The Young Runaway, page 6
"He got a little het up at Slade. Said you was a wild one all right, but straight as a string, an' thet Slade hadn't savvied thet you was from the old Texas breed."
"Damn thet four-flush of a sheriff!" cursed the cowboy. "He's not so above a slick deal himself. I know...Reckon I'm liable to take a shot at him one of these heah nights."
"Tex, you'll kill somebody yet," declared McCall, anxiously.
"Shouldn't wonder. All you gotta do, Mac, is to make damn good an' shore it ain't you...When do I git the rest of the dough?"
"Reckon pronto...Tex, I got a new deal on."
"Ahuh. Wal, spring it on me."
"There's an old geezer named Nick Bligh just drove in a thousand head of cows, a sprinklin' of yearlings, an' a lot of calves. Hails from Randall, somewhere near the Montana line. This rancher hasn't no outfit at all—jest a middle-aged man to help him handle thet stock. Why, before the snow flies there'll be a couple hundred unbranded calves bawlin' around."
"Humph. How come this Nick Bligh hasn't got no punchers?"
"There can be only one reason fer thet, if he's a Westerner. No money."
"Wal, thet's no reason why a cowboy worth a damn wouldn't ride fer him. I've done it. All depends on the rancher."
"Tex, thet gives me an idee. Suppose you go ride fer this Bligh—"
"Ump-umm, Mac. I don't mind brandin' a few mavericks. Thet's legitimate. An' even when a cattleman knows the mavericks ain't his—he brands them anyhow. All ranchers have done thet—gettin' their start. But what you propose would be stealin' ."
"If you're set on splittin' hairs over it—hell, yes!" replied McCall, testily.
"I'll go in on the deal—burnin' your brand on stray calves."
"But, Tex, there ain't much money in thet for me or you," continued the other persuasively. "On the other hand, two hundred calves would fetch between forty an' fifty dollars a head next year."
"Mac, thet's most like old-time rustlin'," expostulated the cowboy.
"Look hyar, puncher. You oughta know thet there's plenty of rustlin' goin' on on Wyomin' ranges right now."
"Shore. But what's a few haid of stock to a cattleman who owns ten thousand? Mac, safety lies in small numbers. You aim to hire me to be crooked. An' I'll be damned if I'll fall for it."
Silence ensued after the puncher's forceful speech. Andrew scarcely breathed in the intensity of his interest and the peril he risked in being discovered. The cowboy struck a match for his cigarette. By its light Andrew saw a youthful reckless face, singularly handsome, almost as red as his flaming hair.
"Tex, I don't trust Smoky Reed over much," at length replied McCall.
"Wal, Smoky is on the level. If you want him to snake oot all the calves thet poor devil owns he'll do it. Smoky told me he'd lost out with the K-Bar ootfit an' was goin' to ride fer the Three Flags. I reckon he won't last much longer heah, no more'n me."
"Will you make Smoky an offer fer me?"
"Wal, I'll carry any word you say. But get this, McCall, I won't have nothin' to do with Smoky's work."
"Thet's all right, Tex. Don't get het up."
"This Bligh deal ain't so good. I'm advisin' you, Mac. If you go whale bang at it you may lose oot. Shore, I've got you figgered. If it come to a showdown you'd lay it on to a coupla range-marked punchers."
"Tex, I wouldn't give no one away."
"Aw, the hell's fire you wouldn't," retorted the cowboy shortly. "To save yore own skin you'd do thet an' more. But so far as I'm concerned I can look oot fer myself. I was thinkin' of Smoky."
"Safest way," continued McCall as if he had not heard Texas, "is to drive cow an' calf into rough brush or timber, or a rocky draw—kill the cow, then brand the calf an' fetch it out. Coyotes an' buzzards would make short work of the carcass. An' there ain't one chance in a thousand of Bligh missin' his cows until the job's all done."
"Aw, it's safe enough, but it just sticks in my craw, McCall," rejoined the cowboy in disgust.
"Thet ain't the point. Will you put Smoky wise to this deal?"
"Shore, I'll do thet. An' I'll do my part. But before you bust into this, Mac, listen to me. I never heahed of this Nick Bligh. Most likely he's a pore cattleman, drove west, an' makin' a stand. But s'pose this all happened. S'pose aboot the time you got yore deal half done, say, thet a pardner with money enough to buy more stock an' hire some real cowboys—s'pose he'd show up?"
"Ha! Tex, miracles like thet don't happen in these cattle times."
"Hell they don't! Anythin' can happen, man. Where's yore sense? I ain't carin' a damn, 'cept for the old geezer Bligh. But I'm jest tellin' you."
"Reckon you're losin' your nerve, Tex, or figgerin' overcareful."
"Shore, if thet's the way you get me...Where's this Bligh feller located?"
"Down across the Sweetwater River," replied McCall eagerly. "He's bought or leased the old Boseman ranch, on the south bank of the river, halfway between the Antelope Hills an' the Green Mountains. Damn fine range, when the grass is good. An' this spring it's comin' strong."
"Ahuh. I know thet ranch," mused Texas. "Looked at it with a longin' eye myself, more'n once. But it'd take some dough to make good there."
"Thet's not our concern. For your an' Smoky's information put this under your hat. There are three outfits on thet big range south of the Sweetwater. The Cross Bar, owned by Cheney Brothers, the Triangle X, run by Hale Smith, an' the Wyomin' Cattle Association, runnin' the W.C. They all work up into the foothills of the Green Mountains, an' anyone ridin' in there must have sharp eyes. Savvy?"
"Shore, I savvy. Slade is in thet Wyomin' Cattle Association," returned Texas, thoughtfully.
"Yes, but not very deep. Slade's in more'n one deal jest for a blind." McCall slid down off the rock. "Reckon thet's about all fer tonight."
"Wal, it'll last me a spell, Mac," drawled the cowboy.
"Don't overlook my hunch. So long."
With a wave of his hand the cowboy loped his horse over to the road, and taking the direction away from town, soon disappeared in the darkness. McCall watched him out of sight and stood listening to the dying clip-clop of hoofs.
"By Gawd, thet Texas puncher will spill the beans fer me yet—if I don't fix him," he muttered, and then with a snap of his fingers strode away toward the town.
When he, too, had gone Andrew arose to stretch his cramped legs. His face was wet with sweat and his heart was thumping. He had to laugh at his first introduction to a western drama that was not in any sense fictitious.
"Well, Andy, what do you know about this?" he asked himself. "By golly, I like that redheaded cowpuncher. I'll bet he's the goods. But McCall is that same little old proposition one meets the world around, I guess. And Bligh, just the old fall guy who's to be fleeced. Now I wonder where do I come in?"
Andrew almost forgot that he was cold and hungry. After some deliberation he built a fire, deciding that if the cowboy or McCall should happen back there—which was wholly unlikely—he could allay suspicion by claiming he had just arrived. To be thrown upon his own resources had become an increasing joy to Andrew, but so far he did not exactly shine as a cook. He burned both the ham and the potatoes, and let the coffee boil over. Nevertheless he ate what he had cooked with a relish.
This night he decided not to sleep in the car. He had added a couple of blankets to the old lap robe, and he made his bed on the ground beside the fire. Then he gathered all the available firewood in the near vicinity, and removing only his shoes he prepared to make a night of it.
All the same, slumber soon gripped Andrew and held him tight for half the night. Awakening stiff with cold, he got up to renew the fire. Despite his discomfort, the traveler decided that life in the open had its good points. Andrew had known camp life, but only in a luxurious way. As he sat beside the little fire warming his hands and feet, he knew that he had become a part of this land of the purple sage.
The sky was a deep dark blue, studded with innumerable stars. Black rocks stood up bold and sharp above the brush. There was not a sound except the faint rustling of leaves in the night wind.
On and off, he was up like this during the remainder of the night, until the blackness yielded to gray, when he fell soundly asleep for a couple of hours. He drove into town with the sunrise. While eating breakfast at a lunch counter frequented by dusty-booted men, refueling his car at the service station, stocking a goodly supply of food at a grocery, buying a very fine secondhand cowboy outfit at a merchandise store, Andrew asked the cheerful and casual questions of the tenderfoot. Having thus acquired a lot of general information, he was about to leave town when he happened to think that he had not inquired the way to the Sweetwater River and Nick Bligh's ranch.
He leaned out of his car to accost a Westerner who happened along at that moment. He was a man of about sixty years of age, gray and weather-beaten. His boots and garb gave ample evidence of considerable contact with the soil.
"Excuse me, sir," said Andrew. "Can you direct me to the Sweetwater River?"
"Good morning, young man," the Westerner replied, as he halted. "Straight ahead about thirty miles out."
"Thanks. And how to get to Nick Bligh's ranch?"
Andrew became aware of keen blue eyes fixed upon him.
"You know Nick?"
"Sorry to say I don't, but I'd like to," replied Andrew heartily.
"Selling hardware, life insurance, lightning rods—or bootleg whiskey?" queried the old man dryly.
"No. Just trying to sell myself."
"Job, eh?"
"Yes, I want a job."
"Who told you to hit Nick Bligh?"
"I happened to hear that he'd lately come to this range with cattle and no cowboys. So I thought he might want one."
"Wal, son, I happen to know Nick wants cowboys. But he's hard up at present. Looking for big wages?"
"I'll work for my board," declared Andrew eagerly. "Where you from?"
"East."
"Reckoned that. But East means anywhere from the Missouri to the Atlantic."
"All right, call it Missouri. I don't want to advertise I'm a dude."
"I reckon Nick will be glad to talk to you...Don't cross the river. Take the road left and drive onto his place. You can't miss it, as there's only one. If Nick's not home, wait."
"Much obliged. I'll do that," rejoined Andrew heartily.
The Westerner turned to resume his walk, almost bumping into a tall man wearing a wide sombrero. "Morning, Slade," he said shortly and passed on.
"Howdy, Nick," drawled the other. Then he approached Andrew and gave him a searching look from keen yellow eyes. Andrew was quick to see the glint of a silver shield half concealed under the man's vest. He was without a coat. His face was sallow and he wore a long drooping mustache. Andrew's pulse quickened a few beats when he realized that he was facing Sheriff Slade.
"Stranger hereabouts?" he queried.
"You bet I am," responded Andrew pleasantly enough.
"Salesman?"
"Nope, Just a tin-Lizzie tramp looking for a job."
"Was that what you was askin' Nick Bligh?"
"Who?"
"Wal, the man you was jest talkin' to," returned the sheriff tersely.
"Oh—him! Was Nick Bligh?"
"Air you shore you didn't know thet?"
"Say, mister, I just arrived here this A.M. I was merely asking the gentleman about work on ranches."
"I see you're loaded up with a cowpuncher's junk. Wonder what you got hid under all this...Get out!"
"Sheriff, eh?" rejoined Andrew lightly as he slid out of the seat. "Delighted to meet you."
Slade searched the car thoroughly, during which performance a little crowd collected. Andrew pretended a show of resentment.
"I'm a stranger, out of work, driving west—and get held up for doing nothing," he complained to the bystanders resentfully.
Slade continued his search in silence. Finally he closed the car door and spoke: You can never tell who's packin' liquor."
"No offense," returned Andrew cheerily. "I appreciate what the West is up against...Why, Officer Slade, even might be a bootlegger!" And Andrew gave the sheriff a cool stare, mitigated by a smile.
"Don't get fresh, young feller," replied Slade gruffly, annoyed by the laughter among the bystanders. "Be on your way an' keep goin'."
Andrew got back into his car. "Most western towns welcome travelers and prospective settlers. What's the matter with this burg?"
"Wal, we Wyomin' folks air partic'lar about our brands," drawled the sheriff.
"But not so particular about whose calf you slap them on," retorted Andrew, and stepped on the throttle. "Gosh!" he ejaculated. "This will never do. I must learn to keep my mouth shut and my temper down. But wouldn't I have liked to sock that yellow-eyed hypocrite!"
Once out of town he slowed to the speed he liked best, which was in fact merely crawling along. All the way across Wyoming he had feasted his eyes upon the increasingly fascinating vistas. What he could not get enough of was the far-flung leagues of open rangeland. Along here, however, he was shut in by low mountains to the north, and some few miles to the south by a higher, rougher range.
For the time being Andrew shelved some of the aspects of his latest adventure, content to return to them again after he had reached the ranch on the Sweetwater. Why, he wondered, had Nick Bligh not revealed his identity?
At the end of two hours of somewhat rough going, he passed the limits of the Granite Range. From there the rolling plains to the north appeared endless. He saw a winding line of trees which probably marked the river course. Cattle in considerable number in the aggregate, but scattered so far and wide over the rangeland that they seemed very few could be seen grazing. Once he spied a lone horseman topping a ridge, and the sight gave Andrew an inexplicable thrill.
The black patches on the green, so few and far between, he had come to recognize as ranch houses. By his uncertain calculation a dozen miles or more separated the closest of the ranches. And gradually these distances widened, as the ranches decreased in number, until the hour came when he could not see a single house.
At length he approached the river on a long gradual down grade. When he arrived at the point where the highway crossed a bridge, and an apology for a road branched to the south, it was the big moment in that day's drive.
The Sweetwater River was a delight to the eye, as it must have been a boon to the immense range that it traversed. It wound away between wooded banks, now flowing in shallow ripples over gravel bars, and now in long deep reaches, and again spread into several channels around willow-bordered islands. Coyotes stood on the opposite bank to watch Andrew; jack rabbits abounded, and wild ducks skittered off the shoals to wing in rapid flight up the river.
Andrew's view to the south was obstructed owing to the foothills of the Green Mountains which encroached upon the river bottom lands.
After gazing long at the superb view, the traveler turned into the branch road, with the feeling that he was leaving his bridges behind him, if not burning them. The road kept to the river bank, and was of such a nature that he had to attend to careful driving instead of indulging his desire for enjoying the scenery. In due time he arrived at the point where the foothills trooped to the stream. He drove along their base until he had passed the last one. Here two scenic spots met his delighted gaze—the first, a grove of cottonwoods just bursting into bright green, and the other, a high, isolated knoll from which he was certain one could get a commanding view of the country. Andrew did not make any choice. He would possess them both; and he drove down into the grove of cottonwoods.
A wide-spreading giant of a tree invited rest. Grassy plots and sandy places alternated through the grove down to the high weeds and yellow daisies, and the wall of willows.
"Immense!" ejaculated Andrew with a tremendous sigh. He did not know exactly what he meant by immense, but the feeling was profound. Lifting out the boxes of food, Andrew selected crackers and sardines and a can of peaches for his lunch. This was faring sumptuously. He had a canteen full of fresh water, but he decided to go down to the river. Finding a cattle track he followed it out of the grove, through the breast-high sunflowers and the willows, down to where the river murmured and gurgled over a gravelly bar. Andrew waded in, and scooped up water with his cupped hands. It was sweet and cold. He wondered where it came from and tried to picture its rocky source.
He retraced his steps, stripping leaves and a few of the yellow daisies on the way. Andrew put the boxes back in the car and then headed for the knoll.
As he had been deceived before by distance and elevation, so he was again in this instance. The knoll proved not very close to the road and considerably higher than he had imagined it to be. As he climbed, the necessity for taking the easiest way worked him round to the north slope, so that when he surmounted the knoll he faced the range keenly expectant but completely unprepared for what greeted his view.
"My Lord!" he gasped, amazed at the vivid coloring and infinite grandeur of the view.
The vast panorama spreading fan-shaped before him, with the green-bordered shining river turning to the right, and the rugged slopes of the mountain range on the left, formed a gateway to what appeared to be a purple abyss, and leading to a blue-based, white-peaked barrier in the far distance.
"Aw, have a heart, Wyoming!" cried Andrew. "What are you giving me?...Are you real—or is this just one of my dreams?"
He stood there gazing his fill. This was his first unlimited view. The sweep of prairie land, hills and valleys, mountain ranges in the distance—these had become scenes of growing frequency and increasing impressiveness during the last few days of travel. But the scene unfolding before him here dwarfed anything that he had yet seen.
"No, this is no mirage. This is real...And oh, boy, this is the one spot in all the world I've been looking for," he exclaimed.
Westward he followed the black and green river bottom and the shining water to the north of a low range of symmetrical knolls, marked Antelope Hills on his map. Then miles or more beyond he sighted the ranch that must be Nick Bligh's. Indeed, there was no other ranch visible south of the Sweetwater. Its location seemed all satisfying to the traveler. The river went on and on, growing dimmer, becoming a mere thread, to vanish in a blue haze out of which the Rocky Mountains rose, first obscure and like low masses of clouds, and then clear blue, to rise up and up in magnificent reaches to pierce the sky with their snow-white peaks. That was the Continental Divide, the backbone of the West, the end of the Great Plains, the wall of iron, set so formidably on the earth with its jagged teeth in the heavens.
