CHAPTER XI“And I tell you if I don’t prove to you who killed Ranger Fyffe, I’m ready to go in court tomorrow and plead guilty!” Otis was standing in the living-room of the Footstool ranchhouse, facing a silent and grave-faced assemblage of more than a score. It included Sterling Carr, stern and impassive; Sheriff Ogden, who thus far had made no move to place Otis under arrest again; his deputy, Seth Markey; Jess Bledsoe, resplendent in white goatskin chaps; the forest supervisor from Jackson; Margaret Carr and Mariel, whispering in one corner of the room; Simple Sample and Spider and Slim and Curley and Pink and Tex and possibly a dozen others from the Footstool, Flying A and other outfits, all solemnly curious, awkward and embarrassed. Otis, unaware of the dramatic setting arranged by Mariel for the denouement, had taken the bull by the horns and now was determined to bulldog him to a fall.“And what’s more,” he went on, gazing intently at the Sheriff, “I’m going to tell you, Lafe, just who’s responsible for the rustling that’s been going on here, and just how it was done.”The Sheriff stirred uneasily. “Fire away, Otis,” he remarked. “Between you and me, if you’ve found that out, I’ll give it to you that you’ve done more’n I could.”“All of you boys know how this rustling has been going on here for months,” Otis commenced. “All of us have reported losses from time to time—the Lazy Y, the Flying A, the Footstool and others—but mostly it was the Footstool calves that seemed to be the favorites of the rustlers.“Now, most all of us seemed to hold a grudge against Joe Fyffe because he was in the Government service. We seemed to think the Government wanted to run us off the range. We couldn’t see that the forest service is keeping us from ruining our own range by overgrazing. We couldn’t see that it’s keeping the sheep on the sheep range, and keeping the nesters where they’ll be better off and we’ll be better off. We thought all a ranger was good for was to fight forest-fires.“I’ve kept my mouth shut up to this time, principally because I knew how Dad felt about these things. But now I’m going to talk straight, and I’m going to say a mouthful.“You thought you could run Joe Fyffe out of the country, and that would be all there’d be to it. You didn’t realize the Government’d keep sending in rangers, and that another one’s due to take Fyffe’s place at the Red Rock station now.“The other night you got together, and decided you’d scare the ranger out. You drew lots, and picked me for the job. I told you I wouldn’t do it, and I didn’t.“When he was killed, you thought I’d changed my mind, and done it. That’s why you yanked me out of jail last night. Even then you wouldn’t believe me when I told you I hadn’t killed him. Boys, you’re the best friends a man ever had, but you’ve got the wrong slant on things.“After I left you the other night, I tell you I was feeling pretty mean. I wanted to get out alone. I started up the river, figuring I’d lay out and have a look for the rustlers. I ran into Gus Bernat, and he asked me to stay at his cabin overnight. If Gus hadn’t been drowned in the flood, you’d never have had to get me out of jail last night.“Along toward morning, Ranger Fyffe heard a noise outside his cabin, I judge, from the way things turned out. He figured it was a lion, or a cat or something. Maybe he’d planted bait outside, and had waited all night—but that doesn’t matter.“You all know Joe was a nut on taking wild-animal pictures. He got his camera and his flash-powder, and sneaked outside to grab off a picture of this animal that was making the noise. He made his way through the dark of the scrub pines toward the sound. He didn’t take a gun, ’cause he knew there isn’t an animal left in these parts, outside the grizzlies on the edge of Yellowstone, that’ll attack a man unless they’re cornered.“He crept up toward the spot where he’d heard the noise—where he probably heard it then. He couldn’t see the man’s fire, because it was beyond a group of rocks. In a minute I’ll tell you what the fire was for. He took the plate-slide out of his camera, and got his flash-gun ready. Then, like as not, he whistled so the animal would turn toward him, and shot off the flash.“But it wasn’t an animal making the sound. It was a man. Maybe this man was pretty badly scared—you or I would be if that flash went off near us in the night. Anyway, he’d faced around when he heard Joe whistle. He dropped what he had in his hand, and jerked out his gun, and shot.“Joe was wounded. He hadn’t known it was a man. He hadn’t expected to be shot. He turned and started to run for his gun in the cabin. The man fired again. The bullet hit Joe in the back.“He ran into the cabin, dropped his camera, and grabbed for the phone. He gasped a few words into the receiver, and then dropped to the floor. He knew he was dying. He got his pencil and wrote on the floor—you’ve all heard what he wrote.“Maybe the man followed him into the cabin. I rather think he did, because it would have been hard for Joe to have seen him when the flashlight went off. But that doesn’t matter. He saw him.“That’s the way the Sheriff and Seth and I found things yesterday morning. Isn’t it, Lafe?”“That’s about right,” the Sheriff replied uneasily, “though I didn’t know about any flashlight.”“Now, the whole solution of this thing rests in that last picture the ranger took,” Otis went on. “It shows who did the shooting. Miss Mariel got the plate this morning and developed it. Here’s the print.”He passed the photograph to the Sheriff, who glanced at it, whistled softly, and passed it on to Sterling Carr. Others in the room crowded about him, eager for a sight of the picture.Sterling Carr glanced sternly at Otis.“Son, this picture showsyou!”“Sure, that’s Otis!” came the bewildered tones from those crowded about the picture.“Looks like you, all right,” the Sheriff said to Otis.Otis smiled indulgently.“That’s what Joe Fyffe thought, too,” he remarked. “He got one glance at the man, and thought it was me. That’s why he wrote on the floor that I killed him. He died thinking I was his murderer.“And can you blame him? Look at that hat. Just like mine. Look at that vest. Just like mine. Pants the same. Boots the same. Build the same as mine. Horse looks a lot like Pie-face.“All right. We’ll let that ride for a minute. Let’s get back to the rustling. No one ever saw the rustler, did he? No.“Now look at the picture again. See that calf? Looks like it just happened into the picture, like any of the calves on the range around the cabin, doesn’t it? Notice its feet? Just like it’s been hog-tied, and slipped its hind foot out of the knot, isn’t it? Look at the brand. Not like any brand hereabouts, is it?“What’s that the man’s got in his hand? That’s right. It’s a running-iron. That’s what he dropped when he grabbed his gun. He must have recovered it after the murder, when he doused his fire and beat it. Take a look at the horse, now. He hasn’t got a star-face, like Pie-face, has he? And notice those white stockings. Never saw white stockings on Pie-face, did you?“Now we’re getting down to cases. You’ve guessed most of the rest of it. The man’s the rustler that Fyffe surprised while he was working over that calf with the running-iron. Dressed like me. Did it intentional, too. If anyone saw him at a distance, they’d think it was me, and they’d never suspect anything. And he didn’t aim to let anyone see him close.“Sheriff, you told Dad about old man Foster and Frog-legs Ferguson seeing me near the ranger cabin after the shooting, didn’t you? Well, I guess what they said was true enough. Theythoughtthey saw me. But I tell you, whom they saw was this man, dressed like me, and riding a horse that looks a lot like mine. Just what this brand-blotter had figured on.”“But who,” interrupted Sterling Carr, “is the man in the picture? His face doesn’t show.”Again Otis smiled.“Look at the calf again,” he directed. “Now I’ll hide the top of that brand with my thumb. What’s the bottom of it look like?”“By God!” Sterling Carr burst forth. “It’s the Footstool!”“Yes,” Otis concurred. “And that part I’ve hidden with my thumb shows that one of the legs of the footstool had been extended with the running-iron, over the seat of the stool, doesn’t it? That leaves the changed brand only half complete.“Now, what brand would result if he extended the other leg of the footstool until both legs met above the seat of the stool?”“Why,” exclaimed Sterling Carr, “it’s the Flying A!”“Exactly,” grinned Otis. “Now, look at the fellow’s hand. Who on the Flying A has a finger missing? If—grab that man!”The last words were shot out explosively. Otis leaped toward the figure which had shot toward the door. A dozen of the cow-hands closed in upon the fugitive. Margaret Carr screamed. There were grunts and oaths from the tangled mass of figures near the door. A set of elk antlers was knocked crashing to the floor.“All right, boys,” came in muffled tones from beneath the mass of figures. “Leave him loose. I’ve got him!”The heap of bodies untangled. From its midst arose Sheriff Lafe Ogden. One hand gripped the sleeve of Jess Bledsoe of the Flying A. His wrists were manacled in handcuffs. He glared wildly about the room.“I guess,” drawled the Sheriff, “that we don’t need to see the face in the picture now, to know who’s been rustling the cattle on this range, or to know who killed Joe Fyffe. Pretty shrewd, while it lasted. Dressed like Otis, and complained to me every so often about the rustlers, so it would look like he was losin’ calves too. Well, he wont ride that chestnut horse that looks like Otis’ Pie-face chestnut for a while, I’ll guarantee.”“I suspicioned it all the time,” broke in Simple Sample. “But Otis, how about them rangers? Cain’t you-all figger out some way to get rid of them, now that you’ve figgered this out so purty?”“I don’t think you’ll have much trouble with the Red Rock ranger station after this, boys,” Otis laughed. “You see, I put in my application for a job as forest ranger months ago. Fyffe’s death leaves the first vacancy.“I was talking it over with Mariel as we rode down here from the ranger cabin this morning. You can be sure of a square deal all right from some one who has the stockmen’s interests at heart. She and I decided that I’m going to take the Red Rock ranger job just as soon—”He reached out and took Mariel by the hand.“—just as soon as we’re married!”THE ENDTranscriber’s Note: This story appeared in the February 1924 issue ofThe Blue Book Magazine.
“And I tell you if I don’t prove to you who killed Ranger Fyffe, I’m ready to go in court tomorrow and plead guilty!” Otis was standing in the living-room of the Footstool ranchhouse, facing a silent and grave-faced assemblage of more than a score. It included Sterling Carr, stern and impassive; Sheriff Ogden, who thus far had made no move to place Otis under arrest again; his deputy, Seth Markey; Jess Bledsoe, resplendent in white goatskin chaps; the forest supervisor from Jackson; Margaret Carr and Mariel, whispering in one corner of the room; Simple Sample and Spider and Slim and Curley and Pink and Tex and possibly a dozen others from the Footstool, Flying A and other outfits, all solemnly curious, awkward and embarrassed. Otis, unaware of the dramatic setting arranged by Mariel for the denouement, had taken the bull by the horns and now was determined to bulldog him to a fall.
“And what’s more,” he went on, gazing intently at the Sheriff, “I’m going to tell you, Lafe, just who’s responsible for the rustling that’s been going on here, and just how it was done.”
The Sheriff stirred uneasily. “Fire away, Otis,” he remarked. “Between you and me, if you’ve found that out, I’ll give it to you that you’ve done more’n I could.”
“All of you boys know how this rustling has been going on here for months,” Otis commenced. “All of us have reported losses from time to time—the Lazy Y, the Flying A, the Footstool and others—but mostly it was the Footstool calves that seemed to be the favorites of the rustlers.
“Now, most all of us seemed to hold a grudge against Joe Fyffe because he was in the Government service. We seemed to think the Government wanted to run us off the range. We couldn’t see that the forest service is keeping us from ruining our own range by overgrazing. We couldn’t see that it’s keeping the sheep on the sheep range, and keeping the nesters where they’ll be better off and we’ll be better off. We thought all a ranger was good for was to fight forest-fires.
“I’ve kept my mouth shut up to this time, principally because I knew how Dad felt about these things. But now I’m going to talk straight, and I’m going to say a mouthful.
“You thought you could run Joe Fyffe out of the country, and that would be all there’d be to it. You didn’t realize the Government’d keep sending in rangers, and that another one’s due to take Fyffe’s place at the Red Rock station now.
“The other night you got together, and decided you’d scare the ranger out. You drew lots, and picked me for the job. I told you I wouldn’t do it, and I didn’t.
“When he was killed, you thought I’d changed my mind, and done it. That’s why you yanked me out of jail last night. Even then you wouldn’t believe me when I told you I hadn’t killed him. Boys, you’re the best friends a man ever had, but you’ve got the wrong slant on things.
“After I left you the other night, I tell you I was feeling pretty mean. I wanted to get out alone. I started up the river, figuring I’d lay out and have a look for the rustlers. I ran into Gus Bernat, and he asked me to stay at his cabin overnight. If Gus hadn’t been drowned in the flood, you’d never have had to get me out of jail last night.
“Along toward morning, Ranger Fyffe heard a noise outside his cabin, I judge, from the way things turned out. He figured it was a lion, or a cat or something. Maybe he’d planted bait outside, and had waited all night—but that doesn’t matter.
“You all know Joe was a nut on taking wild-animal pictures. He got his camera and his flash-powder, and sneaked outside to grab off a picture of this animal that was making the noise. He made his way through the dark of the scrub pines toward the sound. He didn’t take a gun, ’cause he knew there isn’t an animal left in these parts, outside the grizzlies on the edge of Yellowstone, that’ll attack a man unless they’re cornered.
“He crept up toward the spot where he’d heard the noise—where he probably heard it then. He couldn’t see the man’s fire, because it was beyond a group of rocks. In a minute I’ll tell you what the fire was for. He took the plate-slide out of his camera, and got his flash-gun ready. Then, like as not, he whistled so the animal would turn toward him, and shot off the flash.
“But it wasn’t an animal making the sound. It was a man. Maybe this man was pretty badly scared—you or I would be if that flash went off near us in the night. Anyway, he’d faced around when he heard Joe whistle. He dropped what he had in his hand, and jerked out his gun, and shot.
“Joe was wounded. He hadn’t known it was a man. He hadn’t expected to be shot. He turned and started to run for his gun in the cabin. The man fired again. The bullet hit Joe in the back.
“He ran into the cabin, dropped his camera, and grabbed for the phone. He gasped a few words into the receiver, and then dropped to the floor. He knew he was dying. He got his pencil and wrote on the floor—you’ve all heard what he wrote.
“Maybe the man followed him into the cabin. I rather think he did, because it would have been hard for Joe to have seen him when the flashlight went off. But that doesn’t matter. He saw him.
“That’s the way the Sheriff and Seth and I found things yesterday morning. Isn’t it, Lafe?”
“That’s about right,” the Sheriff replied uneasily, “though I didn’t know about any flashlight.”
“Now, the whole solution of this thing rests in that last picture the ranger took,” Otis went on. “It shows who did the shooting. Miss Mariel got the plate this morning and developed it. Here’s the print.”
He passed the photograph to the Sheriff, who glanced at it, whistled softly, and passed it on to Sterling Carr. Others in the room crowded about him, eager for a sight of the picture.
Sterling Carr glanced sternly at Otis.
“Son, this picture showsyou!”
“Sure, that’s Otis!” came the bewildered tones from those crowded about the picture.
“Looks like you, all right,” the Sheriff said to Otis.
Otis smiled indulgently.
“That’s what Joe Fyffe thought, too,” he remarked. “He got one glance at the man, and thought it was me. That’s why he wrote on the floor that I killed him. He died thinking I was his murderer.
“And can you blame him? Look at that hat. Just like mine. Look at that vest. Just like mine. Pants the same. Boots the same. Build the same as mine. Horse looks a lot like Pie-face.
“All right. We’ll let that ride for a minute. Let’s get back to the rustling. No one ever saw the rustler, did he? No.
“Now look at the picture again. See that calf? Looks like it just happened into the picture, like any of the calves on the range around the cabin, doesn’t it? Notice its feet? Just like it’s been hog-tied, and slipped its hind foot out of the knot, isn’t it? Look at the brand. Not like any brand hereabouts, is it?
“What’s that the man’s got in his hand? That’s right. It’s a running-iron. That’s what he dropped when he grabbed his gun. He must have recovered it after the murder, when he doused his fire and beat it. Take a look at the horse, now. He hasn’t got a star-face, like Pie-face, has he? And notice those white stockings. Never saw white stockings on Pie-face, did you?
“Now we’re getting down to cases. You’ve guessed most of the rest of it. The man’s the rustler that Fyffe surprised while he was working over that calf with the running-iron. Dressed like me. Did it intentional, too. If anyone saw him at a distance, they’d think it was me, and they’d never suspect anything. And he didn’t aim to let anyone see him close.
“Sheriff, you told Dad about old man Foster and Frog-legs Ferguson seeing me near the ranger cabin after the shooting, didn’t you? Well, I guess what they said was true enough. Theythoughtthey saw me. But I tell you, whom they saw was this man, dressed like me, and riding a horse that looks a lot like mine. Just what this brand-blotter had figured on.”
“But who,” interrupted Sterling Carr, “is the man in the picture? His face doesn’t show.”
Again Otis smiled.
“Look at the calf again,” he directed. “Now I’ll hide the top of that brand with my thumb. What’s the bottom of it look like?”
“By God!” Sterling Carr burst forth. “It’s the Footstool!”
“Yes,” Otis concurred. “And that part I’ve hidden with my thumb shows that one of the legs of the footstool had been extended with the running-iron, over the seat of the stool, doesn’t it? That leaves the changed brand only half complete.
“Now, what brand would result if he extended the other leg of the footstool until both legs met above the seat of the stool?”
“Why,” exclaimed Sterling Carr, “it’s the Flying A!”
“Exactly,” grinned Otis. “Now, look at the fellow’s hand. Who on the Flying A has a finger missing? If—grab that man!”
The last words were shot out explosively. Otis leaped toward the figure which had shot toward the door. A dozen of the cow-hands closed in upon the fugitive. Margaret Carr screamed. There were grunts and oaths from the tangled mass of figures near the door. A set of elk antlers was knocked crashing to the floor.
“All right, boys,” came in muffled tones from beneath the mass of figures. “Leave him loose. I’ve got him!”
The heap of bodies untangled. From its midst arose Sheriff Lafe Ogden. One hand gripped the sleeve of Jess Bledsoe of the Flying A. His wrists were manacled in handcuffs. He glared wildly about the room.
“I guess,” drawled the Sheriff, “that we don’t need to see the face in the picture now, to know who’s been rustling the cattle on this range, or to know who killed Joe Fyffe. Pretty shrewd, while it lasted. Dressed like Otis, and complained to me every so often about the rustlers, so it would look like he was losin’ calves too. Well, he wont ride that chestnut horse that looks like Otis’ Pie-face chestnut for a while, I’ll guarantee.”
“I suspicioned it all the time,” broke in Simple Sample. “But Otis, how about them rangers? Cain’t you-all figger out some way to get rid of them, now that you’ve figgered this out so purty?”
“I don’t think you’ll have much trouble with the Red Rock ranger station after this, boys,” Otis laughed. “You see, I put in my application for a job as forest ranger months ago. Fyffe’s death leaves the first vacancy.
“I was talking it over with Mariel as we rode down here from the ranger cabin this morning. You can be sure of a square deal all right from some one who has the stockmen’s interests at heart. She and I decided that I’m going to take the Red Rock ranger job just as soon—”
He reached out and took Mariel by the hand.
“—just as soon as we’re married!”
THE END
Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the February 1924 issue ofThe Blue Book Magazine.
Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the February 1924 issue ofThe Blue Book Magazine.