“Do you-all mean to say that you drink this stuff, as sick as you are? You can have it if you insist, but I tell you you’ll be dead by sundown if you drink it! Sure and you ought to be ashamed of yourself, lyin’ in bed and soakin’ with brandy, right on the ragged edge of the tomb! That Mexican coyote ought to be shot as full of holes as a pepper box for keepin’ this stuff in the room, and I’ll do it when he comes back! I’ve taken a notion to you-all, and I’m goin’ to carry you off on my horse to Emerson’s ranch and make a well man of you. But you must sure let brandy and whisky alone, I’ll tell you that right now! And I’ll put this out of your sight, so it won’t be a temptation to you. I’ll drink it myself, just to save your life!”
He poured the glass full and drank it off without a breath. Then he began to lecture the thoroughly frightened invalid on the evil results of too much indulgence in strong drink. “Look at me!” he solemnly exclaimed. “I used to drink just as bad as you do, and where did it bring me! Yes, sir! I’ve had feathers enough in my time to make me a good bed, but I scattered and wasted ’em all with whisky and brandy, just as you’re doin’ now, and here I am a-layin’ on the hard ground! But I’ve quit! No, sirree! I don’t drink another drop, unless it’s to save a friend, same as I’m drinkin’ this.”
When the Mexican nurse returned he found his patient fainting from fright, and a very drunken man solemnly marching up and down the room, flourishing an empty flask and uttering incoherent remarks about the evils of strong drink and the certainty of death.
“I’ve saved him!” Nick proudly exclaimed to the Mexican. “I’ve saved his life! He’d ’a’ been drunk as I am, and dead, too, if I hadn’t drunk all the brandy myself! I didn’t let him touch a drop!”
The nurse pitched him out of the room and locked the door behind him, and he, after a dazed stare, stalked off indignantly to the front entrance. A Chinaman was passing by, with placid face, folded arms and long queue flopping in the wind. Ellhorn grabbed the queue with a drunken shout. The man yelled from sudden fright, and started off on the run with Ellhorn hanging on to the braid, shouting, his spurs clicking and his revolver flapping at his side. Nick’s yells and the Chinaman’s frightened screams filled the street with noise and brought people running to see what was happening. Ellhorn whipped out his knife and cut off the queue at the Chinaman’s neck, and the man, feeling the sudden release from the grip of the “white devil” behind him, ran with flying leaps down the street and at the end of the block banged against Jim Halliday, himself running to learn the cause of the uproar. The Chinaman knew Halliday’s office, and with wild gestures and screaming chatter demanded that he should go back and arrest the man who had despoiled him of his dearest possession. Halliday, guessing that his enemy was too drunk to offer much resistance, hastened at once to the task, and in five minutes Nick Ellhorn was locked in the jail.
Emerson Mead at once went to work to get his friend out on bail. He saw the sheriff, John Daniels, go into the White Horse saloon and hurried after him. As they stood facing each other, leaning against the bar and talking earnestly, Mead saw Daniels flash a look of intelligence and nod his head slightly to some one who had entered from a back room toward which Emerson’s back was turned. Instinctively he reached for his gun, and Jim Halliday grabbed his right wrist with both hands while John Daniels seized his left. With the first touch of their fingers, the remembrance flashed through his brain that he had left his revolver on the table in his room. He would have thought it as impossible to forget that as to forget his trousers, but the thing was done, and here was the result. He shrugged his shoulders and said quietly:
“You’ve caught me unarmed, boys. I’m at your service—this time.”
They looked at him in doubting surprise. To catch Emerson Mead unarmed seemed a most unlikely fairy tale. The two men held his arms and Daniels called a third to search him. Mead flushed and bit his lip.
“I’m not used to having my word doubted,” he said, “but I can’t blame you for doubting it this time. I can hardly believe it myself. Jim, you’ve struck just the one chance in a thousand years.”
Halliday laughed. “Well, I’ve been lucky twice to-day, and I reckon I haven’t worn out the run yet.”
Mead smiled indulgently down from his superior height, and said: “Work it while it runs, Jim; work it while it runs. You can have your innings now, but mine won’t be long coming.”
“Well, you won’t have any chance to get yourself hauled over the back wall this time, I’ll tell you that right now.”
They hurried their prisoner off to jail, and in a few minutes he also was locked behind thick adobe walls.
* * *
CHAPTER XII
Albert Wellesly never made a new investment, nor allowed any change to be made in property in which he was interested, without first making a thorough personal inspection. For that reason he spent a number of busy days at the ranch, near the close of the round-up, inspecting the range and debating with Colonel Whittaker whether it would be better to enlarge it or to run the risk of overstocking by increasing the number of cattle on the land which they already held. They decided that if they could get control of certain springs and surrounding ranges, especially Emerson Mead’s Alamo and Cienega springs and another belonging to McAlvin, which joined the range they already held, it would be exactly what they needed.
“These water holes would be worth a lot to us,” said Colonel Whittaker, “but it would be just like these contrary cusses to refuse to sell at any price, especially to us.”
“Then they’ll have to be persuaded,” Wellesly replied.
It was necessary for Colonel Whittaker to return to Las Plumas before they had quite finished their inspection, and Wellesly decided to remain a little longer and go back to town alone. Whittaker hesitated over the arrangement, for he knew that Wellesly had neither the instinct nor the training of the plainsman, and that he was unusually deficient in that sense of direction which is the traveler’s best pilot over monotonous levels and rolling hills.
“Do you think you can find your way?” he said. “One of the boys can guide you over the range, and when you start back to town, unless you are perfectly sure of yourself, you’d better have him go with you, as far as Muletown, at least.”
“Oh, I’ll have no trouble about getting back,” Wellesly replied. “It’s a perfectly plain, straight road all the way, and all I’ll have to do will be to follow the main track. I’ll stay here two days longer and I’ll take two days for the trip to town. You can expect me—this is Monday—some time Thursday afternoon.”
The misadventure of Nick Ellhorn, which landed both him and Emerson Mead in jail, was on Tuesday afternoon, and it was early the next morning that Albert Wellesly left the ranch house and rode down through the foothills. He decided that the horse knew more about the road than he did, and would do just as well if left to its own guidance. So he let the reins lie loosely on its neck and, forgetful of his surroundings, was soon absorbed in a consideration of the problems of the cattle ranch. Well down toward the plain the road forked, one branch turning sharply to the right and the other to the left. The horse which he rode had, until recently, belonged to Emerson Mead, from whom the Fillmore Company had bought it. Left to its own will, at the forks it chose the left hand branch and cantered contentedly on over rising foothills. Wellesly’s thoughts turned from the ranch to other business ventures in which he was interested. It was a long time and the horse had covered much ground before he finally looked about him to take his bearings and consider his progress. Looking at his watch he thought he ought to be well down in the plain toward Muletown, and wondered that he was still among the foothills. He had an uneasy feeling that there was something wrong, but he said to himself that he had followed the straight road all the way and that therefore it must be all right. At any rate, it would be foolish not to go straight ahead until he should meet some one from whom he could ask directions. So he rode on and on and the sun rose higher and higher, and nowhere was there
sign of human being. But at last he saw in the distance a splotch of green trees through which shone whitewashed walls. And presently he was hallooing in front of Emerson Mead’s ranch house.
A thick-set, elderly man, with a round, smooth, pleasant face, out of which shrewdly looked small dark eyes, came out to see what was wanted. In his knocking around the world Billy Haney had kept fast hold of two principles. One was to find out all that he could about any stranger whom he chanced to meet, and the other, never to tell that stranger anything about himself that was true. In response to Wellesly’s question, Haney told him that he was far off the road to Las Plumas, and then by means of two or three shrewd, roundabout questions and suggestions, he brought out enough information to enable him to guess who his visitor was. He knew about Wellesly’s connection with the cattle company and his recent presence at the ranch, and the man’s personal appearance had been described to him by Mead and Ellhorn. So he felt very sure of his ground when he shortly surprised the traveler by addressing him by name. Then he told Wellesly that his own name was Mullford, which was the name of a man who owned a cattle range much farther to the south and who had not been engaged in the recent trouble over the round-up. He represented himself as the owner of the place and said that he had been engaged in the cattle business ten years, but that he was not pleased with it and intended to pull out within the next year. It was nearly noon and he insisted that Wellesly should stay to dinner. An idea was dawning in his brain and he wanted time to consider it.
A hammock hung in the shade of the cottonwoods, where the breeze blew cool and refreshing, and he invited Wellesly to stretch himself there until dinner should be ready. A vaquero took his horse to the stable and Wellesly threw himself into the hammock and looked up into the green thickets of the trees with a soul-satisfying sense of relief and comfort. His revolver in his hip pocket interfered with his ease and he took it out and laid it on a chair beside the hammock. Then he pulled his hat over his eyes and in five minutes was asleep.
There was only one vaquero at the ranch house, and he and Billy Haney and Wellesly were the only human beings within many miles. When the cow-boy had taken care of Wellesly’s horse Haney called him into the kitchen. The man was tall and sinewy, with a hatchet face, a thin-lipped mouth and a sharp chin.
“Jim,” said Haney, “I’ve got a scheme in my ’ead about that man, and I think there’ll be lots of money in it. Do you want to come in?”
“What’ll it be worth to me?”
“If there’s anything in it, there’ll be a big pile and we’ll go ’alf and ’alf, and if there isn’t—well, of course there’s chances to be took in everything.”
“What’ll it cost?”
“Some work and some nerve, and then a quick scoot.”
“All right, Billy. What’s your play?”
When they had finished their planning Haney walked softly toward the hammock. A gentle snore from beneath the hat told him that Wellesly was sleeping quietly. He took the revolver from the chair, removed the cartridges from the six chambers and put it back in the same position. Then he walked around to the other side of the sleeper and called him in a hearty tone. Wellesly rose yawning, and they started toward the house for luncheon.
“You’ve forgotten your revolver, sir,” said Billy.
“So I have! I’m not accustomed to carrying the thing, and if you had not reminded me I probably wouldn’t have thought of it again for a week. I don’t believe it is necessary to carry one, anyway, but my friend, Colonel Whittaker, insisted that I should do so.”
“You never know when you’ll need one down in this country,” Haney replied, with a sad shake of the head. “It’s pretty tough, I can tell you. There’s that Emerson Mead outfit. They’re the worst in the southwest. You’d need your gun if you should meet any of them.”
“Yes, our company has had very serious and very sad experience with them.”
“Ah, yes! Poor young Whittaker! I ’eard about ’is death. That was the wickedest thing they’ve ever dared to do. Most everybody in this country ’as lost cattle by them and we’d all be glad to see ’em driven out.”
“They belong to that class of cattlemen,” Wellesly replied, “who start in the business with one old steer and a branding iron, and then let nature take its course.”
Haney laughed uproariously and when he could speak added: “Yes, and in three years they ’ave bigger ’erds than any of their neighbors. You’re right, sir, and the sooner the country gets rid of such men the better. I don’t think, Mr. Wellesly, it’s safe for you to ride alone where you are likely to meet any of that outfit. You know the feeling they ’ave for your company, and what they did for young Will, poor boy, they’d do for you if they got the chance. I’ve got business out your way, over at Muletown, and if you don’t mind I’ll ride along with you that far. That will put you on the right road and if we should meet any of the Mead outfit they wouldn’t be so likely to shoot as if you were alone.”
“All right, Mr. Mullford, I’ll be very glad of your company. I’m no plainsman, and it is the easiest thing in the world for me to get lost out here among the mesquite and sagebrush, where the country all looks alike. I suppose I have about the least sense of direction of any man who ever tried to find his way across a plain alone.”
“You needn’t worry about that now. Just leave it to me and I’ll get you to Muletown by the shortest route. I know all this country thoroughly, every cow-path and water ’ole in it, and you couldn’t lose me if you tried. You needn’t think about the road again this afternoon.”
Haney buckled on a full cartridge belt and a revolver, put a pair of saddle bags with a big canteen of water in each side over his horse, slung a rifle on one side of his saddle, and they started off along a slightly beaten road straight toward the southeast. Wellesly asked Haney if he were sure they were going in the right direction, and Haney assured him that it was all right and chaffed him a little that he so easily lost the points of the compass. In the distance, a mile or so ahead of them, they saw a man on horseback leading another horse which carried a pack. When Wellesly again said that he did not understand how he could be so entirely at sea, Haney suggested that they overtake this traveler and get his assurance in the matter. They galloped up beside him and called out a friendly hail. It was Jim, the vaquero from Mead’s ranch, but he and Haney looked at each other as if they had never met before. He assured Wellesly that they were certainly on the road which led to Las Plumas by the way of Muletown, that he knew it perfectly well, having traveled it many times, and that he himself was going past Muletown to the Hermosa mountains.
“You see,” he explained, “Muletown ain’t on the straight line between here and Las Plumas. It’s away off to one side and you have to go quite a ways around to get there. That’s what has mixed you up so, stranger. The road has to go past Muletown, because it’s the only place on the plain where there’s water.”
“Well,” said Wellesly, “since you both say so, it must be all right. The joke is on me, gentlemen.” He took a flask from his breast pocket. “There isn’t much left in this bottle, but as far as it will go, I acknowledge the corn.”
The men each took a drink, Wellesly finished the liquor and threw the empty flask on a sandheap beside the road. Light clouds had risen, so that the sun and all the western sky were obscured and there were no shadows to suggest to him that they were going east instead of west. They were nearing a depression in the Fernandez mountains. Haney pointed to it, saying:
“When we get there we can show you just the lay of the land.”
They passed through the break and a barren plain lay spread out before them bounded by precipitous mountains which swerved on either hand toward the range in which they were riding.
“That,” said Haney, “is the Fernandez plain. You remember crossing that, surely?” Wellesly nodded. “And the mountains over there,” Haney went on, “are the ’Ermosas.”
“The range just this side of Las Plumas,” said Wellesly. “Ye
s, I am getting my bearings now.”
“I’m going prospecting in them mountains,” said Jim. “I’m satisfied there’s heaps of gold there. I’m going up into that canyon you see at the foot of that big peak. I was in there two weeks ago and I found quartz that was just lousy with gold. You fellows better break away and come along with me. I’ll bet you can’t make more money anywhere else.”
“I don’t care to go prospecting,” said Wellesly, “but if you make a good strike, and develop it enough to show what it is, I’ll engage to sell it for you.”
“Good enough! It’s a bargain!” Jim cried. “Just give me your address, stranger, so I’ll know where to dig you up when I need you.”
Wellesly handed his card and Jim carefully put it away in his pocketbook.
Haney laughed jovially. “You may count me out, pard, on any of that sort of business. I’ve blowed all the money into this damn country that I want to. You’ll never get anything out of it but ’orned toads and rattlesnakes and ‘bad men’ as long as it lasts. If I can pull out ’alf I’ve planted ’ere I’ll skip, and think I’m lucky to get out with a whole skin.”
They trotted across the dry, hot, barren levels of the desert into which they had descended, seeing nowhere the least sign of human life. The faintly beaten track of the road stretched out in front of them in an almost straight line across the gray sand between interminable clumps of cactus and frowsy, wilted sagebrush. Bunches of yellow, withered grass cropped out of the earth here and there. But even these forlorn caricatures of vegetation gave up and stayed their feet on the edges of frequent alkali flats, where the white, powdery dust covered the sand and dealt death to any herbage that ventured within its domain. Hot, parched, forbidding, the desert grew more and more desolate as they proceeded. To Wellesly there was an awe-inspiring menace in its dry, bleaching, monotonous levels. He felt more keenly than ever his own helplessness in such a situation and congratulated himself on having fallen in with his two guides. He wondered that the plain had not impressed him more deeply with its desolation and barrenness when he came out to the ranch. But he had no doubt of the ability and good faith of his two companions and he drew his horse a little nearer to them and said:
With Hoops of Steel Page 9