BY SUBTLE alchemy of thought Roderick’s feelings toward Scotty Meisch had become entirely changed. On the ranch he had treated the rough, uncultivated and at times insolent youth with contempt that was scarcely concealed. He was not of his class; and Roderick by his manner had shown that he counted Scotty as outside the pale of good breeding—a fellow not to be associated with except in the necessary work of roping a steer or handling a mob of cattle. It had been almost an act of condescension on his part to accept Scotty’s challenge to try out their respective riding abilities at the frontier fair. Any hurt the lad might have received in the contest was part of the day’s game, and at the moment Roderick had treated the incident with indifference. But now he found himself feeling quite solicitous as to the poor fellow’s condition. Of course Gail Holden, who had interested herself in the injured cowboy, had nothing to do with this change of sentiment—at least Roderick’s consciousness took no cognizance of her influence in the matter. All the same, as he walked over to the hospital on the following afternoon to inquire about the invalid, he was conning in his mind the chances of perhaps meeting Gail there.
However Scotty Meisch was alone when Roderick was admitted to the ward. There was only another occupant of the long room, occupying a cot at the farther end. The nurse as she brought Roderick to Scotty’s bedside declared that her patient was getting along fine, and that a visit from a friend would cheer him up and do him good. Roderick smiled as he sat down at the foot of the bed and the nurse moved away to attend to other duties. Except for a bandaged head the cowboy looked fairly fit.
“How are you, old man?” Roderick asked in a kindly tone.
Scotty seemed quite disconcerted by this friendly greeting. He looked sheepish and shame-faced.
“Oh, I’ll be all right in no time,” he mumbled. “Expect you think I’m a mean cuss,” he added, after a moment’s pause, glancing at Roderick then hastily looking away again.
“I haven’t said so,” replied Roderick in a pleasant and assuring way.
“No, I know you hain’t said it. But I’ve never, liked you from the first time we met over at the Shield’s ranch. I don’t know why—damned if I do. But I didn’t like you and don’t like you now, and I’m gosh’lmighty ashamed of myself fer bein’ so ornery.”
“You shouldn’t speak of yourself so harshly,” said Roderick, somewhat interested in the turn the conversation was taking.
“I don’t deserve any kindness at your hands,” Meisch went on. “I sure planned to kill you onct ‘til I found out you weren’t sweet on Barbara Shields. Oh, I’m a low-down cuss, but I’m ambitious. You hain’t the feller I’m after any more. It’s that lawyer Carlisle and I’ll git him, you jist see. He’s got to keep out of my way,” and as Scotty, with a black scowl on his face, said this he looked the part of an avenging demon right enough.
“I know,” he continued, “Barbara is older than I am, but I’m dead gone on her, even if she don’t know it, an’ I’ll do things yet to that feller Carlisle.” Roderick was fairly perplexed by these references to Barbara Shields and the disclosure of the rough cowboy’s feelings toward his employer’s daughter. For a moment he could not find the proper word to say. He just ventured a platitude, kindly spoken as it was kindly intended: “Oh, you must get over these broodings, Scotty.”
“It’s not broodings—it’s business, and I mean it,” he muttered. “Oh, you needn’t look so darned solemn. I’ve no more bad feelin’s agin you. But when you first came to the ranch, you know you couldn’t ride any better than a kid. But you began givin’ yourself airs, an’ then when I thought you were goin’ to cut me out with Barbara I jist got plum crazy. That’s why I sent you fair warnin’.”
A light broke in on Roderick.
“So it was you who slipped that note under Grant Jones’ door, was it?” he asked in great surprise.
“Yas. You can know it now; who cares? But it was only later I saw I was on a blind trail—that it was the other one you’re after—goin’ fishin’ an’ all that sort o’ thing.”
Roderick reddened.
“Oh, that’s all fudge too,” he exclaimed uneasily.
“I’m not so sure ‘bout that,” replied Scotty, with a cunning look in his eyes. “‘Sides, she’s dead gone on you, that’s a cert. She was here all yesterday afternoon, and could speak about nothin’ else—praised yer ridin’ and allowed she was tarnation sorry to have missed seein’ you on Gin Fizz. Which reminds me that I’ve got to comgratulate you on the championship.” He slipped a hand timidly and tentatively from under the bed-spread. “Oh, I can admit myself beat when I’m beat. You’ve grown to be a better’n rider than me. I’m only a little skinny chap at the best, but you showed yourself strong enough to kill that great big steer in the bull-doggin’. You’ve got me skinned, and you hold the championship right enough. Shake.”
And Scotty at last mustered up the moral courage to extend his hand. Roderick took it and shook it warmly. So Gail had been talking about him!—his heart had leaped with joy.
“I’m glad to hear you speak like that, Scotty,” he said with great cordiality. “You and I can come to be mighty good friends.”
“Gee, but I wish I looked like you,” remarked Scotty, lapsing into a half smile. “Shake hands again with me, won’t you?”
Roderick reached over and once more bestowed a good honest squeeze; and he improved the occasion by begging Scotty not to indulge in evil thoughts about killing people or anything of that sort.
“What makes you kind t’ me?” asked the lad as he looked inquiringly at Roderick.
“I don’t know that I have been particularly kind to you,” replied Roderick. “I begin to realize that I should have been here before now to help cheer you up a bit while convalescing.”
Scotty turned from Roderick and looking at the ceiling was silent for a few moments. At last he said: “Expect if I’d stay here a long, long time you’d keep on bein’ kind t’ me. Possibly you would bring Barbara with you on some of your visits. But I know I’m goin’ t’ get well, that’s the pity of it all. I wouldn’t be in bed now if the doctor hadn’t said I got ter stay here for a few days. When I’m well, why, then it’s all off with you an’ Scotty. You won’t pay any more attention to me when I’m once more sound as a nut an’ ridin’ range than you would a low down coyote.”
“Why should I become indifferent to you?” inquired Roderick.
“Oh, no reason why you should, only you will,” replied Scotty. “You are of the high-falutin’ an’ educated kind an’—well, I never went to school more’n two weeks in my life. I got tired of the educatin’ business—stole a horse and never did go back. An’ they never caught me, nuther.”
He brightened up when he said this and laughed at his cleverness as if it were a most pleasant remembrance.
“Where was your childhood home?” inquired Roderick.
“Now, right there,” replied Scotty, “is where yer presumin’. You’re not talkin’ to me. D’ye suppose I’m goin’ ter tell yer and have this whole business piped off and those fellers come out here an’ pinch me for hoss-stealin’. Not on yer life, so long as Scotty Meisch knows himself.”
Roderick smiled as he said: “Surely, Scotty, you are a very suspicious person. I had no thought of doing what you suggest.”
“Waal,” drawled Scotty, “if you’d have been as near goin’ to the penitentiary as often as I have, you’d learn to keep yer mouth shut when people begin to inquire into your past hist’ry an’ not unbosom yerself. Fact is, my hist’ry won’t stand investigatin’. It’s fuller of thin places an’ holes than an old-fashioned tin corn grater. You know what a grater is, don’t you? It’s a tin bent over into a half moon an’ nailed to a board with holes punched from inside out to make it rough. Where I come from we used to husk new corn just as soon as it was out of the milk an’ grate it into meal. About the only thing we had to live on was cornmeal mush an’ milk. Wish I had some now. I’m hungrier than hell for it.”
The primitiveness of it all rather appealed to Roderick, and he called the nurse and asked if she wouldn’t serve the patient with some cornmeal mush with milk for dinner that evening.
“Certainly,” she replied, “if Dr. Burke does not object,” and went away to make inquiries. In a little while she returned and said: “The doctor says a nice bowl of cornmeal mush and milk would be just the thing for Mr. Meisch.” And it was so arranged.
When the nurse had gone Roderick noticed a tear trickling down the cheek of Scotty and in order not to embarrass the boy he turned away and stood looking out of the window. Presently Scotty said: “I wish ter hell I was decent, that’s what I wish.”
Without turning from the window Roderick inquired: “How old are you, Scotty?”
“Guess I’m about nineteen. I don’t know fer sure. They never did tell me when my birthday was.”
“How would you like to go to school, Scotty? Brace up and be an educated chap like other fellows.”
“Me learn to read an’ write?” exclaimed Scotty. “Look here, Mr. Warfield, are you chaffin’ me? That’s what some Englishmen called it when they meant teasin’ and so I say chaffin’. Might as well use all the big words a feller picks up on the way.” Roderick laughed aloud at Scotty’s odd expressions and turned to him and said: “Scotty, you aren’t a bad fellow. You have a good heart in you.”
“I don’t know about that,” said Scotty, shaking his head. “One time there was a feller told me that tough cusses like me don’t have hearts—just gizzards.”
“Well,” said Roderick, laughing, “my time has come to go now but I want to tell you I like you, Scotty. You seem to me to be the making of a very decent sort of chap, and if you will be a real good fellow and are sincere about wanting to go to school and make something of yourself, I believe I can arrange for you to do so.”
“Honest, Mr. Warfield, honest? Are you tellin’ me the truth or is this a sick bed jolly?”
“Certainly I am telling you the truth,” replied Roderick. “You think it all over until I come and see you again.”
“When’ll you come? Tomorrow?”
“Yes,” replied Roderick, “I’ll come tomorrow.”
“All right,” said Scotty, “I’ll sure look for yer.” The next day when Roderick called, Major Buell Hampton and Grant Jones accompanied him. They had a long talk with Scotty whose rapid recovery showed improvement even from the previous day. After the subject had been introduced by Roderick, who told Scotty that he had informed his friends of the lad’s desire to go to school, Major Buell Hampton observed: “A printing office, Mr. Meisch, is a liberal education within itself. I have been talking this matter over with Mr. Jones, the Editor of theDillon Doublejack,and with Mr. Warfield, and we have mutually agreed that if you are in earnest about leaving the range for a while and will learn to read books and generally improve your mind, we shall give you the opportunity. As soon as you are able to leave the hospital, how would you like to go over to the little town of Dillon with Mr. Grant Jones, this gentleman at my right, and go into his printing office?”
“You would be my devil to start in with,” said Grant, good-naturedly.
“Guess that’d about fit me,” responded Scotty with a grin. “I’m a sort of a devil anyway, ain’t I?” and he looked toward Roderick.
“Mr. Jones means a different kind of a devil, Scotty,” laughed Roderick. “What Major Buell Hampton suggests to you is most excellent advice, and I think you had better accept the offer. This job will give you a home, and you will work in the printing office. You will soon learn to read books, and also you will become a typesetter which, as Major Hampton told you, is a practical education within itself and will lead to better things and greater things along educational lines. Of course, it may be some time before that knock on your head gets all right.”
“Oh, don’t worry about my old bean,” said Scotty with a smile, as he touched the bandage that encircled his cranium.
Finally Scotty said he believed he would like to try the new job. “You know, I’ve been knocked ‘round over the world an’ kicked an’ thumped an’ had my ears cuffed an’ my shins barked so much that I don’t hardly know what to make uv you fellers. If I was sure you wasn’t stringin’ me an’ really meant it all as a kindness, why, I’ll be goshdamed if I wouldn’t git up out o’ bed this minute an’ start for Dillon. That’s what I’d do. I ain’t no piker.”
This speech was very amusing to Grant Jones; and he assured the injured boy that he himself was not going over to Dillon for perhaps a week, by which time if he were attentive to the instructions of the doctor he probably would be able to accompany him.
“I’ll take you over,” said Grant, “and we’ll batch it together so far as a place to sleep is concerned in the printing office. There is a good boarding house just across the street where you can get your meals.”
“Who’s goin’ ter pay for them?” asked Scotty. “I ain’t got any money.”
“That,” said Roderick, “is what Major Buell Hampton is going to do for you. Not only will he pay your board for one year until your work is worth wages in the printing office, but he will also get you some new clothes and a new pair of shoes and rig you out in good shape, old man.”
“Gee, but you’re good to me, Major Hampton, and Warfield too. Yer ought ter cuff my ears instead uv bein’ so all-fired kind.”
With this the loveless boy turned towards the wall and covered his face. Both Major Hampton and Grant, as well as Roderick, were noticeably affected, and the three walked over toward the window while Scotty was collecting himself.
“I say,” said Grant, sotto voce, “in the language of Jim Rankin, the worst that poor little devil will get—if he goes with me—will be the best of it.”
Then the visitors turned round to say good-by. The invalid had had about enough excitement for one day.
Just as they were departing, Scotty beckoned Roderick to his side.
“Stop a minute or two with me—alone,” he whispered. “I wants ter tell you somethin’.”
Roderick excused himself to the others; he would join them on the porch presently.
Scotty’s face wore a keen eager look.
“Say, if I helps you,” he began, “I’ll be doin’ a good turn, won’t I, to the girl that saved my life by hurryin’ me along to this ‘orspital here?”
“I believe she will count it as a favor,” replied Roderick. “How can you help me, Scotty?”
“An’ I’ll be doin’ you a favor,” continued the lad, without answering the direct question, “if I do a good turn to your friend with the name that reminds me of Bull Durham terbaccer?”
“Buell Hampton,” laughed Roderick.
“The Major you also call him. Wal, I can drop him a word o’ warnin’ too.”
“Oh, he has never a thought about love affairs,” replied Roderick, smiling.
“But this is a warnin’ of another kind. Listen.” And Scotty drew himself up to a sitting posture on the bed. “Come nearer.”
Roderick complied; his ear was close to Scotty’s lips. The cowboy spoke in a whisper.
“The Major’s got a pile o’ rich ore stored in his house. There’s a bunch o’ fellers agoin’ to get it, an’ they’ll shoot to kill as sure as God made hell.”
Roderick mastered his emotion of surprise.
“When is this to take place, Scotty?” he asked quietly.
“Any night after tonight. Tonight they’ve fixed to square accounts with some sheep herders over Jack Creek way. Then they’re goin’ for the Major.”
Roderick gripped the other’s hand.
“Scotty, you have done me the biggest service in the world,” he said earnestly. “But one thing more—who are these men?”
“I dassn’t tell. They’d plug me full o’ holes the moment I got out o’ here.”
Roderick felt perplexed. He did not like to press for information that might seem to threaten danger for Scotty himself.
The latter was watching his face furtively.
“I know you’re straight—you’ll never give a feller like me away if I tell you one name.”
“Never. You may stake your life on that.”
“Wal, I don’t care what happens to him anyway. He’s a bad egg—a rotten bad egg clean through. And I’m done with him from now right on. I’m goin’ to take that printin’ devil’s job and act on the square.”
“That’s right, Scotty. And we’ll all help you to get clear of bad companions and bad influences. So it’s all right for you to give me that name.”
“An’ she’ll be pleased too, won’t she, that Holden young lady?”
“She’ll be always grateful to you for saving Buell Hampton.”
“That’s ‘nuff for me. The leader o’ that gang is—”
Scotty paused a moment; Roderick waited, silent and still.
“Bud Bledsoe,” whispered the lad. “Now I’ve stopped hatin’ you, I’ve sort o’ turned to hatin’ him and all his kind. But you’ll not give me away, Warfield? I wants ter hold down that printin’ job—that editor feller will make a man of me, that’s just how I feel.”
“And just as we all feel,” said Roderick. “Now, Scotty, you must lie down. Let me fix your pillow for you. You’ve got some fever yet, I can see. You must rest, old fellow. You look tired.”
“Yes; I’m doggoned tired,” murmured the lad wearily, as he sank back on the pillow and closed his eyes.
“He is sleeping now, I think,” said Roderick to the nurse as he passed quietly out of the ward.
AFTER a brief consultation on the hospital veranda, Buell Hampton, Roderick and Grant decided on an immediate consultation with Jim Rankin. They found the ex-sheriff busy among the horses down at the brush stable over the hill from the Major’s home.
Jim received the startling news with great complacency.
“I’ve been expectin’ tumultuous news o’ this kind for quite a while,” he said. “Oh, I’m up to all the didoes o’ both the cowpunchers and the sheep herders. Never mind how I got to know them things. I just know ‘em, and that’s ‘nuff said, good and plenty, for all present. If the cowpunchers are going to Jack Creek tonight, there will be hell a-poppin’.”
“Not murder, surely?” exclaimed Roderick.
“Wal, there’s no sayin’ how them things end,” replied Jim. “You see it’s this way. The cowpunchers claim they’re afeard the sheep’ll cross over Jack Creek, an’ they’ll go armed with great big clubs as well as shootin’ irons. They’ll undertake, I’m ‘lowin’, ter kill with their dubs a whole lot o’ sheep, maybe the hull kit an’ bilin’ uv ‘em, shoot up the mess wagons where the sheep herders are sleepin’, an’ the chances are nine outer ten that they’ll kill the herders an’ then jist nachur’ly burn the wagons an’ the corpses, kill the shepherd dogs too an’ throw them on ter the fire and generally do a hellish piece uv intimidatin’ work. They’ll burn the wagons ter hide evidence uv their guilt. You bet they’ll git keerless with their artillery.”
“Good God!” murmured Roderick in horror and surprise.
“We must stop this murderous business,” remarked Buell Hampton.
“And get hold of Bud Bledsoe before he can do further harm,” suggested Grant Jones. “Let’s hunt up the sheriff.”
“Now, just go slow, g’nlemen, please,” replied Jim, expectorating an inconvenient mouthful of tobacco juice and wiping his lips with the back of his hand. “Jist you leave this business to me. I’ve been prognosticatin’ trouble for months back, an’ know jist how to act. No sheriff is wanted—at least not the bum sheriff we’ve got at the present time. He needs no warnin’ from us—mark my words. And even if he didn’t chance to know what we might be tellin’ him, when he did know, it would be his pertic’lar business to arrive after the killin’—that’s politics. Do you git me, Major?”
“I’m afraid I get you all right, Jim,” replied Buell Hampton gravely.
“Well, let us go and see Ben Bragdon,” proposed Roderick.
“Not on your life,” replied Jim excitedly. “Hell, man, he’s the attorney fur the cattle fellers.”
“He is a gentleman,” exclaimed Roderick, “and if he is the attorney for the cow men, so much the better. He would advise the bosses of this contemplated lawbreaking raid and murder, and of course they would immediately take steps to keep the cowboys from committing such wickedness.”
Jim Rankin’s black eyes fairly snapped as he looked Roderick straight in the face and exclaimed: “Roderick, are yer as big a tenderfoot as that? Don’t yer know the cowboys don’t go out murderin’ uv their own accord on these here cut-throat raids? They go, by gunnies, ‘cause they’re paid by the higher ups ter do these dastardly killin’ acts. Why, gosh ‘lmighty, Ben Bragdon draws a monthly retainer fee uv several figures ter protect the higher ups an’ there yer are, plain as a handle on a gourd. No, by gunnies, while the Major and Mr. Jones keep guard here, you an’ me, Roderick, will have ter go alone an’ jist nachurally take the law into our own hands. We’ll have plenty uv shootin’ irons an’ loco the cowboys by shootin’ an’ wingin’ two or three uv ‘em, Bud Bledsoe in pertic’lar. Oh, you bet I know how to do this job,” and he chuckled reassuringly.
“Well, I don’t,” replied Roderick. “I don’t pretend to know these cold-blooded murdering ways of the West or anything of this lawless feud that is going on between the cattlemen and the sheep men. However, I will go with you, Jim. When shall we start?”
“Immediately after supper. There’s no moon and it looks a little squally. It will be darker than a stack of black cats, but by gunnies, I know the way. All you’ve got to do is to have yer shootin’ irons ready, follow me and shoot when I shoot Now I guess there’s no need my onbosomin’ myself any more,” he added with a comprehensive glance around.
Roderick was unable to repress a smile.
“All right, Jim, I’m game, and ready for the lark.”
“By gunnies, it ain’t no lark howsumever; I know yer game,” replied Rankin. “You bet I kin tell a scrapper when I see him. Now not a word to anyone else besides us four—exceptin’ of course, Boney Earnest I’m goin’ over to the smelter right now, and will arrange for him to be here tonight to help the Major.”
“And Tom Sun?” asked Roderick, anxiously.
“Oh, he’s in no danger. Them fellers are after his herders but not after the big man. They know better—the law would be poppin’ like hell if they ever made the mistake o’ hurtin’ one o’ the higher-ups.”
“Besides, Mr. Sun is at Rawlins today on business,” observed Buell Hampton. “He is riding, and is to come straight here. But he told me not to expect him until midnight.”
“Which the cowpunching gang know quite well,” said Jim emphatically. “You bet they are playin’ up tonight jist because they cal’clate on his absence. Now we’ll be a-movin’. Major, get your rifles well oiled—you may need ‘em. My ridin’ hoss is over at the livery barn, and you an’ me, Roderick, will start from there at eight o’clock sharp. Oh, you bet we’ll have tumultuous doin’s. Jist you an’ me ‘ll show these killin’ cusses they’re holdin’ bob-tailed flushes fur oncet. They won’t show up here for the gold ore after we’re through with ‘em. Reminds me uv the old sheriff days, boys. An’ its ‘lmighty good to be back to them,” he added, pushing his hat back on his head determinedly.
“I think we must put you up for sheriff again next election,” laughed Grant Jones.
“That’s just what I’m prognosticatin’,” replied the rugged old frontiersman, with a grim smile. “Folks will see who’s the real sheriff tonight—me or that white-livered double-dealin’ cur. Mills.” And he strode away in the direction of the smelting plant, chewing his tobacco cud vigorously.
At the appointed hour that night Roderick was at the livery barn, and got ready his faithful horse, Badger. He had only waited a few minutes when Jim Rankin made his appearance. They were soon in their saddles and headed for Jack Creek.
The night was very dark, and despite the would-be sheriff’s vaunted knowledge of the country they lost themselves several times, and on one occasion had to retrace their steps four or five miles. Wherever it was possible they urged their horses on as rapidly as was prudent, but often for long distances it was a case of picking their way at a walking pace through the inky blackness. It was within an hour of midnight when at last they turned from the main road to the westward along the north bank of Jack Creek, which was the dividing line between the flockmasters’ and the cattle men’s range. Rankin explained that the bands of sheep were being held about two miles on to the westward.
They had not gone very far up the creek when they were startled by the sight of two great fires burning like haystacks. They spurred their horses and hurried as fast as possible over the uncertain and little used road, and soon came upon a weird and terrible scene. Some three or four hundred sheep had been clubbed to death and lay like scattered boulders over the ground, while the two covered wagons where the herders cooked their meals and likewise slept were fast burning to ashes.
“By gunnies,” said Jim Rankin, “we didn’t get here quick enough. They’ve sure done their hellish work. I’ll bet there’s two sheep herders an’ two shepherd dogs bumin’ to cinders in them there fires. It’s hell, ain’t it? They beat us to it for sure. But usually them doin’s don’t come off ‘til one or two o’clock in the mornin’.”
“Where are the balance of the sheep?” inquired Roderick. “I thought you said there were several thousand.”
“Why, boy,” said Jim, “they’re chasin’ down toward Saratoga as if the wolves were after them. There’s ‘bout three thousand sheep in each band an’ there were two bands uv ‘em.”
Just then four masked men rode up out of the darkness toward the burning outfits, but quickly checked their horses when they saw the two mounted strangers.
“Don’t shoot, Roderick, don’t shoot,” whispered Jim. “By gunnies, they’ve got us covered. Don’t lift your artillery. They’ll kill us sure if yer do.” Then he raised his trembling voice in a shout: “Hey, you fellers, we seed somethin’ burnin’ here. Wonder what ‘tis?”
A deep guttural voice came back: “You two ‘ll find it a dam sight more healthy to git back on the main road an’ tend to your own business. You have got jist one minute to start.”
“Come on,” said Jim, agitatedly, whirling his horse, putting spurs to him and leaving Roderick trailing far behind.
Roderick rode along toward the main road which they had just left after crossing over Jack Creek. He was disgusted with it all and with Jim Rankin’s poltroonery in particular. The sight he had seen by the gleaming light of the burning wagons was ghastly. The innocent, helpless sheep that had been clubbed to death through the selfishness of men. He was in no mood for hilarity. It was a sight that would remain with him and haunt him. Then too, he had received a new measure of Jim Rankin.
But Roderick Warfield had all the blind audacity of youth and did not give the old westerner Jim Rankin the credit he deserved. Jim Rankin was versed in the ways of these western transgressors, and knew the price he and Roderick would have to pay for “butting in” on a quarrel between the cattle and the sheep men that was no direct concern of outsiders. This price was death, swift and merciless.
When Roderick reached the highway he pulled his horse to the right toward the bridge that spanned Jack Creek. As he approached the bridge he heard someone say: “Here he comes now.” The voice was not Jim Rankin’s.
“Hello,” came a call in yet another voice, just as his horse reached the bridge.
“Come on, Roderick,” cried Jim Rankin, “I’m here.”
“Who’s with you?” inquired Roderick.
“They’ll tell you,” replied Jim.
Roderick rode up and found three men with drawn revolvers, and one of them proved to be the sheriff of the county and the others his deputies.
“Gentlemen,” said the sheriff, “you are accused of killing a lot of sheep up here on Jack Creek and burning a couple of wagons, and I arrest you in the name of the law.”
“What does this mean?” inquired Roderick, hotly.
“It means,” said the sheriff, “you fellers will fork over your shootin’ irons quietly and submit to being handcuffed.”
“Look here, Mills,” said Rankin, resentfully, “you’re goin’ too dangnation far, by gunnies. I’ll be responsible for young Warfield, here. I’ll go his bail. Dangnation, don’t press me any furder or I’ll git peevish.”
“Well,” replied Sheriff Mills, hesitatingly, “who will be responsible for you?”
“Why, Gosh’lmighty, Mills, we’ve know’d each other fur twenty-five years. You go my security yourself or by the great horn spoon you’ll not kerry Rawlins precinct next election.”
“Watch that young feller,” instructed the sheriff to his deputies. “Ride over this way, Jim, where we can speak privately.”
A few moments later Rankin called out: “Come on, Roderick, let’s be goin’. It’s gettin’ late. Everything’s all right.” And together they headed their horses for Encampment and rode on in the darkness.
Jim Rankin presently said: “Well, by gunnies, Tom Sun has leastways got to hand it to us fur tryin’.”
Roderick made no immediate reply and they continued their way in silence.
At last Roderick spoke.
“You were mighty friendly with that white-livered, double-dealing cur, the sheriff—that’s what you called him a few hours ago.”
“Yes, but he wasn’t present with a gun in his hand,” replied Jim. “He sure ‘nuff had the drop on us.”
“How did you square him then?”
“Politics,” came the sententious answer. “And I guess I put one over him at that. Somebody’s goin’ to git a dangnation throw-down, an’ don’t you forgit it.”
An hour later they descended at the livery barn. The sky had cleared, and they had ridden fast under the starlight. Roderick looked the ex-sheriff squarely in the face.
“Now, Jim Rankin, the next move in the game is going to be mine. Get your three fours hitched up at once, and bring them down one by one as fast as they are ready, to the Major’s. We load that ore tonight, and start for the railroad before daylight. Do you get me, my friend?”
Jim Rankin for a moment looked into Roderick’s eyes.
“I guess I git you, Mr. Warfield,” he replied, as he meekly turned away toward the stables where the twelve powerful draught horses had been held in preparedness for a week past.
DAYLIGHT had not yet broken when the three four-horse wagons were loaded and ready for the road. Not a moment had been lost after Roderick’s arrival at the Major’s. That night he had had a grim glimpse of what western lawlessness among the mountains might mean, and had speedily convinced the Major that his policy of instant departure was the wise one. Bud Bledsoe and his gang would rest at least one day, perhaps two or three days, after their devilish exploit with the sheep-herders, and when they came reconnoitering around the blockhouse in which the ore was stored it would be to find the rich treasure gone. The teams by that time would be at Walcott, or at least well on the way to their destination.
The little bunch of friends had set to work with a will. Jim Rankin got the first team down within half an hour, and by that time the Major, Tom Sun, who had duly turned up from Rawlins, Boney Earnest, Grant Jones and Roderick had a goodly pile of the one-hundred-pound ore sacks stacked in front of the house, ready to be lifted into the wagon. Without a hitch or delay the work proceeded, and now that the loading was completed, and the rifles and ammunition had been stowed under the drivers’ seats, the tension of suppressed excitement was relaxed. Pipes were alight during a final consultation.
The three tough old westerners, it was settled, were to drive. Boney had announced his absolute determination to come along—the smelter could go to blazes, he had applied some days before for a week’s leave anyways and if W. B. Grady chose to buck because he took it now, well he could “buck good and plenty, and be damned to him.” Tom Sun was keeping in stern repression his wrath against the miscreants who had massacred his sheep and probably killed his herders as well; it would be stern satisfaction for him to have a fight on the road, to settle accounts with Bud Bledsoe by the agency of a rifle bullet. Jim Rankin, after his quiet taking-down by Roderick at the livery stable, had recovered his accustomed self-assurance and bellicosity, and was “prognosticating” all manner of valorous deeds once it came to guns out on both sides and fair shooting.
While these three would manage the teams, Buell Hampton, Grant and Roderick would scout ahead on their riding horses, and provide a rear guard as well so that the alarm of any attempted pursuit could be given. Badger had been fed and rested, and looked fit for anything despite the night’s ride to Jack Creek.
Jumping into the saddle Roderick, accompanied by Grant Jones, who knew the road well, led the way. The wagons followed, while the Major delayed just long enough to lock up the house, including the now empty inner chamber, and clear away the traces of the night’s work. The whole cavalcade was three or four miles out of Encampment before the sun had risen and the townsfolk were astir.
The distance to be traversed was just fifty miles, and that night the first camp was made beyond Saratoga. No public attention had been drawn to the wagons; none of the people encountered on the road or at stopping places had any reason to think that these ordinary looking ore-sacks held gold that was worth a king’s ransom. There had been no signs of ambushed robbers ahead nor of pursuit in the rear. But that night, while a few hours of sleep were snatched, watch was kept in turn, while each sleeper had his rifle close at hand. With the first glimmer of dawn the journey was resumed.
It was well on in the afternoon when the Major spied, some distance out on the open country to the left, the dust raised by a small party of horsemen. He rode up to the wagons to consult his friends. He had just pointed out the sign to Jim Rankin, when the riders disappeared behind a rocky ridge.
Jim had been shading his eyes while gazing fixedly. He now dropped his hand.
“By gunnies, they are after us right enough,” he exclaimed. “That was Bud Bledsoe in the lead—I know his ginger-colored pony. They’re going to cross Pass Creek lower down, then they will swing around into White Horse Canyon, coming back to meet us after we’ve crossed the bridge and are on the long steep hill just beyond. Dang me if that ain’t their game.”
The Major rode ahead to warn Grant and Roderick. The bridge over Pass Creek was only three miles from Walcott. If the three scouts could gain the crest of the steep slope, before the robbers, the advantage of position would be theirs.
Roderick grasped the plan of campaign in an instant, and, digging his spurs into Badger’s flank, galloped off full pelt. Grant and the Major followed at the best pace of their less mettled ponies.
It was less than a mile to the bridge, and Badger was soon breasting the hill at a swinging canter. Just before reaching the summit Roderick descended, and throwing the bridle over the pony’s head tethered it in cowboy fashion. “I’ll be back in a minute, old fellow,” he said, as he gave Badger an affectionate pat on the neck. Then, rifle in hand, he walked up the remaining few yards of the slope, and cautiously peered over the crest into White Horse Canyon.
Great Scott! seven or eight horsemen away down at the foot of the descending incline were just scrambling out of the waste of cacti and joshuas on to the roadway! The first comers were waiting for the stragglers, and a pow-wow was evidently being held. Roderick gripped the butt of his rifle. But he heard the clatter of hoofs behind him, and drew back for the time being. Waving a cautioning hand to Buell Hampton and Grant as they approached, he gave the news in a few words. It took only a minute to tie all three horses securely to the low-growing grease-wood that here skirted the road—the animals, although well-trained, might be stampeded by the shooting. Then, rifles in hand, Roderick, Grant and the Major crept up to the crest of the ridge. Before reaching it the sharp tattoo of horse hoofs smote their ears.
“That’s Bud Bledsoe in the lead on the ginger pony,” exclaimed Buell Hampton.
Nothing more was needed by Roderick; if Bud Bledsoe was there, the gang were lawbreakers and bent on further villainy.
“Bang!” went Roderick’s rifle; and the ginger-colored horse plunged forward on his knees, and then rolled over, kicking wildly in the air. Two horses behind stumbled over the obstruction, and instantly there was a confused heap of struggling beasts and men. Four other riders had reined in their steeds just in time, and were standing stock-still on the highway.
“Keep it up, but don’t kill,” muttered the Major, just before he fired his own rifle. Almost at the same instant came “bang” from Grant’s shoulder, and a second shot by Roderick.
At this fusillade the four cowboys still mounted jumped their horses into the sage brush and cacti and were gone like a streak across country. One of the fallen horses had struggled to its feet, and a figure leaped into the saddle. It was Bud Bledsoe—Roderick knew him by his gorilla-like figure. Leaving his two fallen comrades to their fate, the leader raced after the fleeing quartette. Three rifle bullets whizzed past him to quicken his pace. Then the marksmen on the ridge stood erect.
Two motionless human figures lay on the road at the bottom of the hill; the ginger horse had rolled in among the bushes in his death throes, the other was limping along with a broken leg. Roderick ran down the slope on foot, leaving the others to follow with the horses.
The first man he reached was dead, his neck broken by the fall. Roderick recognized him at a glance—for when once riding the range with a bunch of cowboys they had passed a lone rider on a mountain trail and the name had been passed around—Butch Cassidy, a horse rustler, and an outlaw of the hills. The other fellow was bleeding from a wound in his breast; there was a gulping gurgle in his throat. He had evidently been hit by Grant’s first bullet, which had been fired too quick for any heed to be paid to Buell Hampton’s merciful injunction. Just as Roderick raised the limp hand the wounded man opened his eyes; then he uttered one great sob and died.
A few minutes later bullets from Grant’s revolver put the injured horses out of pain.
In the dusk of the falling night the dead men were borne on the ore wagons into Walcott. The station agent recognized the second corpse as that of a notorious gambler and hold-up artist, an old associate of Big-Nosed George in early days. The railroad man treated the bodies as trash, but condescended to wire down the line for the coroner and the sheriff. The car, which had been ordered several days before, was on the side track awaiting the ore shippers, and he counselled that there should be no delay in loading, as a through freight for Denver was due shortly after midnight. So the fight was forgotten, and the work of transferring the ore sacks from the wagons was soon in progress, all present, even the Major, lending a hand.
After the task had been completed, the bill of lading prepared and all charges prepaid, Jim Rankin, Boney Earnest, Tom Sun and Grant Jones boarded the car. They were well provided with blankets for bedding and still carried their rifles. Buell Hampton and Roderick remained to arrange for the sending back of the teams and saddle horses; they would follow on the morning passenger train, and the whole party would reach Denver practically at the same hour next night.
No further incident occurred. But not until the carload of ore had been duly delivered, sampled, and weighed did the four faithful and well-armed guards relax their vigilance. The purchasers were the Globe Smelter Company, with whose manager Boney Earnest had personal acquaintance.
While secrecy was exercised concerning this remarkable ore shipment, yet the news gradually crept out and it became known that something phenomenal had occurred. The newspaper reporters hovered around the Globe Smelter endeavoring to pick up a few crumbs of information.
Buell Hampton and his friends were registered at the Brown Palace Hotel where they had arranged for connecting rooms. Two days afterwards Buell Hampton announced to his friends, in the privacy of his room, that the returns were all he had anticipated. The money had been duly deposited to his credit, and now he wrote checks running into five figures for each of his friends, and admonished them separately and collectively to deposit the money in some Denver bank to their individual credit, then return to their Encampment homes and each continue his avocation as if nothing had happened to improve their financial affairs.
“As for myself,” said the Major, “I have a mission to perform, and I probably will not return to Encampment for a matter of fifteen or twenty days.”
That night Major Hampton left for New York carrying with him certified checks for a large sum of money, and on the following morning the others took train for Wyoming. Within a few days all had resumed their accustomed routine. Jim Rankin was back on his stage coach making his usual trips; Boney Earnest, after an acrimonious scrap with Grady over the question of absence without leave, was in his old place before the blast furnace; Tom Sun regained his home at Split Rock, north of Rawlins, Grant Jones returned to his editorial duties, Roderick to his preparations for a prospecting expedition.
Both Grant and Roderick had brought with them checks for a few thousand dollars, which they deposited in the local bank to the great surprise of the cashier. And even before leaving the bank they began to realize that their importance in the community had already gone up a hundred per cent. Such is the prompt efficacy of a substantial bank balance!