The Round-Up

by Clarence E. Mulford

  "Yes, I'll promise that," she said in a low voice.

  "Why, we're gettin' along right fine," he said with enthusiasm. "There ain't no real reason for you to get all upset an' panicky; not none a-tall: not now. Not with me an' Bob Corson settin' into this game."

  At the mention of the sheriff's name her eyes opened wide and a look of fear flashed into them.

  "Now you just take things easy," he said, soothingly. "Take things right easy. There ain't no reason for you to get scared. Not none a-tall."

  "Oh, I don't know. I don't know. It's so—"

  "So easy," he interrupted. "Now suppose we straighten everythin' all out, so you'll keep that promise an' won't get all upset."

  "Can we?"

  "Yes, Miss Alice, we can. There ain't no question about it. You want me to tell you what I was goin' to?" he asked, patiently, and smiled again as she nodded.

  "All right; but first, Black Jack's yore stepfather, ain't he?"

  She nodded.

  "An' them boys are yore stepbrothers, ain't they?"

  Again she nodded.

  "An' there ain't no real blood relationship between you an' th' rest of th' Meadows family, is there?" he persisted, driving the thought home. This was the crux of his argument, and he had to drive it home, to establish it firmly in her mind. After that, everything would be easy.

  "No, there's none at all," she answered, her wide, questioning eyes trying to read his inscrutable old face.

  He nodded at her reply.

  "Thought so. Well, that makes thinks kinda easy for me; an' for you, Alice. 'Specially for you, an' Bob Corson. We don't want to forget Bob: he's th' hub of this wheel. One of th' wheels. If anybody was to ask me, I'd shore say that yo're th' hub of th' other wheel; an' there ain't no reason why them two wheels can't turn in th' right direction. That right?"

  "I—I don't understand you," she said, but her expression was becoming less tense, and hope was gleaming faintly in her eyes.

  "Why. th' cattle-stealin' wheel sorta turns around Corson—or it will, right soon. That won't make no difference to you, not now; not after you've slipped yore hobbles an' left th' JM. You didn't have nothin' to do with that, an' now you've cut loose from everythin' connected with it, an' showed that you have."

  "Yes; but I'm the daughter of a thief, and— murderer," she protested in a whisper, and her face paled again.

  "You ain't nothin' of th' kind," replied the marshal, flatly. Here was the mainspring he had been searching for. "If you was to tell that to Bob Corson, he'd just laugh at you. There ain't no reason for you to ride off an' disappear. Not none a-tall, an' there never was. If you did that, then th' other wheel couldn't turn, an' that wheel's th' best one. It wouldn't have no hub. Don't you get them two wheels mixed up. You keep 'em separate, each on its own axle."

  She was shaking her head slowly while he spoke, and now he shook an old, gnarled finger at her, much as he would admonish a child.

  "Don't you shake yore head like that," he said. "What Black Jack an' his boys have done, or are goin' to do, can't be laid at yore door. What Bob Corson, an' mebby me, does, ain't got nothin' a-tall to do with you or your kin. After th' trouble's all over, then I figger you an' Bob oughta give each other an even break. Nothin' else would be fair, would it?"

  Her head was still shaking, slowly but persistently, and her answer was so low that he could not hear it, but he knew what it was, and smiled reprovingly.

  "I've been doin' a lot of talkin'," he said, apologetically, "which is somethin' that I ain't a great hand at; but when I've got to talk, I can hold my own. I ain't got around to what I want to say, even yet. But I'll get there, right now."

  "But I must tell you what I came in to say," she said, hurriedly. It would be much easier now.

  "Don't you say a word!" he exclaimed, cutting her short. "Not a word, till you've heard me, anyhow. Black Jack an' his boys are mixed up in cattle-stealin'. Some of us figger that they're th' leaders in it. It looks that way, anyhow. Bob Corson found out quite a lot of things that didn't look right. They all pointed one way, like th' dust of separate wagons on a trail. Then, when he was ridin' up Crooked Creek trail three or four hombres took some long-range shots at him. You didn't have nothin' to do with that, did you?"

  He chuckled at her quick indignation, and wagged his finger at her again.

  " 'Course not," he said. "Not nothin' a-tall. All right. Then Bob an' Slade had words, at th' Baylor wagon, an' Slade's draw was a mite too slow, or he shot too quick. Bob coulda killed him, but let him off with a hole in his shoulder. You didn't have nothin' to do with that, did you?"

  This time, instead of being indignant, she smiled a little.

  "Thought so," he chuckled, as if he had just made the discovery. "There's a lot more, Alice. One night, a little later, three men tried to trail Bob right here in this town, tried to dry-gulch him in th' dark. It didn't work out th' way they figgered. An' you shore didn't have nothin' to do with that. Bob killed one an' wounded another, which didn't touch you no place. This last trouble took place in my jurisdiction, an' it was my job to finish it up. I did. Long Bill figgered that he had a lop-sided break in his favor, an' went for his gun. I killed him. Had to. He was actin' for Black Jack, too. When I shot Long Bill I wasn't no enemy of yourn, was I? An' Long Bill wasn't nothin' to you, was he? An' when Bob killed Squinty, he didn't do you no harm, did he?"

  A little laugh broke from her, and she shook her head emphatically.

  "Thought so," continued the marshal, complacently. He was driving home his points very well, he thought. "That was self-defense an' a matter of duty. Once in a long while duty an' pleasure ride th' same hoss. All three of them ambushin' snakes were workin' for Black Jack; but Black Jack's stepdaughter didn't have nothin' to do with it, did she?"

  Again she shook her head. She was rapidly getting into a better frame of mind.

  "Slade was workin' for Black Jack. He went over to Corson's home range, killed some cows, an' left a plain trail. It was so plain that Corson was too smart to foller it; but Slade figgered he would ride through Packers Gap—got to suspectin' that at th' Baylor wagon, where they had their first run-in—an' Bob did ride through it. Slade put a bullet through Bob's hat, an' got a slug through hisself in return. This one didn't go through no shoulder. It was dangerous to waste any more lead on him. Slade's dead, an' mebby buried, by this time. You follerin' what I'm sayin'?"

  Alice nodded, her eyes opened wide from surprise.

  The marshal seemed to know all that she did, and more, even to small details. Then, of course, Bob Corson knew as much, or perhaps even more. It was rather anticlimax so far as she was concerned. It made her feel rather flat, and this served to steady her.

  "All right," continued the old man, placidly and with a measure of relish. "Corson an' me have been powwowin' kinda steady, accordin' to looks. Somebody got to figgerin', mebby, that I knowed more'n I let on, me movin' around town like I do, pickin' up a word here an' a word there. Corson was ridin' around th' whole country outside of town, also pickin' up a thing here an' a thing there. Then we looked like we was puttin' our heads together. An' remember that I got one of th' three skunks that was gunnin' for him that night. Somebody figgered that our powwowin' meant trouble. They couldn't let it go on. So what did they up an' do?"

  Alice was about to speak, breathlessly eager to, but her companion's swiftly upraised hand stopped her.

  "You let me tell you, instead of you tellin' me," said the marshal, quickly. "What did they do? Why, they put a sharpshooter up on that little hill, outside, with a Sharps special buffalo gun an' a telescope sight. At that distance he can see th' buttons on my vest, or what's left of 'em. First time I showed my hand real plain would be th' last of me. We'll see about that, however. I ain't no infant."

  Alice was sitting with her hands clasped tightly toether, staring at the speaker in a sort of fascinated interest. She followed his glance and saw the great rifle standing in the corner, and the glint of brass on the telescope,
where the black enamel had been worn off.

  "That's what I—" she began, in a very low voice, but he again swiftly stopped her.

  "Don't say it!" he almost snapped. "I'm tellin' you all this so you'll know that you don't have to say it, an' won't say it. If you do, later on you'll mebby get to blamin' yoreself for th' deaths of folks that ain't no kin of yourn. Mort Meadows is layin' up on that hill with a buffalo gun, an' I reckon he's got th' range figgered to a hair. Shootin' from a long rest, with most of th' barrel touchin' it, an' with a telescope, an' a gun like that, he shouldn't miss no target as big as I am; but I'm gamblin' that he will miss it. I quit cuttin' my teeth years ago, an' I cut 'em on ca'tridge shells!"

  Alice was nodding gently, and her fingers and her hands were still, lying quietly in her lap. Her expression showed a great relief.

  "Well, let's go on an' get it over with," continued her companion. "There ain't much more to say; not near as much to say as there is to do. Black Jack an' his boys have got to kill Bob Corson, an' Bob will take a sight of killin', lemme tell you! They got to, or throw in their cards an' get out of th' country. Looks like things have been goin' right well for them, an' now they're figgerin' to play out th' hand. Corson knows it. He mebby knows more'n I do; anyhow, he oughta."

  She was a little pale now, and her hands were tense.

  "Don't you do no worryin' about Bob Corson," he said, watching her closely. "An' th' folks that oughta be worryin' ain't no kin of yourn. You just let me take you off to a place where you can stay an' be safe an' think things over for yoreself. When th' time is right I'll come after you, or send somebody in my place. You've made me a promise. You figger on keepin' it, now?"

  "Yes. I'll keep it," she answered, her eyes wide and moist and filled with hope. Her terrifying problem was terrifying no longer, and it had almost ceased to be a problem from any angle, thanks to this lean, tanned, and not overclean old man.

  "You got any place in mind?" he asked, considering her wishes, now that they would work no harm.

  "Is there a Turkey ranch?" she asked, and flushed deeply.

  He studied her for a moment, and smiled suddenly.

  "Yes. Turkey Track. Owen French owns it, but it's a right long ride from here," he said. "You'd get all tired out an' mebby crippled up, settin' a saddle so long."

  "Does the distance really make much difference?" she asked, watching her hands.

  "Not to me," he answered. "But it's a long way for you, a mighty long way. We can't make it before late tonight." He thought for a moment. "Mebby it'll be nearer mornin'."

  "Well, then, we can't go there," she said, trying to hide her disappointment. She would have liked to go where Bob had suggested. "That would take you away from town too long."

  "Then we start for th' Turkey Track," he retorted, "an' we start right soon. But before we do start, let me take a look at th' weather; it might be stormy."

  He stood up and moved toward the door, feeling that Alice Meadows's visit would be the weight which would spring the trap. His left hand reached out and gripped the great rifle; and then, still holding it, he moved his body squarely into the doorway and stopped there.

  The expectant interval seemed to be a very long one, and many thoughts passed through his head. Most prominent among them was whether or not Mort Meadows had changed the cartridge in the gun. The interval really could have been spanned by a slow count of ten. It takes time to steady on a target and get set. There came a heavy, black powder roar from up on the hillside. A puff of dust, directly in line between the eyebrow and the marshal, sprang from the sand full fifty yards short, and the heavy ballet whined high above the marshal's head.

  The old man moved like a striking snake. He jerked the heavy weapon through the door, threw it to his shoulder as he moved sideways, and for a moment his outstretched left hand held it steady and solid, clamped tightly against the door casing. The roar of it filled the room and the street and crashed back from the hillside; but the barrel did not drop at once. The old man's eye was peering through the telescope at the wavering cloud of smoke above the eyebrow. Then, briskly nodding, he stood the gun back against the wall and turned to his visitor.

  "Weather's all right," he said. He motioned her forward. "I'll saddle my hoss in a shake, an' be with you right quick. We'll relay at th' Bar W."

  "Was that—was that—" she whispered, a hand pressing against a breast. She could not finish the question without pausing, and she did not have to finish it.

  "That was a pert young snake with murder in his heart," said the marshal, grimly. "I said it would be better if I told you things, 'stead of you tellin' 'em to me. Let's get movin': we got a mighty long way to go."

  CHAPTER XX

  THE Gap lay at an altitude of about forty-eight hundred feet. Sixteen miles southwest of it was the highest part of the ridge, four hundred feet higher, and in places all of eight miles across. Running up the middle of the north slope of this higher plateau was an arroyo, which slanted down to the north for about six miles; and then, turning abruptly, ran due west and pitched down into the wide valley of Crooked Creek. From no point in the lower valley could its upper section be seen, and neither could it be seen from any other direction where roads and trails lay. In width the arroyo varied from a few hundred yards at its upper end to more than a mile along its middle reaches.

  The lower half, which pointed west, was deep, constricted, and had a steep grade; the arroyo here became a canyon. It opened out upon the Crooked Creek trail about two thirds of the way between Iron Springs and the old, 'dobe trading post; and directly across the trail and the creek arose a tumbled mass of rock, isolated spires, and small buttes, backed by a mesa. The canyons and arroyos in this wild country made a veritable maze, and of them it was said that a man could meet himself half a dozen times in a two-hours' ride.

  The Crooked Creek trail was well traveled. At one time it had been part of the California Trail. In season, herds of cattle moved leisurely down it from the ranges lying to the south and southwest. The road itself was a narrow ribbon ground out by wheeled vehicles; but it lay on a wider, if fainter, ribbon that had been beaten by the hoofs of many cattle in the years that had gone. With care, a stolen herd could be driven out of the canyon, judiciously led on to the trail, and then judiciously edged off it, and become swallowed up by the rough country across the creek without leaving too plain signs of its passing. After that it could move in secrecy and security. One herd already had gone this way, irrevocably lost to its proper owners.

  The morning following the death of Mort Meadows found three important things going on at distant points, but simultaneously.

  Corson, having scoured in vain over the end of the ridge north of the Gap, had slept in his blankets under the stars and awakened to a new and important day.

  Nueces, with Shorty, Burns, and Bludsoe, the cream of the JC fighting men, had covered the arroyos and draws on the Crooked Creek side, and spent the night in the old 'dobe post. They ate a hurried breakfast and saddled up, and now Nueces was bidding the others good-bye and leaving them to ride over the Gap trail and to join his boss at the appointed place. The remaining three would continue their scouting.

  Southwest of them Jerry, the Baylor foreman, having left his wagon to pick up its own odds and ends, had taken three men with him and ridden in to spend the night at the ranch. He was now leading his companions toward the Broken Jug trail, to search for the cattle he had spoken about to the sheriff.

  Corson passed Shell Canyon and, following up the little draw on the right of the road, stopped when out of sight of the thoroughfare and waited for Nueces to join him. On the far side of the great ridge, and about eight miles away as the crow flies, was the JM ranch. He also was less than half a mile, as the crow flies, from that high, masked arroyo which was the very heart of the JM cattle business. It lay up on the top of the plateau, unsuspected by those who rode or drove along the main wagon road below it.

  Corson was early. Nueces was not due to show up for an hour
or more, if he had gotten away at the regular time. Unknown to the sheriff, the horse-faced deputy had gained an earlier start. Corson had nothing to do but just sit there and wait. Time would pass too slowly, and he was keyed up for action. He looked up at the escarpment hemming him in on three sides, idly scrutinizing it. When Nueces joined him they would return to the road, follow up jerry's pet Broken Jug trail, and gain the top of the plateau from there. This little-used trail marked the southern end of the ridge and would lead them to heights from which to look down upon the great backbone.

  Time dragged, and the waiting became unbearable. Movement, action was what he needed, if just for the sake of doing something. Again he studied the escarpment. At no place within sight could a man ride up, but there were any number of places where it could be climbed by a man on foot. Perhaps it would be an hour before Nueces would arrive, and that is a long time to be idle. He dismounted, left the horse where his friend could easily see it, and went ahead on foot.

  The draw forked, and he chose the left or main stem. It ended abruptly against the lower escarpment, which here was about twenty-five feet high, and rich in hand- and foot-holds. Next came a steep slope for another half hundred feet, and then the second escarpment, this one nearly a hundred feet high. When he had pulled himself over the last rim rock and looked around, he found himself on a secondary plateau, above which the main ridge arose at quite some distance away.

  He could now see the wagon road north and south of him. A horseman was coming down it from the direction of the Gap trail. It might be Nueces. All right: if it were, he had time to look around him. The trail up the Broken Jug lay almost under his feet, to the south. He traced it until it led around a shoulder; and he did not know it, but half a mile beyond that shoulder, Jerry was leading his three companions to search the little basin of which he had spoken so much.

  Corson turned and walked to his right, toward a sharp angle of the rock wall. He reached it, started to round it, and instantly dropped to a knee. Faint clouds of dust were climbing up out of a depression perhaps a quarter of a mile away. They were not dust devils—of that he was certain. Moving wagons or bunches of cattle would more properly account for them. Seeing that this was cattle range, the answer was obvious.