The Project Gutenberg eBook ofThe Dead-LineThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: The Dead-LineAuthor: W. C. TuttleRelease date: November 26, 2021 [eBook #66821]Most recently updated: October 18, 2024Language: EnglishOriginal publication: United States: The Ridgway Company, 1924Credits: Roger Frank and Sue Clark.*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DEAD-LINE ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: The Dead-LineAuthor: W. C. TuttleRelease date: November 26, 2021 [eBook #66821]Most recently updated: October 18, 2024Language: EnglishOriginal publication: United States: The Ridgway Company, 1924Credits: Roger Frank and Sue Clark.
Title: The Dead-Line
Author: W. C. Tuttle
Author: W. C. Tuttle
Release date: November 26, 2021 [eBook #66821]Most recently updated: October 18, 2024
Language: English
Original publication: United States: The Ridgway Company, 1924
Credits: Roger Frank and Sue Clark.
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DEAD-LINE ***
THE DEAD-LINEby W. C. TuttleAuthor of “Sun-Dog Loot,” “Rustler’s Roost,” etc.
by W. C. Tuttle
Author of “Sun-Dog Loot,” “Rustler’s Roost,” etc.
Jack Hartwell’s place was not of sufficient importance in Lo Lo Valley to be indicated by a brand name. It was a little four-room, rough-lumber and tar-paper shack, half buried in a clump of cottonwoods on the bank of Slow Elk Creek.
The house had been built several years before by a man named Morgan, who had the mistaken idea that a nester might be welcome on the Lo Lo range. He had moved in quietly, built his shack, and—then the riders from Marsh Hartwell’s Arrow outfit had seen his smoke.
Whether or not Marsh Hartwell legally owned the property made no difference; he claimed it. And few men cared to dispute Marsh Hartwell. At any rate, it was proved that a nester was not welcome on the Arrow.
It was an August afternoon. Only a slight breeze moved the dry leaves of the cottonwoods, and the air was resonant with the hum of insects. Molly Hartwell, Jack Hartwell’s wife, stood on the unshaded front steps of the house, looking down across the valley, which was hazy with the heat waves.
Mrs. Hartwell was possibly twenty years of age, tall, slender; a decided brunette of the Spanish type, although there was no Spanish blood in her ancestry. She was the kind of woman that women like to say mean things about; and try to make themselves believe them.
The married men of the Lo Lo mentally compared her with their women-folk; while the single men, most of them bashful, hard-riding cowpunchers, avoided her, and hoped she’d be at the next dance.
Jack Hartwell did not wave at her as he rode in out of the hills and dismounted at the little corral beside the creek. He unsaddled, turned his sweat-marked sorrel into the corral and hung his saddle on the fence.
Jack Hartwell was a few years older than his wife; a thin-waisted, thin-faced young man with an unruly mop of blond hair and a freckled nose. His wide, blue eyes were troubled, as he squinted toward the house and kicked off his chaps.
He could not see his wife, but he knew that she was waiting for him, waiting for the news that he was bringing to her. After a few moments of indecision he shrugged his shoulders and walked around the house to her.
She was sitting down in the doorway now, and he halted beside her, his thumbs hooked over the heavy cartridge belt around his waist.
“It’s hot,” he said wearily.
“Yes, it’s hot,” she said. “There hasn’t been much breeze today.”
“Water is gettin’ kinda low, Molly. Several of the springs ain’t runnin’ more than a trickle.”
“We need rain.”
Neither of them spoke now, as they looked down across the valley. Winged grasshoppers crackled about the duty yard, and several hornets buzzed up and down the side of the house, as if seeking an entrance. Finally the woman looked up at him and he moved uneasily.
“Yeah, it’s him—Eph King.”
There was bitterness in Jack Hartwell’s voice, which he did not try to conceal.
A flash of triumph came into the woman’s eyes, and she turned back to her contemplation of the hills. Her husband looked down at her, shaking his head slowly.
“Molly, it’s goin’ to mean —— in these hills.”
“Is it?”
She did not seem to mind.
“They’ve drawn a dead-line now,” he said slowly, “and there has been some shootin’. They’ve sent for the outfits down in the south end, and they’ll be here tonight.”
“Well, we won’t be in it,” she said flatly. “It means nothing to us.”
“Don’t it?”
Jack squinted hard at her, but she did not look up.
“No. The law has decided that a sheep has the same right as a cow. The cattlemen of the Lo Lo do not legally own all this valley.”
“Mebbe not—” Jack shook his head wearily—“but they hold it, Molly.”
“Well,” she laughed shortly, scornfully, “you are not a cattleman. You’ve got nothing to fight for.”
“No-o-o?”
She sprang to her feet, her eyes flashing.
“Well, have you?” she demanded. “Your own people have turned you down. Your own father cursed you for marrying a daughter of Eph King. You wasn’t good enough to even work for him; so he gave you this!” She flung out her arms in a gesture of contempt. “Is this worth fighting for?”
Jack Hartwell bit his lip for a moment and the ghost of a smile passed his thin lips.
“It ain’t worth much, is it, Molly? Still, it was worth so much that——”
“That they killed the man who took possession of it,” she finished angrily.
“Yeah, they killed him, Molly. Morgan was a fool. He had a chance to go away, but he would rather fight it out.”
“He was a friend of my father.”
“Yeah, I know it, Molly. But that has nothing to do with us.”
“Did you see the sheep?”
“Yeah. I went as far as the dead-line, Molly. The hills are full of sheep. They were comin’ down the draws like the gray water of a cloud-burst, spreadin’ all over the flats. As far back as yuh can see, just sheep and dust.”
“Are they on Arrow range?”
“On the upper edge. The punchers threw ’em back about half a mile, but I dunno.” Jack shook his head. “There’s so many of ’em.”
“Dad has thirty thousand head,” she said slowly. “Or he did have that many before——”
“Before yuh ran away to marry me,” finished Jack.
“I went willingly, Jack.”
“Oh, I know it, Molly.” He turned and threw an arm across her shoulder. “You’ve had a rotten deal, girl. I wish for your sake that it could be undone. I didn’t know that there was so much hate between your dad and mine. I knew that they were not friends, but—well, I know now.”
“Your father drove my father out of this valley.”
“But that was years ago, Molly.”
“And branded him a thief,” bitterly.
“Yeah, I reckon that’s right. It never was proved nor disproved, Molly. We’ve known for years that he was goin’ to try and shove sheep across the range into Lo Lo. He swore that he would sheep us out. There ain’t been a time in two years that men haven’t ridden the upper ranges, watchin’ for such a thing.
“There’s a man livin’ in Kiopo Cañon, whose job is to watch the other slope. I dunno how it was he didn’t warn us; and I dunno how your father ever found out that we were goin’ to hold the roundup two weeks ahead of time. He sure picked the right time. If we’d ’a’ known it, he’d never got his sheep up over the divide.”
“You say ‘we,’” said Molly slowly. “Are you one of them? After they have turned you out, are you still one of them?”
Jack turned away, shading his eyes with one hand, as he studied the hills.
“I’ve always been a cowman,” he said slowly. “I’ve been raised to hate sheep and yuh can’t change a man in a day.”
“What have the cattlemen done for you, Jack?”
Jack did not reply.
A man was riding out of the hills on a jaded horse. He rode slowly up to them, a bronzed, wiry cowboy, with sun-red eyes and a sweat-streaked face.
“Hello, Spiers,” said Jack.
“G’d afternoon, folks. Hotter’n ——, ain’t it.”
“Crawl off and rest your feet,” invited Jack.
“No, thank yuh. I jist rode down this-away to tell yuh that there’s a meetin’ at the Arrow t’night. The boys from the other end of the range’ll be there by evenin’.”
“Did my dad send yuh after me, Spiers?”
“No-o-o, he didn’t,” Spiers shifted in his saddle nervously. “But I’ve always liked yuh, Jack; and I kinda thought yuh might want t’ come. It’s a cattlemen’s meetin’, yuh know.”
“And he’s a cattleman,” said Molly dryly.
Spiers flushed slightly and picked up his reins.
“Well, I’ll be ridin’ on. S’long, folks.”
He swung his horse around and rode on into the hills, without looking back.
“Oh, I hate that man!” exclaimed Molly angrily.
“Spiers is all right,” defended Jack calmly.
“All right! He’s a gunman, a killer.”
“Prob’ly. He’s dad’s foreman; been his foreman for years.”
“And does your dad’s dirty work.”
Jack sighed deeply and shook his head.
“There’s no use arguin’ with yuh, Molly.”
“Spiers killed Jim Morgan.”
“Well, Morgan had an even break. He—Say, how did you know that Spiers killed Morgan?”
“I didn’t.”
Molly turned away and went into the house.
Jack went back to the corral, where he leaned on the fence and tried to decide what to do. Naturally his sympathies were with the cattleman. He had been born and raised in the Lo Lo Valley, steeped in the lore of the rangeland; a top-hand cowboy at sixteen.
He had known Molly King when they were both attending the little cow-town school at Totem City, when the fathers of both were struggling for supremacy in the valley. Then came a day, when accusations were hurled at Eph King and his outfit. He was accused of wholesale cattle stealing, but no arrests were made. The cattlemen, headed by Marsh Hartwell, bought him out at a fair price and sent him out of the country.
But whether through his ill-gotten gains or through his own ability, Eph King became the sheep king of the Sunland Basin, a vast land to the north of Lo Lo, a land that was a constant threat to Lo Lo.
But there was one thing in the cattlemen’s favor: The sheep would have to come through the pass at the head of Kiopo Cañon, where old Ed Barber kept daily watch of the slopes which led off into Sunland.
Jack Hartwell again met Molly King in Medicine Tree, which was the home town of the King family. It was circus day. The recognition had been mutual and old scores were forgotten. They spent the day together, like a couple of kids out of school, drinking pink lemonade and feeding peanuts to the one elephant. It was not a big circus.
For several months after that Jack Hartwell found excuses to go to Medicine Tree. Then one day he came back to the Arrow ranch with a wife. They had eloped. Big Marsh Hartwell listened to their explanations, his face blue with suppressed anger, while Mrs. Hartwell, a frail little, gray-haired woman, with pleading blue eyes, clutched her apron with both blue-veined hands and watched her husband anxiously.
“So that’s it, eh?” Marsh Hartwell nodded slowly, his eyes almost shut. “You went over there and married her, did yuh. You married Eph King’s daughter.”
“Father!”
Ma Hartwell put a hand on his arm, but he shook it off.
“And yuh brought her back here, eh? Now what are yuh goin’ to do?”
“Why, I thought—” began Jack.
“No, yuh didn’t think! That’s the trouble. You know —— well that a King ain’t welcome in this valley. You’ve put yourself on a level with them. The son-in-law of a shepherd! You can’t stay here. Don’t you know that for years we’ve spent money to keep the King family out of this valley? And here yuh bring one in on us.”
“All right,” Jack had replied angrily. “We’ll go back to ’em.”
“No, yuh won’t. You move your stuff over to the old Morgan place. I’ll make yuh a present of it. Mebbe yuh can live it down—I dunno; but yuh can’t stay here on the Arrow.”
Jack thought all this over as he leaned on the corral fence. They had lived there less than a year. People avoided them. Molly had no women friends. To them she was the sheep woman, although they were forced to admit that she did not contaminate the air. Jack took her to dances and tried to make her one of the crowd, but without success.
And the men were not friendly to Jack. He had been one of them; one of a crowd of wild-riding, rollicking cowboys, who drank, played poker and danced with reckless abandon. In fact, Jack had been a sort of ring-leader of the gang.
He missed all this more than any one knew. But most of all he missed the home life of the Arrow ranch.
His sister and her husband, Bill Brownlee, lived at the Arrow. Brownlee hated the sheep even worse, if such a thing were possible, than did Marsh Hartwell. There were three cowboys employed:
Three gunmen, as Molly had called them.
“Honey” Wier, a wide-mouthed, flat-faced cowboy, who hailed from “Alberty, by gosh,” “Cloudy” McKay, a dour-faced, trouble expecter from Arizona, and “Chet” Spiers, the foreman, composed the hired element of the Arrow. And Lo Lo Valley respected them for their ability. Marsh Hartwell knew cowpunchers, and in these three men he had ability plus.
And Jack Hartwell, as he leaned on the corral fence, knew down deep in his heart that he could not remain neutral. It would be impossible. He must decide quickly, too. If he did not attend that meeting, the cattlemen would take it for granted that he was against them. Spiers had given him no chance to vacillate.
Far back in the hills sounded the report of a rifle. Jack lifted his head, and as he did so he thought he caught a flash of color back on the side of a hill. For several minutes he watched the spot, but there was nothing other than the sage brush and the dancing haze.
“Seein’ things,” he told himself, but to make sure he walked back up the brush-lined stream, keeping out of sight of that certain spot. But he found nothing, and came back to the corral, where he busied himself for an hour or so, putting in a couple of new posts.
He needed physical action, and he worked swiftly in the blazing sun. Then he flung himself down in the shade and smoked innumerable cigarets, still wrestling with himself. The sun went down before he walked back to the house. Molly was putting their supper on the table, but he had no appetite.
“I heard a shot a while ago,” she told him, and he nodded grimly.
“You’ll prob’ly hear a lot more before it’s over, Molly.”
He sat down at the table, but shoved his plate aside.
“I’m not hungry,” he said slowly. “I’ve fought it all out with myself today, Molly. It’s been a —— of a fight.”
“Fought out what?”
She swallowed dryly, almost choking.
“Just what to do. I’m goin’ to that meetin’ at the Arrow tonight.”
She got to her feet, staring down at him.
“You going to that meeting? Why, you won’t be welcome. Don’t be a fool, Jack. They know you won’t be there.”
“I’ll be there,” Jack nodded slowly, but did not look at her. “Molly, you married a cowpuncher, not a sheepherder. This is my country. I—I reckon I hate sheep as bad as anybody around here, and I’ve got to help keep ’em out.”
“You have?” She sat down and stared across the table at him. “After what they’ve done to us?”
“Yeah—even after that.”
“You’d fight against—me?”
“You? Why, bless yore heart, Molly; it ain’t you.”
“It’s my father, my folks. He never did you any harm.”
“Well,” Jack smiled grimly, “he never had a good chance. Yuh must remember that I haven’t seen him since I was a kid. I had to steal yuh, girl. He’d ’a’ prob’ly killed me, if he knew.”
Molly shook her head quickly.
“I think he knew, Jack. In fact, I’m sure of it.”
“How do you know?” He squinted closely at her. “We didn’t know it was goin’ to happen until we met that day, the day we ran away to get married. And you never seen him since.”
“Oh, I don’t know.”
She got to her feet and walked to the kitchen door. He watched her for a while, and then got up from the table, picking up his hat. Quickly she turned and walked back to the table.
“Jack, I forbid you to go there tonight.”
“Well,” he smiled softly at her, “I’m sorry yuh feel that way about it, Molly, but I’m goin’, thassall.”
“Are you?” Her eyes blazed with anger.
“Well, go ahead. I may not be here when you come back.”
“Uh-huh?”
He turned his sombrero around several times, as if trying to control himself.
“Well,” he looked up at her wistfully, “I may not come back, yuh know.”
“Why—why do you say that, Jack?”
“Well, I don’t want to come back, unless I’m sure you’ll be home.”
She stared at him as he went past her and walked down to the corral, where he saddled his horse, drew on his chaps and rode away toward the Arrow. She had not told him whether or not she would be home when he returned, and he had not told her good-by.
Jack rode out over the trail that led to the Arrow ranch house three miles away. He was in no hurry, and drew up his horse after he was hidden from the house. He wondered if Molly would be foolish enough to ride back into the hills to her father. Her horse and saddle were at the corral.
He knew that it might be dangerous for her to ride across the dead-line at night. She wore men’s garb for riding purposes. He turned his horse around and rode back to where he could watch the house. It was not his nature to spy upon his wife, but he did not want her to run into danger foolishly.
He did not have long to wait. A man came through the fringe of brush along the creek, going cautiously. Once he stopped and looked intently at the spot where Jack was hidden. Then he went swiftly toward the house, coming in at the opposite side.
Jack mounted his horse and spurred back along the trail. He could not recognize this man, but his very actions stamped him as dangerous. Jack dismounted at the rear of the house and went around to the front, where he stopped. Voices were coming from the other side of the house. Silently as possible he went to the corner. Molly was standing with her back to him, looking at something in her hands, while the man stood beside her, looking down toward the corral.
“Company came, eh?” said Jack softly.
Molly and the stranger turned quickly. With a quick intake of breath, Molly flung her hands behind her. The stranger was a middle-aged man, unkempt, with a face covered with black stubble. His clothes were dirty, torn. The butt of a six-shooter stuck out of the waistband of his overalls.
He merely squinted at Jack and looked at Molly. It was evident that he did not know Jack, who came closer, holding out his hand to Molly.
“Give me that letter, Molly,” ordered Jack.
“I will not!”
Her teeth clicked angrily, as she faced him.
He walked up, ignoring the man, grasped her by the shoulder and whirled her around. The action was unlooked for and she threw out one hand to catch her balance. Quick as a flash Jack grabbed at the hand which held the letter, but all he got was a corner of the paper.
“Quit that!” snapped the stranger, grasping Jack by the arm. “Don’tcha try ——”
He whirled Jack around and got a left-hand smash full in the jaw, which sent him to his knees, spitting blood. But the blow was not heavy enough to do more than daze him, and as he straightened up he jerked the six-shooter from his waist.
But Jack was looking for this, and his bullet crashed into the stranger’s arm between elbow and wrist, leaving the man staring up at him, unable to do more than mouth a curse.
Molly had been leaning back against the side of the house, her face white with fright, but now she sped into the kitchen, slamming the door behind her. The stranger got to his feet, holding his arm with his left hand, and looked around.
“Yo’re from the sheep outfits, ain’t yuh?” asked Jack.
“That’s my business.” The stranger was not a bit meek.
“It’s a —— of a business,” observed Jack. “Who was that letter from?”
“Mebbe yuh think yuh can find out, eh?”
“All right. Now you mosey back where yuh came from,sabe? If I ever catch yuh around here again, I’ll not shoot at yore arm. Now vamoosepronto.”
The man turned and went swiftly back past the corral, where he disappeared through the brush. A few moments later he came out on to the side of a hill, where he lost no time in putting distance between himself and the ranch.
Jack watched him disappear and went to the kitchen door. It was locked. For a while he stood there, wondering what to do. He had lost the piece he had torn from the corner of the letter, but now he found it on the ground.
It had torn diagonally across the corner, and on it were only three words, written in lead-pencil:
Find out what——
Find out what——
Just the three words. For a long time he studied them, before the full import of them struck him. He walked to the front door, but found it locked. Then he went back, mounted his horse and rode back toward the Arrow. It was growing dark now, and he felt sure that the stranger would not come back. He was in need of medical attention, and Jack felt that he would lose no time in getting back to his own crowd.
Jack took the tiny piece of paper from his pocket and looked it over again.
“It’s from her father,” he told himself. “Find out what? Find out somethin’ about the cattlemen, I wonder? My ——, is my wife a spy?”
He straightened in his saddle, as past events flashed through his mind. Molly had known that there was a lookout in Kiopo Cañon. He remembered that Honey Wier had spoken in her presence of old Ed Barber, the keeper of the Kiopo Pass, who drew a salary for sitting up there, watching for sheep.
She also knew that the fall roundup was to be held at this time. Had she written this to her father, he wondered? She had plenty of chances, when she went for the mail. And she had intimated that her father knew she was going to marry him.
“Is she standin’ all this for her father?” he asked himself. “Did she marry me just to give her father a chance to get even with the Arrow?”
He tried to argue himself out of the idea, but the tiny, triangular piece of paper, with the three written words, was something that he could not deny. It was after dark when he rode in at the Arrow. There were twelve horses tied to the low fence in front of the ranch house. A yellow glow showed through the heavy window curtains of the living room.
Jack did not stop to knock on the front door, but walked right in. The room was full of men, hazy with smoke. They had been arguing angrily as he entered, but now they were still.
His father was sitting at the back of the room, in the center, while the others were facing him. There were Cliff Vane, owner of the Circle V, and his two cowboys, Bert Allen and “Skinner” Close; Sam Hodges, the crippled owner of the Bar 77, with Jimmy Healey, Paul Dazey and Gene Hill; Old Frank Hall, who owned the 404, his son Tom and three punchers.
“Slim” De Larimore, the saturnine-faced owner of the Turkey track brand, a horse outfit. Three of his punchers were scattered around the room. Seated near Marsh Hartwell was “Sudden” Smithy, the sheriff, who owned the Lazy S outfit. Near him sat “Sunshine” Gallagher, his deputy, the prize pessimist of Lo Lo Valley.
Near the dining-room door, Spiers sat hunched against the wall, and near him was Brownlee, Jack’s brother-in-law. Jack closed the door behind him and looked quickly around the room. Marsh Hartwell squinted closely at Jack. It was the first time that Jack had been in the Arrow ranch house since his father had told him he would not be welcome any longer.
De Larimore had evidently been talking, as he started in again to explain something, but Marsh Hartwell silenced him with a motion of his hand, looking intently at Jack.
“Was there somethin’ yuh wanted?”
Marsh Hartwell’s voice was cold and impersonal. He might have been speaking to a total stranger instead of to his own son.
“Somethin’ I wanted?” said Jack puzzled. “I came to the meetin’, thass all.”
“I asked him to,” said Spiers. “I didn’t think he’d come.”
“Yuh can’t never tell about some folks.” Thus Sunshine Gallagher, grinning.
“Thank yuh, Sunshine,” said Jack easily.
“Oh ——, yore welcome, I’m sure.”
“What did you expect to do at this meetin’?” queried Marsh Hartwell.
“For one thing,” said Jack coldly, “I didn’t expect to be insulted. I know I’m an outsider, but I own a few cattle.”
Some one laughed and Jack turned his head quickly, but every one was straight faced.
“Oh, ——, you fellers make me tired!” roared old Sam Hodges, hammering his cane on the floor. His white beard twitched angrily. “Why don’tcha let the kid alone. What if he did marry the daughter of a sheepherder? By ——, that ain’t so terribly awful, is it?”
He glared around as if daring any one to challenge his argument.
“Are any of you fellers pure? Ha, ha, ha, ha! By ——, I could tell a few things about most of yuh, if I wanted to. I’ve seen Jack’s wife, and I’ll rise right up and proclaim that they raise some —— sweet lookin’ females in the sheep country. Set down, Jack. Yo’re a cowman, son, and this here is a cowman’s meetin’. We need trigger fingers, too, by ——! And if m’ memory don’t fail me, you’ve got a good one.”
“But—” began the sheriff.
“But ——!” snorted the old man.
“Don’t ‘but’ me! You —— holier-than-thou! Smithy, some day you’ll make me mad and I’ll tell yuh right out what I know about yuh. Oh, I know all of yuh. I’m a ——ed old cripple, and the law protects me from violence, so hop to it. Start hornin’ into me, will yuh? I’ve lived here since Lo Lo Valley was a high peak, and I’m competent to write a biography of every ——ed one of yuh. And some of it would have to be written on asbestos paper. Set down, Jack Hartwell; yo’re interruptin’ the meetin’.”
Jack sat down near the door, hunched on his heels. Old Sam Hodges had come to his rescue at a critical time, and he inwardly blessed the old cripple. Hodges had been a cripple as long as Jack could remember, and his tongue was vitriolic. He was educated, refined, when he cared to be, which was not often. But in spite of the fact that he cursed every one, the men of Lo Lo Valley listened to his advice.
“Well, let’s get on with the meetin’,” said Vane impatiently. “You were talkin’, Slim.”
“And that’s all he was doin’,” said Sunshine. “Slim is jist like a dictionary. He talks a little about this and a little about that, and the —— stuff don’t connect. What we want is an agreement on some move, it seems to me.”
“Sunshine’s got the right idea,” agreed Hodges. “Too much talk. If anybody has a real suggestion, let ’em outline it. You ought to have one, Hartwell.”
Marsh Hartwell shook his head.
“It will be impossible to wipe them out now. The only thing to do will be to make a solid dead-line and hold ’em where they are until the feed plays out and they have to go back. The feed ain’t none too good up there now, and if it don’t rain they can’t stay long.”
“How many men will it take to hold that line, Marsh?” asked Vane.
“They’re spread over a two-mile front now. Figure it out. They’ve got about twenty-five herders, all armed with rifles. I look for ’em to spread plumb across the range, and the —— himself couldn’t stop ’em from tricklin’ in.”
“Which ruins the idea of a solid dead-line,” said Hodges dryly. “Who has a worse idea than that?”
The sheriff got to his feet, but before he could state his proposition there came a noise at the front door. Jack sprang to his feet and flung the door open, while in came Honey Wier, half-carrying, half-dragging old Ed Barber, who had been the keeper of the Kiopo Pass.
The old man was blood-stained, clothes half torn from his body, his face chalky in the light of the lamp. One of the men sprang up and let Honey place the old man in an easy chair, while the rest crowded around, questioning, wondering what had happened to him.
“I found him about a mile from Kiopo,” panted Honey. “His cabin had been burned. They shot him, but he managed to hide away in the brush. I reckon he lost his mind and came crawlin’ out on to the side hill. I got shot at, too, when I was bringin’ him in, but they missed me.”
“How bad is he hurt?” asked Hartwell.
“Kinda bad, I reckon. He talked to me a while ago.”
Vane produced a flask and gave the old man a drink. The strong liquor brought a flush to his cheeks and he tried to grin.
“Good stuff!” he whispered wheezingly. “I ain’t dead yet. Need a doctor, I reckon.”
“I’ll get one right away,” said one of the cowboys, and bolted out after his horse.
“Who shot yuh, Ed?” asked Hartwell.
“I dunno, Marsh. They sneaked up on me, roped me tight and brought in the sheep next day. I heard ’em goin’ past the cabin. They knowed what I was there for. One of ’em told me. They knowed that the roundup was on, too. I managed to fight m’self out of them ropes, but it was too late.
“The sheep had all gone past. Some of them men was comin’ back toward the cabin and they seen me makin’ my getaway. I didn’t have no gun. They hit me a couple of times, but I crawled into a mesquite and they missed findin’ me.”
“Then they burned the cabin,” said Honey angrily.
Marsh Hartwell scowled thoughtfully, as he turned away from the old man.
“What do yuh think of it, Marsh?” asked Hodges.
“I think there’s a spy in Lo Lo Valley.”
“A spy?” queried the sheriff.
“Yeah, a spy. How did they know that Ed Barber lived in Kiopo Cañon to watch for sheep? How did they know that we’d hold our fall roundup this early in the season? By ——, somebody told ’em, some sneakin’ spy!”
Marsh Hartwell turned and looked straight at Jack. It was a look filled with meaning, and nearly every man in the room interpreted it fully. Still Jack did not flinch, as their eyes met. Some one swore softly.
“There’s only one answer to that,” said De Larimore. “Show us the spy, Hartwell. This is a time of war.”
Marsh Hartwell shook his head slowly and turned back to his seat.
“Things like that must be proven,” said Hodges. “It ain’t a thing that yuh can take snap judgment on.”
“We better put Ed between the blankets,” suggested Honey Wier. “He’s got to be in shape for the doctor to work on when he comes, so I reckon we’ll take him down to the bunk house, Marsh.”
The boss of the Arrow nodded, and three men assisted the wounded man from the room. Jack turned to Gene Hill,
“Have they got any men on the dead-line now, Gene?” he asked softly.
Hill was a long-nosed, watery-eyed sort of person, generally very affable, but now he seemed to draw into his shell.
“Better ask Marsh Hartwell,” he said slowly. “I ain’t in no position to pass out information.”
There was no mistaking the inference in Hill’s reply. Jack turned and walked to the door, where he faced the crowd, his hand on the door-knob.
“I came here tonight to throw in with yuh,” he said hoarsely. “I’m as much of a cattleman as any of yuh here tonight, and —— knows I hate sheep as bad as any of yuh. I had a gun to help yuh fight against the sheep men.
“But I know how yuh feel toward me. My own father thinks I’ve done him an injury. You think I’m a spy. Well, —— yuh, go ahead and think all yuh want to! From now on I don’t have to show allegiance to either side. I’m neither a cattleman nor a sheepman. I’ll mind my own business,sabe? You’ve drawn a dead-line against the sheep; I’ll draw one against both of yuh. You know where my ranch-lines run? All right, keep off. Now, yuh can all go to ——!”
He yanked the door open and slammed it behind him. For several moments the crowd was silent. Then old Sam Hodges laughed joyfully and hammered on the floor with his cane.
“Good for the kid!” he exploded. “By ——, I’m for him! He told yuh all to go to ——, didn’t he? Told me to go with yuh. But I wouldn’t do it, nossir. Catch me with this gang? Huh! Draw a dead-line, will he? Ha, ha, ha, ha! Betcha forty dollars he’ll hold it, too. Hartwell, you are an ass!”
Marsh Hartwell flushed hotly, but did not reply. He knew better than to cross old Hodges, who chuckled joyfully over his evil-smelling pipe.
“If I had a boy like Jack, I’ll be —— if I’d turn him down because his wife’s father favored mutton instead of beef,” he continued. “Now that we’ve all agreed that Marsh Hartwell is seventeen kinds of a —— fool, let’s get back to the business at hand.”
Marsh Hartwell glared at Hodges, his jaw muscles jerking.
“If you wasn’t a cripple, Sam——”
“But I am, Marsh.” The old man chuckled throatily, as he sucked on his pipe. “I wish I wasn’t, but I am.”
“All of which don’t settle our questions,” observed Slim Larimore impatiently.
“No, and it don’t look to me like there was any use of talkin’ any further.”
Thus Frank Hall, of the 404, a dumpy, little old cowman, with an almost-round head. He got to his feet, as if the meeting was over.
“There’s only one thing to do: Shove every —— rider we’ve got along that dead-line and kill every sheep and sheepherder that crosses it.”
“That looks like the only reasonable thing to do,” nodded Marsh Hartwell, looking around the room. “Are we all agreed on that?”
Sudden Smithy, the sheriff, got to his feet.
“Gents,” he said slowly. “I can’t say yes to that. You all know that I’ve sworn to uphold the law; and the law has given the sheep the same right as cattle. Legally, we don’t own but a small portion of Lo Lo range; morally, we do. I’m as much of a cowman as you fellers, but first of all, I’m the sheriff.”
“That’s all right,” said Hartwell. “You’re not against us, Sudden?”
“O-o-oh, —— no! I’m just showin’ yuh that it won’t be my vote that turns —— loose in these hills. And she’s goin’ to be ——, boys. Eph King is a fighter. He shoved that mass of sheep over Kiopo Pass, and the —— himself ain’t goin’ to be able to stop him, until every sheepherder is put out of commission and the sheep travelin’ back down the slopes into Sunland Basin.”
“And King’s no fool,” growled Bill Brownlee. “He prob’ly ain’t got no central camp, where we might ride in and bust ’em up quick. Every sheepherder goes it alone. King is prob’ly back there somewhere, directin’ ’em.”
“I sure like to notch my sight on him,” said Cloudy McKay of the Arrow. “I got a bullet so close to my ear today that it plumb raised a blister. And any of you fellers that ride that dead-line better look out. Them shepherds lay close in the brush, and they can shoot, don’tcha forget it. Our best bet is to leave our broncs in a safe place, and play Injun.”
“There’s wisdom there,” nodded Sam Hodges. “Eph King hasn’t got ordinary sheepherders in charge of that outfit. He can hire trigger fingers and pay ’em their price. He’s got more men up there right now than we can throw against him, and he’s ready for battle.
“We better shove our men in close to that line before daylight, Hartwell. Spread ’em out, hide ’em in the brush. It looks —— nice to see a long string of mounted punchers, but a man on a horse up there will prove that he’s a cattleman, a legitimate target for a shepherd. My idea is: Fight ’em with their own medicine.”
“Suits me fine.” Old Frank Hall picked up his hat. “We’re too shy on men to make targets out of ’em. That’s the best idea we’ve had, so let’s go. How’s everybody fixed for ammunition?”
A check of the cartridge belts showed that every man had enough for his immediate needs.
“I’ll throw a chuck wagon into Six-Mile Gulch,” stated Hartwell, “and we can feed in relays. If this lasts very long, we can throw another into the head of Brush Cañon; so that we won’t have to draw the men too far away from the line.
“Smithy, when yuh go back to Totem, tell Jim Hork to wire Medicine Tree or Palm Lake for ca’tridges. Tell him to get plenty of thirty-thirties, forty-five seventies and a slough of forty-fours and forty-fives. If he can get us fifty pounds of dynamite, we’ll take that, too. That’s all, I reckon.”
The crowd of men filed out to their horses, where they mounted and rode away into the hills. Marsh Hartwell stood in the doorway of the ranch house, bulking big in the yellow light, and watched them ride away. He turned back into the smoky room and squinted at his wife, who stood just inside the room, one hand still holding the half-open dining-room door.
For several moments they looked at each other closely. Then she released the door and came toward him.
“Marsh, I heard what was said to Jack,” she said softly. “I was just outside that door.”
“Well?”
“You drove him away from here.”
“He drove himself away, Mother. When he married that——”
“He came to help you. After what you had done to him, he came to help you, Marsh. Blood is thicker than water.”
“Not his blood! Came to help me? More likely he came to see what he could hear.”
“Marsh! Do you think that Jack——?”
“Well, somebody did. I tell you, there’s a dirty spy around here.”
“Marsh Hartwell!”
The old lady came closer and put a hand on his arm, but he did not look at her.
“Perhaps there is a spy, Marsh,” she said softly. “There are many people in Lo Lo Valley. We don’t know them all as well as we know each other. And knowing each other so well, after all these years, Marsh, are we the only ones capable of raising a—a spy?”
He looked down at her. There were tears in her old eyes and her lips trembled in spite of the forced smile. Then she turned away and went back through the doorway. He stared after her for along time, before he turned and went back to the open front door, where he scowled out into the night.
There was no relaxation, no admission that he might be wrong in his estimate of Jack. But between his lips came a soft exclamation, which had something to do with “a —— fool,” but only Marsh Hartwell knew whom he meant.