“Whoopee ti yi yo, git along, little dogies,It’s your misfortune and none of my own.Whoopee ti yi yo, git along, little dogies,For you know Wyoming will be your new home.”
“Whoopee ti yi yo, git along, little dogies,It’s your misfortune and none of my own.Whoopee ti yi yo, git along, little dogies,For you know Wyoming will be your new home.”
“Whoopee ti yi yo, git along, little dogies,It’s your misfortune and none of my own.Whoopee ti yi yo, git along, little dogies,For you know Wyoming will be your new home.”
“Whoopee ti yi yo, git along, little dogies,
It’s your misfortune and none of my own.
Whoopee ti yi yo, git along, little dogies,
For you know Wyoming will be your new home.”
Sam looked around carefully, selected a flat rock at the edge of the fire, and splashed the centre of it accurately with tobacco juice. Give him a chew of tobacco as a weapon and the Texan was the champion shot of Wyoming.
His singsong voice took up the next stanza:
“Oh, you’ll be soup for Uncle Sam’s Injuns!‘It’s beef, heap beef!’ I hear them cry.Git along, git along, git along, little dogies,You’re going to be beef steers by and by.”
“Oh, you’ll be soup for Uncle Sam’s Injuns!‘It’s beef, heap beef!’ I hear them cry.Git along, git along, git along, little dogies,You’re going to be beef steers by and by.”
“Oh, you’ll be soup for Uncle Sam’s Injuns!‘It’s beef, heap beef!’ I hear them cry.Git along, git along, git along, little dogies,You’re going to be beef steers by and by.”
“Oh, you’ll be soup for Uncle Sam’s Injuns!
‘It’s beef, heap beef!’ I hear them cry.
Git along, git along, git along, little dogies,
You’re going to be beef steers by and by.”
Matson did not listen to the song. He was no longer thinking of McCoy. From the shadow where he lounged his narrowed eyes watched Yerby intently. He had not moved a muscle of his big body, but every nerve had suddenly grown taut. For he guessed now who the sixth man was that had ridden on the sheep raid. Sam’s habit of selecting a rock target for his tobacco juice had betrayed him.
CHAPTER XVI
LIKE wildfire the news spread through western Wyoming that Tait and Gilroy had been shot down in their sheep wagon by night raiders. Soon there was no ranch so deep-hidden in the hills, no herder’s camp so remote that the story had not been carried there. The tale was a nine-days’ wonder, a sensation that gave zest to colourless lives. The identity of the raiders was a mystery that promised much pleasant gossip.
Furtive whispers of names began to be heard. That of Falkner was mentioned first. He had made threats against Tait, and he was known to be quarrelsome and vindictive. Then the murmured gossip took up the name of McCoy, added shortly to it those of Cole and Silcott. It was known that all four of the suspected men had been absent from the round-up the night of the killing. Two of them were enemies of Tait, the others had been mixed up in the cattle-sheep feud. By their own statements they had all been together during the hours when the raid took place.
The gossipers had no direct evidence, but a great deal of opinion was whispered back and forth in corrals, on porches, and in the saddle. The sentiment was general that Tait had for a long time laid himself open to such an end. But Gilroy was a good citizen, not turbulent, friendly to his neighbours. His murder stirred a deep but not too loudly expressed resentment.
Meanwhile Sheriff Matson moved about his business of gathering evidence with relentless singleness of purpose. He, too, heard whispers and followed them to sources. He rode up and down the country piecing this and that together until he had a net of circumstance encircling the guilty ones.
From one of the herders whom McCoy had saved he gathered valuable information. The man had been awakened by the sound of firing. He had run to the door of the wagon in time to see Gilroy shot down. Tait was already down. The herder had been saved by one of the attackers who had stood between him and another and prevented the second man from murdering him. The first man had called the other one Hal. The raiders were all masked and he had not recognized any of them.
“I ain’t lost any of them raiders, Mr. Sheriff,” the man said with a kind of dogged weakness. “If I know too much, why someone takes a shot in the dark at me an’ that’s the last of Johnnie Mott. No, sir, I done told you too much already. I was plumb excited, an’ maybe I ain’t got it jest the way it was. He mighta called the other fellow Hardy instead of Hal.”
“He might have, but he didn’t, Mott. Keep yore mouth shut and you don’t need to worry about gettin’ shot. I’ll look after you if you’ll stay right here in town. You can hold down that job I got you as janitor at the court house. Nobody’s gonna hurt you any.”
One of the whispers Matson heard took him to Dunc King. That young man had, as usual, been talking too much. The sheriff found him at his mother’s ranch mending a piece of broken fence.
“ ’Lo, Dunc. How’s everything?” the officer asked by way of greeting.
The young man looked at him with suspicion and alarm. “Why, all right, I reckon. How’s cases with you, Sheriff?”
“I hear you had a little talk with Hal Falkner the night of the raid. Do you remember exactly what he said to you?”
“Why, no. I don’t remember a thing about it,” the young man returned uneasily. He knew his tongue had once more tripped him up.
“You will if you think hard, don’t you reckon? You remembered it well enough to tell Flanders and Mrs. Henson. I’ll start you off. Falkner an’ you were discussing the reason why so many men left camp after supper. He told you Larry Silcott had told him Tait was across the dead line again. Recollect that?”
“Why, no. I don’t guess I do, Sheriff.”
“You’d better, Dunc, onless you want to get into mighty serious trouble.”
“Sho! Nothing to that, Sheriff. Nothing a-tall. I might’ve got to shootin’ off my mouth the way I sometimes do. Kinda playin’ like I was on the inside, y’ understand.”
“Or, on the other hand, you might be trying to duck out from responsibility, Dunc. Don’t make any mistakes, boy. You’re going to come through with what you know.”
“But I’m tellin’ you I don’t know a thing,” the boy protested.
“Not what you told several other people. How about it, Dunc? You want to be an accessory to this crime?”
“No, sir, an’ I ain’t aimin’ to be either. If I knew anything I’d tell you, but I can’t tell you what I don’t know, can I?”
The young man was no match for the sheriff. Before Matson had left the place he knew all that King did.
Forty-eight hours later the sheriff with a posse rode up to the Circle Diamond Ranch. Rowan McCoy was sitting on the porch oiling a gun. The first glance told him that Matson had two prisoners, the second that they were Falkner and Silcott.
Matson swung from the saddle and came up the steps to the porch.
“I’ve got bad news for you, Mac,” he said bluntly. “You’re under arrest.”
The cattleman did not bat an eye. “What for?” he asked evenly.
“For killing Gilroy and Tait.”
“The damn fool’s going around arrestin’ everybody he knows, Mac,” broke in Falkner.
McCoy observed that Falkner was hand-cuffed and that Silcott was not.
He asked the sheriff a question. “Do I understand that you’ve arrested Hal an’ Larry for this, too?”
“Yes, Mac. Larry behaved sensible an’ promised not to make any trouble, so I aim to be as easy on him as I can. Falkner had other notions. He tried to make a gun play.”
“You takin’ us to Wagon Wheel, Aleck?”
“Yes.”
“You have a warrant for my arrest?”
The officer showed the warrant and Rowan glanced over it.
“All right,” said McCoy. “I’ll saddle up an’ be ready in a jiffy.”
“No need for that, Mac. Fact is, I’m not quite ready to start. Got a little more business to do first. If you don’t mind I’ll make the Circle Diamond my headquarters for a few hours,” Matson proposed amiably.
The owner of the ranch answered pleasantly but perhaps with a touch of sarcasm. “Anything you say, Aleck. If yore boys are here at dinner time I expect Mrs. Stovall can fix you-all up.”
“Sure, Mac, an’ if he needs horses or guns probably you can lend him a few,” Falkner added with an oath. “An’ maybe a puncher or two to join his damned posse.”
“No use gettin’ annoyed, Hal,” the ranch owner said quietly. “This looks like a silly business to us, but Aleck has to make his play. He’s not arrestin’ us for pleasure. I reckon he thinks he’s got some evidence, or maybe he wants to scare us into thinkin’ he has some so he can pick up something against someone else.”
“You’ll find I’ve got evidence aplenty, Mac,” the sheriff answered mildly. “No hard feelings, you understand. All in the way of business. Have I got yore word if I don’t put the cuffs on you that you’ll go with me to Wagon Wheel quietly?”
“Yes. We’re not desperadoes, Aleck. We are just plain hill ranchmen. If you’d just mentioned it we’d have come in without any posse to guard us.”
“H’mp!” The sheriff made no other comment. He glanced at Falkner by way of comment on McCoy’s criticism. “I’m leavin’ three of the boys here, Mac. Be back here myself in a few hours, I reckon. If I don’t get back I’ve arranged for you to make a start for town about two o’clock. That agreeable to you?”
“Any time that suits you,” McCoy answered.
The sheriff was back within the specified time limit. He brought with him Rogers and Yerby. From a remark he dropped later McCoy learned that Cole had been arrested earlier in the day at Wagon Wheel.
“You are makin’ quite a gather, Aleck,” said Rogers. “There are several other ranchmen up here you’ve overlooked. How about them?”
“I’ve got all I want for the present, Brad,” the sheriff replied.
His manner was not reassuring, nor was the fact that he had picked out and arrested just the six men who had been engaged in the night raid.
Silcott, temperamentally volatile, was plainly downhearted. McCoy manœuvred so that he rode beside him when they took the road.
“Don’t you worry, Larry,” the older man said in a cheerful voice, but one so low that it carried only to the ears of the man it addressed. “He can’t make his case stick, if we all stand pat on our story.”
“I’m not worried, Mac, but he must know something or he wouldn’t be arresting us. That’s a cinch.”
“He knows a little, an’ guesses a lot more, an’ figures probably that there’s a quitter among us. That’s where his case will break down. All we’ve got to do is to keep mum. In a week or so we’ll be ridin’ the range again.”
“Yes,” agreed Larry, but without conviction.
CHAPTER XVII
YET though the public was in a measure prepared there was a gasp of surprise when the word spread that Sheriff Matson had arrested and brought to Wagon Wheel six cattlemen from the Hill Creek district. McCoy and Rogers were so well and favourably known that the charge of murder against them set tongues buzzing far and wide. Yerby had not been so long in the district, but he, too, bore the best of reputations. By reason of his riding and his gay good-fellowship Larry Silcott was a favourite with the young people. In the cattle country, where he was best known, Jack Cole’s character was as good as a letter of credit. Of the six, Falkner alone bore a rather doubtful reputation.
When the news of the arrests reached the Dude Ranch, Ruth was out on the mesa doing a sketch of the sunset. She was not really painting to any purpose, but had come out to be alone. It had been a wonderful autumn day of purple hills and drifting mists that wrapped the cañons in a gossamer scarf of gray. Just below the mesa the valley lay in a golden harmony of colour beneath a sky soft with rain clouds. It was a picture that just now filled Ruth with deep peace. The brush lay idle in her fingers, and on the face of the girl was a soft and rapt exaltation.
She had a secret. Sometimes it filled her with a wild and tremulous delight. Again she stood before it with awe and even terror. More than once in the night she had found herself weeping with poignant self-pity. There were hours when her whole soul cried out for Rowan, and others when she hated him with all the passionate intensity of her untutored heart. Life, which had been so familiar and easy, took on strange and inexplicable phases. She had become a mystery to herself.
A chill wind from the snow peaks swept the mesa. Ruth gathered up her belongings and walked back to the house. She slipped in quietly by the back door, intent on reaching her room unnoticed. As she passed the door of the big lounging room the voice of Tim Flanders boomed out:
“I tell you that if McCoy led that raid there was no intention of killing Tait and Gilroy. I’ve known Mac twenty-five years. He’s white clear through.”
Ruth wheeled into the room instantly. She went straight to Flanders.
“Who says Rowan led that raid?” she demanded, white to the lips.
There was a long moment of silence. Then: “He’ll clear himself,” Flanders replied lamely.
The young wife had not known her husband was even suspected. She caught the back of a chair with a grip so tight that the knuckles lost their colour.
“Tell me—tell me what you mean.”
He tried to break it gently, but blundered out that the sheriff had to arrest somebody and had chosen McCoy among others.
“Where is he?” And when she knew: “Take me to him!” she ordered.
Flanders wasted no words in remonstrance. He agreed at once, and had his car waiting at the door before Ruth had packed her suitcase. Through the darkness he drove down the steep mountain road to Wagon Wheel.
By the time they reached town it was too late to get permission of the sheriff to see her husband that night, but Tim made arrangements by which she was to be admitted to his cell as soon as breakfast was over next morning.
Ruth slept brokenly, waking from bad dreams to a realization of the dreary truth. One of the dreams was that they were taking Rowan out to hang him and he refused to say good-bye to her.
When she came to breakfast at the hotel it was with no appetite. Tim insisted on her eating, but the toast she munched at stuck in her throat.
“You drink your coffee, anyhow, honey. You’ll feel better,” he urged.
The limbs of the girl trembled as she followed the jailer. The pulse in her throat was beating fast.
At sight of her standing in the shadow of his cell, Rowan drew a deep, ragged breath. The tired eyes in the oval of her pale face held the weariness of woe. Always the clear-cut, delicate face of his sweetheart had touched him nearly, but now it seemed to have the poignant, short-lived charm of a flower. The youth in her was quenched. He had ruined her life.
His impulse was to sweep her into his arms and comfort her, but he lacked the courage of his desire. Every fibre of him was hungry for her, but he looked at her impassively without speaking. The tragic gravity of her told him that she had come as a judge and not as a lover.
When the guard had gone she asked her question: “You didn’t do it, did you?”
His throat ached with tightness. There was nothing he could say to comfort her. He could not even, on account of the others, tell her the truth and let her decide for herself the extent of his guilt.
“Tell me you didn’t do it!” she demanded.
Beneath the tan he was gray. “I’m sorry. I wish I could tell you everything. But I can’t talk—even to you.”
“Can’t talk!” she echoed. “When you are accused of—of this horrible thing, aren’t you going to tell everybody that it is a lie?”
He shook his head. “It isn’t so simple as that. I can’t talk about the case because——”
“I’m not asking you to talk about the case. I’m asking you to tell me that you’re innocent—that it’s all an awful mistake,” she ended with a sob.
“If you’ll only trust me—and wait,” he began desperately. “Some day I’ll tell you everything. But now—I wish I could tell you—I wish I could.”
“You mean that you don’t trust me.”
“No. I trust you fully. But the charge against me lies against others, too. I can’t talk.”
“You can’t even tell me that you didn’t murder two men in their sleep?” Her voice was sharp. All the pain and torture of the long night rang out in it.
He winced. “I’ll have to trust to your mercy to believe the best you can of me.”
“What can I believe when you won’t even deny the charge? What else is there to think but that——” She broke off and began to whimper.
He took a step toward her, but a swift gesture of her hand held him back. “No—no! You can’t trust me. That’s all there is to it—except that you’re guilty. I’d never have believed it—never in the world—not even after what I know of you.”
Rowan longed to cry out to her to have faith in him. He wanted desperately to bridge the gulf that was growing wider between them, to have her see that he had closed the door behind him and must follow the course he had chosen. But he was dumb. It was not in him to express his feeling in words.
Into the delicate white of her cheeks excitement had brought a stain of pink. Eagerly she poured out her passionate protest:
“You don’t mean me to think—surely you can’t mean—that—that—you did this horrible thing! You couldn’t have done it! The thing isn’t possible. Tell me you had nothing to do with it.”
He felt himself trapped in a horrible ambuscade. He would not lie to her. He could not tell the truth. If she would only have faith in him——
But there was no chance of that. To look at the hostile, accusing gaze of this girl was to know that he had lost her. She had demanded of him a confidence that was not his to give, a pledge of innocence he could not make.
“I’m sorry,” he said again.
Her affronted eyes stabbed him. “That’s all you have to tell me?”
“If you only knew.”
The dumb appeal of him might have moved her, but it did not. She was too full of her wrongs.
“But I don’t know, and you won’t tell me. So there’s nothing more to be said.”
Suddenly she broke down, turned away with a sob, and through the blindness of her tears groped to the door. She had rushed to him—to tell him that she knew he was innocent, and he had repulsed her, had made a stranger of her. In effect, he had told her that he did not want her help, that he would go through his trouble alone. If he had really loved her—ah, if he had loved her, how differently he would have acted! A great lump filled her throat and choked her.
Rowan watched her go, his fingers biting into the palms of his hands. The hunger of his soul stared out of his eyes.
CHAPTER XVIII
MATSON nodded a pleasant good-morning, offered his prisoner a cigar, and sat down on the bed.
“How’s everything, Mac?”
The cattleman smiled ironically. “Fine as silk, Aleck. How are they a-coming with you?”
“If there’s anything you want, Mac, if the grub don’t suit you or anything, just say the word.”
“I’m not complaining. You run a good hotel, Sheriff.”
Matson looked out of the barred window at the warm sunshine flooding the yard. From where he sat he could not see the blue, unclouded sky, but he knew just how it looked. When his gaze returned to McCoy it was grave and solicitous.
“I’m going to give you straight talk, Mac. Don’t fool yourself. Shoshone County has made up its mind. The men that killed Dan Gilroy are going to hang.”
“Sounds cheerful, Aleck.”
“I’m here for the last time to ask you to come through. If you’ll give evidence for the State I can save you, Mac.”
McCoy looked straight at him from cold, bleak eyes. “We discussed this subject once before, Sheriff. Isn’t once enough?”
“No,” returned the officer doggedly. “I’ve been talking with Haight. Inside of twelve hours he’s going to get a confession out of—well, never mind his name. But the man’s weakening. He’ll come through to save his skin. Mac, beat him to it.”
The cattleman laughed without mirth. “I reckon this confession talk is come-on stuff. Even if any of the boys knew anything, he wouldn’t tell it.”
“Wouldn’t he? You ought to know that there’s always a weak link in every chain. In every bunch of men there’s a quitter.”
“So you’re offering me the chance to be that quitter. Fine, Aleck! You’ve got a high opinion of me. But why give me the chance? By your way of it, I led the raid. There was bad blood between me and Tait. I outfitted some of the boys with guns, you say. According to your theory, I’m the very man that ought to be hanged.”
“I’m not a fool, Mac. I know you didn’t set out to kill. If you ask me who started the gun play I can come pretty near giving his name. It’s a cinch you didn’t. One of your party has been talking, and the rumour is that you saved the herders. Anyhow, I don’t want to see you hang if I can help it.”
“Good of you,” derided the prisoner.
“But that’s what is going to happen if you don’t take my offer. You are going to trial first—and for the killing of Gilroy. You’ll be convicted. The Governor daren’t commute the sentence. Last call, Mac. Will you come through?”
“No, Aleck. I don’t admit I have anything to tell, but if I had I expect I’d keep my mouth shut.”
“Then you’ll hang.”
“Maybe I will; maybe I won’t,” answered Rowan coolly. “I can throw a cat through some of your evidence.”
“Don’t you think it. I’ve got you tied up in a net you can’t break. One of the herders will testify he heard you called ‘Mac’ just after the shooting.”
This was news to McCoy, but he did not bat an eye.
“Heard someone called Mac, you mean, Sheriff. There are quite a few Macs in Shoshone County.”
“Perhaps you don’t know that we have a witness who saw Falkner take a rifle out of the Triangle Dot bunk house a few hours before the raid.”
“I heard Hal was anxious to shoot a deer for meat for the camp.”
“The gun was a .35 Winchester.”
“He used judgment. I always liked a .35 for deer,” commented the prisoner.
“A .35 will kill a man, too,” said Matson significantly. “The shells I picked up in front of the camp at Bald Knob would fit the gun taken from the rack at the Triangle Dot.”
“If I had an imagination like you, Aleck, I’d go in for writing these moving pictures. You’re plumb wasting it here.”
Matson rose. “No use spilling words. Are you going to be reasonable or not?”
The men looked at each other with direct, level gaze.
“I aim always to try to be,” replied McCoy.
“Well, will you come through with what I want, or will you hang?”
“Since you put it that way, Sheriff, I reckon I’ll hang.”
“You damn fool!” exploded the sheriff.
But there was no censure in his voice. The cattleman had done what he would have done under the same test—come clean as a whistle from the temptation to betray his accomplices.
“I knew you wouldn’t do it,” continued Matson. “But I’ve given you your chance. Don’t blame me.”
McCoy nodded. It was the business of a sheriff to run down crime. The cattleman was too good a sportsman to hold a grudge on that account, even if the officer fastened a rope around his neck.
Though Rowan had been under no temptation to turn State’s evidence, the sheriff left him worried at what he had predicted as to a confession. He might of course be telling the truth. The sheriff had said that there is a weak link in every chain. If so, who was the weak one among the prisoners?
Rogers and Yerby were married. It was likely that Haight and Matson might have been at their wives to harry them into a confession. Women did not always have the same point of view about honour when their feelings were involved. They might have insisted on their husbands saving themselves if they could. But, somehow, neither Rogers nor Yerby seemed the type of man to save himself at the expense of others. Rogers he had known a long time and had never found him anything but reliable. Yerby had been in the neighbourhood six or seven years. McCoy sized up the Texan as a simple man, frank and direct in his thinking. On all the evidence at hand he would live up to the code by which he guided his life.
The other three were single men. There would be less excuse for one of them if he betrayed his friends.
Larry Silcott! No, certainly not Larry. Rowan had tied the young fellow to him by a hundred favours. Moreover, Larry lived in the sunshine of popular applause. He could not go into the witness box to testify against his companions without for ever forfeiting the good opinion of all decent people. It could not be Larry.
Jack Cole! He felt confident it was not Jack. The young fellow was of the stuff that carries through.
This left Falkner. Rowan considered Falkner with no assurance of his loyalty. The man was wild, reckless, and undisciplined. It was hard to predict what he would do under any set of circumstances. He had the reputation of being game, but he was given to suspicions and resentments. It was possible that if they plied him in just the right way he might burst out in invectives against his companions. Suppose, for instance, Haight persuaded him that the others were planning to deliver him as the sacrifice. On the other hand, Falkner was in a different class from the others. He had fired the first shot. He had killed Gilroy and knew that McCoy knew it. If he went on the stand against the others his accomplices would be free to fling the onus of the murders upon him. No, Falkner would not dare weaken.
Rowan’s thoughts drifted from the problem Matson had left with him and reverted to his wife. He was more unhappy about his relationship with her than about the danger to his life. She had asked for his confidence and he had refused it. What else could he do? But his sick heart told him that she had opened a door to the chance of a better understanding between them and he had been forced to shut it again.
Life was full of little ironies that embittered and made vain the best intentions.
CHAPTER XIX
LATER in the day the sheriff tried out another of his prisoners. He had told McCoy the truth. One of the six was weakening. Matson had his own favourites and wanted to give them a chance before the State’s attorney was pledged. By sunset a confession would be in the hands of Haight, and it would be too late to save his friends.
He found Yerby whittling out a boat for his baby. The Texan looked up with a faint, apologetic smile in his faded blue eyes.
“I was making a pretty for my little trick at home, Sheriff. He’s the dad-blamedest kid you ever saw—keeps his old dad humping to make toys for him to bust. Don’t you blame Steve for loaning me this two-bit Barlow. He takes it back every night. Steve’s a good jailer all right.”
The Southerner was a shabby little man, tobacco-stained, with a week’s growth of red stubble on his face. But it was impossible to deny him a certain pathetic dignity.
“I’ve come to talk to you for that little kid, Sam. You don’t want him to be an orphan, do you?”
“I reckon that don’t rest with me.”
Matson cut straight to business. “That’s just who it rests with. Sam, it’s a show-down. Will you come through with the evidence I want, or won’t you?”
“I won’t-you. We done talked that all out, Aleck. I wisht you-all wouldn’t bother me if it’s not unconvenient for you to let me alone.”
He offered the officer a chew of tobacco to show that he was not peevish about the matter.
The sheriff waved the plug aside impatiently.
“One of the boys can’t stand the gaff. He’s breaking, Sam. But you’ve got a wife and a kid. He hasn’t. I want you to have first chance. Come clean and I’ll look out for you. After the trial I’ll see you get out of the country quietly. You can take your folks back to Texas.”
Sam looked out of the window. The little boat and the jackknife hung limp in his hands. In a cracked, falsetto voice he took up a song of the range that he had hummed a hundred times in the saddle:
“I woke one mo’ning on the old Chisum Trail,Rope in my hand and a cow by the tail.”
“I woke one mo’ning on the old Chisum Trail,Rope in my hand and a cow by the tail.”
“I woke one mo’ning on the old Chisum Trail,Rope in my hand and a cow by the tail.”
“I woke one mo’ning on the old Chisum Trail,
Rope in my hand and a cow by the tail.”
He thought of the rough and turbulent life that had come at last to the peaceful shoals of happy matrimony. A vision rose before him of his smiling young wife and crowing baby. They needed him. Must he give them up for a point of honour? If someone was to go clear, why not he?
“We have evidence enough. It isn’t that. I’m giving you a chance, Sam. That’s all.”
The lips of the Texan murmured another stanza, but his thoughts were far afield:
“Oh, a ten-dollar hoss and a forty-dollar saddle—And I’m goin’ to punchin’ Texas cattle.”
“Oh, a ten-dollar hoss and a forty-dollar saddle—And I’m goin’ to punchin’ Texas cattle.”
“Oh, a ten-dollar hoss and a forty-dollar saddle—And I’m goin’ to punchin’ Texas cattle.”
“Oh, a ten-dollar hoss and a forty-dollar saddle—
And I’m goin’ to punchin’ Texas cattle.”
“Never again, Sam. Not unless you take your chance now.” The sheriff put a hand on his shoulder. “For the sake of the wife and the little man. You’re not going to throw them down, are you?”
“We hit Caldwell and we hit her on the fly,We bedded down the cattle on the hill close by.”
“We hit Caldwell and we hit her on the fly,We bedded down the cattle on the hill close by.”
“We hit Caldwell and we hit her on the fly,We bedded down the cattle on the hill close by.”
“We hit Caldwell and we hit her on the fly,
We bedded down the cattle on the hill close by.”
The faded eyes were wistful. It was his chance for freedom, perhaps his chance for life, too. What would Missie and the baby do without him? Who would look after them?
“No chaps, no slicker, and it’s pourin’ down rain,And damn my skin if I night-herd again!”
“No chaps, no slicker, and it’s pourin’ down rain,And damn my skin if I night-herd again!”
“No chaps, no slicker, and it’s pourin’ down rain,And damn my skin if I night-herd again!”
“No chaps, no slicker, and it’s pourin’ down rain,
And damn my skin if I night-herd again!”
Matson said nothing. The Texan was building up for himself a vision of the life he loved in the wind and the sunshine of the open range. The old Chisum Trail song he sung must bring to his memory a hundred pictures of the past. These would be arguments more potent than any the sheriff could use.
“Stray in the herd and the boss said kill it,So I shot him in the rump with the handle of the skillet.”
“Stray in the herd and the boss said kill it,So I shot him in the rump with the handle of the skillet.”
“Stray in the herd and the boss said kill it,So I shot him in the rump with the handle of the skillet.”
“Stray in the herd and the boss said kill it,
So I shot him in the rump with the handle of the skillet.”
The cracked voice became clearer:
“I’ll sell my outfit soon as ever I can,I won’t punch cattle for no damned man!”
“I’ll sell my outfit soon as ever I can,I won’t punch cattle for no damned man!”
“I’ll sell my outfit soon as ever I can,I won’t punch cattle for no damned man!”
“I’ll sell my outfit soon as ever I can,
I won’t punch cattle for no damned man!”
“You don’t want your kid to grow up and learn that his dad was hanged,” insinuated Matson. “That would be a fine thing to leave him.”
“Foot in the stirrup and hand on the horn—Best damned cowboy that ever was born!”
“Foot in the stirrup and hand on the horn—Best damned cowboy that ever was born!”
“Foot in the stirrup and hand on the horn—Best damned cowboy that ever was born!”
“Foot in the stirrup and hand on the horn—
Best damned cowboy that ever was born!”
The voice of the singer rang like a bell at last. He turned serene eyes on the tempter.
“What do you think I am, Aleck? If I hang I hang, but I’m damned if I’ll be a traitor.”
The sheriff gave him up. “All right, Sam. It’s your say-so, not mine. Got everything you want here so you’re fixed comfortable?”
“You’re treating me fine. I ain’t used to being corralled so close, but I reckon it would be onreasonable to ask for a hawss and a saddle and an open range in your calaboose.”
As the sheriff passed down the corridor he heard Sam’s tin-pan voice chirruping bravely:
“There’s hard times on old Bitter CreekThat never can be beat;It was root, hog, or die,Under every wagon sheet.We cleared up all the Indians,Drank all the alkali,And its whack the cattle on, boys—Root, hog, or die!”
“There’s hard times on old Bitter CreekThat never can be beat;It was root, hog, or die,Under every wagon sheet.We cleared up all the Indians,Drank all the alkali,And its whack the cattle on, boys—Root, hog, or die!”
“There’s hard times on old Bitter CreekThat never can be beat;It was root, hog, or die,Under every wagon sheet.We cleared up all the Indians,Drank all the alkali,And its whack the cattle on, boys—Root, hog, or die!”
“There’s hard times on old Bitter Creek
That never can be beat;
It was root, hog, or die,
Under every wagon sheet.
We cleared up all the Indians,
Drank all the alkali,
And its whack the cattle on, boys—
Root, hog, or die!”
CHAPTER XX
NOT for years had Shoshone County been so interested in any public event as it was in the trial of Rowan McCoy for the murder of Dan Gilroy. Scores of ranchmen had driven in from the hills to be present either as witnesses or spectators. North of town was a camp with two chuck wagons where the cattlemen kept open house for all the range riders who had ridden down to Wagon Wheel. A beef had been killed and a cook engaged. Everybody was welcome to help himself. At the opposite end of town the sheepmen also had a camp, for the two small hotels were entirely inadequate to hold those in attendance.
The sentiment of the people was strong for a conviction. Rowan had many friends, and the cattle interests were anxious to see him acquitted. But the killing of Gilroy had been so unprovoked that it had aroused a bitter and widespread resentment. The feeling of those not involved in the cattle and sheep war was that an example must be made. Shoshone County had irrigated lands for sale. Its oil fields were on the market for exploitation. Its citizens were eager to prove to the world of investment that the wild, turbulent days were past, that Wyoming had arrived at a responsible sobriety which would not tolerate lawlessness. Once for all they meant to show the night raiders that they were within reach of the courts.
Haight, the new district attorney, was a young man, almost a stranger in the county, and he wanted a record for convictions. Therefore he brought McCoy to trial for the murder of Gilroy rather than Tait. Gilroy had many friends and no personal enemies. He was a quiet, peaceable man. Apparently he had been shot while unarmed and trying to escape. His killing had been wanton and unprovoked. It might be claimed that Tait had always wanted trouble and that he had been struck down while firing at his enemies. But in the case of Gilroy this plea would not stand.
The courtroom was crowded to the windows. Two bailiffs stood at the door and searched every man that entered; for the feeling was so intense that the authorities did not want to take the chance of any possible outbreak. A gun in a hip pocket was too easy to reach.
In his opening statement the district attorney told the story of the sheep and cattle war. He traced the source of the bad feeling between the prisoner and Tait, and showed that the bitterness extended to Silcott and Falkner, two others charged with this murder, one of whom had been wounded and the other beaten up by the sheepman. The prosecution would prove that both Silcott and Falkner had made threats against Tait, that Falkner had been seen to take a rifle from a ranch bunk house in the dead of night, and that McCoy had led the party which killed the two sheepmen. It was, he claimed, immaterial to the case of the State whether McCoy had or had not fired the shot that killed Gilroy. He would introduce evidence tending to show that the prisoner actually had fired the shot, but his honour would tell the jury that this was not necessary to prove guilt. The testimony would show that McCoy with three of his companions rode back to the Circle Diamond Ranch, pretended to the housekeeper that they had spent the night there, and after breakfast returned to the round-up camp, burying on the way the rifle that Falkner had been seen to take the night before.
Bit by bit, with the skill of the trained lawyer, Haight used his witnesses to spin a web around the accused man. He showed how, after the arrival of Silcott at the camp the night before the raid, McCoy decided unexpectedly to drive the Circle Diamond cattle home and took with him Cole and Silcott. Shortly afterward Rogers and Yerby had departed with flimsy excuses. Falkner had stolen away without any assigned reason. They had not been seen again at camp until late next morning. Hans Ukena, a rider for the Triangle Dot, testified that he had been sleeping in the bunk house the night in question and was wakened by a noise. By the light of the moon he saw Falkner pass through the open door, carrying a rifle in one hand and an ammunition belt in the other.
The interest grew tense when Sheriff Matson took the stand. The big tanned Westerner made a first-class witness. He gave his evidence with a quiet confidence that carried weight. As he told the story of how he had followed the trail of the raiders foot by foot from the scene of the crime to the Circle Diamond Ranch the hopes of the defense sank. For the best part of a day he was put through a gruelling cross-examination in an attempt to show that it would have been impossible to identify hoofprints and boot marks after they had been covered with snow. Not once did he contradict or falter as to his facts. He left the stand with the jury convinced that he had told the plain truth.
It had taken three days to select a jury and four more to examine witnesses to date. Wagon Wheel buzzed with gossip. The rumour would not down that one of the prisoners had turned State’s evidence and was to be put on the stand next morning.
A wise curbstone prophet mentioned the names of Silcott and Yerby. “It’s one of them sure. Shouldn’t wonder if it’s both of them,” he announced at the bar of the Silver Lode.
“You got another guess,” interrupted a hillman roughly. “I know ’em both. Won’t either of them squeal. They’ll go through.”
“That’s all very well. But if McCoy dragged them into this thing——”
“He didn’t. They’re not kids. If they went in it was with their eyes open.”
Ruth, torn by conflicting emotions, had been present with Mrs. Flanders all through the trial. The testimony of Matson had left her shaken with dread. She felt now that Rowan was guilty, and she believed he would be convicted. But it was impossible for her not to admire his courage under fire. His nerve was so cool and steady, his frank face so open and friendly. One might gather from his manner that he was greatly interested, but not at all anxious.
Immediately after court was declared in session next morning, Haight turned to the bailiff.
“Call Larry Silcott.”
A murmur swept like a wave through the courtroom. Men and women craned their necks to see the young cowman as he passed to the witness stand. Ruth noticed that Larry’s face was gray and that he kept his eyes on the floor. But even then she had no premonition of what he was about to do.
But Rowan knew. While Silcott answered nervously the first routine questions of the lawyer, the prisoner watched him steadily with a scornful little smile. Rowan had taught him the practical side of his business, had looked after his cattle, given him his friendship. Once he had dragged him out of the Fryingpan when he was drowning. His feeling for the younger man was like that of an older brother. He had felt an affectionate pride in his pupil’s skill at roping and at riding. Now Larry, to save his own skin, was betraying him and the rest of his companions.
Haight was very gentle and considerate of his star witness. But Silcott was in hell none the less. Dry-lipped and pallid, with tiny sweat beads on his damp forehead, he faced row upon row of tense, eager faces all hanging on what he had to tell. Not one of them all but would despise him. His stripped and naked soul writhed, the vanity for once burned out of him. He shivered with dread. It was being driven into him that though he had bought his life he must pay for his treachery with years of isolation and contempt.
The prosecuting attorney led him over the story of the night when he had ridden with the sheep raiders. Step by step the witness took the party from the round-up to the camp at Bald Knob.
“Who had charge of your party?” continued Haight.
“McCoy.”
“Did you elect him leader?”
“No. He just took command. He was boss of the round-up.”
“Who assigned you positions before the attack?”
“McCoy.”
“In what order did he place you?”
“Counting from the left, Cole, Yerby, Rogers, myself, Falkner, McCoy.”
“Will you show on the map just how you were placed with reference to the camp and each other?”
Silcott took the pointer and illustrated the position of each man.
“Which of you was nearest the camp?”
“McCoy was closer than the rest of us.”
“When was the first shot fired?”
“I judge we were about a hundred yards from the wagons.”
“Did it come from the camp or was it fired by one of your party?”
“By one of us.”
“Were any of the sheepmen then in sight?”
“No.”
“Was it fired to draw them from cover so as to get at them?”
The chief lawyer for the defense was on his feet instantly with an objection. The court ruled the question out of order.
Haight rose, took a step toward the witness, and paused a moment.
“Who fired that shot, Mr. Silcott?”
Larry’s eyes went furtively about the room, met those of McCoy, and dropped to the floor. “It—it came from the right.”
“How do you know?”
“By the smoke and the sound.”
“Did you see who fired it?”
“Falkner or McCoy; I wasn’t sure which.”
Again Rowan’s lawyer objected and was sustained. The judge cautioned the witness to tell only what he knew.
Silcott went over the story of the shooting of Tait with great detail. The prosecuting attorney made another dramatic pause to let the audience get the significance of his next lead.
“Were you where you could see Dan Gilroy when he ran from the wagon?”
“Yes.”
“Will you tell exactly what happened when Gilroy ran from the wagon?”
“He ran out from the back and started for the brush.”
“Was he armed?”
“No.”
“Proceed. What happened?”
“He had run about thirty feet when somebody fired. He fell.”
“Were any more shots fired?”
“No. That was the last.”
“From what direction did it come?”
“From my right.”
“How do you know?”
“By the sound and the smoke.”
“Where did the smoke rise with relation to the defendant?”
Silcott moistened his dry lips with his tongue. He was sweating blood.
“It was close to him.”
Haight threatened him with his forefinger. “Won’t you swear that the defendant fired that shot? Don’t you know he fired it?”
“I—I can’t swear to it.”
“Weren’t you convinced that it was McCoy who——”
The defense objected angrily: “The witness has answered the question. Is the prosecuting attorney trying to bully him to change that answer?”
When at last Haight was through with him the witness dripped with perspiration. But his troubles were only beginning. The lawyers for the defense took him in hand, made him confess his obligations to McCoy, brought out that he himself had proposed the raid, and wrung from him that he was turning State’s evidence to save his own life at the expense of his friends. Two points they developed in favour of their client—that he had repeatedly warned his friends against shooting and that he had saved the lives of the herders from Falkner.
But though Silcott was left a rag, his story stood the fire of cross-examination. When he stepped down from the stand he left behind him a net of evidence through which McCoy could not break.
As Larry moved down the aisle someone in the back part of the room broke the silence: “You damned Judas!”
Instantly echoes of the word filled the courtroom. The judge pounded with his gavel for silence, but that low-hissed “Judas! Judas!” pursued the young cowman down the stairs. It would be many years before he could recall without scalding shame that moment when the finger of public scorn was pointed at him in execration.