.

  "A thousand would be paid as soon as the arrest was made, the rest when he was convicted," said Prince coldly.

  "Will you put that in writin', Mr. Sheriff?"

  The chill eyes of the officer drilled into those of the rustler. He drew a pad toward him and wrote a few lines, then shoved the tablet of paper toward Sanders. The latter tore off the sheet and put it in his pocket.

  Sanders spoke again, abruptly. "Understand one thing, Prince. I don't have to take part in the arrest. I only tell you where to find him."