Читать книгу Outlaw Ranch - Frank C. Robertson - Страница 4

DUST hung over the tithing corrals like fog. Four hundred head of snorting, wild-eyed cattle had been milling about there for two hours, and they had churned the dry dirt into stifling powder. But now the last bunch had been passed upon and Chet Kelvin walked away from the corrals with half a dozen sturdy Mormon ranchers at his heels.

As he passed out of the gate Kelvin looked up and grinned a friendly greeting at a sixteen-year-old lad he had previously noticed roosting on top of the fence with bland indifference to the choking dust. The boy was dressed in a brand-new cowboy outfit, but somehow his unsuppressed eagerness struck a sympathetic chord in the heart of the young cattle buyer.

“Will you men have a drink before we settle up?” Chet hospitably invited the Mormons.

There was no reply, and somewhat puzzled Chet repeated the invitation.

This time he was answered by a broad-shouldered, bearded man by the name of Carey.

“Thank you just the same, but us Mormons don’t drink liquor. It’s against our Word of Wisdom,” he said.

“Especially when the bishop’s around—an’ Carey’s our bishop,” a brawny Mormon laughed.

“Far be it from me to ask any man to go against his principles,” Chet said. “I respect yore scruples, an’ admire their wisdom. But will you-all have a cigar?”

The Mormons looked at each other and grinned.

“Sorry, but smokin’ tobacco is also against our religion,” Carey said.

“Pardon me if I make another blunder, but would it be against yore religion if I buy each of you a lead pencil?” Kelvin asked gravely.

The Mormons laughed, but one of two young fellows who had just ridden up and were looking over the top of the corral fence from their horses’ backs addressed Kelvin.

“If yo’re just lookin’ for somebody tuh buy drinks for, stranger, me an’ my pard’ll absorb a few with you.”

Chet regarded the young fellows with casual interest. They were dressed as cowhands, and were gray with trail dust from their wide-brimmed hats to the ends of their tapideros. Their sweat-stained horses indicated that they had come a long way. They were young fellows, both rather good-looking, yet with a hard, daredevil look about them with which Chet Kelvin, sometimes known as “Tornado Tex,” was far from being unfamiliar.

“All right, boys,” the cattle buyer answered good-humoredly. “Soon as I finish my business with my friends here I’ll have a drink with yuh.”

“We’ll be waitin’,” the puncher replied, and turning their horses they rode on a gallop the short distance across to the nearest saloon.

Bishop Carey cleared his throat. “A-hem,” he began dubiously. “What you do, my friend, is, of course, nothing to us. But if I were you I’d be purty careful about minglin’ much with—with men of that stripe.”

“That so?” Kelvin queried. “You know them?”

“No, I can’t say that I do,” Carey said. “They’re strangers in Curryville. You’ve heard of the Wild Ones, no doubt?”

“Who ain’t?” Chet laughed.

“You are now getting into the Wild Ones’ territory,” Carey said. “Many people here, if not actively in sympathy with Kirk Holliday and his men, are so afraid of them that they give them aid and sympathy. Being a cattle buyer, and traveling about the country the way you do, the Wild Ones might be interested in your movements.”

“I see,” Chet said gravely. He realized that Carey’s warning was well meant, and probably authentic. “You mean you suspect those two punchers of belonging to the Wild Ones?”

“They might,” Carey said guardedly.

“Well, thanks,” Chet said. “I’ll be careful.”

He went into the tithing office with the men and gave them each a draft on the Idaho Land & Livestock Co. to pay for the cattle he had bought. Those drafts, good as the gold in any Western bank, were accepted without question.

His business with the Mormons settled, Chet Kelvin crossed the street and entered the saloon. Cutting and counting the various bunches of range cattle had been hot, dusty work, and he was thirsty. He had slipped over a few times before during the day, and had conversed sociably with the bartender.

As he entered he saw the two young fellows Carey had warned him against touching glasses at the bar. They set their glasses down on the bar with a crash and welcomed him with a whoop.

“Just in time tuh pay fer these here drinks,” the smaller of the two shouted. “What’ll yores be?”

“Beer,” Chet smiled.

They drained their glasses, but before Chet could pay the puncher who talked the most threw a gold piece upon the bar.

“Cattle buyer?” he inquired.

“I occasionally buy up a cow here an’ there,” Kelvin said modestly. “Allow me to return the honors. What will it be, gents?”

“Whisky,” the punchers said in a breath.

The other puncher bought, after that, and then Chet set up the cigars. By that time the two tough young punchers were beaming.

“Mister,” said the smaller one, “if it’s cows yo’re lookin’ fer you’ve hit a ridin’ burro of information. But first off let me interduce myself. I’m Jack Fossum. The dish-faced hombre with me is called Al Biggers.”

“I’m right pleased to meet you both,” Chet said cordially. “I’m Kelvin—Chet Kelvin.”

“Put ’er there, Chet,” Biggers boomed. “Barkeep, fill up them glasses.”

“You was speakin’ of some cows I might pick up,” Chet reminded.

“You bet,” Fossum said. “The barkeep was just tailin’ us you’d bought ’bout five hundred head from these Mormons. You fixin’ tuh buy up a trail herd?”

“That’s more or less my idea,” Chet admitted. “I want to buy between two an’ three thousand head for the Idaho range. They tell me these little, wild southern Utah cattle do well up there—most like the Texas longhorns.”

“Yeah, these Dixie cattle are so light behind that they spend half their time standin’ on their heads. But you git ’em on good feed an’ tie rocks to their tails so their hind ends won’t drive their horns into the ground an’ they do right good,” Jack Fossum said solemnly.

All three laughed, and the bartender joined in heavily.

“The only trouble is yo’re on the wrong side o’ the mountains,” Biggers scowled. “Now if yuh had this bunch a hundred miles east o’ here I could show yuh all the cows yuh’d want, an’ dirt cheap, too.”

“Any way to get over there?” Chet asked interestedly.

“Sure there is. You could trail what yuh’ve bought here over the mountains. Tell yuh what you do: You ride back over with us an’ look the country over. If you don’t find more cows than yuh want I’ll stand the drinks,” Biggers offered.

“I was figgerin’ on goin’ on south,” Chet said. “I’ve got three hundred head scattered on up the country an’ I figgered I could make up a herd without much trouble.”

“Hey, Al, yo’re forgettin’ that we got business down in Pipe Springs,” Jack Fossum interrupted. “We can’t go back there for a week.”

“Dang my slats, I plumb forgot that,” Biggers said, and looked at the cattle buyer with regretful confusion.

“I could go on south, an’ if I didn’t fill my herd I might—” Chet suggested.

“No, no. I know dang well yuh kin save as much as two dollars a head, an’ have an easier trail this other way,” Fossum contended. “Listen, Chet, I’ll tell yuh what you do. You go over an’ see Hank Stevens—he’s got a ranch over toward Cattle valley. You orta get two, three thousand head from him, an’ he’ll know just where yuh can get more if you want ’em! We work for the I X L which is ’bout fifty miles south of there. Right now we’re on our way tuh Pipe Springs tuh buy some thoroughbred horses for our boss.”

“Might be a right good idea,” Kelvin agreed. “I’ll think it over.”

He had another drink with his two young friends and returned to the corrals, where the cattle he had bought were now in charge of one of the Mormon ranchers and his two sons. Chet had arranged for them to be held in the Mormon’s pasture until his trail herd was made up. The animals, slim, narrow-hipped, wild-eyed heifers, were already being let out of a gate, which they approached with loud and terrified snorts, and then ran as if the devil was after them when they got through.

Good enough stuff, Kelvin thought, but he had paid a little more than he had expected to. It was his first trip to this section. The cattle grew small, but they would fatten up and grow big on the better ranges of Idaho and Montana if taken young enough.

What the two punchers had told him stuck in his memory, for all that he had no intention of following the minute directions they had given him. Those two had all the earmarks of outlaws, and he was no stranger to their ways. What they said might all have been in good faith, but, on the other hand, if he was green enough to ride the lonely trail they had outlined it would be easy for them to stage a hold-up.

He gave a few instructions to the Mormon who had charge of the cattle, and was about to start back toward his hotel when his eyes fell upon the boy he had noticed before roosting on the fence. The lad was still looking at the vanishing cattle with star-eyed interest.

“Those your cattle?” he asked eagerly.

“Yes, sonny, I reckon they are,” Chet admitted.

“You must be a big cattleman,” the boy said.

“No, I reckon not. Yuh see I’m just a sort o’ buyer for a company up in Idaho,” Chet smiled.

“Then you’re a stranger here, too?”

“I reckon I am, son. Which way are you-all headin’?”

Unconsciously the boy lowered his voice. “I don’t know,” he said. “You see my sister and me are out here looking for our older brother. He owns a big cattle outfit, the I X L. It’s close to a place called Highriver, because that’s where he used to mail his letters. But we ain’t heard a word from him for over a year, so we are on our way to find out what’s happened to him.”

“Then you must know where yo’re goin’,” Chet remarked.

“The trouble is everybody says we’re foolish to go there. One man here, a Mormon bishop by the name of Carey, told us straight out that Highriver was no place for a decent girl to go, and he had the nerve to say that the I X L belonged to an outlaw named Broome, and that nobody had ever heard of my brother.”

“What was yore brother’s name?”

“Charles Harrison. I’m Bud Harrison, and my sister’s name is Leda—that’s her signaling to me now. Well, guess I’d better jump. We’ve bought an outfit to drive out there and see what’s happened to Charley anyway. My sister is afraid he’s dead. Well, so-long,” the boy said.

“Just a minute,” Chet murmured. “You got any idea how long a trip yo’re undertakin’?”

“They say it’s all of a hundred miles.” Bud Harrison grinned.

“You got a guide?”

“Just an old feller to drive the team and do the cooking. He calls himself ‘Nevada.’ Kind of a peculiar old boy.”

“You startin’ right away?” Chet asked.

“Yes; I see the buckboard is all ready to start,” Bud said.

“It’s a kind of coincidence, but I’m headin’ for that country myself,” Chet drawled. “Goin’ in there tuh buy cows. Likely I’ll overtake you before you get there.”

“That’ll be fine,” Bud said. “We’d be glad to have you camp with us.”

As Kelvin walked toward the hotel he got a good look at a flaxen-haired, sweet-faced girl of about twenty who was just then climbing into a buckboard beside a grizzled old desert rat whose skin, where it was not covered by a wiry gray beard, resembled nothing so much as an old and wrinkled piece of boot leather. The girl obviously was a stranger to the West, but Chet liked the capable way in which she moved.

Chet’s sudden resolution to cross the mountains had been caused by a recollection that his new-found friends, Biggers and Fossum, claimed to be employees of the I X L. It had occurred to him to tell Bud that they were in town, but on second thought he had decided to do the questioning himself.

The two punchers hadn’t yet left Curryville, and they had absorbed several whiskies during his absence from the saloon. They greeted him uproariously. He bought a round of drinks, which were consumed at a table, and then ventured an inquiry.

“How long have you boys worked for this here I X L?”

“Oh, ’bout five years,” Jack Fossum answered with a maudlin laugh.

“Tell me—what does Charley Harrison do there?” Chet queried.

“Harrison? Ain’t nobody o’ that name I ever heard tell of over there,” Fossum answered. “You, Al?”

“Nope. There’s no Harrison in that country I ever heard of,” Biggers said. “What made yuh think there was?”

“Well, a man who give that name, an’ said he belonged there, was tellin’ me how cheap I could buy cows there long before I saw you boys,” Chet prevaricated.

“What sort of a lookin’ jigger was he?” Fossum asked.

For a moment Chet was stumped. Then he decided to take a chance that Charley Harrison looked like his brother Bud, only larger.

“Well, as I remember,” he frowned, “he was jist short o’ six feet tall, and he had wavy brown hair, brown eyes, a straight nose an’ kinda big mouth, an’ a funny little cleft in his chin like a dimple.”

“An’ did he have a thin scar runnin’ from the bridge of his nose to the top of his left eye?” Fossum asked eagerly.

“I believe he did,” Chet replied, but he was aware that Al Biggers had given his companion a vicious kick on the shin under the table.

“Yuh musta been mistaken in the name, stranger,” Biggers said. “That feller’s name was Johnson, not Harrison. He ain’t there now.”

Chet knew that no more was to be got out of the men, but he had heard enough to know that there was something queer at the I X L ranch, toward which Bud Harrison and his sister were headed. It was none of his business, he knew; and he had made it a lifelong practice to let other people’s affairs alone with great diligence. Nevertheless, he didn’t like the idea of a girl and a mere boy going alone and unprotected into a known outlaw country, and he had a reasonable excuse for taking the same trail through the mountains.

“I think I’ll just act on that tip you boys gave me,” he said softly. “Reckon, I’ll start for that Highriver country first thing in the mornin’.”

“Yuh’ll never regret it, stranger,” Al Biggers said fervently. Chet could see the gleam of satisfaction in their eyes. They were too drunk to conceal their animation; yet not drunk enough to overlook any bets.

“I gotta go to Bishop Carey’s place tonight, so I may not see you boys again,” he remarked.

“Oh, yuh’ll see us again—be shore o’ that.” Biggers laughed. “But let’s hoist one.”

They had a final drink, and Chet took his departure.

On his buying trips Chet always rode his own private horse, a long-legged, raw-boned gray with a blazed face and two “glass” eyes; an animal with an abundance of speed, and capable of covering from fifty to seventy-five miles day after day without undue fatigue. He called the horse Mike.

No sooner was Chet out of town than he altered his course and worked back to the narrow wagon road which led to Penoloa canyon, the route which he had been told to take. It was all open country so far as fences were concerned, and he kept outside of the road. He let Mike out at a spanking trot until he reached the mouth of the canyon. Here the country was covered with brush and small trees.

He drew his mount to a halt as he saw the buckboard containing the Harrisons and their guide winding up the canyon less than a quarter of a mile distant. As they disappeared around a bend he forced his horse deep into a thicket beside the road, and dismounted where the animal was well out of sight; but where Chet himself could keep an eye upon the road.

Within an hour his vigil was rewarded. Al Biggers and Jack Fossum came shacking along at the familiar jog trot of the range. They seemed hilariously happy.

The corners of Chet Kelvin’s mouth crinkled in a somewhat grim smile. He bore no particular malice against his erstwhile boon companions of short acquaintance, but they had told him they meant to proceed in the opposite direction, and now they were going back the way they had come. He thought he knew the reason why.

Then, suddenly, his face became more serious. He had remembered the people in the buckboard ahead. If Biggers and Fossum were, as he had reason to believe, members of the notorious gang of Wild Ones, would they not be liable to attempt a robbery of the other party?

When the two riders had passed on out of sight he led Mike out of the brush, mounted, and proceeded slowly up the canyon.