"Gals shore do make a hell of a fuss on a range," grunted the marshal.
"Yeah? Well, that ain't no call for you to make a jackass outa yoreself!" snapped the sheriff. "Girls ain't got nothin' to do with it. You know why I want 'em loose: I just told you!"
"Y-e-p, you did," said the marshal, placidly. "You shouldn't go on th' prod so early in th' mornin'. It'll mebby spoil th' day. Besides, I don't blame you, not a mite. You shore got one hell of a mean job on yore hands; but don't you pull leather, son."
"Don't aim to," retorted Corson, sharply. "If I can get my puzzles solved, an' it works out that Black Jack Meadows an' his boys are mixed up in any deviltry, there ain't no woman on earth that can save 'em from gettin' what they deserve. But there ain't nothin' to stop me from quittin' my job th' very next minute, is there?"
"Don't see that there'd be any reason to quit it then," drawled the marshal, slowly. "What you want me to do with Denver Joe?"
"Put him under arrest an' hold him for th' fall term, on a charge of attempted murder!"
"I've already done it," said the marshal pleasantly. "That's why I'm up so damn' early. Did it before breakfast. I knowed that if you didn't want him, I did. I've had my eye on Denver for two, three months; but he was as slick as a greasy fryin' pan. Now he's where he belongs; an' I got three less to worry about, with him in jail an' his pardners dead."
Corson swung up into the saddle.
"See you again some day," he said, waving a hand.
"I got more ridin' to do; an' if it don't pan out better than th' last I did, I'll be guessin' even more than I am now: an' that's shore aplenty."
"You'll rope it, throw it, an' tie it; an' you'll put yore mark on it, if you just keep workin' at it," said the marshal, slowly stepping back. He cocked an eye upward, weighing something in his mind, and he was about to speak, but checked himself in time. He wondered if the sheriff knew of the step-relationship in the Meadows family. He had not been asked any questions, and what he had in mind would not help the county officer in his official duties, would not help him unravel the tangle. He compromised with himself. "I wouldn't do personal worryin', sheriff."
"I'm not!" snapped the man in the saddle, missing the marshal's thought by a mile or two and putting an entirely different and very unjust misinterpretation on the words. A cloud of dust marked where his horse had stood, and the marshal hurriedly stepped back a little farther to get out of it. A grin slowly came to his face, and he shook his head and chuckled.
The town was more than a mile behind him before Corson's temper simmered down enough to let him realize that he was not in a horse race, and he pulled the horse down to its regular trail lope. By God, he'd show them! He'd show them all! He'd show them that he'd get to the bottom of this mystery, Black Jack or no Black Jack, no matter where the lightning struck. No matter if he lost the most precious thing that had ever come into his life. If Black Jack and his boys were guilty of rustling, then Black Jack and his boys would pay for it, no matter what it might cost him.
Lucas Arroyo was opening up on his left, and he sent the horse along the lesser trail. Bench after bench was put behind him, and steadily the hills drew closer together. His mind was a torment of deduction and conjecture as it struggled to put into some sort of order the various factors of the problem before it; as it shifted the discrete pieces about into one pattern after another, and none of them complete. He was so preoccupied that he did not consciously hear the beat of the shod hoofs of his horse or the echoing clatter from the arroyo walls.
The little side draw lay ahead, and he slowed the horse, controlling his own almost breathless eagerness. The little trail up the draw steadily extended itself. The corral gate came into sight, and then the upper part of the adobe house and the top of the door. The door was closed. He slowed the horse still more, hoping against hope, until it moved at a snail's pace, but the door did not open. And then the shoulder of the arroyo pushed slowly toward him, and moved like a curtain across the front of the little adobe shack, wiping it from his sight as a sponge wipes figures from a slate.
The rider found himself slumped forward in the saddle. She was a Meadows, of course, daughter of Black Jack, and the sister of his sons. He stiffened and sat erect in a sudden burst of anger and defiance. A man was a fool ever to allow himself to be hurt like this, a blind, silly fool; and a man was a fool to consider anything but the job on hand. He had known now for several days that the time would certainly come when she would have to make her choice, but he had hoped, foolishly, that it would be deferred until the last, cruel instant. A man was also a fool to temporize. All right: she had made her choice, and he would have to abide by it—and God help Black Jack Meadows and his side-winder sons if he could connect them with rustling! And he would do that very thing if the connection existed.
The agonized bay leaped convulsively from the cutting roll of the spurs, pitched sideways, sunfished, and then buck-jumped stiff-leggedly. Corson fought it savagely, realized after a few moments that it was himself and not the horse who was at fault, and gradually pacified the animal. And from that time on, until he came to the first crossing of the Kiowa, he was unconscious of everything but his own angry, bitter thoughts.
The door had not opened. She had made her choice. A dull, apathetic, leaden-hearted horseman rode down the Kiowa trail, instinctively left it at the proper place without realizing it, and found himself nearing the little hamlet of Willow Springs. He thought of the Cheyenne and Steve's liquor; and savagely shook his head. Liquor never drowned anything but common sense, and what common sense he had would need to be as keen as was possible. And then after a while he was sitting on a motionless horse before the door of the JC bunkhouse, and steps were moving across the floor inside to see who had stopped before the door.
CHAPTER XIII
CORSON awakened early the following morning, despite his poor night's sleep, and prepared his own breakfast in the ranch-house kitchen, rather than to go down to the bunkhouse and eat a better one already prepared. He was not in any mood to listen to Shorty and the cook, each of whom could be unduly garrulous upon the slightest provocation; and there were times when provocation, slight or otherwise, was not needed. They were both good men, and loyal to him and the ranch, and he loved them like brothers, but there were times when even brothers could be infernal nuisances, After breakfast he cleaned up the mess he had made in the kitchen and went down to the corral to see what Shorty had wrangled in from the range in the shape of horseflesh, and he felt a little guilty toward that squat person when he saw that his pet roan was in the enclosure. Shorty had easily guessed that there would be no working of cattle for his boss, and had driven in a road horse without a peer on the range. It took only a moment or two for Corson to drop the rope around the roan's neck and to lead him out of the enclosure; and only another moment to throw on the saddle. Before Shorty's laggard steps had carried him to the door of the bunkhouse, the sheriff was riding down the little trail along Willow Creek, heading for where he believed he should find the JC wagon. The creek never had gone dry in his remembrance, and flowed for twenty miles down its own bed and that of the Horsethief, which had a different reputation. There the waters of Willow Creek sank slowly out of sight in the bed of the other, and only a long, saline scab marked the scene of the infamy.
He passed the salt sink and soon reached the entrance to the arroyo which marked the southern edge of Horsethief Hills. The head of the arroyo opened out into a gently sloping upland pasture a mile or more in diameter, which was blessed by three small springs, two of them apparently everlasting; but their waters died out in sinks before reaching the main creek bed. At those springs he should find Nueces and the wagon.
The wagon was there as he had expected it would be, and the attenuated circle of riders was already working down the surrounding slopes toward the common center. This sweep touched the imaginary line which marked the edge of the territory being worked by the Bar W outfit, and from now on the wagon would work home toward the ranch
. Four more days should end the spring round-up, so far as the JC was concerned, and the regular work of the ranch could be resumed.
The cook grinned a welcome, saw that something was wrong with the usually sunny disposition of his boss, and discreetly kept his mouth shut. A closed mouth is one of man's greatest possessions, and also one of his rarest. Half the troubles known to him have their origin in spoken words.
Corson scowled at the cook, slowly dismounted walked to the wagon, and leaned against a wheel. He let his somber gaze range over the slopes of the basin, watching the cattle appear like miracles out of the draws and scanty thickets, popping into sight here and there like jacks-in-the-box. The cook, suspiciously intent on his duties, cleared his throat, and the JC owner looked quickly at him, scowled again, and glanced along the dusty circle, which was rapidly constricting as it worked down toward the camp.
"That Chain stray man with us yet?" suddenly asked the boss of the JC ranch.
"Yeah," grunted the cook, pulling some of the glowing coals away from his number one oven.
"Does th' damn' fool reckon Chain cows have wings, to get away over here?" demanded the rancher.
"We got eight or ten of 'em yesterday," replied the cook, smiling to himself.
"Huh!" grunted the rancher. "Who's th' new Baylor stray man with us?"
"He was Matt Joyce," answered the cook. "He cut his string an' pulled his drag yesterday."
"Huh!"
Silence fell. Golden silence, to the cook's way of thinking. He cocked an eye at number two oven and judiciously flirted four glowing embers from its top. Cooking has its niceties as well as watch-making, and cookie was a cook. Corson was about to ask what the hell difference those four embers would have made, but remembered that he was in no mood to talk to human beings, and kept his mouth shut. It's just as well that he felt that way, for range cooks are range cooks, and he would have been promptly answered; and then Nueces might have had to go off hunting a new cook, and with only four more days to go.
One line of dust on the rim of the basin straightened out its circling course and moved in a straight line down the slopes, headed directly for the wagon. It was being made by the straw boss himself; and he was riding as if the devil were after him. Corson picked out the distant movement and dust streak, thought for a moment, and then strode to his horse. The cook watched him ride off to meet the oncoming horseman and grinned.
"There'll shore be some wonderful language when Nueces tells him that," he said, confiding to number three oven. As a prognosticator the cook was not without merit, at least in this case.
The two horsemen slowed to a walk and then stopped, their animals almost head to head. Nueces' face was hard, and his expression stormy. He did not seem to be in good humor, and on that score both men were about equally matched.
"This —— —— new-fangled Cattlemen's Association have any rules about th' open season on cows?" he asked.
"What you mean?" barked the sheriff. He had the disposition of a rattlesnake this morning, if a rattlesnake has any at all.
"What I mean is that four of our cows have been shot!" snapped the straw boss. "That's what I mean!"
"What's th' Association got to do with that?" demanded the sheriff, his jaw muscles setting.
"I reckoned mebby they'd have some rules about it bein' all right in round-up time," answered the straw boss with heavy sarcasm. "This round-up was planned to be over with, for us, four or five days from now. Me an' th' boys reckon that's too long by just about two days. You watch us clean up th' rest of this range; an' then you watch us! —— —— th' cow-killin' skunks!"
"Where are th' dead cows?" demanded the sheriff, his purely personal troubles forced well into the background by this unexpected slap in the face.
"Up near th' rim," growled the straw boss. "Looks like they was shot two, three days ago."
He whirled his horse as Corson pushed ahead, and they breasted the slope at fair speed, both seething at pretty high pressure; but neither had a word to say until they had turned into a little draw and dismounted. The four animals had been shot through the heart.
"Were their calves hangin' round here when you got here?" asked Corson sharply.
"Yes," growled the straw boss. "They're ail right. They're old enough for weanin', anyhow."
"I see you kept th' boys from millin' around an' messin' up the signs," said the sheriff, his gaze sweeping the ground immediately around the dead animals. While Nueces grunted affirmatively, the sheriff's eyes picked out a little nest of boulders farther up the slope on the right, and he regarded them suspiciously.
"Yeah; that's th' spot," grunted the straw boss. "Knelt on his right knee, an' took th' shells away with him." He scowled at the rocks. "He was right careful."
The sheriff dismounted, studied the ground, found no definite signs, and then went slowly up the slope to the boulders. It was as Nueces had said. The killer had knelt on his right knee, which fact proclaimed him to be right-handed, and had carefully picked up the empty cartridge shells.
Corson backed away, turned, and followed a very faint trail along the slope. It angled obliquely downward and led around a clump of brush and into a little draw. Here the killer had left his horse, and here, of course, he had returned to it, mounted, and ridden off. The sheriff dropped to his knees and intently studied the prints of the horseshoes. They had no distinguishing features. He stood up, following them with his eyes until they were lost to sight in the scanty vegetation farther down the slope.
"Any cattleman hereabouts would know that you hadn't yet combed this section," he said, thoughtfully, "You can bet this feller spied out th' lay of th' land purty well before he went to work. An' he would know that you would comb it within a few days, after figgerin' out yore drift. Instead of killin' cattle on range that you'd already been over, where they wouldn't be discovered until th' beef round-up next fall, mebby—instead of playin' safe an' doin' that, he up an' killed 'em deliberate on range you would come to in a few days. That looks to me like he wanted 'em found. That right?"
"Right as hell!" snapped the straw boss, angrily.
"I've been pokin' around on th' other side of Crooked Creek," continued the sheriff, meaningly. "I've been askin' questions here an' there. I shot that Slade feller in th' Baylor camp, but didn't kill him. Shot him through th' shoulder. Remember that. Then I killed a feller named Squinty, an' shot away quite some of Denver Joe's face. I smoked Long Bill outa an ambush, an' th' Bentley marshal shot him when he made his play. Black Jack Meadows sent th' three of 'em out to get me in th' dark. Then I went back to Black Jack an' told him about it, ah' gave him a chance to do some of his own shootin' hisself. He didn't try it, but he shore knowed just why I was there. So now they've sent a feller over here to shift th' war onto our own range. They didn't try to drive off th' calves. They just shot those cows so we'd find 'em. Only one man did it. Are all our reps. back with our wagon?"
"No. Tom is still with th' Bar W. Johnny is over with th' Turkey Track. Franchère came in th' night before last with th' Bar W's rep. from.th' Chain wagon. They cut their drag here, an' th' Bar W rider took his on home with him. Jimmy brought home his string an' drag from th' BLR wagon a couple days ago. Th' only stray men workin' with our wagon are from th' Bar W, th' Chain, an' th' Turkey Track. So far as Turkey Track strays are concerned, their rep. could leave us now, but I asked him to stay on with us."
Corson grunted and nodded, his eyes on the dead animals.
The straw boss let his horse face show a grim smile, and he chuckled.
"From what you say it seems like you've been right busy. You say you didn't kill Slade?"
"No. Didn't have to, an' didn't want to," answered the sheriff. He thought for a moment, remembering what the Bentley marshal had said about Slade's physical condition. He had ridden out of town, sitting up straight in his saddle, and he had been cocky and defiant. Still, a man with a .45-caliber hole through his right shoulder would not want a rifle to kick it four times in a row; not for a whi
le, anyhow. He looked at his companion.
"Let's cut out th' bullets," he suggested, thoughtfully.
They went down into the little draw and became busy. In due time they had the four slugs, wiped them clean, and let them roll around in their hands.
"If these ain't Colt .45's then I'm a liar," said Nueces, squinting at them. He looked up at his companion. "They ain't nothin' else."
Corson nodded as he examined them again.
"Yo're right; that's what they are," he said, pocketing the slugs that his companion had handed him.
He looked around the draw again and then walked slowly down the slope, and in a moment he found what he strongly believed would be there. Bootprints were plain to be seen under the south edge of a stunted shrub. The prints up in the nest of boulders had been made to serve as a blind. They were fair rifle range away from the dead cows, and much too far for accurate shooting with a Colt; but these bootprints were so close to the dead animals that a good pistol shot could hardly have missed the marks. If the killer had fired from here, then the bullets would have ranged up into the animals, and this fitted the facts discovered by the dissection.
Why had the marksman tried to indicate that he had used a rifle? Why this elaborate attempt to hide the facts? The sheriff thought that he knew the answer to that. Those four shots had not been fired from a rifle held against a sore and shrinking shoulder. Slade was far cleverer than the marshal had given him credit for being, but he had not allowed for anyone digging out the bullets.
The sheriff was now so certain of his deductions that he did not believe it to be necessary to attempt the trailing of the killer's horse. This idea gave him another thought: perhaps these cows had been killed for the purpose of luring him to follow the signs and run into an ambush. In view of the conditions of the roundup, the Lord knew the dead animals had been left in plain sight and on ground certain to be swept of cattle in a day or so after the shooting. The invitation to follow the trail was entirely too pointed.
The Round-Up Page 13