CHAPTER III
AN UNSETTLED SCORE
As soon after dinner as possible Larkin disengaged himself from the restof the party and motioned Caldwell to follow him. He led the way aroundthe house and back toward the fence of the corral. It was already dark,and the only sounds were those of the horses stirring restlessly, or thelow bellow of one of the ranch milch cows.
"What are you doing out here?" demanded Bud.
"I came to see you." The other emitted an exasperating chuckle at his owncheap wit.
"What do you want?"
"You know what I want." This time there was no chuckle, and Bud couldimagine the close-set, greedy eyes of the other, one of them slightlycrossed, boring into him in the dark.
"Money, I suppose, you whining blood-sucker," suggested Bud, his voicequiet, but holding a cold, unpleasant sort of ring that was new toCaldwell.
"'The boy guessed right the very first time,'" quoted Smithy, unabashed.
"What became of that two thousand I gave you before I left Chicago?"
"I got little enough of that," cried Caldwell. "You know how many peoplethere were to be hushed up."
"Many!" snapped Larkin. "You can't come any of that on me. There were justthree; yourself, your wife, and that red-headed fellow,--I forget hisname."
"Well, my wife doesn't live with me any more," whined Smithy, "but shemakes me support her just the same, and threatens to squeal on you if Idon't produce regularly; she knows where the money comes from."
Suddenly Larkin stepped close to the other and thrust something long andhard against his ribs.
"I'm going to do for you now, Smithy," he said in a cold, even voice.Caldwell did not even move from his position.
"If you do," was his reply, "the woman will give the whole thing to thenewspapers. They have smelled a rat so long they would pay well for a tip.She has all the documents. So if you want to swing and ruin everybodyconcerned, just pull that trigger."
"I knew you were lying." Bud stepped back and thrust his revolver into theholster. "You are still living with your wife, for she wouldn't have thedocuments if you weren't. A man rarely lies when he is within two secondsof death. You are up to your old tricks, Smithy, and they have neverfooled me yet. Now, let's get down to business. How much do you want?"
"Two thousand dollars."
"I haven't got it. You don't know it, perhaps, but my money is on the hoofout in this country, and cash is very little used. Look here. You bringyour wife and that red-headed chap out to Arizona or California and I willset you up in the sheep business. I've got herds coming north now, butI'll turn a thousand back in your name, and by the time you arrive theywill be on the southern range. What do you say?"
"I say no," replied the other in an ugly voice. "I want money, and I'mgoing to have it. Good old Chi is range enough for me."
"Well, I can't give you two thousand because I haven't got it."
"What have you got?"
"Five hundred dollars, the pay of my herders."
"I'll take that on account, then," said Caldwell insolently. "When willyou have some more?"
"Not until the end of July, when the wool has been shipped East."
"All right. I'll wait till then. Come on, hand over the five hundred."
Larkin reached inside his heavy woolen shirt, opened a chamois bag thathung by a string around his neck, and emptied it of bills. These he passedto Caldwell without a word.
"If you are wise, Smithy," he said in an even voice, "you won't ask me forany more. I've about reached the end of my rope in this business. And letme tell you that this account between you and me is going to be settled infull to my credit before very long."
"Maybe and maybe not," said the other insolently, and walked off.
Five minutes later Bud Larkin, sick at heart that this skeleton of thepast had risen up to confront him in his new life, made his way around theranch house to the front entrance. Just as he was going in at the door aman appeared from the opposite side so that the two met. The other skulkedback and disappeared, but in that moment Bud recognized the figure ofStelton, and a sudden chill clutched his heart.
Had the foreman of the Bar T been listening and heard all?
Entering the living-room, where the Bissells were already gathered, Larkinexpected to find Caldwell, but inquiry elicited the fact that he had notbeen seen. Five minutes later the drumming of a pony's feet on the hardground supplied the solution of his non-appearance. Having satisfactorilyinterviewed Larkin, he had mounted his horse, which all this time had beentethered to the corral, and ridden away.
Half an hour later Stelton came in, his brow dark, and seated himself in afar corner of the room. From his manner it was evident that he hadsomething to say, and Bissell drew him out.
"Red came in from over by Sioux Creek to-night," admitted the foreman,"and he says as how the rustlers have been busy that-a-way ag'in. Firstthing he saw was the tracks of their hosses, and then, when he counted theherd, found it was twenty head short. I'm shore put out about themrustlers, chief, and if something ain't done about it pretty soon youwon't have enough prime beef to make a decent drive."
Instantly the face of Bissell lost all its kindliness and grew as dark andforbidding as Stelton's. Springing out of his chair, he paced up and downthe room.
"That has got to stop!" he said determinedly. Then, in answer to aquestion of Larkin's: "Yes, rustlers were never so bad as they are now.It's got so in this State that the thieves have got more cows among 'emthan the regular cowmen. An' that ain't all. They've got an organizationthat we can't touch. We're plumb locoed with their devilment. That's thesecond bunch cut out of that herd, ain't it, Mike?"
"Yes."
Beef Bissell, his eyes flashing the fire that had made him feared in theearlier, rougher days of the range, finally stopped at the door.
"Come on out with me and talk to Red," he ordered his foreman, and thelatter, whose eyes had never left Juliet since he entered the room,reluctantly obeyed.
Presently Mrs. Bissell took herself off, and Bud and the girl were leftalone.
"I suppose you'll marry some time," said Larkin, after a long pause.
"I sincerely hope so," was her laughing rejoinder.
"Any candidates at present?"
"Not that I know of."
"Well, I know of a very active one--he just left the room."
"Who, Mike? Bud, that's preposterous! I've known him ever since I was alittle girl, and would no more think of marriage with him than of keepingpet rattlesnakes."
"Perhaps not, Julie, but Mike would. Will you take the word of anabsolutely disinterested observer that the man is almost mad about you,and would sell his soul for one of your smiles?"
The girl was evidently impressed by the seriousness of his tone, for shepondered a minute in silence.
"Perhaps you are right, Bud," she said at last. "I had never thought of itthat way. But you needn't worry; I can take care of myself."
"I'm sure of it, but that doesn't make him any the less dangerous. Keepyour eye on him, and if you ever find yourself in a place where you needsomebody bad and quick, send for me. He hates me already, and I can't sayI love him any too well; I have an idea that he and I will come to closerquarters than will be good for the health of one of us."
"Nonsense, Bud; your imagination seems rather lively to-night. Now, justbecause I am curious, will you tell me why you went into the sheepbusiness?"
"Certainly. Because it is the future business of Wyoming and Montana.Sheep can live on less and under conditions that would kill cows.Moreover, they are a source of double profit, both for their wool andtheir mutton. The final struggle of the range will be between sheep andcattle and irrigation, and irrigation will win.
"But the sheep will drive the cattle off the range, and, when they, inturn, are driven off, will continue to thrive in the foothills and lowermountains, where there is no irrigation. I went into the sheep business tomake money, but I won't see much of that money for several years. When Iam getti
ng rich, cowmen like your father will be fighting for themaintenance of a few little herds that have not been pushed off the rangeby the sheep. Cattle offer more immediate profit, but, according to myview, they are doomed."
"Bud, that's the best defense of wool-growing I ever heard," cried thegirl. "Up to this I've held it against you that you were a sheepman--asilly prejudice, of course, that I have grown up with--but now you canconsider yourself free of that. I believe you have hit the nail on thehead."
"Thanks, I believe I have," said Bud dryly, and a little while later theyseparated for the night, but not before he had remarked:
"I think it would benefit all of us if you drilled some of thatcommon-sense into your father."
The Free Range Page 3