The Baylor stray man had been at home, seemingly, on the JM ranch. A little outfit like that would be forced to work out, to earn money riding for other ranches. The meager returns from its own beef would not support it, and to eat its own beef, or to sell them off, would be to destroy all hope of increasing its herd: the steers would be too few in number to depend upon. It had to get outside money to eke out its existence. If it did not work for that money, then it had to obtain it in some other way. How? That was the question. And the answer: theft? Perhaps either theft, or gambling, or both.
He kept on down the trail, the fresh tracks of the five riders plain to be seen. The trail slanted down the arroyo, running along the south slope; and where the arroyo finally opened out, fan-like, the trail crossed over, turned north, and dropped down the benches toward the little frontier town of Bentley.
He came to the cross-over and found that the tracks divided here. Four horses went on toward town, but the fifth had swung to the left, climbed the gently sloping shoulder, and headed up the valley of Crooked Creek. This lone rider, the sheriff thought, must be Slade, returning to his own outfit. What had the man done with his string of horses and his drag of cattle? When the stray man had left the JC wagon he had cut out and driven away all BLR stuff, both horses and cattle. Well, he would get the answer to that question later, and take the chance, now, of being able to find Slade when he wanted him. Right now he was going into town behind the other four horsemen, for he could afford to gamble on Slade, and he suspected that the others would be well worth watching a little.
Bentley had a peace officer, a sleepy-eyed, lazy individual who was very misleading; a shrewd, straight-thinking veteran of the old frontier, devious and wandering in talk, but disconcertingly direct and swift in action when action was needed. Corson had been able to do the marshal a few favors in the line of duty and, naturally enough, expected a few in return, upon demand; but if he could get the information by roundabout means rather than by direct request, he could coyer his plays a little better and save up the demands for later use. It never was wise to shoot all one's cartridges away at one time.
The sheriff pushed past the general store and dismounted before a low, adobe building. This had two rooms, the second and rear of the two being lined with two-inch hardwood planks, and floored with the same. It had one window, now open, which was segmented by iron bars. A sun-bleached, faded sign on the front of the building made a blunt statement: CITY MARSHAL. Across the street the earth sloped upward in a low ridge which shut off the view of the wagon road leading up over Saddlehorn Pass.
Corson swung down from the saddle and entered the small, cool room. The marshal's legs rested on a second chair, the heels of his boots projecting out past the far side of the seat to give clearance for his spurs. He looked up slowly, his sleepy eyes resting casually on his visitor's face.
"Set," he drawled, nodding toward a chair.
Corson obeyed, dropped his hat on the floor, and drew a sleeve across his forehead.
"Cool in here," said the sheriff, relaxing gratefully.
"Y-e-p."
"Town peaceful?" asked the visitor for the sake of making conversation.
"Y-e-p. Th' Baylor wagon's gettin' closer every day, however, an' th' boys'll be driftin' in to raise a little hell; but I'll straighten 'em out if they gets real ornery. It'll be a kinda change for me."
Corson scooped up his hat and arose.
"Well, what I wanted was a drink of water," he said, moving lazily toward a corked jug in the corner. He deftly threw it over his arm and let it gurgle into his mouth. His thirst was no pretense, and he sighed! gratefully as he put the vessel down.
"Ain't in no hurry, are you?" asked the marshal, showing a faint trace of alarm.
"No; not 'specially," answered the sheriff.
"Set down ag'in. You young fellers are allus workin' up a sweat an' a lather."
Corson laughed and sought the chair again. He passed a hand over his forehead, brushing back his hair, and looked at the marshal.
"A feller named Slade was ahead of me on th' trail down Lucas Arroyo," he said, carelessly. "Th' name struck me. Wonder if he's any kin to that Jack Slade that was hanged up in th' Montana gold fields, years back?"
"Don't know; but he's just as pizen," placidly replied the marshal, his eyes lighting up reminiscently. He liked to talk of the old days. "I knowed Jack Slade, knowed him well. His real name was Joe. I was freightin' supplies to th' stage stations when Slade come up from th' lower Platte, an' took holt of th' Rocky Ridge Division. He spent a lot of time at Julesburg, an' disgraced th' Overland at Virginia Dale. I saw him shoot a button off a teamster's overcoat. Brass button, it was. Mite careless he was with th' next shot—on purpose. We buried th' teamster. This here Slade is a whelp of th' same kind, with none of th' other Slade's good p'ints, if any."
"Works for Baylor, don't he?" asked Corson, lazily, and with but little interest.
"Y-e-p. He wouldn't work for me very damn' long," asserted the marshal with a trace of vehemence.
"No?" asked Corson in mild surprise. "Why, he's a good man with cattle. He was one of th' stray men with our wagon."
"Uh-huh. He's too damn' good a hand with cattle," replied the marshal in a growl.
Corson let the ensuing silence continue for some moments, and then he looked up curiously.
"I came over Packers Gap just now," he said. "There's a new ranch up there. I never knew that before."
"Y-e-p," said the marshal. "Been there two, three years. Black Jack Meadows, three sons an' a gal. JM on th' left shoulder, run together. Scrub cattle, an' not too many of them."
"Huh," grunted Corson idly. "Didn't notice none."
"Ain't many to notice. They'd starve to death if they depended on their cattle."
The sheriff's desultory conversation was beginning to show results. He dug up a match and chewed thoughtfully on it.
"Well, I reckon there's plenty of work for 'em all, down in this part of th' country," he said. "Bein' so handy to th' Baylor ranch, I reckon they work there a little."
"Feller would reckon that way," grunted the marshal. He pulled out a stinking corncob and loaded it with straight leaf. The sheriff pushed back his chair to get the benefit of what air might be coming in through the window in the side wall. He knew that combination, and knew it well. He thought that it might possibly serve for a substitute for cattle dip. It stunk enough, anyhow.
"Has Baylor bred up th' size of th' bones of his Whitefaces?" he asked, not caring to crowd too hard along the main track.
"Y-e-p. He never would have had to breed 'em up if he'd a-listened to me, in th' first place," said the marshal.
Corson suddenly leaned forward and looked out of the opposite window.
"There's four riders on JM hosses," he said, carelessly.
"That'll be Black Jack an' his boys," explained the marshal without trying to see the men in question. "Hair-trigger, th' whole lot of 'em. Ornery, an' proud of it. Never show any of 'em yore shoulder blades if you have words with 'em. Which way they headin'?"
"This way."
"Huh! You watch. I'll show you somethin'," growled the marshal, slowly getting off his chair. He jammed the pipe into a pocket, slouched to the door, and stopped there, filling the opening, his spread elbows touching the casings on each side of him. Corson stepped a little forward, where he could see the street and still be vague and indistinct in the poor light of the room.
The four horsemen came steadily down the street at a walk, and as they neared the marshal's office the leader glanced at the occupied door, said something out of the side of his mouth, and the group forthwith spread out. They came steadily on, four pairs of keen eyes on that door opening. As they went past, their heads slowly turned to keep that door in sight, and it was not long before they had to shift in their saddles to keep it within their vision.
The marshal spat forcibly and contemptuously into the street and pushed back into the room, smiling significantly at his alert and sur
prised visitor.
"There," he said, lazily seating himself again. "Told you I'd show you somethin'." He nodded slowly and pulled the pipe out of his pocket. "That Slade hombre is a right close friend of theirs."
"They shore don't like you," said the sheriff with emphasis.
"Well, we're even up, on that," grunted the marshal, grimly.
"But how do they make a livin'?" asked the sheriff, showing a little interest now. After what had happened and had been said, he could show interest without exposing any part of his cards. It would naturally grow from what had gone on before.
"Re-mittance," grunted his companion. "Th' old man gets a check four times a year from th' East. He hands it over to th' general store an' draws supplies ag'in it."
Corson was picturing the physical appearance of the four riders.
"None of 'em are what you might call big men," he said.
"Downright runty," grunted the marshal; "but a side-winder is a kinda runty rattler. Unexpected reptile, too, throwin' hisself along like he does. But he shore is pizen an' mean. You busy sheriffin', these days?"
"Oh, I have a writ or two to serve," answered Corson, smiling. "Our cook said that sheriffin' was all paper work these days. Not like it used to be, when it was mostly lead an' powder smoke."
"Huh!" grunted the marshal. "Swear him in an' give him a badge. He might have to change his mind," said the town officer, his sleepy eyes on the younger man's face. He, the marshal, was no fool. In his generation, out in that country, fools usually died young; and not only was he still alive, but his age was respectable. So the sheriff rode over Packers Gap, did he? He saw Slade leave Lucas Arroyo, and then came into town almost in the dust of Black Jack Meadows and his boys. There was a lot of spread-out deviltry going on out on the ranges, if he knew anything; and he knew that Bob Corson was nobody's fool. Paper work? Hell!
"Many mavericks this round-up?" asked the marshal, after a short pause, his close-lidded eyes on the younger man's face.
"Why, yes. I reckon so."
"Old uns?" persisted the marshal.
"Why, no; not as many old ones as you might think," slowly answered Corson.
"You ever know prices for improved yearlin' steers to be any higher than they are right now?" hammered the marshal.
Corson thought for a moment and then shook his head.
"No. I can't say that I ever have."
"Most of th' improved stock all over th' West was built up from Hereford sires, warn't it?" demanded the marshal.
"No. I wouldn't go anywhere near that far," replied Corson; "but an awful lot of them were while th' Hereford craze was on, an' that's 'specially so in th' southern part of th' cow country. Herefords didn't do so good, up North."
"All right: we're comin' to some of that," said the marshal. "An' what happened to 'em, th' Hereford range-bred crosses?"
"They seemed to get lighter in th' bones," answered the sheriff.
"Y-e-p. They didn't just seem to, but they did. It'll take time to bring back th' weight, won't it?"
"Not so long if they use Angus or Durham," replied Corson. "Th' BLR are near back to weight, right now."
"Y-e-p. Heavy yearlin's will be worth more money every day they grow, won't they?"
"That's true of all cattle under four years old."
"Y-e-p, it is," admitted the marshal, and then abruptly switched the lead. "Some brands can't be changed right handy," he said.
"I've been changin' brands in my mind for th' last few days," replied Corson, frowning. "Two of 'em can't be changed into anythin' reasonable, an' th' others won't change right."
"You get any idears from that?"
"Too damn' many," growled the sheriff. He moved toward the door. "Will th' storekeeper talk to me?"
"Depends considerable on th' subject," answered the marshal. "He'll talk to me, though."
"I'd like to know th' size of that quarterly check that Black Jack Meadows gets."
"Two hundred an' twenty-five dollars, even," said the marshal. "That's six per cent on fifteen thousan'. Took me near a hull evenin' to get that figgered out, but I stayed with it."
"You reckon it's a trust fund?" asked Corson.
"What's that? What you mean?"
"I'm wonderin' if he owns th' fifteen thousan', or only th' interest on it," explained the sheriff.
"Don't know; but what difference does it make, anyhow?"
"Considerable," replied the sheriff. "He could get started in buildin' up quite a little ranch if he owned th' principal, an' make more than six per cent on it."
"Y-e-p; he could," admitted the marshal. "Well, that's what money he gets an' spends."
"An' it seems to be enough to take care of that family, if they're thrifty. They'll get some returns from their cattle."
"Y-e-p: smokin'-tobacco money," grunted the marshal. "You want to go over to th' store?"
"Not now," answered the sheriff. "I'm ridin' on. I want to see Baylor, or his straw boss."
"Their wagon's up on Crooked Creek, halfway between here an' Iron Springs," volunteered the marshal.
"All right," said the sheriff, nodding, and stepping through the doorway.
The marshal grunted and loafed after his visitor.
"There's lots of money a-passin' acrost th' gamblin' tables in this town," he said. "More'n I ever saw before."
"Well, that's worth knowin'," said the sheriff, swinging into his saddle. He nodded thoughtfully. "Well worth knowin'," he repeated. "Anythin' else you want to say?"
"Well," drawled the marshal, "I might say that gal's all right, but I wouldn't nest up with no family of side-winders. They're runty, but damn' deadly."
Corson looked down into the inscrutable old face and into the sleepy eyes, and found that the eyes had become blank. He also found that he had nothing to say, and he smiled, nodded, and rode away.
CHAPTER VII
CORSON rode at a lope along the Crooked Creek trail, looking to the right and left, but mostly to the left, at the great ridge dividing the watershed of the creek from that of the Kiowa; at the ridge whereon the JM was located. It was wild, rough country, with steep pitches, sheer walls, a tangle of brush and scrub, and twisting arroyos and deep, hidden draws. It was ideal country for the hiding of stolen cattle; but on that score the Bar W outfit had swept the Kiowa side, and the BLR had cleaned up the cattle on the western slopes, and turned them back again, notched and branded. Under these circumstances, no herd of stolen cattle could have escaped unseen.
Suddenly he realized that he was hungry and that it was well past noon, three hours past it, to be more exact. He had not touched the rations given him by the Bar W cook; and he would not touch them now. It would be better to eat hot food at the Baylor wagon.
He soon came to the ruins of an old trading post, destroyed years before by raiding Comanche warriors. Its adobe walls still stood above his head in several places, but the fallen roof had long since disappeared except for piles of broken adobe that showed how it had been torn apart for the sake of the firewood its long poles had provided. As he was about to ride past the ruins a vicious hum near his ear made him duck swiftly and slip from the saddle. Slade?
He quickly led the horse under the protection of the highest part of the wall, and then slipped along the base of it, heavy rifle in hand. The belated report of the shot had been faint and flat, and had come from the west, from the direction of the hard, flinty, Dry Arroyo country, where tracking would be difficult, and the possibilities for ambush without number. If Slade had fired that shot, he could get a fairly good line on him at the BLR wagon.
Corson crawled between the base of the wall and a pile of ruined adobe bricks, and a second shot showered him with dust. A third spanged from the top of the wall and whined into the sky. The lead was nearly spent, for it had travelled a long way before striking. The shots had come from three widely different points. Corson wriggled backward, around a corner, and smiled grimly. There should be a fourth, and if there was, it would tell him a great deal. Ther
e was a fourth, but it came from the direction of the first, and therefore told him nothing of value.
Was the fourth man present, holed up in another direction, in the direction which the sheriff would be expected to choose if he made up his mind to ride for it? Those shots had been fired at very long range, but they had come close enough, at that. They tended to awaken respect for the marksmen. If there was a fourth man, holding his fire, he likely enough would be the best shot of the gang, picked out to down the quarry when it had been driven his way.
Corson led his horse inside the rectangle. If they got the horse they would have a deadly advantage; and they had advantage enough now, considering the odds. This would be a good time to eat some of the Bar W cook's food; be damned to them! He'd eat hot grub at the Baylor wagon!
He cautiously slid his rifle out through a gap in the wall where a window once had been. Instantly another shot smacked into the adobe, not a foot from his head, and showered him with clay; but he saw no smoke, and he had been looking for that. These were black-powder days, and smoke should have been discernible. The marksman must have fired through a small opening in a heavy screen of brush and stood well back from the screen when he did so. Well, there were plenty of dry washes and draws over there whose banks were fringed with just such sort of screens. Another thought came to him: these men were using field glasses or telescopes on their rifles.
Why had they fired at such long range, when the odds were so great against making a hit? Because, perhaps, in failing to hit him, they might cripple the horse. Why had they taken cover so far from the trail, when they could have ridden in to the ruins of the old post and shot him down at point-blank range?
Why? He grunted. Was it because they had just then come up even with him? Was it because they had ridden out of Bentley the wrong way, had to circle, and then overcome the opposition of rough country while he had been loping along a level trail? It was a reasonable explanation, anyhow. He had seen Black Jack and his boys ride out of town toward the north.
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