The Round-Up

by Clarence E. Mulford

  The sheriff gave the necessary information in less than one minute, realizing that the less the messenger had to repeat, the more accurate he would be; and then the anxious expression on his face was translated into words.

  "Can't you send him before dark?" he demanded.

  "Nope."

  "Can't you find him before then?" persisted Corson, impatiently.

  "Y-e-p."

  "Well, then, why not do it, an' get him started?"

  "Ain't wise," replied the marshal. He drew a hand across the stubble on his chin, and regarded his companion thoughtfully. "Son," he said, slowly, "I'm goin' to tell you one thing, an' show you another. I'll do th' showin' first. You notice you ain't found me settin' outside, ag'in that wall?"

  "Why, yes," answered the sheriff, quickly and curiously.

  The marshal stood up, walked to a peg driven into the wall, and took down a battered pair of army glasses. Handing them to his companion, he drew the latter to a place halfway across the room, and a little to the rear.

  "You see that kinda eyebrow of brush an' grass, up there just below that piñon on th' hill farther back? There's three patches of cactus just below it an' a little to th' right."

  "Yeah, I got it," muttered the sheriff, peering steadily through the lenses.

  "Hold right onto it," said the marshal. "That's th' nigh edge of a little wash. Hold th' glasses right onto it, an' tell me what you see."

  Corson obeyed, and studied the so-called eyebrow intently for some moments, and then he stiffened a little. He caught the motion of a few twigs, and then to his surprise found himself looking into the face of a man. He could not see it clearly enough to learn the identity of the owner, but well enough to know that it was a face.

  "Good Lord!" he growled. "They've got you watched!"

  "Y-e-p. Drove me into th' house, away from my favorite settin' place —— —— 'em! How far away would you say it was?" asked the marshal, professionally.

  "About four hundred yards," estimated the sheriff, also professionally.

  "A leetle mite over," said the marshal studiously, "I'd hold for about th' middle of th' crown of his hat, or where that would be if he was bareheaded. You reckon that's right?"

  "Yes! Th' middle of th' crown."

  "You ever see a Sharps Special Buffalo gun," asked the marshal, "with th' twenty grain overload?"

  "Yes. I've got one, out on my saddle. They're heavy, an' clumsy as a saddle weapon, but they make up for it when a feller needs a rifle."

  "Y-e-p. They shore do," agreed the marshal, smiling grimly. "You ever see one with a telescope onto th' barrel?"

  "No; but I know they're used," admitted Corson. "Why?"

  "A man can do awful close shootin' with an outfit like that."

  "He shore can, if he's got eyes in his head, an' a steady hand."

  "Don't need a steady hand so much if he's got a good rest," said the marshal. "An th' more of th' barrel that lays on th' rest, th' better he can shoot."

  "Yes, of course," said the sheriff, impatiently.

  "There's a feller in this town that's right handy fixin' guns an' clocks an' things. Right handy, he is. Good workman. I happened to drop in there, one day recent, an' saw him hidin' a telescope rifle in a hurry. It was a Sharps. I'd figger it took th' hundred-twenty grain load, from th' ca'tridge I saw layin' on th' bench. Somebody thought a lot of that gun. It had set triggers. I'll see that Injun after dark, or he'll mebby ride right through th' gates of th' Happy Huntin' Ground before he reaches th' Saddlehorn Pass road." The marshal took the glasses and carefully hung them up again.

  "Who do you figger is layin' up there?" asked Corson, assuming his official character. A situation like this came squarely within his province, and he'd be damned if he'd stand for bushwhacking.

  "Ain't shore, but I got my suspicions," answered the marshal with a certain grim satisfaction. He seemed to be in very good humor. "There's one man that's missin' from town durin' th' daylight, that's here every night. An' he never rides into town twice th' same way."

  "I'll not stand for ambushin', or attempted ambushin'," said the sheriff, stepping toward the door. "You put them glasses on that eyebrow in about an hour, an' you'll shore as hell see somethin' worth lookin' at!"

  "Where you goin'? What you aimin' to do?" asked the marshal in quick alarm.

  "Up there," answered Corson grimly.

  "You stay away from there, sheriff!" begged the older man. "After tonight I won't be in a mite of danger."

  "What you mean?" asked Corson, turning abruptly.

  "I mean that after tonight his gun won't be near as good as he reckons on," answered the marshal. "I've noticed that when he comes into town every evenin' there ain't no gun in his saddle scabbard. That's all I need to know."

  "Yeah?" asked the sheriff, curiously.

  "Y-e-p. Man an' boy, I've been right well trained for movin' around on th' ground an' takin' care of myself. If I give him th' first shot, with me in plain, fair sight, an' he misses, then nobody can hardly blame me, or wonder what he's doin' up there. When he pulls that trigger, he up an' puts hisself on record for bein' an ambushin' skunk; an' if I get him before he can get in a second shot, then that's just kinda good luck for me. Huh?"

  "Yes; but what if he don't miss you, that first shot?" asked Corson, impatiently. "With set triggers an' a telescope at that range?"

  "That's my job, seein' that he misses me," answered the marshal, placidly. "It's a gamble on a cold deck. If he don't examine th' deck, then I win; if he does, I'll mebby lose." His old, leathery face was set and grim, and the sheriff knew that his mind was made up.

  "All right, then: we'll let it go that way. It's yore play," assented the sheriff. "Now then, what was you goin' to tell me?"

  "Not nothin' that has anythin' to do with stealin' cattle, or th' job you've got. It's kinda personal information. I just want to tell you that Alice Meadows is only a step-child, an' her gun-totin' brothers are only step-brothers. There ain't no blood relationship a-tall. I've seen th' gal, some weeks back, an' talked with her, kinda idle; an' I've heard others talk, Black Jack bein' among 'em. I'd go so far as to state, emphatic, that she ain't happy. Reckon that's all I had to tell you."

  Corson was staring at the speaker in amazement, but the older man was now looking out of the door, in the direction of the eyebrow, and chuckling. The expression on his face was sardonic.

  "I knowed he was up there th' very first day," he said, complacently. "He did too blame' much fixin' up. Likely there was a cactus that he didn't have th' guts to lay on, like I did once. He had to fuss with this bush, an' tinker with that one, gettin' everythin' all fixed up to suit him. Ho-ho-ho!"

  He looked at his companion, found that no attention was being paid to him, and continued, unruffled by this lack of courtesy.

  "Over there, in th' corner behind you, is another Sharps special rifle that I can use at four hundred, makin' due allowances for shootin' uphill. An' I got a telescope that fits onto th' barrel. It's got set triggers, too. Cost me a heap of money, it did; but it shore made me a heap.

  "I ain't had much to do lately, durin' daylight, but just to set here figgerin' range, an' estimatin' windage. Over in th' other corner, covered up, is an old buffalo huntin' tripod, 'though I reckon there won't be no time to set it up. There ain't nothin' th' matter with th' door casin' for a rest, an' it's right there in place all th' time. One puff of smoke in my direction from that eyebrow, an' there'll mebby be a dead skunk up there. I'll show that cuss how I used to make a hundred dollars a day, down round Dodge City an' th' Panhandle, shootin' buffalers for my skinners to skin; an' I didn't have no telescope then. He shore picked out a side-winder to play with when he settled on me."

  Corson hardly heard him. Alice Meadows no blood kin to the Meadows men! A stepdaughter and a stepsister! The situation was still bad enough, but tremendously improved. He started toward the front door, hardly knowing what he was doing, and found the marshal's tight grip on his arm. He stopped, wonderingly.<
br />
  "You've been shot at three times, or more," said the town officer. "When you go through that door, you jump through it, savvy? Jump through it, an' land right up close ag'in th' bay's shoulder. An' then you walk away, still ag'in th' bay's shoulder. I ain't had time to fix up that snake's gun, yet! You an' me have been holdin' quite a lot of pow-wows, an' that —— —— is gettin' th' trigger itch."

  The sheriff nodded and obeyed, still thinking of relationships. He landed against the bay's shoulder and led it up the street, keeping under its cover. When he had passed the first building he swung into the saddle and soon dismounted at the hotel stable. Alice Meadows was no blood kin to Black Jack and his whelps!

  Mort Meadows watched the coming and the departure of the sheriff with a frown on his face, and let his hand rest on the great rifle for a moment. Four hundred yards, and the 'scope brought the target right up close and big and plain. He knew the rifle, and he knew the range, and he had not forgotten that he would have to shoot downhill. He had been tempted to try it on the sheriff when the latter had ridden up, but on this point he had had his orders. The sheriff rode abroad and would be taken care of when his riding brought him too close for comfort if not before. The marshal almost never left town.

  Mort glanced at the sun and wished that it were time to leave. The old moss-head down below had done nothing, as yet, so far as was known, to turn him into a target. True, he and the sheriff had held several meetings, but that was natural enough, seeing that they were friends.

  At last the watcher squirmed back from the sunbaked ridge and drew the rifle carefully toward him. Holding the gun carefully to keep the telescope from striking anything, he slid down the bank. Reaching the bottom, he stood up, flexed his muscles, and threw the gun across an arm. He followed up the wash toward its head until he came to a branch, a feeder, into which he turned. He had to crawl now, to avoid being seen from town.

  At a small pile of rocks he stopped, picked up the canvas gun cover lying near them, and pulled it over the rifle. Then he placed the gun in a pocket especially made for it among the rocks, and covered it over with loose stones. In another few moments he was back in the main wash and walking swiftly to get to his horse. The animal was cached fifty yards or more below the lookout spot, and by going down the draw, could be kept out of sight of the town and trail below, and then cut back toward the road coming down from Saddlehorn Pass. Once near that road, there were several choices of routes into town.

  Down in the town, the marshal stepped out of his side door for a glance at the sun. In half an hour the watcher was due to appear in town. That meant that he was halfway there now. The old man walked swiftly to the stable in the rear of the jail, saddled his little-used horse, and rode northward up the trail toward Carson. At the end of a mile he swung to the right, left the trail at right angles, and struck up over the rise toward the Pass road. Mort Meadows was dismounting before the Palace at the same time that the marshal was doing the same thing up in the wash Mort had just left.

  The old man followed the plain tracks of the watcher's booted feet, came to the lookout place, and went on past it, still following the plain trail. He himself was walking in his socks, and he watched where he placed his feet. The bootprints led him to the branch wash, and into it; and then he, too, dropped down and began to crawl. It was so absurdly easy that it made him chuckle. Nowadays they intrusted dangerous missions to babes in arms.

  The curious little pile of rocks now faced him, and the bootprints went no farther. Therefore Mort's little journey had ended right here. He studied the looks and arrangement of the upper stones so that he could replace them in such a manner as to avoid arousing suspicion. To arouse suspicion would be to put his life into jeopardy. Then he carefully removed the stones, one by one. The gun case was slowly revealed, and he studied it and the way it was closed and fastened.

  The old man drew the rifle out until its breech was exposed, and then he lowered the block and drew out the cartridge. It was a Sharps straight, .45-120-550, chambered for a special cartridge of tremendous power. The cartridge was also the same that his own gun handled. This simplified matters.

  He had come prepared to find a different caliber, or at least a different load. There now was no need of using the tools he had brought with him. All that he had to do was to remove the cartridge that he found in the gun and replace it with the one he had brought along on just this chance. This pleased him, for he could not do as neat and good a job up here as he had been able to do down in his stable, where he had been able to make use of a vise. He juggled the huge cartridge in his hand and smiled grimly at it: there was a touch of poetic justice in the thought that the cartridge which was meant for him would be the one to kill Mort Meadows.

  Replacing everything as he had found it, he made his way back to the horse, rode back the way he had come, and entered town where he had left it. If anybody had noticed him ride off and back they would think, possibly, that it was about time for him to exercise his horse.

  He put the tools back on the narrow bench and walked lazily back toward the office. Up in the branch draw, beyond the eyebrow, there was a special Sharps rifle loaded with a cartridge that had considerably less powder in it than loading specifications required; and this difference in load, in fine, hair-line shooting, was enough to cause a miss, especially at four hundred yards. He would be glad to give Mort a chance to declare himself, to make his intentions known, and to grant him the very doubtful advantage of the first shot. If Mort was imaginative enough to change cartridges, then Mort would not need another shot, if his hand was steady and his estimate sound.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  ALICE MEADOWS stirred restlessly, opened her eyes, and struggled to orient herself. The dream had been a distressing one, and for a moment she did not know where she was. The room was pitch black, and the murmur of voices came to her faintly and indistinctly. Gradually she recognized the tones and knew that she was in her own room. She had no idea of what hour it was, and neither had she heard the men when they came in. She was wide awake now, and coherent and connected thoughts began to pass through her mind. The men were home again, after an absence of three days and nights. The window in the next room went up with a squeaky protest, and the voices became distinct.

  "… had another talk today," said Mort's voice in a growl. "I'm gettin' right suspicious about that damn' old fool. He knows more than he lets on, an' I'm willin' to bet that he's tellin' that damn' sheriff everythin' he hears. It's purty near time we got rid of him, an' I'm all set an' ready to do it, too."

  "Th' sheriff don't know a thing that amounts to anythin'," said Matt, contemptuously. "He rides around, pokin' his itchin' nose into other people's business, but he ain't found out nothin' that we've got to worry about. An' if he does, we won't miss him th' fourth time."

  "We wouldn't a-missed him before if we hadn't been careless," growled Maurice, angrily. "An' Slade! Slade, th' gunman, th' tough hombre! Huh! If he'd just waited till his shoulder got well, so he wouldn't flinch when he fired, he'd be alive today, an' th' sheriff dead."

  "Matt's wrong, dead wrong," stated Black Jack, flatly. "Corson knows a lot more than he's let on. His wagon will be through in a few days, an' he can turn his outfit loose. They're a tough gang. We got to get th' cattle branded an' out of th' country before then. If I reckoned that Mort was right about th' marshal, I'd give th' word. That long-nosed old coyote picks up a lot of loose talk in town, an' he can put two an' two together. Him an' Corson are right thick. Why shouldn't they be? They're friends an' brother officers, ain't they?"

  "Tell you one thing, Pop," said Matt's voice, argumentatively and determinedly. "When we get this present bunch away, we're shore goin' to sit back an' play honest for a while. We got to let things simmer down."

  "Or else get Corson!" snapped Mort. "He's th' burr under our saddle. We made a damn' clever play, an' so far it's worked out all right; but we got to look out for him. An' when we get him, it's got to be over in his own part of th' country, a
s far away from here as possible. He's pizen dangerous."

  "Hell!" snorted Matt. "We'll get him where we can. We can allus pack him away an' dump him where we want him to be found. Th' main thing is to get him before he can stop us an' mebby kill some of us. He's a bad hombre."

  "If he'd only give us a little more time," said Black Jack, "we could be all through here an' be ready to leave th' damn' country. About two more drives an' th' job would be done. There ain't no use of leavin' here, where we've got everythin' set an' lined up, till we get all we need. This range was just made for us, an' I'll be damned if I'll leave it till I've made my pile. Two more drives an' then we'll pull out; an' nothin' from heaven or hell is goin' to stop me from makin' them drives. If Corson gets in th' way, he'll just get hisself killed. Can't we make a play over west that'll take his mind off of this part of th' country?"

  "Hell," growled Maurice, disgustedly. "We've made plays over there, an' all they did was to head him this way."

  "Oh, he'll get in th' way, all right," laughed Mort, viciously. "Him an' that damn' marshal are doin' a lot of powwowin'. I come right near pullin' trigger on that old fool today. Since Denver was killed he's been stayin' inside his office; but he'll be driftin' back to his favorite place."

  "It might be a good thing if you did whang him," said Black Jack thoughtfully. "It'll not only stop his mouth, but it'll make other folks mind their business an' start 'em thinkin' in other directions. Besides, he killed Long Bill, didn't he?"

  "Give me th' word, an' I'll drill him," said Mort, eagerly. "I got that range figgered down to a hair, an' that 'scope is th' sweetest thing I ever saw. His chest just busts right up at me on th' cross-hairs."

  "You shoot any time you figger you oughta," said Black Jack. "That's up to you. But you remember this: after you shoot, you be damn' shore to ride north. You savvy that? You ride north! An' don't you try to circle back ag'in until yo're dead shore that you ain't bein' followed, not if it takes you a month. We'll mebby have troubles enough of our own, without you addin' to 'em. There'll be hell to pay an' no pitch hot when you kill him."