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+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 77373 ***
+[Illustration]
+
+Fire Brands
+
+By W. C. Tuttle
+
+_Author of “Masked Law,” “Straight Shooting,” etc._
+
+    THERE WAS SOMETHING QUEER ABOUT THE SALE OF THE BAR S RANCH;
+    THOSE ENTERPRISING COWMEN, SAD SONTAG AND SWEDE HARRIGAN,
+    SENSED IT AT ONCE. BUT NOT UNTIL THEIR INTEREST WAS AROUSED
+    BY SPECK, THE YOUNGSTER WHOSE INHERITANCE THE RANCH SHOULD
+    HAVE BEEN, DID THEY DRAW CARDS IN A GAME WHICH PROMISED—AND
+    DELIVERED—EXCITEMENT
+
+
+
+
+
+I
+
+
+“I’ll kill him, if it’s the last thing I ever do!” yelped “Sad” Sontag.
+“I tell yuh, I’m goin’ to kill him!”
+
+“Quit it, I tell yuh!” wailed the bartender. “Don’t do that!”
+
+_Swish! Crash!_
+
+“Aw-w-w-w, you danged fool!” The bartender’s voice was raised in a
+wailing crescendo. “Look what yuh went and done.”
+
+Sad Sontag’s face came up from behind the bar and he looked around
+solemnly. His serious gray eyes considered the redfaced bartender,
+shifted to “Swede” Harrigan, his partner, and then considered other
+occupants of the saloon, who were interested.
+
+“Your darned heels knocked some of my glasses down,” complained the
+bartender. “I told yuh not to do it, didn’t I? Didn’t I tell yuh not to
+git up on my bar like that?”
+
+“Uh-huh,” nodded Sad. “I s’pose yuh did mention it.”
+
+“Mention, hell!” The bartender appealed to the crowd. “I’ll leave to any
+of you.”
+
+“You kinda overreached yourself, cowboy,” observed Swede.
+
+“Uh-huh,” Sad squinted around, felt the back of his neck and shrugged
+his thin shoulders.
+
+“Well, I s’pose I missed him,” he said ruefully, coming from behind the
+bar. “That’s the first darned horsefly that ever bit me from behind and
+got away with it.”
+
+“Gittin’ up on my bar and tryin’ to hit a fly with a hat!” The bartender
+was justly indignant. “Where in hell do you fellers think this place is,
+anyway? Balancin’ on your knees on top of my bar and——”
+
+“Wait a minute,” interrupted Sad. “If you think that anybody is
+intensely interested in yore recital, hire a hall. I’ll betcha you’ve
+got a silv’ry voice, and all that, but not when yo’re mad. Right now yuh
+kinda creak yore words.”
+
+“I’ve got a right to kick, ain’t I?”
+
+Sad leaned against the bar, his old sombrero pulled down over his left
+eye, his shirt collar hiked up around his ears, and squinted
+reflectively at the irate bartender.
+
+“All right,” he nodded. “Go ahead. But, brother, let not yore oration
+become personal. Use all the ‘I’s’ yuh want to, but keep from sayin’
+‘you’ as much as possible. Proceed.”
+
+But the bartender’s vocabulary seemed to have oozed away; so he
+contented himself with picking up what few glasses Sad’s heels had
+smashed when he fell off the bar in his efforts to swat a horsefly.
+
+Sad Sontag was as lean as a grayhound, bronzed as an Indian. His hair
+was sort of a washed-out sandy color, with one long lock extending down
+his forehead and joining one of his arched eyebrows, which gave him an
+habitual astonished expression.
+
+Sad’s shirt was of neutral shade; the color having long since faded from
+the sun and strong soap, his chaps worn and scarred, and his boot heels
+badly run over on the outer edges, which proved that Sad was bow-legged.
+
+His cartridge belt was of extra width, molded by use to fit the curve of
+his hip and thigh, and from a scarred holster protruded the plain, black
+wood butt of a heavy Colt revolver.
+
+Swede Harrigan, his partner, was a composite of Gaelic and Norse; a six
+foot six inch blond cowboy, with an Irish mouth and nose. His eyes were
+round and very blue; patient-looking eyes, which belied the nose and
+mouth below them. His raiment was on a par with that worn by Sad, except
+that his boot heels were slightly run over on the inner side, which
+proved that Swede was a little knock-kneed in spite of the fact that he
+had spent most of his life in a saddle.
+
+They were a nondescript pair, these two cowpunchers; neither handsome
+nor gaudy. An experienced cattleman would probably pick them out of a
+crowd as being tophand cowboys; but as far as appearances went they were
+merely two ordinary cowhands, no better nor worse than the average run.
+
+Nor were they, except that they were joint owners of the TJ cattle
+outfit in the Sundown country, a hundred miles north of this town of
+Oreana. Oreana City, they called it, a cow town of a hundred and fifty
+inhabitants, and the county seat of Pipestone County.
+
+The bartender cooled down considerably when he found that the damage was
+small, and offered to set up the drinks.
+
+“Gimme a see-gar,” said Sad seriously.
+
+“I’ll burn m’ tongue, too,” nodded Swede.
+
+The bartender dug beneath the bar top and drew out a cigar box, which he
+dusted off and opened.
+
+“Them,” he said, tipping the box for a better view, “them is what I call
+cigars. They costs me three dollars per hundred. Ain’t much call for
+cigars here.”
+
+“Hadn’t ort to be,” agreed Swede. “Prob’ly be less after this.”
+
+“It don’t do no good to wet ’em that-away,” declared the bartender.
+“I’ve done it a lot of times, but they won’t stick.”
+
+Sad’s cigar slipped from his fingers onto the floor, while Swede
+stumbled and broke his against the bar.
+
+“I’ll buy a drink of liquor,” declared Sad, and added meaningly, “I hope
+yuh didn’t try to make that stick.”
+
+“Aw-w-w-w, I didn’t mean them cigars,” protested the bartender. “I meant
+that I’d tried it with the ones I smoked.”
+
+“Yuh shore get lucid too late,” said Swede sadly. “I never did see a
+bartender that wasn’t about forty minutes late.”
+
+“Yeah? Well, I wasn’t always a bartender.”
+
+“Yore work shows it,” grinned Sad. “Well, here’s how.”
+
+Swede grimaced and coughed.
+
+“My gosh!” he gasped. “That’s the first time I ever made a test-tube out
+of my insides. Hooh! I’ll betcha that inside of fifteen minutes there
+won’t be nothin’ left of me except my ring and the case of my watch.
+Nitric acid!”
+
+“Twenty years in the wood,” declared the bartender.
+
+“Ah-h-h-h-h!” Sad clung to the bar, gasping like a drowning man, his
+eyes closed painfully. The bartender had not yet taken his drink, and
+now he slid it beneath the bar and dumped it into the slacktub, where he
+washed his glasses.
+
+He sniffed at the bottles. It seemed to smell all right.
+
+“It seems to be all right,” he said.
+
+“Yeah, it’s all right, but it’s got kind of a whisky taste,” said Sad.
+
+“My gosh, it is whisky!”
+
+“It is?” Sad’s eyebrows lifted incredulously. “Do you mean to tell
+me—ah, no, it cannot be!”
+
+“He says it straight enough,” said Swede seriously. He and Sad stared at
+each other wonderingly, turned together, stared at the bartender and
+went slowly out into the street; while the bartender rubbed his chin and
+wondered what on earth it was all about anyway.
+
+Sad and Swede walked up the narrow sidewalk, their faces very solemn
+until they looked at each other and burst into laughter.
+
+“Now that poor bartender’ll wonder whether we’re crazy or he is,”
+chuckled Sad. “Didja see him ditch his drink, Swede?”
+
+“Did I? Ha, ha, ha, ha! It’s got a whisky taste!” Swede went into
+paroxisms of unholy glee.
+
+They stopped near the entrance of a hall which led up to the county
+offices, and began perusing the assorted notices tacked to the wall. Sad
+seemed interested in one particular notice which concerned a sheriff’s
+sale.
+
+“What day is this, Swede?” he asked.
+
+“This is Monday, the seventh of August.”
+
+“Thasso? Huh! Say, when did that feller tell us that this here sale was
+to be pulled off?”
+
+“On the ninth.”
+
+“Well, he lied several days,” complained Sad. “Here’s the notice, which
+says it’ll be pulled off on the twelfth.”
+
+[Illustration]
+
+Swede moved over and squinted at the notice, which declared that on the
+twelfth day of August the sheriff of Pipestone county would sell at
+public auction everything belonging to the Bar S ranch. The sheriff had
+even gone to the trouble of drawing a pen design of the brand, which was
+a letter S, with a straight bar over the top.
+
+“I reckon some of these Oreana folks can’t read; so he has to draw a
+pitcher of it,” grinned Swede. “Dang it, that makes it kinda bad for us,
+Sad. What’ll we do?”
+
+Sad scratched his head and squinted dismally.
+
+“I dunno. I don’t care to hive up in this place for very long, but we
+came here to see what we could buy at that sale; so we might as well
+stay here and see it through. What do yuh think?”
+
+“I don’t care. It’s all right with me, if we can find somethin’ to do
+around this town.”
+
+“All right, we’ll stay, Swede. The first thing we better do is to put
+them broncs in a stable and find us a place to stay.”
+
+As they turned away from the bulletin board a yellow dog shot around the
+corner, yelping as only a yellow dog can yelp, while behind it, tied
+securely to its tail, bounded a tin can.
+
+For a fraction of a second the yellow dog hesitated as it turned the
+corner, and then it headed straight for Sad and Swede. The word “headed”
+is hardly descriptive of its speed. Afterward Swede swore that something
+drew a yellow streak from his feet to the corner, and then rubbed it
+out.
+
+At any rate, the dog, running blindly, attempted to go between Swede’s
+legs, which were slightly knock-kneed, and Swede flipped upside down,
+while the tin can whipped around his ankle, snapping the twine cord, and
+the yellow dog streaked away up the street, leaving Swede on his hands
+and knees, swearing just enough.
+
+Immediately following the dog came a boy of about twelve, his freckled
+face streaked with dusty tears, his rusty hair rumpled belligerently. He
+stopped and looked at Swede, who was untangling the cord from around his
+boot. Sad grinned at the youngster, who came closer, crooking his neck
+to look past them.
+
+“Where’d Boze go?” he drawled.
+
+“Was that Boze?” asked Sad.
+
+“Yeah.” The kid scratched one of his bare feet and looked back.
+
+“Yuh hadn’t ort to tie cans on yore dog,” said Swede.
+
+“Aw-w-w, hell!” The youngster spat dryly and hitched up his ragged
+overalls. “I never done it. It was some of them dad-durned square-heads
+from the Box 8. By grab, if I ever git big enough I’ll shore tie off to
+one of them pelicans and yank real hard.”
+
+“Aw, shucks!” Sad grew sympathetic. “Somebody pickin’ on yuh, Bud?”
+
+“Yeah—but my name ain’t Bud. I’m Percival Cadwallader Steeb. Mostly
+everybody calls me ‘Speck’ Steeb. And,” Speck sighed dismally and wiped
+his cheeks, “I ain’t havin’ good luck.”
+
+“Ain’t yuh, Speck?” queried Swede.
+
+“Nope. Me and Boze ran away from that derned Box 8 outfit.”
+
+“Are you livin’ there, or jist punchin’ cows for ’em?” asked Sad.
+
+“Aw, I ain’t big enough to be a ‘hand’ yet. They thought I was livin’
+there, but I ain’t. And by the busted tail of a longhorn steer, I ain’t
+goin’ to live there neither. I’m through.”
+
+“A feller like you ort to pick and choose,” nodded Swede.
+
+An old man drove up and got out of his wagon in front of a store. His
+equipage consisted of a rickety buckboard and a pair of mismated horses.
+He was little short of seventy years of age, with a long, white beard
+and white hair. His face was seamed deeply and colored like an old
+parchment, which only accentuated the white of his beard and hair.
+
+Three cowpunchers rounded the corner beyond the store and went inside,
+while the old man followed them in. Speck scowled at the three punchers.
+
+“Them punchers is the jiggers from the Box 8 that tin canned Boze,” he
+informed them. “Took all three of ’em to hawg-tie me, y’betcha. That old
+man in the wagon is Eph Wyatt. He c’n whip his weight in anythin’ yuh
+want to mention.”
+
+“Pretty old to be fightin’, ain’t he?” ventured Sad.
+
+“Well, I dunno. Paw said that old Eph got fightener every year.”
+
+Sad laughed and patted the youngster on the shoulder.
+
+“Some folks are that way, Speck,” he said. “Where is yore father?”
+
+Speck’s eyes suddenly filled with tears and he shoved both hands down
+deep in his pockets.
+
+Sad and Swede exchanged a quick glance, as Speck looked up at them and
+said, “Well, yuh see, he—he’s dead now.”
+
+“Aw, gosh!” exploded Sad mournfully. “Yuh see, Speck, we didn’t know
+about that.”
+
+“Thasall right,” Speck smiled through his tears. “Folks never learn
+nothin’ unless they ask questions. My dad owned the Bar S ranch.”
+
+“Oh, yeah,” Sad nodded thoughtfully. “Well, ain’t yuh got no relations,
+Speck? Nobody to look after yuh?”
+
+“No-o-o,” Speck sighed deeply. “Anyway, I dunno any. Pa wasn’t much fer
+relations. Lot of these folks around here got to tryin’ to figure out
+what to do with me, and I’ll betcha some of ’em won’t git the cramps out
+of their brains for a year.
+
+“Bill Wyatt says he can use a boy about my size out at the Box 8; so
+they sends me out there. Bill’s that old man’s nephew, but he’s owner of
+the Box 8. I stayed two days, and I’ll tell a man I worked. Whooee! Bill
+hates Boze. Bill hates everythin’, I reckon. Anyway, he run Boze off the
+ranch twice, but Boze comes back every time. Then Bill tells me to run
+the dog off the ranch and keep him off; so I run Boze plumb down here
+where,” Speck grinned wisely, “where I can keep us both off.”
+
+“And then they come down here and tin can the dog, eh?” said Swede.
+
+“Shore did. But Boze’ll come back.”
+
+“That part’s all right, but what about you?” asked Sad.
+
+“Don’t nobody need to worry about me,” assured Speck.
+
+“Uh-huh,” Sad scratched his head thoughtfully. He admired the
+independent attitude of the youngster.
+
+“I’ll git along,” remarked Speck. “All I ask is that they leave me and
+Boze alone. There’s the little son-of-a-gun now.”
+
+[Illustration]
+
+Boze had ventured back to the corner beyond the store, and was peering
+around into the street. Speck whistled to the dog, which ran to meet
+him. Sad and Swede grinned at each other and walked to the store
+entrance, while the boy and dog romped farther up the street.
+
+“Somebody’s hot under the collar,” observed Swede, as sounds of an
+argument from within the store greeted their entrance.
+
+“I tell yuh, I don’t want him around!” It was Bill Wyatt, a thin-faced,
+bucktoothed cowboy, speaking. He rowled his spurs savagely against the
+counter and spat accurately at a sawdust-filled box.
+
+“That’s all right.”
+
+This remark came ponderously from Al Weller, the big storekeeper.
+
+“It was your own idea, Bill.”
+
+“Yeah, that’s right,” nodded Bill. “But I thought he’d be worth
+somethin’. Hell, he won’t work!”
+
+Old Eph Wyatt turned his head and squinted at his nephew.
+
+“You wasn’t payin’ him no wages, was yuh, Bill?”
+
+“Not so yuh could notice it.”
+
+“I didn’t think yuh was, Bill. Yuh can hire men for forty a month, and
+yuh might stop long enough to remember that the kid ain’t more’n twelve
+years old.”
+
+“I was givin’ him a home,” retorted Bill.
+
+“You wasn’t givin him nothin’—he had to earn one.”
+
+“There’s no use quarrelin’,” said the storekeeper quickly.
+
+“I’m not quarrelin’,” said the old man. “The poor kid got a tough deal
+all the way around. I liked Jim Steeb. He was a damn fool to drink
+himself to death, lose everythin’ and throw the kid into a community
+that’s got more kids than they know what to do with.
+
+“Bill had an idea that he could git some cheap labor, I reckon. No, I
+ain’t sayin’ that a little work will hurt any kid, but a youngster like
+him hadn’t ort to have to work twelve hours per day for his bed and
+three meals.”
+
+“I dunno yet jist why yo’re hornin’ into this,” declared Bill.
+
+His uncle squinted at Bill closely; so intently that the younger man
+shifted uneasily.
+
+“You didn’t think that I cared to explain, did yuh?” asked the old man
+slowly. “I ain’t never been in the habit to apologizin’ for hornin’ into
+an argument, have I?”
+
+“Thasall right, Eph.” The storekeeper was a trifle anxious.
+
+“Well, I don’t care what yuh do.” Bill shrugged his shoulders and threw
+some silver on the counter.
+
+“Gimme some smokin’ and papers, Al.”
+
+As he pocketed the desired articles, Speck and Boze came in. The dog
+slouched at the boy’s heels, recognizing its enemies, but Speck was
+unafraid. All conversation ceased, as the boy and dog came up to the
+group. Some of the men had noticed Sad and Swede, but the argument had
+been too interesting for them to pay much attention to a pair of strange
+cowboys.
+
+“That dog don’t know when to git insulted,” laughed Bill.
+
+“You let that dog alone,” said Speck firmly. “He ain’t never done
+nothin’ to you, Bill Wyatt.”
+
+Bill laughed at Speck and started for Boze, who darted back toward the
+door, barking snappily.
+
+“You let that dog alone!” shrilled Speck, blocking Bill. “By golly, some
+day I’ll be big enough——”
+
+But Speck’s prophecy was not finished when Bill’s open palm splatted
+against his ear, sending him sideways into the counter, and Bill started
+toward the frightened dog.
+
+“You hadn’t ought to do that.” Sad Sontag stepped around the end of a
+display table between Bill and the dog. There was no threat in Sad’s
+voice nor actions. He was smiling with his mouth, but his eyes were
+serious.
+
+“Hadn’t, eh?” Bill stopped and looked Sad over curiously. It was the
+first time he had ever seen this strange cowpuncher. Then he turned his
+head and looked at Swede, who was lounging easily against a counter,
+paying no attention to what Sad was doing, because his entire attention
+centered on the two men who had come in with Bill Wyatt.
+
+Bill’s eyes came back to Sad.
+
+“What’s the idea of you hornin’ into this?” he demanded.
+
+“I ain’t hornin’ in,” smiled Sad. “I was just tellin’ yuh.”
+
+Boze seemed to realize that the immediate danger was over, so he came
+over and sniffed at Sad’s boots. Speck had regained his feet, and was
+busily rubbing a very red ear. Bill looked back at his two men and found
+them centering their attention on Swede.
+
+“And,” said Sad softly, “any man that would slap kids and tie cans on a
+pup’s tail is a low bred coyote.”
+
+The storekeeper ducked low behind the counter, and the old man edged
+slowly out of line with the two men. They knew that Bill Wyatt was
+deadly with a six-shooter, and that there could be but one answer to
+that insult.
+
+Still Bill Wyatt did not move. His half-closed eyes looked into the wide
+open gray ones of Sad Sontag, which seemed to hypnotize him. Neither of
+them had made any motion toward a gun.
+
+“A feller that would hit a kid ain’t got the guts to fight.” Sad’s voice
+was pitched low, but carried clearly. “You might fight, if yuh was in a
+corner—but I doubt it.”
+
+But Bill Wyatt did not move. Sad inched toward him, coming closer and
+closer. One of Bill’s men swore softly, wonderingly. They could not see
+Bill’s face.
+
+Suddenly Sad’s left hand shot out, grasped the brim of Bill’s sombrero
+and yanked it down over Bill’s eyes. It was done so quickly that Bill
+did not have time to jerk away, and he stumbled forward from the pull.
+
+But the hypnotic spell was broken. Bill ripped out a foul oath, as he
+flung back the hat and flipped out his gun; but the barrel of Sad’s
+struck him across the right wrist, forcing him to drop his gun, and the
+next instant he measured his full length under the table from a left
+swing which caught him full in the ear.
+
+“Glory to gosh!” whooped Speck. “Right in the ear!”
+
+Bill’s two men had not moved during the fight, for the simple reason
+that the blond-headed Swede still leaned against the counter, dangling a
+big six-shooter in his right hand; his lips puckered in a whistle, while
+his round blue eyes never wavered.
+
+Sad kicked Bill’s gun aside and waited for him to get up; but Bill was
+in no great hurry. He slid from under the table, rubbing his swelling
+ear and seemed inclined to wonder what it was all about.
+
+“You know now how it feels to get hit in the ear, don’tcha?” chuckled
+Speck. “Mebbe next time you’ll have a little sense.”
+
+Bill got slowly to his feet and walked out of the store, while Abe Snow
+and “Snipe” Lee, his two men, followed him out. They gave Swede a wide
+berth in passing.
+
+“And thus endeth that chapter,” smiled Sad.
+
+“Mebbe not,” said old Eph Wyatt dubiously. “My nephew Bill won’t forget
+it for a mighty long time, stranger.”
+
+“Memories has caused a lot of folks to lose their minds,” grinned Sad,
+rumpling Speck’s hair and feeling of his ear.
+
+“Aw, it don’t hurt now,” protested Speck. “The wallop you gave Bill
+Wyatt cured me. Whooee, I’ll betcha he’s sore!”
+
+A man was coming into the store, but turned to look across at the
+hitchrack, where the three men from the Box 8 were mounting. It was Buck
+Rainey, the sheriff, a short, heavy-set individual, with a yellow
+mustache and squinty eyes.
+
+He came on in, glanced casually at Sad and Swede and spoke to the
+others.
+
+“You missed a circus, Buck,” said Eph Wyatt, whose feelings in regard to
+his nephew were well known. “Bill jist got knocked cold.”
+
+“Yeah?” The sheriff elevated his eyebrows. “How come, Eph?”
+
+The old man laughed and detailed the story, while the sheriff stroked
+his mustache and considered Sad and Swede.
+
+“And he popped him right in the ear,” added Speck jubilantly.
+
+“Uh-huh.” The sheriff scratched his nose thoughtfully. “It’s a wonder
+that Bill didn’t start shootin’.’’
+
+“It’s got me beat,” said the storekeeper. “He jist stood and took it. I
+don’t sabe Bill.”
+
+“Is he supposed to be a bad man?” asked Sad.
+
+“Well,” drawled the sheriff, “a feller don’t have to be so awful darned
+bad to reach for a gun at a time like that.”
+
+“I don’t think he’s got brains enough to know when he’s been insulted,”
+laughed Swede.
+
+“Mebbe not,” the sheriff grinned. “But Bill is usually the one to start
+trouble.”
+
+“Mebbe I packed it to him too fast,” grinned Sad. “You’re the sheriff,
+ain’t yuh?”
+
+“Yeah.”
+
+“I’m Sontag. My pardner’s name is Harrigan. We own a ranch in the
+Sundown country, and we’re down here to see what we can buy at that
+Bar S sale.”
+
+[Illustration]
+
+“Oh, yeah. Pleased to meetcha. Bar S sale, eh? Uh-hu-u-uh. What didja
+figure on buyin’?”
+
+“Mebbe a few head of stock. We heard that there was quite a bunch of
+cattle and horses.”
+
+“Yeah? Well, it won’t be held until the twelfth.”
+
+“That’s all right. We got some wrong information and come down too
+soon.”
+
+The sheriff turned to Eph Wyatt and the storekeeper.
+
+“I’ve been wonderin’ what we’re goin’ to do with this kid.” He pointed
+at Speck, who was perched on a counter. “Bill said he’d take care of
+him, but that’s all off now, I suppose. Makes it bad for the kid.”
+
+“I wish you’d quit worryin’ about me,” said Speck. “I ain’t askin’ for
+nothin’ but a job. I c’n work my way along.”
+
+“You ain’t big enough to work,” declared the sheriff. “Your place is in
+school.”
+
+“How’d yuh like to work for me?” asked the old man.
+
+“Huh! I dunno,” Speck wriggled his toes. “Me and you’d prob’ly get along
+fine, Mr. Wyatt. Dad said you was the fightenest son-of-a-gun he ever
+seen—and I like to fight, too.”
+
+The old man laughed softly and walked over to Speck.
+
+“Fightin’ don’t git yuh much, Speck. I’m all alone on that old ranch out
+there, and I sure need somebody to help me. Suppose yuh come out and
+live with me.”
+
+“Well—” Speck hesitated. “Well, I’ll do it.”
+
+“He ain’t big enough to do much work,” said the sheriff.
+
+“No, and he won’t have much to do.” Eph Wyatt turned to the sheriff.
+“I’ll take him out there with me jist the same. If me and him gits along
+all right. I’ll—I’ll adopt him accordin’ to law.”
+
+“You’ll adopt him?”
+
+“I shore will. Ain’t no law ag’in it, is there, Buck?”
+
+“Sure ain’t, Eph.”
+
+“What does adoptin’ mean?” asked Speck.
+
+“Takin’ out papers to make yuh the same as my son,” explained the old
+man.
+
+“Yea-a-a-ah?” Speck’s eyes widened. “What about Boze?”
+
+“Well, he comes along,” laughed the old man. “We won’t need no papers
+for the pup. C’mon.”
+
+The old man started for the door, with the boy and the pup close behind
+him. At the doorway Speck turned and came back to Sad, holding out his
+hand.
+
+“Much obliged, Mr. Sontag,” he said. “Hope to meetcha ag’in.”
+
+“Yo’re shore welcome, Speck,” laughed Sad as they shook hands. “I hope
+yore luck has turned.”
+
+“She’s beginnin’ to bend a little,” grinned Speck. “S’long.”
+
+They watched Speck climb up on the seat beside the old man, while Boze
+danced around in the rear of the buckboard and barked his approval of
+the equipage.
+
+“Well, I hope it works out all right,” said the sheriff. “It sure was
+hard to find out what to do with that kid.”
+
+“What killed his father?” asked Swede.
+
+“Liquor. He spent most of his time at the Oreana saloon. It was too
+danged bad. Jim Steeb wasn’t a bad sort of a feller. His wife died a
+year ago, and it kinda ruined him. This ain’t exactly a sheriff’s sale.
+Yuh see, ‘Bunty’ O’Neil, who owns the Oreana saloon, has enough of
+Steeb’s notes to probably cover everythin’ on the Bar S.”
+
+“Steeb just drank up his ranch, eh?” queried Sad.
+
+“Uh-huh. There may be a little over, after O’Neil gets paid, but I doubt
+it. I’ve got three men in the hills now, roundin’ up the Bar S stock.”
+
+“What sort of a person is Bill Wyatt?”
+
+“Bill Wyatt? Well, he’s all right, I reckon. Bill’s kinda touchy, and
+ain’t noways honey-flavored, yuh know. He owns the Box 8 outfit and runs
+quite a lot of stock. That old Eph Wyatt is his uncle. Old Eph is a
+cantankerous old reptile, but he’s good-hearted. I dunno how him and the
+kid will hit it off together.”
+
+“Is Bill Wyatt married?”
+
+“Naw.”
+
+“Owned the Box 8 very long?”
+
+“Couple of years.”
+
+“Buy out a brand, or register his own?”
+
+“Registered his own. Used to be the 8 outfit; so he changed it to the
+Box 8. Say, what’s the idea of all these questions?”
+
+“Curiosity, thasall, Sheriff,” laughed Sad. “Nice weather we’re havin’.”
+
+“Uh-hu-u-uh.” The sheriff walked down the street toward his office,
+where three men were dismounting, while Sad and Swede went in the
+opposite direction, looking for a place to call home for a few days.
+
+
+
+
+II
+
+
+Bunty O’Neil of the Oreana saloon was not what you would call a lovable
+character. He was of medium height, thick of neck and broad of shoulder.
+His face was blocky, expressionless, swarthy; a hard-headed individual,
+whose bunting practice in a fight had given him his nickname. He would
+grasp an opponent with his huge hands, yank him forward and butt him
+with his head. Only in rare cases did Bunty fail to put his opponent
+_hors de combat_. It was an unlooked for move, except where Bunty’s
+system was well known.
+
+Bunty had once worked it successfully on Bill Wyatt. Bill had wakened up
+about fifteen minutes later and found that both of his eyes were of a
+purple tint and did not admit much light. He had waited for the swelling
+to go down, had walked up behind Bunty in the Oreana saloon and crowned
+him with the barrel of a six-shooter.
+
+Bunty had had six stitches taken in his scalp, and had sent word to Bill
+Wyatt to keep out of the Oreana. Bill did. This had happened six months
+prior to Sad and Swede’s coming to Oreana, but Bill had never been in
+the place since. Yet Bill had known Bunty in the northern part of the
+state, and it was Bill who had induced Bunty to come to Oreana and buy
+out the Oreana saloon and gambling house.
+
+Just now Bunty and the sheriff were standing on the porch of the saloon,
+talking seriously. It was the day after Sad and Swede had come to
+Oreana.
+
+“You say they brought in three hundred and ten head?” asked Bunty. The
+sheriff nodded.
+
+“Yeah. They’re in the old pasture at the Bar S. The boys have gone down
+into the lower ranges now, but they won’t be able to round up everythin’
+for a couple days. There’s enough feed in the pasture for a few days.”
+
+“That’s good.” Bunty smiled contentedly. “Three hundred and ten head,
+eh? Mebbe I’ll get my money after all, Buck.”
+
+“I reckon yuh will, Bunty. For gosh sake, how much money did Jim Steeb
+owe yuh, anyway?”
+
+Bunty grinned widely and shook his head.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+“Jim plunged quite a lot, Buck. His whisky bill ain’t more than a few
+hundred, but his faro and poker playin’ sure cost money. I reckon the
+notes he gave me will come close to ten thousand.”
+
+The sheriff whistled his amazement.
+
+“As much as that, Bunty? Huh! Yuh know,” the sheriff squinted
+thoughtfully. “Yuh know, it seems too darned bad Jim went through all
+that money and didn’t leave a darned thing for the kid. Old Eph Wyatt is
+goin’ to adopt him, I think.”
+
+“Old Eph?” Bunty laughed. “Goin’ to adopt him, eh? Well, well!”
+
+Just then Sad and Swede came out of the hotel and sauntered toward the
+general store.
+
+“They tell me that one of them fellers took a fall out of Bill Wyatt,”
+said Bunty thoughtfully.
+
+“The skinny one. They’re down here to buy some stock at the sale. The
+skinny one’s name is Sontag and the other is Harrigan. Seem like a salty
+pair of fellers. Sontag tells me that they own a ranch in the Sundown
+country.”
+
+“Well, all I care about it is to get my money out of the deal, Buck.”
+
+They went into the saloon, as Sad and Swede crossed the street,
+following them inside. The sheriff greeted them warmly and introduced
+them to Bunty as the owner of the Oreana. There was little activity in
+the place and the day was warm.
+
+“You interested in the Bar S sale?” asked Bunty.
+
+Sad nodded. “Kinda. We’re lookin’ for some stock, and thought this might
+be a chance to buy some reasonable. Course we don’t want a lot of
+runts.”
+
+“We might take a ride out to the Bar S this evenin’,” suggested the
+sheriff. “The boys threw three hundred and ten head into the pasture
+last night, and it might help yuh some to look ’em over.”
+
+“We’d sure appreciate the chance,” agreed Sad.
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+They spent the rest of the day, loafing in the shade, and did not start
+for the Bar S until late in the afternoon. It was five miles to the
+ranch, located northeast of Oreana. The ranch buildings were badly in
+need of repair, but it was easy to see that at one time the Bar S had
+been considerable of a ranch.
+
+There was no one at the place, and the sheriff explained that there had
+been no one in charge since the death of Steeb. They rode out past the
+corrals and on to a knoll that furnished a view of the Bar S pasture,
+which contained about a hundred acres.
+
+But there were no cattle in sight. The sheriff gnawed his mustache and
+squinted around wonderingly.
+
+“’S funny,” he muttered. “They were here last night.”
+
+“Are yuh sure this is the place?” asked Swede.
+
+“Am I sure? I’m jist as sure as anythin’,” replied the sheriff and
+spurred his horse off the knoll.
+
+They rode to the lower end of the pasture, and it did not take them long
+to find where the barb-wires had been cut, and about a hundred feet of
+them ripped off the posts.
+
+“They knowed how to do it,” observed Sad. “They cut the wires, bunched
+the ends, tied ’em to a rope and jist rode ’em loose.”
+
+“And let the whole herd drift,” observed the sheriff. “Well, that’s jist
+plumb meanness, I’d say.”
+
+Sad looked at the sheriff and grinned softly.
+
+“Sheriff, do you think that they just turned them cows loose?”
+
+“Eh?” The sheriff’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Yuh don’t think that
+anybody would try to rustle a herd like that, do yuh?”
+
+“Why not?”
+
+“Well, I dunno. Yuh can’t git away with that many. Anybody would be a
+fool to try and steal a herd like that.”
+
+“All right,” Sad grinned widely and turned his horse. “You know the
+morals of this country better than we do.”
+
+They rode back to Oreana and stabled their horses. The sheriff was very
+thoughtful during the ride, but could hardly bring himself to believe
+that anyone would try and steal three hundred and ten head of cattle in
+one herd.
+
+“I think that someone is jist doin’ it to be mean,” he declared.
+
+“And I think they’re doin’ it for profit,” laughed Sad.
+
+It did not take the sheriff long to impart the story to Bunty O’Neil,
+who swore under his breath and questioned them closely. The sheriff told
+Bunty what he thought about it, but Bunty did not agree.
+
+“They’ve had about twenty-four hours start,” observed Bunty. “And yuh
+can move a big herd a long ways in that length of time. It’s so dry in
+the hills that yuh couldn’t trail a herd; so the best yuh can do is to
+trust to luck.”
+
+“It kinda looks like we might as well go home,” observed Swede. “No use
+of us stayin’ here, if there ain’t no cows for sale.”
+
+Bunty’s eyes grew hard as he leaned on the bar and toyed with his glass.
+The sheriff cleared his throat and sent his glass spinning down the bar.
+
+“Bunty has got a lot of notes against the Bar S,” he explained. “And if
+there ain’t no cows—Bunty loses.”
+
+“That’s the how of it, eh?” said Sad.
+
+“Yeah, that’s the how of it,” said Bunty angrily. “And I’ll get them
+cows—or get somethin’.”
+
+“You’ve got sort of an idea who took ’em, ain’t yuh?” asked Sad.
+
+“How would I?” snapped Bunty.
+
+“I dunno how yuh would—I’m no mindreader,” and Sad walked away from the
+bar and grew interested in a poker game.
+
+Bunty looked after him, an angry glint in his eyes, but said nothing
+until Swede walked away.
+
+“What did he mean, Buck?” he then asked.
+
+The sheriff shook his head. “I dunno. I hope the boys show up tomorrow,
+but I’m scared they won’t. We’ve got to try and find them missin’
+cattle, that’s a cinch. I don’t believe yet that anybody had the nerve
+to try and steal a herd that big.”
+
+The sheriff left the saloon, but Bunty remained at the bar, drinking his
+own liquor. It was not often that Bunty drank heavily. Liquor made him
+quarrelsome. Several patrons steered clear of the bar and had their
+drinks served at a table, when they realized that Bunty was on a spree.
+
+Bunty leaned across the bar and motioned the bartender closer.
+
+“What did that skinny puncher mean?” he demanded.
+
+“The skinny one? I dunno what he said, Bunty. Personally, I think he’s
+crazy. The damn fool fell off the bar yesterday, tryin’ to hit a
+horsefly with his hat. And they said that there was whisky in the drinks
+we served here. What are they—e-vangelists?”
+
+Bunty grunted an oath and reached for the bottle. Sad and Swede were
+coming toward the bar, heading for the door. Bunty stepped in front of
+Sad and motioned them to stop and drink with him.
+
+“Yuh ain’t in no hurry, are yuh?” he growled.
+
+“Not a bit,” grinned Sad.
+
+“I’m glad yuh ain’t—’cause you’d stop anyway.”
+
+Sad glanced keenly at Bunty. He realized that the other was angry over
+something, and that he might be a hard man to handle.
+
+“I’m not buyin’ yuh any drinks,” Bunty informed them harshly. “I only
+buy drinks for my friends.”
+
+“Then have a drink on me,” grinned Sad.
+
+“No, I won’t do that, either.” Bunty moved in closer to Sad.
+
+“I want to know what wuh mean by that remark a while ago—about yuh not
+bein’ a mind reader.”
+
+“Oh!” Sad squinted thoughtfully. “Well, I’m not, Bunty. I’ll leave it to
+Swede if I am.”
+
+“You’ll leave nothin’ to nobody! C’mere!”
+
+Bunty grasped Sad by the shoulders, sinking his powerful fingers deeply
+into the flesh. It was the prelude to crashing the top of his head into
+Sad’s face—and Sad realized it.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+But Bunty did not work fast enough. With a sudden shift of his feet, Sad
+kicked Bunty in the shins so hard that the hotelman forgot everything
+except the excruciating pain. His hands jerked loose and he reached for
+his shins just in time to get Sad’s fist square in his nose, with the
+full swinging weight of the wiry cowpuncher behind it.
+
+The blow straightened Bunty back onto his heels, and before he could
+catch his balance Sad was into him, smashing with both hands to the
+head, and Bunty went reeling across the room to crash into the back of a
+poker player’s chair and go flat on his back.
+
+At least a dozen men had seen the whole affair. They had expected Bunty
+to butt the face almost off this thin cowpuncher and end the fight to
+suit himself. But they had reckoned without Sad Sontag, who now was
+standing against the bar, blowing on his sore knuckles and grinning
+widely.
+
+There was little commotion. A couple of men picked Bunty up and
+half-dragged him to the rear of the room, where they could wash him off,
+the poker player adjusted his chair and the games went on.
+
+Sad and Swede went back to the hotel, where Sad procured some hot water
+in which to bathe his swollen right hand. Swede became pessimistic.
+
+“Aw, let’s go home,” he argued dismally. “You’ve whipped both of their
+best fighters. This here town kinda palls upon me, Sad, and I’d crave to
+ride home.”
+
+“I’ve had a pretty fair time,” said Sad seriously, examining his
+knuckles. “I s’pose Bunty was aimin’ to butt me in the face, wasn’t he?”
+
+“That’s his style,” agreed Swede wearily. “There ain’t no cows to be
+bought; so we might as well start home t’morrow.”
+
+“It’s a funny thing about them stolen cows,” observed Sad, as he
+stretched out on the bed and began rolling a cigarette. “I’ll betcha
+anythin’ that Bunty knows who stole ’em. Somebody knows that Bunty has
+notes against the Bar S; so they crimped his chances to collect by
+stealin’ the whole danged herd.
+
+“There’s somebody who hates Bunty quite a lot, Swede. It ain’t no little
+job to steal three hundred head of cattle. Mebbe they just done it to
+aggravate the sheriff, or Bunty.”
+
+“Then yuh think they’ll have enough stock for us to wait for the sale?”
+
+“Yuh never can tell.” Sad blew smoke rings at the dingy ceiling. “I’ve
+got a hunch that they won’t. Tomorrow we’ll find out more about it, and
+if it don’t look more promisin’ we’ll rattle our hocks out of Oreana.
+I’ve had all the fightin’ I want, y’betcha.”
+
+“We might ride out past old Eph Wyatt’s place,” suggester Swede. “I’m
+kinda curious to know how the old man and the kid are comin’ along.”
+
+“Yeah, we’ll do that, Swede. I’m curious about that kid myself. Somehow
+I’ve got a hunch that the kid ain’t had a square deal.”
+
+“Just how do yuh mean, Sad?”
+
+“Aw, just kinda mind readin’, I reckon.”
+
+
+
+
+III
+
+
+It was the following morning at Eph Wyatt’s ranch-house that Speck
+Steeb, the freckle-faced boy, leaned against the doorway and rubbed a
+sore jaw. Sitting on the edge of the step was old Eph Wyatt, busily
+engaged in cleaning a Winchester rifle; while the dog, Boze, chased a
+rooster across the yard, his mouth filled with feathers.
+
+The old man stuffed cartridges into the loading gate, levered a shell
+into the chamber of the rifle and handed it to Speck, who took it
+gingerly and squatted down on the step.
+
+“Pull a little finer, son,” advised the old man. “Them last two shots
+went six inches high.”
+
+Speck cuddled the stock against his shoulder, resting the heavy barrel
+between his knees. The old man’s eyes squinted closely at Speck’s
+trigger finger, which tightened slowly, surely; and the big caliber
+rifle shook Speck from head to heels.
+
+From down back of the stable, a tin can flipped off a corral post and
+went spinning into the brush. Speck blinked painfully, but a grin
+wreathed his lips, when he noted that the can was not on the post.
+
+“Pretty good!” chuckled the old man. “Pretty good!”
+
+“Pretty good, hell!” snorted Speck indignantly. “That’s perfect.”
+
+“Yeah, I’ll betcha it is,” agreed the old man. “Any old time a little
+kid can hit a tin can at a hundred yards with a 45-90, it’s jist a
+little better than perfect. How’s the shoulder?”
+
+“Jist’ like a blamed boil. Geemighty, I never knowed a rifle could kick
+thataway.”
+
+“And yuh squeezed the trigger, too,” applauded the old man. “Yuh knowed
+it was goin’ to kick, but yuh had the nerve to pull slow. Speck, me and
+you are goin’ to git along, y’betcha. Well, that ends the first lesson.”
+
+The old man put the gun in the house and came back to the porch.
+
+“We’re goin’ to town,” he decided. “We’ll hook onto a lawyer feller and
+have him fix up the papers—if yuh don’t mind, Speck.”
+
+Speck rubbed his shoulder reflectively.
+
+“Yuh mean the papers that make me your son?”
+
+“Yeah.”
+
+Speck squinted up at the old man thoughtfully.
+
+“Why are yuh doin’ this, Mr. Wyatt? I ain’t nothin’ to you.”
+
+“Why?” The old man looked out across the hills, shading his eyes from
+the sun. “Well, mebbe it’s ’cause I kinda like yuh, son. I’m gittin’
+old, I s’pose. And livin’ alone don’t make yuh stay young. I ain’t got
+no livin’ relation, except Bill Wyatt, and,” he hesitated for a moment
+before he looked down at Speck, “I’ve allus been quite a hand for
+relatives.”
+
+“And that’s all the reasons yuh got, Mr. Wyatt?”
+
+“Well, that’s all I care to speak about.”
+
+“Uh-huh.” Speck bobbed his head wisely. “Well, I can stand it, if you
+can.” He got to his feet and held out his hand. “Shake, pardner.”
+
+They shook hands gravely. It was a solemn pact between two old men; two
+of the fightenest sons-of-guns in the Oreana country.
+
+They went to the stable, harnessed the mismated horses to the old
+buckboard and drove up to the house, where the old man got the rifle and
+leaned it against the seat between them.
+
+As they drove away the old man looked back at the house and said,
+“Speck, I reckon we’ll have to fix up the old place a little now. I’ve
+kinda let her drift for the last few years ’cause there wasn’t no object
+in havin’ it handled right. I’ve got a right smart of cows in them
+hills. It ain’t took much for my keep. When I needed money I’d sell a
+handful of critters.
+
+“This here Diamond W has got the best water-holes in this country, and
+it shore could be made into a fine ranch. The old house needs fixin’ a
+lot, and the barn’s swaybacked. Some day a wind will come along and blow
+the corral away, I s’pose. But we’ll fix her all up now.”
+
+The old man chuckled and slapped Speck on the back.
+
+“By golly, son, we’ll show ’em, eh?”
+
+“Danged right,” nodded Speck.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+They drove down through a brushy swale and around the point of a ridge,
+where a long line of cottonwoods angled up through a narrow canyon. The
+road was rutty and the horses were traveling at a slow walk, when the
+larger of the two beasts lurched sideways and went down in a tangle.
+
+Almost at the same moment the report of a rifle broke the stillness. The
+other horse reared wildly, swung over the body of its mate and fell back
+against the buckboard, squealing and kicking. The shock of it all caused
+Speck to stand up, clinging to the back of the seat, and the next moment
+he was picked up by the old man and hurled bodily into a clump of brush
+beside the road.
+
+And while Speck was still in the air the old man grasped the rifle and
+started to jump, but a bullet shocked him heavily and he went down
+sideways, falling just outside the wheels. Boze had jumped from the rear
+of the buckboard and scuttled into the brush, as though he knew what was
+taking place.
+
+Speck landed in the brush head-first, but managed to extricate himself
+quickly and crawl back to the old man, whose hair and beard were already
+dyed with crimson. Speck’s eyes were wide with fright, but his jaw was
+clenched tightly, as he clawed the rifle from between the wheels and
+ducked back into the brush.
+
+“Gosh a’mighty!” he panted. “Bushwhacked, by jing!”
+
+He remained quiet long enough to calm his breathing. One horse was dead,
+the other down in a tangle of harness, unable to get up. Speck rubbed
+his nose and considered his predicament. From where he squatted he was
+unable to see anything of the surrounding country, so he crawled back
+through the brush until he could get on higher ground.
+
+He felt reasonably sure that the shooter had been hidden in that line of
+cottonwoods, and that they, or he, would try and get a close view of the
+buckboard to see just what they had accomplished.
+
+Working further up the side of the swale, he found a good spot to wait.
+It gave him a fairly good view of the surrounding country, although he
+could not see the buckboard. He could see Boze far down the road,
+hunting for gophers.
+
+Suddenly he saw two riders emerge from a thicket on the right-hand side
+of the cottonwoods. They were going cautiously, and it seemed to Speck
+that they were intent on seeing what was down the road. The brush was
+horse-high; so he was unable to identify their horses.
+
+They were about three hundred yards away, when Speck raised the sights
+on his rifle and rested it across a limb. It did not occur to him that
+he was about to shoot at a human being. They were the ones who had shot
+his benefactor, and he was going to repay them in kind. He flinched from
+the pressure of the rifle butt against his sore shoulder, but he gritted
+his teeth and muttered, “Squeeze, dang yuh—don’t yank!”
+
+The big rifle crashed the silence and the black powder fumes drifted
+back into Speck’s wide open mouth. He coughed slightly and dropped
+lower, his lips grimacing disgustedly.
+
+“Yuh yanked!” he said aloud in self accusation. “Yuh darned fool, yuh
+yanked. Why didn’t yuh squeeze? Yanked, and jerked the sight plumb off
+to the right.”
+
+He could not see the two riders now, but he felt sure that the smoke
+from his shot had disclosed his hiding place; so he began crawling
+further up the canyon, going toward where he had seen the two riders.
+
+Speck was wise enough to feel that they would not expect him to come
+toward them. He gained the cottonwoods and waited. There was not a
+sound, except the rustling of the trees. Far up the canyon a magpie
+squawked, sounding almost human.
+
+Speck ducked low and followed the trees, stopping every few yards to
+listen. Then he left the cottonwoods and made his way around through the
+brush. He, too, wanted to get a view of what might be down at the
+buckboard.
+
+Suddenly he stopped short, his mouth open in amazement. He had found the
+two horses. They had been left in a choke-cherry thicket, almost in the
+same spot where they had been when Speck shot at the riders. He spoke
+softly to the horses, worked his way past them, but was unable to get a
+glimpse of the road.
+
+“Ding dang such luck!” he grumbled. “Feller never knows what will happen
+next in this Western country.” He had heard his father use that
+expression many times, and it seemed applicable to his present
+predicament.
+
+“Well,” he decided philosophically, “the least I can do is to git help.”
+
+He went back to the horses, selected the smaller of the two, a
+blaze-faced roan, and managed to get into the saddle, but lost his rifle
+in the attempt. Cautiously he worked the horse back through the brush,
+swung along the side of the hill for about a quarter of a mile before
+turning back toward the road.
+
+He managed to get his feet hooked in above the stirrups, which gave him
+a secure seat in the saddle, and in this manner, with his rusty hair
+standing almost on end and his skinny elbows beating a tattoo on his
+ribs, he headed swiftly toward Oreana.
+
+Meanwhile down at the buckboard stood Sad and Swede, looking down at old
+Eph Wyatt, propped against a wheel. The old man’s face and beard were
+well streaked with gore, which he mopped away with Sad’s handkerchief.
+
+“Think it’s deep enough to amount to anythin’?” asked Swede.
+
+“Don’t hurt much,” said the old man. “I feel kinda numb, that’s all. By
+gosh, that shore was a close call, gents. It bumped me so darned hard I
+never even knowed when it hit.”
+
+“Where do yuh reckon the kid went?” queried Sad.
+
+“I dunno. I throwed him into the brush after the team went down.”
+
+“Prob’ly high-tailed it for parts unknown,” laughed Swede.
+
+“Not that kid.” The old man spoke with conviction. “Speck ain’t the
+runnin’ kind. And he took the rifle. Say, I don’t think I’m hurt much.”
+He got to his feet and clung to the wheel. “Kinda dizzy and m’ head
+aches a little. Gittin’ too old to stand many tunks on the head like
+that.”
+
+“Got any idea who shot yuh?” asked Sad.
+
+“Nope.”
+
+“Uh-huh,” Sad nodded seriously. “We can start by eliminatin’ yore
+friends. Who hates yuh the worst?”
+
+“The worst?” Old Eph squinted painfully. “Well, I dunno. Yuh see, I
+ain’t got no friends; so yuh don’t need to eliminate anybody. I wish I
+knowed where that kid went. If anybody hurts him I’ll shore make ’em run
+fast and jump high.”
+
+“You’ve got two good little assistants, old timer,” grinned Sad. “We
+kinda like Speck, too. Do yuh want to find out who shot yuh?”
+
+“Do I?” The old man laughed wearily. “Yo’re danged right I do.”
+
+“All right,” grinned Sad. “Mebbe we can find out, if we work real fast.
+Swede, you go and collect the horses.”
+
+And while Swede went after the horses Sad untangled the uninjured horse
+and helped it to its feet. But he did not unhitch it from the buckboard.
+In a few minutes Swede came back, riding Sad’s bay horse, and carrying
+Eph Wyatt’s rifle.
+
+“My bronc was gone,” he told them, “and they left this here rifle in its
+place.”
+
+Sad grinned and rubbed his nose violently.
+
+“Looks like the work of a pack-rat, Swede. They always trade somethin’.”
+He turned to the old man. “Speck’s all right. He just out-smarted us,
+thasall, and swiped a horse. We’ve got to hurry before Oreana descends
+upon us in a gob, and we’ve only got one piece of rollin’ stock; so you
+get aboard, old timer.”
+
+“Shucks, I can walk,” protested the old man.
+
+“Yo’re supposed to be dead,” grinned Sad. “And the dead don’t walk.
+Climb on.”
+
+
+
+
+IV
+
+
+Speck Steeb’s entrance into Oreana was unceremonious. He drew up at the
+door of the Oreana saloon and fairly fell from his saddle.
+
+Buck Rainey, the sheriff, and “Wheezer” Wilson, his deputy, were
+crossing the street, and it was to them that Speck blurted his news.
+
+“Git yore breath, boy,” advised the sheriff, taking Speck by the arm.
+“C’mon inside and tell it.”
+
+He led Speck inside the Oreana, where he had an interested audience. It
+did not take Speck long to give them the details.
+
+“Well, whose horse did yuh ride?” asked Wheezer.
+
+They ran outside and inspected the panting horse.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+“She’s a TJ brand,” declared Wheezer. “Belongs to that feller named
+Swede Harrigan,” remarked the livery-stable keeper excitedly. “They took
+their horses out early this mornin’.”
+
+“And one of them fellers shot old Eph Wyatt, eh?” Bunty O’Neil seemed
+pleased.
+
+“Was the old man dead?” questioned the sheriff.
+
+“Shot through the head,” declared Speck. “Blood was runnin’ all over
+him. I took a shot at them two jiggers, and—say, are them the two—one of
+’em that busted Bill Wyatt?”
+
+“They’re the little vi’lets,” stated Snipe Lee, who was the only one of
+Bill Wyatt’s men in town. “I said to Bill——”
+
+“Write it out and mail it to us,” snapped the sheriff. “Get yore horses,
+boys. We’ll find out more about this deal. C’mon, Wheezer. Anybody that
+ain’t got guns can get one at my office.”
+
+Speck sat down on the saloon steps and rested his head in his hands,
+realizing that he had incriminated those two men who had befriended him.
+In the novelty of living at the Diamond W ranch with the old man he had
+forgotten these two strange cowboys. He wondered dully if they had
+killed Eph Wyatt, and why. Men were mounting at the hitch-racks, and a
+few moments later the sheriff and deputy rode out through a narrow alley
+and joined the others.
+
+Speck got wearily to his feet and went back to the TJ horse. He would go
+along and show them where the thing had happened, and in some way he
+might be of assistance to those two strange cowboys. Anyway, he decided
+that he would not show them where he had found the horses.
+
+He mounted and rode along with the others, who questioned him closely;
+but Speck was close-mouthed now.
+
+“Yuh say yuh took a shot at ’em?” queried Snipe.
+
+“I took a shot at somebody,” qualified Speck. “I never named no names,
+did I?”
+
+“But yuh saw ’em both, didn’t yuh?” asked Bunty.
+
+“I seen two men,” stated Speck. “I dunno how they was dressed nor what
+they looked like.”
+
+“And that was one of their horses, eh?”
+
+“I never said it was. My gosh, you fellers talk like I had said who
+killed Eph Wyatt. I found this horse, thasall.”
+
+“You found two horses,” corrected the sheriff.
+
+“Did I?” Speck grew indignant. “Who found this horse—me or you?”
+
+“All right, kid,” laughed the sheriff. “We ain’t askin’ yuh no more
+questions. I reckon this won’t be hard to figure out.”
+
+“Not if yuh can find out why,” said Speck gloomily.
+
+Buck Rainey lifted his head and looked intently at Speck.
+
+“That’s about the most intelligent thing I’ve heard said since the kid
+told his story. There’s usually a reason.”
+
+They rode around the point of a hill and down into the big swale, where
+they drew rein beside the buckboard. One of the horses was on its feet,
+trying to crop all the grass within reach, but there was no sign of the
+dead man.
+
+They dismounted and examined the surroundings. Beside the left front
+wheel of the buckboard was a puddle of blood, and there were streaks of
+blood on the spokes of the wheel.
+
+“That’s danged queer,” observed the sheriff. “Kinda looks like the old
+man had e-vaporated.”
+
+They separated and searched both sides of the road, but there was no
+sign of the corpse One of the men unharnessed the horse and turned it
+loose.
+
+“Mebbe the old man was only hurt, and went home,” suggested one of the
+men.
+
+“Ain’t no boot tracks,” objected Wheezer, who had already investigated.
+“Of course he might ’a’ cut across the hills.”
+
+“And fought brush all the way?” The sheriff was not in favor of that
+theory. “Well, he ain’t here,” he went on. “Ask the kid where he found
+that horse.”
+
+But Speck was rather vague. He studied the country seriously.
+
+“I think I was over there,” pointing across the swale. “No, I don’t
+think I was either. Them horses were somewhere over by them cottonwoods,
+I think. Hanged if I can be sure of anythin’.”
+
+“Kinda got buck-fever, eh?” laughed Snipe.
+
+“Put yourself in his place,” said the sheriff. “He’s just a kid. I’d
+probably get rattled, too. Well, I dunno what to do. Suppose we ride
+over to the Diamond W?”
+
+“If he got there, he flew,” said Wheezer.
+
+“Flyin’ ain’t hard, if yuh know how,” said the sheriff.
+
+“Well, he didn’t know how, that’s a cinch,” declared Wheezer.
+
+“Didja ever ask him, Wheezer?”
+
+“No-o-o, I never.”
+
+“Then don’t jump at conclusions. Let’s go.”
+
+They mounted and rode to the Diamond W, scanning the country closely for
+any sign of the old man. The dusty road would have showed imprints of
+boots, if anyone had walked thereon, but there was nothing but the
+tracks of four-footed animals and wagon-wheels.
+
+The posse rode in at the Diamond W ranch and lost no time in searching
+the place, but to no avail. It did not take them long to convince
+themselves that Eph Wyatt had not come home.
+
+“Well, the next thing is to find Sontag and Harrigan,” said the sheriff.
+“If that is one of their horses, and if the kid did find it where he
+said he did, they ought to know somethin’ about this deal.”
+
+“I’ve just been thinkin’,” said Wheezer. “Don’t the law say that you’ve
+got to produce the body before yuh can make out a case of murder against
+anybody?”
+
+“It sure does,” agreed the sheriff.
+
+“And if these two fellers did kill him, and was afraid that they’d get
+caught—couldn’t they hide the body?” went on the deputy.
+
+The sheriff removed his hat and scratched his head thoughtfully.
+“Wheezer, yore head _is_ somethin’ besides a hat-rack. Huh!” he said,
+turning to gaze across the miles of brushy hills. “Yore theory is a
+dinger, I like the idea fine, but yuh didn’t go far enough with it. I
+could hide a dozen corpses out in them hills. We might arrest ’em on
+suspicion, feed ’em a week or so and turn ’em loose again.”
+
+So they rode back to Oreana, with Speck trailing behind, and found Sad
+and Swede sitting on the sidewalk in front of the Oreana saloon, talking
+with two of the sheriff’s men, who had been on the lower ranges looking
+for Bar S cattle.
+
+The posse dismounted before the arrival of Speck, who paled slightly at
+sight of the two men he had incriminated. Neither Sad nor Swede had paid
+any attention to the group of riders, but both got to their feet as
+Speck rode up.
+
+Swede grinned at Speck and looked the horse over.
+
+“I was wonderin’ who got my bronc,” he said smiling up at the youngster.
+“Pretty good ridin’ horse, ain’t he, Speck?”
+
+“Jist fine,” replied Speck hoarsely. “The stirrups was too long, that’s
+all.”
+
+“Uh-huh. You must ’a’ made a hit with Blaze. Ordinarily he don’t care
+for everybody.”
+
+“When did yuh lose this horse?” asked the sheriff.
+
+“Today,” Swede smiled widely.
+
+“Where?”
+
+“I dunno,” Swede scratched his head thoughtfully. “Yuh see, we ain’t
+familiar with this country, sheriff. Me and Sad was taking a little ride
+through the hills, and we hears somebody bangin’ away. Yuh see, we sabe
+that the deer season ain’t open yet; so we opines that it might be a
+personal matter.
+
+“We’re goin’ along kinda easy-like, tryin’ to see what it means, when a
+bullet buzzes past my nose. It shore looks like we’ve horned into
+somethin’; so we dismounts, leads the horses into a patch of brush, and
+goes on a hunt for the jigger that shot at us.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+“Anyway, we don’t find him. We goes back to the horses and finds one of
+’em gone. And whoever took my bronc left a good Winchester rifle in its
+place—kinda like a pack-rat would—so we took the rifle, doubled up on
+Sad’s bronc and came to town to find the sheriff.”
+
+The posse shuffled its feet and looked at one another, while Speck
+heaved a deep sigh of relief.
+
+“That’s a pretty good story,” observed Snipe Lee, Bill Wyatt’s hand.
+
+Swede squinted closely at Snipe, a grin on his lips.
+
+“I thought it was,” he said slowly. “Anyway, it’ll have to do until we
+can think of a better one.”
+
+The sheriff chewed at the corner of his mustache and wondered what to do
+next. Swede’s story sounded plausible. It tallied with the one Speck had
+told.
+
+“Mr. Wyatt, the old man, got shot today,” volunteered Speck.
+
+“The old man who was goin’ to adopt you?” asked Sad.
+
+“Uh-huh!”
+
+“F’r gosh sake! Wasn’t killed, was he, Speck?” Sad’s surprise seemed
+genuine.
+
+“We don’t know,” the sheriff answered the question. “If he was, somebody
+swiped the corpse.”
+
+“Swiped the corpse!” Sad seemed shocked. “What would anybody swipe a
+corpse for, sheriff?”
+
+“Yuh might as well tell ’em all about it,” said Snipe sarcastically.
+“They prob’ly know more about it than you do.”
+
+Sad walked up to Snipe, who began to wish he had kept still, and studied
+him at close range.
+
+“I don’t reckon I’ve met you,” said Sad easily. “What did yuh say yore
+name was?”
+
+“I never said.”
+
+“That’s right. You’re one of the Box 8 boys, ain’tcha?”
+
+“Yeah, I work there.”
+
+“You sabe this range pretty well, don’tcha?”
+
+Snipe licked his lips and squinted at Sad. He wondered what these
+questions were leading to. Finally he nodded affirmatively.
+
+“Uh-huh,” Sad grew thoughtful. “You know quite a lot about cattle and
+range work, don’tcha?”
+
+“I ort to,” said Snipe. “I’ve been punchin’ cows for——”
+
+“Yo’re what I’d call an observin’ person,” interrupted Sad. “Some folks
+think I’m a mind-reader,” Sad shot a glance at Bunty, whose face
+reddened quickly. “Mebbe I am—who knows? Anyway, I picked you out for
+this test.”
+
+“What in hell do yuh mean?” blurted Snipe nervously.
+
+“In all yore experience on the range—” Sad propounded, the question
+seriously. “In all of yore experience, mind yuh; did yuh ever know that
+yuh could tell a cattle rustler by the color of his fingernails?”
+
+Almost before Sad had finished his question Snipe Lee jerked up his
+right hand and shot a searching glance at his nails. It was a trap which
+would catch nearly anyone, whether guilty or innocent—an old joke of the
+cattle country. It is likely that every man present caught himself in
+the act, except Sad and Swede.
+
+In a flash Snipe Lee realized what he had done, and his hand flashed
+down to his gun; too late. Sad was into him, cramping his gun arm,
+making it impossible for Snipe to draw the gun from its holster.
+
+“Leggo me, damn yuh!” snarled Snipe. “You can’t pin nothin’ like that
+onto me!”
+
+Sad laughed, gave the arm an extra twist, swinging Snipe almost off his
+feet, and appropriated Snipe’s six-shooter. Then he shoved Snipe aside
+and stepped back, while the luckless Box 8 man rubbed his aching muscles
+and cursed witheringly.
+
+“That don’t mean nothin’,” laughed the sheriff. “I looked at my nails,
+too.”
+
+“So did I,” confessed Wheezer.
+
+“Some folks can’t take a joke,” laughed Sad. “Our friends over there is
+too thin-minded to fool with. Here’s yore gun.” He tossed it to Snipe,
+who caught it in his left hand and shoved it into his holster. His right
+arm was almost helpless.
+
+“Now,” Sad turned to the sheriff, “yuh mind tellin’ me what this
+shootin’ scrape was all about? I may be a mind reader, but I can’t cover
+all the territory.”
+
+The sheriff did not mind. In fact, he seemed perfectly willing to tell
+all he knew. Sad and Swede listened patiently, nodding now and then, as
+though to confirm what Speck had told. The sheriff admitted that the
+posse had been looking for them.
+
+“I don’t blame yuh,” said Sad. “It shore looked like we might ’a’ had a
+hand in it.”
+
+“Ain’t nothin’ been proved yet,” said Snipe painfully.
+
+“Aw, go look at yore nails!” snapped the sheriff. “You’ve talked almost
+too much, Snipe. Go put up the horses, Wheezer. If anybody can prove to
+me that old Eph Wyatt has been killed, I’ll look for his body, but I’m
+no damned bloodhound.”
+
+The posse took their horses back to the hitch-racks, and the sheriff’s
+two cowpunchers drew him aside and imparted the news that they had only
+been able to round up fifteen head in the lower ranges.
+
+“Didja put ’em in the Bar S pasture?” asked the sheriff.
+
+The cowboys had.
+
+“That’s all right,” said the sheriff. “Somebody cut the fence and got
+away with the three hundred and ten head; so they might as well get the
+other fifteen.”
+
+“What do yuh mean?” asked “Slim” Wray, one of the cowboys. He had not
+heard about the loss. Art Alberts, the other cowboy, listened with open
+mouth, while the sheriff explained.
+
+“Aw, they must ’a’ jist turned ’em loose,” said Slim. “We’ll round ’em
+up ag’in, Buck.”
+
+“Go to it, Slim,” said the sheriff. “I hope yo’re right.”
+
+Speck sat down on the sidewalk with Sad and Swede, and the sheriff came
+over to him.
+
+“Kid, you don’t have much luck, do yuh?” he said thoughtfully. “I wish I
+had a home to take yuh to, but I ain’t. I’ve got an extra cot in my
+office, where yuh can sleep—and Oreana won’t see yuh go hungry.”
+
+“That’s all right,” grinned Speck. “I’ll git along. Much obliged for the
+cot, sheriff. Mebbe I can help yuh some way, doin’ somethin’ around the
+office. I’ve got to find my dog before I do anythin’ much. He sure
+rattled his hocks when that shootin’ started, and the last I seen of him
+he was runnin’ a sandy on a gopher.”
+
+The sheriff laughed and turned toward his office. “Come on, Speck, and
+I’ll show yuh that cot.”
+
+“All right,” said Speck gladly. He started after the sheriff, but ran
+back to Sad and Swede.
+
+“I’m sorry I had to steal that horse,” he whispered, “but I’m sure glad
+I yanked instead of squeezed.”
+
+He turned and ran after the sheriff, leaving Sad and Swede looking
+curiously at each other.
+
+“Glad he yanked instead of squeezin’,” said Swede blankly. “Now, what do
+yuh make of that, Sad?”
+
+Sad Sontag laughed softly and looked across the street where Buck Rainey
+and Speck were at the sheriff’s office door.
+
+“He must ’a’ meant that rifle, Swede. He flinched on the pull. By golly,
+that kid sure is a dinger. Yanked on the trigger and pulled the muzzle
+far enough to the right to miss us. He’s got nerve to burn, and by
+golly”—Sad stopped and reached for his cigarette makings—“he deserves a
+better deal than he’s been gettin’.”
+
+“Uh-huh,” yawned Swede. “I reckon we better eat. Here comes Bill Wyatt
+and his man, Friday.”
+
+Wyatt and Abe Snow, a tall, dark complexioned cowboy, rode up to the
+Cactus saloon hitch-rack and dismounted. Snipe Lee met them, talking
+earnestly, and the three went into the saloon.
+
+“I reckon we better eat,” agreed Sad. “Snipe Lee is tellin’ ’em all
+about it, and it won’t be sweet news to Bill’s ears. I hate to fight on
+an empty stomach; so we’ll fold the old insides around a flock of food
+before trouble starts.”
+
+They walked past the Cactus saloon and up the street to a restaurant,
+where they proceeded to sit down facing the door and ordered a big meal.
+
+“Well, our alibi sure got past with the sheriff,” laughed Swede.
+
+“Sure,” Sad laughed joyfully. “You are one of the best liars I ever
+heard. I’ll betcha Snipe Lee is still wonderin’ if his nails show that
+he’s a rustler.”
+
+“I wonder if he is?” grinned Swede. “He sure took it to heart.”
+
+[Illustration]
+
+Sad grinned thoughtfully and leaned back in his chair to allow the
+waiter to place a platter of food before him. The waiter was a
+pasty-faced, stoop-shouldered person, with a crooked nose and a missing
+front tooth. Sad looked at the platter and up at the waiter.
+
+“Three eggs apiece, waiter?”
+
+“Yeah.” The waiter grinned, exposing the incomplete set of upper teeth.
+“Thought yuh might be hungry. It won’t cost yuh any more than two
+would.”
+
+“Gosh, this is a reg’lar place to eat,” grinned Sad. “Do yuh size up
+yore customers and feed ’em accordin’ly?”
+
+“No-o-o. Them extra eggs are for whippin’ Bunty O’Neil.”
+
+“Oh, yeah!” Sad looked curiously at the waiter. “Kinda like gettin’ a
+medal for bravery, eh?”
+
+“I dunno about that. See that crooked nose and that missin’ tooth? Well,
+I never thought about kickin’ Bunty’s shins.”
+
+“He got you, did he?”
+
+“He sure did. I was out for fifteen minutes. Never knew what hit me.”
+
+“Bunty’s sure a character,” observed Swede, attacking his ham and eggs.
+
+The waiter spat dryly. “Character, hell; he’s a dirty fighter. Somebody
+will kill him some day, and then he’ll wish he’d been square.”
+
+“Most all dead men kinda repent,” nodded Sad. “What do yuh know about
+Bill Wyatt?”
+
+The waiter grinned. “You whipped him, too, they tell me. I don’t know
+much about him. Bunty butted Bill, and Bill petted him with the barrel
+of a gun. They was thick as thieves before that. Bill got Bunty to come
+down here and buy out the Oreana. Folks used to say that Bill owned an
+interest in the Oreana, but I don’t guess there was any truth in it.
+
+“Bunty poured liquor into poor Jim Steeb and killed him. They tell me
+that Bunty’s got Steeb’s notes for a lot of money. Steeb practically
+lived there at the Oreana. Bunty got him to drinkin’ absence. Didja ever
+see an absence drinker? It shore is awful stuff. Make a man kick his
+grandmother.”
+
+“Did Steeb kick his grandmother?” asked Swede seriously.
+
+“I don’t guess he had one.”
+
+“Made it kinda bad,” observed Swede. “Feller ought to kinda check up on
+his relation before he starts drinkin’ that stuff.”
+
+“Must be an awful relief to kick the old lady,” said Sad, balancing an
+egg on his knife-blade. “I never had one. Still, yuh never have
+everythin’ in this life. Can we have some coffee?”
+
+“Yuh sure can. I’ll bring yuh in the whole pot.”
+
+“We’re prominent citizens,” grinned Sad, as the waiter hurried away. “If
+somebody kills us, they’ll prob’ly put up a big monument in the middle
+of the street for us.”
+
+“Yeah,” reflected Swede seriously, “and they’ll carve on it, ‘All fools
+ain’t dead yet, but we got two big ones cinched.’”
+
+While Sad and Swede appeased their hunger, Bill Wyatt and his men, Abe
+Snow and Snipe Lee, stood at the Cactus bar and drank liberally. Snipe
+had told Bill and Abe all about the affair in no uncertain terms, and
+bitterly censured the sheriff for not arresting Sad and Swede for
+murder. Of course, Snipe was still smarting from his encounter with Sad
+and was inclined to be vindictive.
+
+“He accused me of bein’ a rustler,” complained Snipe. “Yuh know, he
+can’t git away with a thing like that, Bill.”
+
+“He got away with it, didn’t he?” demanded Bill. “You talk too much,
+Snipe. But where do yuh suppose the old man is?”
+
+Snipe shook his head and felt of his twisted arm muscles.
+
+“I can’t even start to suppose, Bill. Jist like I said, he wasn’t at the
+buckboard, nor at the ranch. There was the dead horse and the live one.
+Everthin’ was jist like that kid said, except we couldn’t find old Eph.”
+
+“What did the sheriff think?” asked Bill.
+
+“Well, he didn’t know. We had an idea that them two strangers had killed
+him, but when we couldn’t find the body, we didn’t know what to think.
+Wheezer Wilson figured that they had shot the old man and got scared
+that somebody might find it out; so they hid the body.”
+
+“What good would that do?” demanded Bill.
+
+“Yuh got to prove a murder,” said Snipe wisely. “If there ain’t no
+corpse yuh can’t prove nothin’. A man ain’t noways dead until he’s
+proved dead, and yuh can’t prove nothin’ without yuh can identify the
+corpse. If they don’t never find old Eph, the law won’t never figure him
+to be dead.”
+
+“But if he don’t never show up, he must be dead,” argued Bill.
+
+“He must be,” agreed Snipe, “but the law don’t look at it like me and
+you would. Mebbe old Eph wandered off in the brush and died; mebbe
+somebody took the corpse and hid it.”
+
+“But why would they hide it?” Bill poured out a fresh drink and drank it
+raw. “I don’t sabe it, Snipe.”
+
+“To protect themselves,” explained Snipe. “Jist like I said, the law
+don’t know that anybody got killed yet.”
+
+Slim Wray and Art Alberts, the sheriff’s two cowhands, came in, so the
+argument was dropped for a while. Bill invited them to partake of his
+hospitality, which they accepted with alacrity, and the talk drifted to
+the fact that the Bar S herd was missing.
+
+“Bunty O’Neil is sure fussin’ about that,” declared Slim. “If we can’t
+find them cows Bunty won’t get the money that’s comin’ to him. I heard
+him say that he’d have them cows or somebody would be darned sorry.”
+
+“He talks big,” grunted Bill Wyatt. “I ain’t got no love for that Sontag
+person, but I’m sure glad he piled Bunty.”
+
+“Who are them two fellers, anyway?” asked Abe Snow, squinting through
+his glass of liquor at the light. “Look like a couple of cow detectives
+to me, if anybody asks yuh.”
+
+“What would they be doin’ over here?” demanded Snipe.
+
+“Yuh know they made yuh look at yore fingernails,” smiled Slim Wray
+meaningly. Snipe growled and reached for his glass.
+
+“They ain’t got nothin’ on me.”
+
+“Well, they ain’t been here long,” grinned Slim.
+
+“What about lookin’ at fingernails?” queried Bill.
+
+“Didn’t you hear about it? Sontag asked Snipe if he knew that you could
+tell a cattle rustler by lookin’ at his fingernails.”
+
+Bill turned his hand sideways and glanced at his nails while Slim
+snorted with laughter.
+
+“There yuh go!” he chuckled. “That’s what Snipe done.”
+
+“That’s a hell of a joke!” growled Bill, glowering at Slim. “All
+fingernails are the same color.”
+
+“You looked!” choked Slim.
+
+“You don’t mean to insinuate that I’m a rustler, do yuh?” Bill grew
+suddenly belligerent. He shoved away from the bar and glared at Slim.
+
+“Aw, cool off,” advised Slim. “Nobody’s accusin’ yuh, Bill. Yo’re jist
+like Snipe. He got mad, too.”
+
+“Well, I’m no rustler, Slim,” declared Bill coldly. “I’ll accept yore
+apology, but don’t say anythin’ like that again. I’m honest, I am.”
+
+“Sure, we all know it,” agreed Slim. “Let’s have another drink.”
+
+“I’m hones’, too,” blurbled Snipe, who was looking owlishly at himself
+in the back-bar mirror. “Almos’ too honesht.”
+
+“Almost,” said Bill savagely.
+
+It was not often that the Box 8 outfit drank too much liquor, but that
+night was one time when they threw all reserve to the winds. Whisky
+seemed to have little effect on Bill Wyatt, except to make him more
+savage.
+
+But he kept out of the Oreana saloon. Several times he met Sad and Swede
+during the evening, but avoided direct contact with them.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+“Look out for Bill Wyatt,” Slim Wray cautioned Sad and Swede.
+
+“What’s achin’ him tonight?” asked Sad.
+
+“Liquor and a bad disposition. Yuh see, old Eph Wyatt was his uncle.”
+
+“Was his uncle?” queried Sad. “Ain’t he still his uncle?”
+
+“Well—sure,” hesitated Slim. “They’re sayin’ that the old man is dead,
+yuh know. I suppose Bill is workin’ up a little war medicine for
+himself. Of course the sheriff don’t believe yuh had any hand in
+shootin’ the old man, but the sheriff ain’t everybody.”
+
+“Much obliged,” grinned Sad. “We’ll look out for Bill. He prob’ly thinks
+he owes me somethin’.”
+
+“And he’ll pay yuh, if he gets a safe chance.”
+
+“And he’ll get a receipt,” said Sad meaningly. “Anyway, I’m sure obliged
+to yuh, Slim.”
+
+But Bill Wyatt was too wise to start trouble with them. For once in his
+life he decided to let discretion be the better part of valor. He got
+his men, Snipe and Abe, away from the Cactus bar and walked them up and
+down the street. They sobered considerably, and Bill outlined his
+scheme.
+
+“They hid the body of the old man, that’s a cinch. Fightin’ ’em won’t
+tell us where it’s hid; sabe? They’ve got a room at the Oreana hotel,
+and them partitions ain’t very thick. Here’s the scheme. Abe, me and you
+will see if we can git the room next to them. They’ll probably talk
+enough to let us know a few things. Snipe, you take our horses to the
+livery-stable, and you stay there. If they decide to leave town, you
+come a-runnin’; sabe? Leave our horses all saddled, so we won’t lose no
+time.
+
+“And from now on, we don’t take no more liquor. We’ve got to find out a
+few things. You better go to the stable now, Snipe. Me and Abe will get
+the room, and find out which room Sontag rented. If we can’t get the
+next one without seemin’ to want it, mebbe it’s empty and we can take it
+anyway.”
+
+Snipe grumbled profanely, but went to the hitch-rack after the horses.
+The stable-keeper showed him which stalls to use, asked Snipe if he
+wanted to take off the saddles, accepted the two-bits per head and went
+back to his gear-room.
+
+He thought that Snipe went out, which Snipe did not. Later the
+stable-keeper went out, shut the big doors and went up to the Oreana
+saloon. Snipe stretched out on the grain-bin and went to sleep. He had a
+pint of liquor on his hip, which assisted in his departure to the land
+of dreams.
+
+Sad and Swede were at the Oreana saloon when the stable-keeper ran into
+them and accepted of their hospitality.
+
+“Kinda quiet tonight,” observed Sad.
+
+“Yeah, it is.” The stable-keeper squinted around the room. “It always is
+this early. Mebbe it’ll pick up. The Box 8 must figure on makin’ a night
+of it, ’cause they’ve stabled their horses. It ain’t often they do that.
+Usually leave their broncs at the rack until they’re ready to go home.”
+
+Sad squinted at himself in the back-bar mirror and wondered why Bill
+Wyatt and his outfit intended to make a night of it. He drew Swede out
+of the Oreana and they made the rounds, looking for Bill and his gang,
+who were not in evidence.
+
+“You think they’re layin’ for us?” asked Swede.
+
+“I dunno,” Sad grinned thoughtfully. “Mebbe they are. Let’s look a
+little further.”
+
+They went down the street to the hotel and entered the dingy little
+office, which was little more than a wide hall, lighted by a hanging
+lamp. The rooms were all on the second floor. Behind the little counter
+sat the proprietor, tilted back against the wall, reading a year-old
+magazine.
+
+“Goin’ to bed early, ain’t yuh?” he asked.
+
+“It is a little early,” agreed Sad.
+
+“Sober, too,” observed the proprietor, and laughed at his own wit. “They
+don’t usually go to bed sober on Sat’day night here. Bill Wyatt and Abe
+Snow got too much under their belts, and bought a room a while ago. They
+sure must ’a’ punished a lot of hooch.”
+
+“Yeah, I reckon they did,” laughed Sad. “They’ll prob’ly snore all night
+and keep us awake.”
+
+“By jing, I never thought about that when I put ’em in number five.
+That’s right beside you fellers. Say,” he tilted forward and got to his
+feet, “I’ll git ’em out of there.”
+
+“No, don’t do that,” said Sad quickly. “They’re likely asleep right now.
+Shucks, we don’t mind.”
+
+“Well, if yuh don’t mind. By golly, I never thought about it when I got
+’em the room. I’ll change, if yuh say so.”
+
+“No, that’s all right,” assured Sad.
+
+They sauntered outside and crossed to the Cactus hitch-rack, where Sad
+appropriated a lariat rope, which he concealed under his coat. Then they
+went back to the hotel and climbed up the stairs. Sad cautioned Swede to
+let him do the work; so both of them staggered visibly down the hall.
+
+Sad carried a narrow loop of rope in his hands, as he blundered
+drunkenly into the door of number five and quickly slipped the loop
+around the door-knob.
+
+“Hey!” chuckled Swede drunkenly. “Tha’s the wrong door, Sad. We sleep in
+thish room.”
+
+“Tha’s right,” muttered Sad. “Excuse me, everybody.” He staggered across
+the hall and against the other door, where he quickly drew the rope
+tight and threw several half-hitches around the other doorknob.
+
+“What’s the matter—can’tcha fin’ the key-hole, Swede?”
+
+“Thish is wrong key,” declared Swede. “Too small, I tell yuh. C’mon.”
+
+They went down the hall, reviling the proprietor for giving them the
+wrong key, which he had not. In fact, they had no key.
+
+“That was a maguey rope,” chuckled Sad. “Them things ain’t got no
+stretch in ’em. Bill Wyatt is smart enough to want to know more, which
+ain’t nothin’ against him.”
+
+“Now, what do we pull off next?” asked Swede, chuckling with laughter.
+
+“Find Snipe Lee. I’ve got a hunch.”
+
+And they faded down the dark street toward the livery-stable, while Bill
+Wyatt and Abe Snow sat on a bed and waited for them to come back with
+the right key.
+
+It was a long, long wait.
+
+Finally Bill Wyatt swore disgustedly and decided to go out and see what
+had become of them, but the door would not open. It would slip past the
+lock, which proved that it was fastened from the outside, and which
+proved that Sad and Swede had out-smarted them.
+
+It was dark outside and the two-story drop was too much for Bill to
+risk, because he was not sure just what might be down there for him to
+fall into.
+
+“They’ve roped us in,” declared Bill, punctuating his declaration with
+oaths. “They wasn’t drunk, Abe.”
+
+But Abe did not care. He had stretched out on the bed again and was
+snoring blissfully. Bill pried the door open as far as possible with the
+barrel of his gun, cut a notch with his pocket-knife and managed to tie
+his knife to the barrel of Abe’s gun strongly enough to enable him to
+cut the rope.
+
+Then he left Abe sleeping audibly and went downstairs, where he accosted
+the sleepy proprietor.
+
+“Has Sontag and Harrigan come in yet?” he demanded.
+
+“No,” replied the proprietor. “They was in here a couple hours ago, but
+ain’t been in since.”
+
+“Came upstairs, didn’t they?”
+
+“Nope. Said they was afraid you’d keep ’em awake snorin’.”
+
+“Oh, yeah!” Bill snorted and went outside.
+
+He made the rounds of the saloons, but could not find Sad and Swede; so
+he headed for the livery-stable, where he found the stable-man in the
+gear-room, getting ready for bed.
+
+“Hyah, Bill,” greeted the stable-man. “Want yore bronc?”
+
+“No,” said Bill shortly. He thought for several moments. Then, “I’m
+kinda lookin’ for Sontag and Harrigan, and I wondered if they went away
+tonight.”
+
+The stable-man picked up his lantern and walked out to the stalls.
+
+“Their horses and saddles are gone,” he said. “They must ’a’ rode out
+while I was uptown.”
+
+“Uh-huh,” Ed squinted reflectively. “Seen anythin’ of Snipe Lee?”
+
+“Not since he brought yore horses down here.”
+
+“All right.” Bill turned and started for the door.
+
+“Say, do yuh want me to grain yore broncs?”
+
+Bill turned at the door, “Yuh might as well.”
+
+“More work,” grumbled the stable-man, as Bill went out. “I can always
+think of somethin’ that’ll make me extra work.”
+
+He walked over to the oat-bin, hung up his lantern and unfastened the
+staple which held down the lid. Swinging up the long lid, he leaned over
+to scoop up a pail of oats, when Snipe Lee sat up and looked him in the
+face.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+The shock was so great that the stableman dropped the lid on Snipe’s
+unprotected head and stepped back; while from within came the muffled
+voice of Snipe, demanding to know why in hell everybody was pickin’ onto
+him.
+
+The stable-man lifted the lid and let Snipe get out. He was still
+half-drunk, dazed and inclined to be indignant.
+
+“Well how did yuh get in there, anyway?”
+
+Snipe scratched his head thoughtfully and looked into the oatbin.
+
+“Mus’ ’a’ fell in,” he said thickly. “How in hell does anybody git into
+oat-bins, I’d crave to ask yuh?”
+
+“You couldn’t fasten the staple,” argued the stable-man.
+
+“Thasso? Lemme tell yuh, I’m smart.” Snipe rocked on his heels and
+goggled owlishly at the lantern.
+
+“But yuh couldn’t do a thing like that,” declared the stable-man. “Yuh
+could fall into the bin, but I’m danged if yuh could lock the lid from
+the outside.”
+
+“Is thasso? Ha, ha, ha, ha! Is thasso? Well, smarty, couldn’t I lock it
+firs’? Anshwer me that. Couldn’t I? I must ’a’ done it thataway. Shay,”
+Snipe looked around foolishly, “have you sheen anythin’ of Sontag and
+Harrigan?”
+
+[Illustration]
+
+“They left here quite a while ago.”
+
+“Oh, my!” Snipe seemed shocked.
+
+“Bill Wyatt was here a while ago, and he asked for you.”
+
+“Yeah? Huh! Well, I’m mush obliged. S’-long.”
+
+And Snipe went weaving out of the door, while the stableman filled the
+bucket with oats and fed the three horses. He flung the bucket against
+the wall, picked up his lantern and went back to his bunk, still
+wondering how on earth a man could get inside an oatbin and lock himself
+in from the outside.
+
+
+
+
+V
+
+
+The next morning Sheriff Buck Rainey and Wheezer Wilson his assistant
+went hunting cows. They went past the Bar S, and were agreeably
+surprised to find most of the last fifteen Bar S cattle in the pasture.
+They stopped to put up the broken wires, and rode on.
+
+Slim Wray and Art Alberts, the sheriff’s punchers, had gone further
+north, looking for the missing herd. The following day the sheriff was
+to sell out the Bar S, and he wanted more than fifteen head of cattle.
+
+“Looks like a short chance,” observed Wheezer, as they rode further into
+the hills. “We can’t find much except Box 8’s and Diamond W’s. Old Eph
+Wyatt must have quite a lot of cows, Buck.”
+
+“Y’betcha.” The sheriff spat reflectively. “I wonder what did happen to
+the old man. It don’t seem reasonable to think that Sontag and Harrigan
+had anythin’ to do with the shootin’. There ain’t no motive.”
+
+“We don’t know of any,” amended Wheezer.
+
+“My gosh, you’re gettin’ particular. Pretty soon you’ll be doin’ all
+your eatin’ with a fork, jist to be correct.”
+
+“Not ’less they make a kind that don’t leak food. There’s Bill Wyatt and
+Snipe Lee.”
+
+Wheezer pointed at the opposite hillside, where two riders were coming
+toward them. They drew rein and waited for the Box 8 boss and his
+puncher to join them.
+
+“Lookin’ for Bar S stock?” asked Bill, after the customary greetings had
+been exchanged.
+
+“That’s about all it amounts to,” replied Buck Rainey. “We ain’t found
+none yet.”
+
+Bill twisted in his saddle and pointed east. “We seen five or six head
+over thataway this mornin’, and there was fifteen or twenty head out
+near the Box 8.”
+
+“That ain’t noways three hundred and ten head,” grinned Buck.
+
+Wheezer grinned at Snipe Lee. “What happened to yuh last night, Snipe? I
+heard Jimmy Logan, the stable-keeper, talkin’ about findin’ yuh in the
+oatbin, with the lid locked.”
+
+Snipe twisted his face disgustedly.
+
+“I must ’a’ been awful drunk. Don’t remember a thing about it. Took our
+broncs to the stable, set down on the oatbin, and don’t know a darned
+thing what happened after that.”
+
+“And somebody roped two doors together at the hotel,” said Buck.
+“McKinney showed me the rope. Slim Wray was pretty drunk when he found
+the lariat half-hitched around his door-knob; so he thought it was a
+warnin’ that somebody had hung to his door. He slept in the barn with a
+six-gun strapped to his wrist.”
+
+“That must ’a’ been after we left,” said Bill dryly. “Got any track of
+the old man, Buck?”
+
+“No!” replied the sheriff.
+
+“Uh-huh. I happen to know that Sontag and Harrigan rode out of Oreana
+about midnight.”
+
+“How’d yuh know?”
+
+“Jimmy Logan said they did.”
+
+“Thasso?” The sheriff squinted reflectively. “I wonder where they went.
+I don’t sabe that pair, Bill.”
+
+“You ain’t got nothin’ on the rest of us, Buck.”
+
+“They’re sure full of fun,” offered Wheezer.
+
+“They’re full of hell!” snorted Bill. “They’ll run against a snag, if
+they don’t watch out.”
+
+“They ain’t so young,” observed Wheezer. “’S funny they ain’t run agin’
+it before this.”
+
+“This ain’t findin’ us any Bar S stock,” reminded the sheriff. “Want to
+ride with us, Bill?”
+
+“Yeah, we might as well.”
+
+And while Bill and Snipe joined forces with the sheriff, Sad Sontag and
+Swede Harrigan also rode into the hills, also looking for Bar S stock.
+They found one of that brand, which they examined closely, noting that
+the iron had been run on the right shoulder.
+
+“Well, that’s one of the three hundred and ten,” observed Sad, as they
+moved on. There were numerous Box 8 cattle scattered along the brushy
+draws.
+
+“This sale won’t be worth attendin’,” declared Swede. “By golly, I wish
+we’d stayed in Sundown.”
+
+“I’m havin’ a good time,” grinned Sad. “You want too much. I wonder what
+Bill Wyatt and his bunch had to say? I’ll betcha Snipe Lee didn’t know
+what happened to him, Swede.”
+
+“I’ll bet he didn’t. Only thing I hope is that somebody let him out of
+the oatbin before he suffocated.”
+
+“Aw, he was all right. That lid was full of cracks. Wyatt was foxy
+enough to take that adjoinin’ room, where they’d have a swell chance to
+hear us talk, and I’ll betcha he cursed the man who invented a maguey
+rope.”
+
+Sad pulled up his horse, as several Box 8 cattle came out of a draw
+beyond them and moved into an open swale. He studied them for several
+moments, a half-smile on his face, and then took down his rope.
+
+“Whatcha goin’ to do, Sad?” asked Swede.
+
+“Practice a little,” grinned Sad, spurring his horse forward and shaking
+out his loop. Swede swore foolishly, but did not follow him.
+
+The cattle broke into a gallop, heading back toward the ravine, but Sad
+singled out a rangy, red steer and spurred swiftly in pursuit. The
+animal twisted along the edge of the shallow ravine, trying to reach the
+cover of a willow thicket, but the loop sailed true, dropped fair over
+the horns, and Sad Sontag made his dally around the horn in approved
+style.
+
+It was all very well done, except that Sad’s cinch was far too loose for
+a roping-stunt, and when the jerk came it yanked the saddle high up over
+the horse’s withers, throwing it sideways, and upsetting the
+calculations of a well regulated roping horse.
+
+The big steer took a header into the brush, the horse skidded sideways
+over the edge of the washout, and Sad went out of the saddle, much after
+the manner of a flying-squirrel hunting for a more favorable location.
+
+The action had hardly taken place before Swede spurred past, his own
+rope in hand, dismounted almost on the run and proceeded to hog-tie the
+steer, which had had the shock of its life. Sad’s horse regained its
+feet, kicked a few times, blew the alkali dust from its nostrils and
+looked back at Sad, who was sitting against the opposite bank, rubbing
+the alkali out of his eyes.
+
+“You rised something, didn’t yuh?” fleered Swede, red of face. “You’ll
+never get no sense, Sad Sontag. Ropin’ a steer as big as that one on a
+loose cinch! I’ve seen a lot of fools in my time!”
+
+“You hadn’t ort to be vain,” said Sad painfully. “It’s all right for a
+feller of yore physique to look in a mirror, but he shouldn’t brag about
+it. Didja tie up the little pet?”
+
+“Yeah, I tied it,” Swede spat out some alkali viciously. “If I hadn’t,
+that red steer would ’a’ made a pet out of you, cowboy.”
+
+“Thank yuh kindly, Swede.” Sad climbed out, after working his saddle
+back into place, and walked over to the wheezing steer. It was lying on
+its right side, glaring its hate from a pair of blood-shot eyes.
+
+Sad squatted on his heels and reached for his cigarette papers, while
+Swede complained audibly.
+
+“I dunno why yuh done this, Sad. That steer feels the insult awful
+strong, and I’m goin’ to ask _you_ to turn it loose. I’m no matador.
+I’ll betcha even money that when yuh take the piggin’-string off that
+steer, he’ll beat yuh to yore bronc.”
+
+Sad frowned over his cigarette, and sang mournfully, “O-o-o-oh, Susie
+Jones was a clingin’ vi-i-i-ine, but her father was a pi-i-i-izen
+o-o-oak.”
+
+“Oh, all right,” sighed Swede.
+
+Sad got to his feet and walked over to the steer.
+
+“C’mere, Swede, and help me turn him over.”
+
+“Do yuh think he’s tired, Sad? And after we turn him over, do we have to
+set him up for a spell?”
+
+“Don’t strain yourself,” grinned Sad. They completed their turning
+process, when something unexpected happened.
+
+“Don’t move, gents!”
+
+It was the voice of Buck Rainey, the sheriff of Oreana. Sad and Swede
+whirled quickly to see Buck, Wheezer Wilson, Bill Wyatt and Snipe Lee,
+standing just a few feet away, guns in hand.
+
+“Keep yore hands where they are,” warned the sheriff. “Get their guns,
+Wheezer.”
+
+Wheezer came forward and emptied their holsters, while the two Sundown
+cowboys looked blankly at each other.
+
+“We been watchin’ yuh,” said the sheriff easily. “Yuh see, it ain’t
+ethical to hang yore rope on other men’s stock in this range, Sontag.”
+
+“That’s one of my animals, too,” said Wyatt angrily.
+
+“I shore apologize,” said Sad contritely.
+
+“Apologize!” snorted Bill. “I—guess—you—would!”
+
+“Yuh might at least be gentleman enough to accept it.”
+
+“Huh? Say,” Bill Wyatt’s voice shook with anger, “do yuh think yuh can
+get away with jist an apology? What kind of a cow-country didja come
+from, anyway?”
+
+“Pretty fair,” said Sad seriously. “’Course it ain’t the best in the
+state, but we kinda like it up there. Lots of nice folks up thataway,
+Wyatt.”
+
+“Yeah, I’ll betcha!”
+
+“Got ’em before they had a chance to heat an iron,” observed Snipe. The
+sheriff looked all around and even inspected their saddles. He seemed
+disappointed not to find anything which they might have used to misbrand
+an animal. He brought Sad’s horse up beside Swede’s, and dropped the
+reins.
+
+“I don’t sabe this,” he admitted. “What was you fellers tryin’ to do,
+anyway?”
+
+“Jist bein’ playful,” grinned Swede.
+
+“Yeah, I’ll betcha.” The sheriff scratched his chin and studied the
+steer. Wheezer squatted on his heels, holding Sad’s gun in one hand, and
+Swede’s in the other.
+
+“Well, I reckon I’ll have to take you fellers to town.” The sheriff
+motioned to Snipe Lee. “Let the steer go, Snipe. We’ve got enough
+witnesses to this, I reckon.”
+
+“Yo’re danged right we have!” grunted Bill Wyatt.
+
+Snipe Lee walked over to the steer and loosened the rope. It was not the
+ethical thing to do, and under any other circumstances, it is doubtful
+that any of them would have considered turning a range steer loose among
+unmounted men.
+
+Wheezer had placed the two six-shooters on his lap, holding them between
+his shirt and chaps, as he manufactured a cigarette.
+
+Snipe yanked off the rope and stepped back, slapping the big red animal
+across the rump with the coils. The steer heaved to its feet with a deep
+bellow of rage, whirled with the agility of a deer and lunged straight
+at Buck Rainey and Bill Wyatt, who were standing close together.
+
+The left horn of the animal caught in one side of Buck’s vest, threw him
+off his feet and he went headlong into the washout, while Wyatt and
+Wheezer collided, each having a different idea of which way to go, and
+they went down together.
+
+The steer whirled at the brink of the washout and headed for Snipe Lee,
+who was waving his rope and yelling unheard advice to everyone. Sad and
+Swede were not merely spectators. Wheezer had forgotten the fact that he
+was custodian of the captured artillery, and the guns had barely fallen
+in the dust when Sad swept them up, whirled and went into his saddle.
+
+Swede was mounted almost as soon, and while the sheriff’s posse
+scrambled for safety and took pot-shots at the infuriated steer, Sad and
+Swede rode out of gunshot, turning their tear-streaked faces toward a
+place where they might cry out their mirth in safety.
+
+A forty-five bullet finally took all the fight out of the steer, and the
+dusty, scratched, bruised and otherwise injured posse managed to get
+together for a mutual condemnation meeting. Wheezer had lost a tooth in
+his collision with Wyatt, and he seemed inclined to think that Wyatt had
+done it with malice aforethought. Snipe Lee had a lump the size of an
+egg over his right eye, which pained him greatly.
+
+“Blame yourself for that, Snipe,” wailed Wheezer. “You hit yourself with
+that hondo.”
+
+“I did not! The steer hit me!”
+
+“You never was within fifty feet of that steer!”
+
+“What did yuh turn it loose for?” demanded Wyatt.
+
+“He told me to,” pointing at Buck, who was rubbing his shoulder.
+
+“Ain’t you got no sense of your own?” queried Wyatt painfully.
+
+“You ort to listen to nobody but Bill,” declared Wheezer sarcastically.
+“He’s yore boss, Snipe—the clumsy danged fool! Yeah, I mean you, Bill!
+How didja ever expect to dodge a steer, goin’ the way you was? If it
+hadn’t been for you, I’d still have them guns and we’d have our
+prisoners.”
+
+“You didn’t have them guns when we met,” declared Wyatt. “Not by a dang
+sight, you didn’t! An’ I’m no clumsy danged fool, either.”
+
+“Well, you ain’t an active one, that’s a cinch. No, and by golly, you
+ain’t no medium one.”
+
+“Aw-w-w, don’t fight about it,” wailed Buck. “Neither one of yuh are
+acrobats, and yo’re both fools. Why didn’t yuh watch the prisoners?”
+
+“Why didn’t you?” countered Wheezer angrily.
+
+“’Cause I was hangin’ to that steer’s horn by my vest, that’s why. It’s
+a danged good thing that vests don’t have sleeves.”
+
+[Illustration]
+
+“Well, we might as well go back,” said Wheezer painfully. He put his
+right forefinger in his mouth and invited them to inspect the damage
+within.
+
+“Aw-w-gle ugl nahk umf foot ’n aw-w-gl,” he told them distinctly.
+
+“Yawgl nawgl woggle,” replied the sheriff seriously.
+
+Wheezer spat painfully. “Think yo’re danged smart, don’tcha?”
+
+“Well, I can talk any language you can. Let’s go home.”
+
+They limped back down the draw to where they had left their horses,
+mounted and went back toward Oreana.
+
+“What’ll you do if them fellers come back to Oreana?” asked Bill Wyatt.
+
+“Yuh don’t think they will, do yuh?” asked Buck.
+
+“I said, if they do.”
+
+“Oh, yeah.” The sheriff was inclined to be sarcastic. “Well, if they do,
+I don’t know what I’ll do, Bill. And if they don’t, I don’t know either;
+so there yuh are. There wasn’t a thing around there that they could use
+to blot a brand nor change one.”
+
+“Then why did they throw that steer?” demanded Bill.
+
+“I dunno, do you? If this askin’ questions is some kind of a game, deal
+me a hand. You seen as much of it as I did.”
+
+“Why did they turn that steer over, if they wasn’t goin’ to get at the
+brand?” remarked Lee.
+
+The sheriff turned in his saddle and glared at Snipe.
+
+“That’ll be about all for this lesson,” he said angrily.
+
+“Well, can’t we discuss the thing?” asked Bill peevishly.
+
+“Shore yuh can. But don’t ask me things. I ain’t got no brains, and I’m
+willin’ to admit it. I don’t know the why of anythin’. Go ahead and ask
+Snipe a few questions, if yuh must ask somebody.”
+
+“Ask him why he turned that steer loose,” suggested Wheezer.
+
+“Or yuh might go and ask the steer,” said Buck. “He prob’ly heard ’em
+say what they was goin’ to do with him.”
+
+The questions ended right there, and the four men said little more to
+each other on the way to Oreana. It was rather late in the afternoon
+when they arrived. The sheriff and Wheezer went to their office, where
+they rubbed their bruises with liniment and used up their supply of
+courtplaster.
+
+“This afternoon’s work wasn’t anythin’ to brag about,” said Buck
+meaningly. “I don’t reckon that Bill and Snipe will spread the joyous
+tidin’s; so we won’t.”
+
+“I read about a sheriff that always got his man,” said Wheezer. “He jist
+never made no mistakes. I don’t jist remember who the feller was that
+wrote the book.”
+
+“Some feller with considerable imagination,” said Buck.
+
+“Yeah, I sh’d say he did,” agreed Wheezer. “He’d prob’ly been able to
+figure out what them two fellers was tryin’ to do with that red steer,
+Buck. Nobody had to ask him questions. Shucks, he up and tells ’em right
+on the spot.
+
+“I never seen such a feller as this’n was. Deduct things! Whooee! Always
+knowed jist what to say, too. As I said before, nobody had to ask him
+any questions. I suppose he could ’a’ answered any question without no
+trouble. And I s’pose he would, too.”
+
+Buck squinted at Wheezer, who was innocently examining his mouth in the
+mirror.
+
+“And nobody asked him any questions, Wheezer?”
+
+“Nossir.”
+
+“Well, I wish I could be elected in his county. If yo’re tryin’ to make
+me mad—go ahead, pardner. I know just how much I can stand, and you
+don’t.”
+
+“Well,” grinned Wheezer. “I ain’t fool enough to ask yuh when you’ve got
+a-plenty.”
+
+A few minutes later there entered young Speck Steeb, carrying Boze, the
+pup, in his arms and smiling triumphantly.
+
+“The gol derned pup found me,” he declared.
+
+“Where did he find yuh?” grinned Wheezer.
+
+“In the restaurant garbage can.”
+
+“My gosh!” exploded Buck. “What was you doin’ in the garbage can,
+Speck?”
+
+“Well,” grinned Speck, “that’s where I found Boze.”
+
+“Our family is all united,” observed Wheezer. “I reckon we’ll pick fleas
+from now on, Buck. What do yuh know, Speck?”
+
+“I know that Bill Wyatt is tellin’ folks that Sontag and Harrigan are
+rustlers. He said they was ropin’ his cows, and that they got away from
+yuh. Is that right?”
+
+“He’s tellin’ it, is he?” grunted Buck.
+
+“Yeah, and he said that it was time that the cattlemen took the law in
+their own hands.”
+
+Buck and Wheezer looked at each other. Wheezer grinned widely, but Buck
+was serious. Slim Wray and Art Alberts rode up to the front of the
+office and dismounted. They were dusty and tired.
+
+“We put twenty-five head in the Bar S pasture,” said Slim. “And that’s
+every darned head we could find. We picked most of ’em up near the
+Box 8, and it kinda looks like they might be a little bunch that got
+away from that main herd. If that bunch hadn’t been stolen, it’s a cinch
+we’d find more, Buck.”
+
+“I s’pose,” nodded Buck. “It ain’t goin’ to be much of a sale, but we’ll
+sell what there is.”
+
+“Sontag and Harrigan came down here to buy stock, didn’t they?”
+
+“That kinda remains to be seen, Slim. They probably won’t be at the sale
+tomorrow.”
+
+“I’d like to make a bet on that,” said Speck.
+
+Buck laughed at the boy. “You’d like to bet on it, eh? What have yuh got
+to bet?”
+
+“Well,” Speck hesitated and shifted his feet. “I ain’t got no money, but
+I’ll bet—I’ll bet my dog.”
+
+Buck rubbed his chin thoughtfully for a moment.
+
+“No bet, Speck,” he said. “Yore hunch is too good. Any old time a kid is
+willin’ to bet his dog, the odds are all agin’ the other feller.”
+
+Abe Snow had been in town nearly all day, and now he rode back toward
+the Box 8 with Bill Wyatt and Snipe Lee, who had imbibed much liquor in
+a short space of time. Abe had been left in town to see if he could hear
+anything regarding Sontag and Harrison, but it was Wyatt and Lee who had
+the information.
+
+They rode in at the Box 8, stabled their horses and went to the
+ranch-house. There was no one there, except the Chinese cook, whose
+cognomen was One Bum Lung. He was cooking supper when Bill went into the
+kitchen to see how long it would be before eating time.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+“Two men come heah today,” stated One Bum Lung. “I no sabe ’em. One loan
+ho’se, one bay ho’se.”
+
+“Yeah?” Bill scowled thoughtfully. “One roan horse and one bay horse,
+eh? What did they want?”
+
+“No talk. I seeum on collal fence. Long time set on fence.”
+
+“Long time set on fence, eh? Where did they set on the fence?”
+
+“Longside li’l chute, where bland put on. You sabe place?”
+
+“Uh-huh.” Bill whirled and went back into the living-room, where Snipe
+and Abe were arguing over the ownership of an old magazine.
+
+“Sontag and Harrigan were here today,” said Bill. “Lung says they sat on
+the corral fence beside the brandin’-chute.”
+
+“The hell they did!” snorted Snipe. “What for?”
+
+“How would I know?” retorted Bill.
+
+“That don’t look so good,” said Abe seriously. “The sooner we run them
+jiggers out of the country the better it’ll be for us.”
+
+“And that’s no danged lie,” agreed Bill heartily. “If they show up at
+that sale tomorrow, there’ll be somethin’ doin’. You fellers keep sober
+and keep yore eyes open, sabe?”
+
+“Yeah, we’ll do that, too,” agreed Snipe. “I reckon Bunty will be at the
+sale, eh?”
+
+Bill laughed shortly. “Yeah, he’ll be there. I threw a spoke into his
+machine, but he don’t dare yelp. Keep yore eye on Bunty, too. This
+Sontag and Harrigan think they’re smart, buttin’ into things that don’t
+concern ’em.”
+
+“Started over that damn dog!” snapped Abe. “If we hadn’t tied a can on
+the kid’s dog, these two wouldn’t never mixed into it. If it hadn’t been
+for the dog, you and Sontag wouldn’t ’a’ had a fight. And then the old
+man wanted to adopt the kid, ’cause the kid didn’t like you.”
+
+“Glub pile!” called One Bum Lung, and they filed into the kitchen.
+
+
+
+
+VI
+
+
+“Didja ever read ‘Robinson Crusoe’?” asked Sad Sontag, leaning back in a
+dilapidated chair at the Bar S ranch and looking through a big book,
+balanced on his knees.
+
+Swede Harrigan squinted through his revolver barrel at the window,
+decided that it was clean enough, and reached for the oil can.
+
+“Know it by heart,” he declared wisely. “It was written on Friday by a
+man who found tracks in the sand. Where’d yuh get that book, Sad?”
+
+“Found it upstairs. It’s probably a book that old man Steeb gave to the
+kid on Christmas. I ain’t read that story for years, and it kinda brings
+back memories of my childhood.”
+
+“Yeah, it must,” agreed Swede. “You was eighteen years old before yuh
+learned to spell yore name.”
+
+“Oh, yeah, that’s right. Well, it brings back memories of my callow
+youth. How does that suit yuh?”
+
+“Suits me,” Swede shoved the gun into his holster and wiped his hands on
+his knees. “That danged deputy sheriff shore was careless to let our
+guns fall in the dust thataway. Say, I wonder what they’ll say when we
+show up at the sale? I dunno whether it’ll be just the right thing to
+do, or not, Sad.
+
+“We don’t know how the sheriff feels about it. My gosh, he may be out
+gunnin’ for us right now. He—say, why don’tcha listen to me? You don’t
+seem to care a dang, Sad.”
+
+“I was just wonderin’,” said Sad thoughtfully. “By golly, it’ll be a
+good way to find out for sure.”
+
+“Find out what?”
+
+“What didja say, Swede?”
+
+“Well, now that’s sure intelligible,” declared Swede. “I suppose yuh
+found somethin’ in that book that’ll help yuh out, didn’t yuh?”
+
+“Uh-huh—mebbe. When yuh don’t know the answer to anythin’—look in the
+book and see,” grinned Sad. “In a couple of hours they’ll come out here
+to hold that sale, and I might read ’em somethin’ out of the book.”
+
+“I hope Bill Wyatt and his gang shows up,” mused Swede. “If the Lord
+ever did make three danged fools, them are the ones. They’re either
+ignorant, or they’ve got a lot of nerve.”
+
+“They think they’re clever,” grinned Sad.
+
+“Then this is an awful ignorant settlement. We better get all set before
+they show up.”
+
+And while Sad and Swede got ready to receive them, the delegation rode
+from Oreana to attend the sale. Several buyers had come from the lower
+ranges, lured by the chance of buying something cheap.
+
+Bunty O’Neil rode with the sheriff and his assistant, Wheezer. He was in
+hopes that the sale would bring enough money to pay his notes against
+the Bar S; but the sheriff assured him that it would not. The ranch
+itself was not worth over five thousand, and thirty or forty head of
+cattle would not bring enough more to cover the amount of the notes.
+
+It was doubtful if a buyer could be found for the ranch. The story of
+the arrest and escape of Sad and Swede had become known, although the
+steer episode had only been touched upon lightly. Bill Wyatt and his two
+men rode together, and it seemed that they were unusually quiet of
+demeanor.
+
+Speck rode with the sheriff, and was still willing to bet his dog that
+Sad and Swede would attend the sale. Speck had begun to realize that the
+Bar S was to be sold for debts, and that it no longer would be home to
+him. Buck Rainey had explained it to him in detail, and a great wrath
+welled up within Speck against Bunty O’Neil, the man who was indirectly
+responsible for this loss.
+
+“That shore is dirty work,” Speck declared hotly. “Don’t I have the
+worst luck? Lose m’ ranch, and then somebody shoots the old man who was
+goin’ to help me out. I hope to gosh that somebody gets paid for all
+this.”
+
+They rode in at the Bar S and dismounted at the big corral near the
+stable. The sheriff sent Slim Wray and Art Alberts to round up the
+cattle in the pasture, while the buyers walked around, inspecting the
+buildings. The sheriff was a busy man, trying to get an opinion on the
+value of the ranch itself, but none of the cattlemen seemed inclined to
+make a bid. Bunty sat on the corral fence, gloomy of face, surly of
+speech. He wanted his money, and he did not care who knew it.
+
+“Close to ten thousand,” he wailed, when someone asked him how much the
+place owed him. “Got the notes right with me. That’s the last time
+anybody will ever hook me for that much.”
+
+[Illustration]
+
+“Well, where are all the Bar S cattle?” asked Gilroy, a rancher, who
+owned an outfit on Bitter River. He arrived too late to find out that
+the cattle had disappeared.
+
+“Stolen,” said Wheezer.
+
+“Stolen? How long since they disappeared?”
+
+Wheezer started to explain, but the boys were bringing the herd; so
+those at the corral separated and helped swing them in through the wide
+gate.
+
+“Hey!” called Slim. “There’s a Box 8 in that bunch.”
+
+“Leave him in,” yelled the sheriff. “We can cut him out later.”
+
+They shut the gate behind the last animal and prepared for the sale. The
+assemblage sat down on the top-pole of the corral fence and watched the
+cattle milling around, seeking an exit. The dust clouded up the scene to
+some extent, but the men were all old dust-eaters and did not mind.
+
+“There’s thirty-nine head,” declared the sheriff. “It’s a mixture of
+breeds, ages, et cettery. How much am I bid for the bunch?”
+
+“Three hundred and ninety dollars,” offered the Bitter River man. The
+price of ten dollars per head brought a laugh from the crowd.
+
+“Three hundred and ninety-one,” bid another.
+
+“Three ninety-one and two-bits.”
+
+“Three ninety-two.”
+
+“Wait a minute,” begged the sheriff. “My gosh, that ain’t no way to bid.
+Them animals would be dirt cheap at thirty per head.”
+
+“I’ll give twenty dollars per head.”
+
+The sheriff turned quickly at the sound of a familiar voice. Sad Sontag
+was just outside the corral and behind the men on the fence. Bunty
+O’Neil tried to turn quickly and almost fell off the fence. Swede
+Harrigan was standing near Sad, hanging on to the neck of a half filled
+gunny-sack, a grin on his face.
+
+“Well, I’ll be damned!” The sheriff seemed justified in making his
+statement. He climbed over the fence and faced Sad, who merely grinned
+and asked the sheriff if his bid was high enough to buy the cattle.
+
+“Hello, Mr. Sontag,” called Young Speck from his perch.
+
+“Hello, Speck. How’s Boze?”
+
+“He’s fine. By golly, I’m glad they didn’t catch yuh.”
+
+Sad laughed and turned to the sheriff. “I hope the old red cow didn’t
+hurt yuh, sheriff,” he said.
+
+“Myah!” snorted the sheriff. “You’ve got yore nerve to come here.”
+
+“Not so much. Yuh see, we intended to come to the sale.”
+
+“Don’t let ’em bluff yuh,” said Snipe Lee anxiously.
+
+“Nobody’s goin’ to bluff me,” declared the sheriff.
+
+“Nobody’s tryin’ to,” smiled Sad. “Let’s go ahead with the sale.”
+
+“Yeah, let’s go on with it,” agreed Bunty.
+
+For the first time the sheriff noticed that Sad had a big book under his
+left arm. He squinted closely.
+
+“What’s the idea of the book, Sontag?”
+
+“The book of wisdom,” grinned Sad. “It might answer a question that’s
+been botherin’ me quite a lot. Yuh see, I’ve been wonderin’ who stole
+them Bar S cattle.”
+
+“Are yuh lookin’ for the answer in a book?” asked Bill Wyatt
+sarcastically.
+
+“Mebbe.” Sad considered Bill thoughtfully. “Say, we was up to yore place
+yesterday, after the red steer busted up yore party. You’ve got quite a
+place, Wyatt. From the number of Box 8 cattle in the hills, you must be
+doin’ quite well.”
+
+Bill Wyatt did not reply, but shot a glance at Snipe and Abe, who were
+wishing that they were somewhere else.
+
+“Yessir, you seem to be doin’ quite well,” continued Sad. “You don’t
+brand very deep, do yuh?”
+
+“What do yuh mean?” demanded Bill.
+
+“Just what I said. Beauty may only be skin-deep, but a brand shore ought
+to go into the epidermis.”
+
+“I don’t git yore drift.” Bill spoke evenly and straightened up slowly.
+“If this is a sale—let’s sell somethin’ and have it over.”
+
+He climbed down off the fence and leaned against the nearest post.
+Several more got down, as though tired of their position, and Bunty
+O’Neil was one of them.
+
+“I made my bid,” said Sad. “Is somebody goin’ to raise it?”
+
+“Those cattle are worth more than that,” declared Bunty.
+
+“Go ahead and bid more,” growled Wheezer. “Nobody stoppin’ yuh, Bunty.”
+
+“I ain’t goin’ to bid on what already belongs to me.”
+
+“Does it belong to yuh?” asked Sad.
+
+“You’re damned right it does. I’ve got the notes to show for it right
+here.” Bunty slapped his pocket. “I’ve got enough to more than cover the
+ranch and everythin’ on it.”
+
+“Lemme see one?” demanded Sad.
+
+“Let yuh see nothin’!”
+
+“I don’t believe you’ve got a note,” persisted Sontag.
+
+“Thasso?” Bunty spat dryly. “Well, I have. The sheriff has seen ’em, and
+so has a lot of other folks.”
+
+“Say!” snorted Wyatt. “This is a joke. These men tried to steal a steer
+from me yesterday, and the sheriff arrested ’em, but they got away. Why
+don’t he arrest ’em again?”
+
+“That’s my business!” snapped Buck Rainey uneasily.
+
+“What’s the idea, Buck?” asked Gilroy.
+
+“I dunno,” Buck shook his head.
+
+“Scared of ’em,” fleered Bill Wyatt.
+
+“It was your steer,” reminded Wheezer. “Why don’t you do somethin’,
+Bill? Are yuh handcuffed?”
+
+“I still think that yuh ought to show them notes, Bunty,” said Sad,
+paying no attention to Bill Wyatt.
+
+“Why?” demanded Bunty.
+
+“I don’t believe they’re any good, Bunty.”
+
+“Yuh don’t, eh?” Bunty took an assortment of papers from his inside coat
+pocket. “Yuh don’t think they are, eh? Then take a look at one.”
+
+Sad accepted the folded sheet of paper and looked it over. It was a
+properly constructed ninety day note for twenty-six hundred dollars, and
+signed by Jim Steeb. Sad opened the book and looked at something on the
+fly-leaf.
+
+“Was Jim Steeb sober when he signed this note?” he asked.
+
+“As sober as a judge,” declared Bunty. “I didn’t want any slip in my
+dealings with him, Sontag. I never let him sign a note when he was
+drunk. Are yuh satisfied?”
+
+“Nope.” Sad looked up from the book and motioned to Speck.
+
+“C’mere, Speck, I want to ask yuh a question.”
+
+Speck came willingly enough and Sad held out the book to him.
+
+“Do yuh remember that book, Speck?”
+
+“Sure I do. My dad gave it to me last Christmas.”
+
+“Yuh see, gents, he recognizes the book,” said Sad. The men nodded. Sad
+opened it at the fly-leaf. “Was yore dad sober when he wrote that,
+Speck?”
+
+The boy nodded quickly. “He never was drunk at home, Mr. Sontag.”
+
+Sad closed the book, placed it on the ground and held the note out to
+the sheriff.
+
+“Take a look at that, will yuh sheriff. I’m goin’ to ask Bunty to show
+us the rest of ’em.”
+
+“The rest of ’em?” parroted Bunty. “Whatcha mean?”
+
+“The rest of the notes, Bunty,” said Sad evenly.
+
+“What for?”
+
+“Because those notes are all signed ‘Jim Steeb.’”
+
+“Signed—Why, you damned fool, that was his name!” Bunty hunched forward,
+reaching inside his coat, as though to comply with Sad’s request.
+
+“Yeah, his name was Steeb,” said Sad, narrowly watching Bunty. “Anyway,
+that’s the way it’s pronounced, Bunty. Yore notes are signed S-t-e-e-b,
+but on the fly-leaf of that book, it says ‘To my little son on Christmas
+Eve, from his father, and—” Sad hesitated for a moment—“and it’s signed
+James S-t-e-i-b! You dirty coyote, you tried to steal the Bar S, and you
+probably killed James S-t-e-i-b!”
+
+[Illustration]
+
+Bunty’s hand flipped from beneath his coat, holding a heavy revolver
+instead of the package of notes, but Sad suspected that Bunty was
+wearing a shoulder-holster, and his draw was just enough faster to spoil
+things entirely for Bunty O’Neil.
+
+Sad’s gun spouted lead from his hip, and the bullet yanked Bunty
+sideways, throwing him to a kneeling position against the corral fence,
+while the six-shooter flipped away in the dust. His shoulder was broken,
+but his spirit, after the shock, remained unbroken. He cursed wickedly,
+but no one cared what he thought. He had admitted his guilt when he drew
+his gun. Bill Wyatt’s eyes grew hard, and he shot a meaning glance at
+Snipe and Abe.
+
+The sheriff went to Bunty, reached inside his coat and took out the rest
+of the papers. Bunty cursed him fluently, but the sheriff paid no
+attention to his profanity. The others crowded around and watched the
+sheriff compare the signatures on the notes with that in the book. He
+turned to Speck, a grin on his face.
+
+“Speck, I reckon you get your ranch back. Your dad didn’t know how much
+of a Christmas present he was givin’ yuh when he wrote in that book.”
+
+“Well, he don’t get much, at that,” said Bill Wyatt.
+
+“Don’t he?” Sad grinned at Bill. “Don’t he? C’mere, Swede.”
+
+Swede came forward, carrying the gunnysack, which he upended and dumped
+out a fresh skin. It was the hide of the belligerent red steer. Swede
+spread it out on the ground for all of them to look upon.
+
+“Remember that critter, sheriff?” asked Sad.
+
+“By God, that’s one of my steers!” exclaimed Bill angrily.
+
+“Yeah, it shore is,” agreed Wheezer. “That’s the one we filled with lead
+yesterday. I’d remember that red steer anywhere.”
+
+“What’s the big idea?” demanded the sheriff.
+
+“We went back and skinned it,” said Sad casually. “You jiggers were so
+mad that yuh wouldn’t even collect the meat. We all had some nice steaks
+for supper off that animal.”
+
+“You got a lot of nerve!” snorted Bill. “Tried to steal——”
+
+“Don’t talk out of turn,” advised Sad. “Sheriff, I ask yuh to examine
+that brand, but before yuh do, I’d like to say that we know where the
+body of old Eph Wyatt is. He lived long enough to help us figure out who
+shot him.
+
+“Yuh see, he had only one livin’ relative. That livin’ relative would
+naturally inherit the Diamond W when the old man died. But when the old
+man declared his intentions of adoptin’ Speck, it was a cinch that Speck
+would get the Diamond W; so this lone livin’ relative—Don’t move, Wyatt!
+Keep yore hands where they are.
+
+“You shot old Eph Wyatt from ambush. You and Bunty O’Neil had a fallin’
+out; so you stole all the Bar S cattle you and yore gang could handle,
+and changed the Bar S to the Box 8. You branded some with an iron, but a
+lot of ’em were hair-branded in yore brandin’ chute. You fool, the floor
+of that chute looks like the floor of a barber-shop after Saturday’s
+work.
+
+“Look at the brand on that hide! Keep yore hands——”
+
+But Bill Wyatt had no idea of putting up a fight. He whirled around and
+darted for the corner of the corral, but stopped with a lurch.
+
+Standing between him and the corner and regarding him calmly was old Eph
+Wyatt. For Bill it was like looking at a ghost; the ghost of the man he
+had tried to kill. Bill stared at him, turned back and walked unsteadily
+to the sheriff. It seemed as though Bill Wyatt were finished; as though
+he were surrendering. But he was not.
+
+Suddenly he grasped the sheriff, whirled him around, grasped him by the
+back of the shirt and shoved his gun into the sheriff’s back.
+
+“Keep back!” he snarled at the crowd, who were all in front of him.
+“Make one fool move and I’ll drill Buck Rainey. Now, Buck, yuh can back
+up. I’m no quitter.”
+
+There was nothing for Buck to do, except follow orders. Bill reached
+down quickly and secured the sheriff’s gun. The two began backing away
+slowly, while the crowd, afraid to make a move for fear that Bill would
+make good his threat to kill Buck Rainey, stood and watched them widen
+the distance. Wheezer and Slim had moved in behind Snipe and Abe and
+quietly taken their guns before either of the Box 8 boys realized what
+had been done.
+
+“Look at Bunty O’Neil!” gasped Sad. The wounded gambler had managed to
+get to his feet and had secured his revolver. No one had bothered to
+pick it out of the dust, because everyone thought that Bunty was too
+badly hurt to ever attempt to recover it.
+
+Bunty was humped badly, with his right arm swinging loosely, his face
+the color of wood-ashes, but he was making unsteadily for the sheriff
+and Bill Wyatt.
+
+“Go back, you damn fool!” commanded Bill.
+
+Bunty shook his head painfully, gripping the heavy gun in his left hand.
+
+“Damn the sheriff!” grunted Bunty. “His life don’t mean nothin’ to me;
+I’m after you, Wyatt. You double-crossed me, you coyote!”
+
+Bill swung the sheriff around toward Bunty. He was afraid to swing
+further, because it would give the crowd a chance to shoot him in the
+back.
+
+“Go back, Bunty,” warned Bill. “I’ll kill yuh if yuh don’t stop.”
+
+Bunty laughed hollowly, but did not stop. He seemed awkward in his
+handling of the six-shooter in his left hand, and the swinging muzzle
+was as much of a menace to Buck Rainey as it was to Bill Wyatt.
+
+Suddenly Bill fired at Bunty, but missed him. The bullet tore a splinter
+from the corral fence, and a steer bawled painfully.
+
+“Your luck is gone, Bill,” said Bunty unsteadily.
+
+“Like hell it has! I’ll show yuh who’s got the luck.”
+
+Wyatt and the sheriff were backing faster now. It was evident that Wyatt
+was trying to draw far enough away to make a break for the brush. The
+crowd was powerless to stop him, unless they were willing to take a
+chance on Wyatt killing Buck Rainey.
+
+Bill fired again at Bunty, and this time he did not miss. Bunty almost
+went to his knees, but recovered his balance. Bill fired once more, but
+missed, and the bullet caused the audience to scatter.
+
+Suddenly little Speck Steib darted from the corner of the stable,
+circling behind Bill and the sheriff.
+
+“Don’t yell!” cautioned Sad. “Bill don’t see him.”
+
+Bill Wyatt did not hear Sad’s warning, nor did he realize that the
+youngster had sprawled in the dirt not more than six feet directly
+behind him. He was too interested in his own getaway, which seemed more
+probable every moment. If he could hold them back until he gained the
+brush, the odds would be in his favor.
+
+Bunty was laughing drunkenly, as he reeled ahead. The sheriff knew that
+death was behind him, and he was almost as afraid of Bunty’s erratic gun
+muzzle as he was of Bill Wyatt’s threats. In fact, he was a trifle more
+worried about Bunty, because he felt that Bill would not shoot him as
+long as he obeyed orders.
+
+They had backed almost into Speck now, as Bunty’s advance forced them to
+increase their backward pace. Suddenly Bill Wyatt’s heels struck the
+prostrate body, and the boy’s arms wrapped in a tight grip around his
+boots.
+
+Wyatt cursed viciously, tried to catch his balance, but he had been
+going too fast. The sheriff backed into him, and they both went down in
+a heap on top of Speck, while into them, half-falling as he came, fell
+Bunty O’Neil.
+
+Sad Sontag was running toward them, as Wyatt’s heels first struck Speck,
+and by the time the three men had piled up, Sad was into them, followed
+by the rest of the crowd, except Wheezer, who was going to be very sure
+that Snipe Lee and Abe Snow would not escape.
+
+But Sad was not quick enough to prevent Bunty O’Neil from his vengeance.
+From the midst of the struggle came the muffled thud of a revolver shot,
+before the crowd could yank them apart.
+
+The sheriff got to his feet unhurt, when they dragged Bunty O’Neil
+aside; and Speck, covered with dust and blood, crawled from beneath Bill
+Wyatt, spitting dirt and blinking blindly.
+
+But Bill Wyatt did not get up. The crowd stood around and looked at him
+and at Bunty O’Neil, who was too far gone to know what it was all about.
+The sheriff grabbed Speck and hugged him, while Speck dug both fists in
+his eyes, trying to remove enough dirt to enable him to see what had
+happened.
+
+Old Eph Wyatt came among them and looked down at his nephew. No one
+questioned the old man. They just seemed to take it for granted that
+everything would be explained. Speck blinked at him foolishly, his eyes
+filled with dust-tears.
+
+“I—I kinda bull-dogged him, didn’t I?” asked Speck.
+
+“Boy, yuh shore did,” said Buck Rainey. “You done just the right thing
+at the right time. If there’s goin’ to be any adoptin’ done, I’d like to
+have a chance at it.”
+
+“I reckon I come first,” said old Eph Wyatt quickly.
+
+Speck looked at them, a half-grin on his face.
+
+“I’m much obliged to yuh,” he said. “I’ve got to think about it.”
+
+“Well, he gets the Bar S all back, don’t he?” queried Sad. “It looks to
+me like you’d have to pick out all them changed brands and turn ’em back
+to the Bar S.”
+
+“Y’betcha,” nodded the sheriff. “Speck gets ’em all.”
+
+“Snipe Lee says he’d kinda like to talk,” stated Wheezer.
+
+“I jist wanted to say,” said Snipe, “that me and Abe didn’t have nothin’
+to do with shootin’ at the old man. Bill never told us that he did that,
+but he was awful sore to think that old Eph was goin’ to adopt the kid.
+Bill had an idea of combinin’ the Diamond W with the Box 8. I reckon
+Bill done the shootin’, ’cause he rode away that day with a rifle.”
+
+[Illustration]
+
+“What about the cattle stealin’?” asked Buck Rainey.
+
+“We done it, Buck. When Bill registered that Box 8 brand, he had the
+idea of stealin’ Bar S cattle. It was plumb easy to change the brand to
+a Box 8. Then Bunty O’Neil came to Oreana. Him and Bill were old
+friends.
+
+“Bunty pointed out that he had a better scheme to get the Bar S ranch,
+and he said it would be safer; so we quit pickin’ up the Bar S cattle.
+Bunty and Bill had trouble and kinda busted up. It kinda looked like
+Bunty was goin’ to hog the whole works; so we tried to spoil his game by
+stealin’ all the cattle.
+
+“We branded what we could in the length of time we had, but the bulk of
+the cattle are back in a box canyon behind the Box 8, where we were
+goin’ to finish the job. Me and Abe plead guilty right here. We never
+got a cent for our work, and we didn’t steal because we expected to be
+paid—but to help Bill git even with Bunty O’Neil.”
+
+“They’re both even now,” said Sad. “I reckon there ain’t much left for
+anybody to do. The sale is all off, unless Speck wants to sell
+somethin’.”
+
+“I ain’t sellin’,” grinned Speck. “I reckon I’ll raise cows.”
+
+They packed the two dead men on their horses and prepared to take them
+to Oreana. One of the boys opened the corral gate and let the cattle
+drift. Speck went back and picked up the scattered notes and the big
+book, which had proved Bunty’s duplicity.
+
+“Are you goin’ to town with us, Speck?” asked the sheriff.
+
+Speck shook his head quickly. “No, I reckon I’ll stay home, Mr. Rainey.
+I thought mebbe Mr. Sontag and Mr. Harrigan might stay all night with me
+and kinda help me git started.”
+
+“Speck, you’ve got the whole town of Oreana to help yuh, if yuh need
+help.”
+
+“Mebbe I have now.” Speck was wise beyond his years. “These two men
+helped me when Oreana wouldn’t.”
+
+Buck rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “That’s right, Speck. They shore
+ruined yuh for bein’ an orphan.”
+
+The crowd all shook hands with them, and the cavalcade moved back down
+the road. Old Eph Wyatt was the last to go.
+
+“I’m glad it turned out the way it did,” he said. “I lose a son—mebbe.
+If we could combine the two ranches, it might be a good thing for both
+of us. I’m gittin’ old, and I need a young man around the place.”
+
+“I’ll be over,” said Speck. “Mebbe we might work out a deal.”
+
+The old man laughed and rode away. Speck led the way to the porch of the
+ranch-house, still carrying the book and notes. He sat down and the two
+cowpunchers sat down on each side of him, while he looked over the
+papers.
+
+“I can’t read much,” he confessed sadly. “Yuh see, I never had much
+chance to go to school. Dad worried a lot about it. He said that
+education was somethin’ I needed pretty bad.” He opened the book at the
+fly-leaf and squinted at the penciled writing.
+
+“What does that say?” he asked.
+
+Sad squinted curiously at the boy and shot a quick glance at Swede.
+
+“It says, ‘To my little son on Christmas Eve, from his father, James
+Steib.’”
+
+“Uh-huh.” Speck grew thoughtful as he looked at the notes. “Is my
+father’s name written on these, too?”
+
+“Sure. They forged his name, Speck.”
+
+“Yuh mean that they wrote it on without him knowin’ it?”
+
+“That’s the idea. Yuh see, Bunty knew he was in bad when I showed him
+the name in the book. I had an idea that he was a crook, but it took a
+lot of schemin’ to prove it.”
+
+“Uh-huh.” Speck hardly understood. He pointed at the writing on the
+fly-leaf. “Who wrote that?”
+
+“Well, I—uh—your father must ’a’—” Sad shifted his feet and looked
+appealingly at Swede, whose eyes widened humorously.
+
+“That’s kinda funny,” mused Speck. “Yuh see, my dad never knew how to
+write. He was ashamed of it and never let folks know. That’s why he
+always wanted me to learn.”
+
+A short lead-pencil in Sad’s pocket seemed to grow warm and he shifted
+nervously.
+
+“But—but his name was spelled S-t-e-i-b,” said Sad. “I seen it on an old
+letter I found in the house.”
+
+“Mebbe,” nodded Speck. “Ma could read. After she went away, me and Dad
+had a hard time. I don’t sabe who wrote that stuff in the book, ’cause
+Dad couldn’t.”
+
+“Let’s figure it was fate, Speck,” said Sad softly.
+
+“Who is fate, Mr. Sontag?”
+
+“He’s the guy who tied the tin can on Boze.”
+
+“Aw, that was Bill Wyatt.”
+
+“Yuh can’t see fate, Speck.”
+
+The kid nodded, got to his feet and walked into the house. Sad tore the
+flyleaf from the book, wadded up the notes, put them in his pocket and
+got to his feet.
+
+He and Swede looked at each other and grinned knowingly.
+
+“Will we head for Sundown, or stay a while and see that the kid gets
+started out right?” asked Sad.
+
+“Mebbe,” grinned Swede, “we better leave it to fate.”
+
+So fate nodded and they decided to stay.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+Transcriber’s note: This story appeared in the January 10, 1925 issue
+of _Short Stories_ magazine.
+
+
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 77373 ***