THE three discussed the matter as they rode slowly after Bob and Dick.
“This shore jars me,” said Deuce. “What are we goin’ to tell Bob?”
“Nothin’,” answered Ace. “He wouldn’t believe us. For him the sun rises and sets in Dick Markley.”
“But, dang it! he oughta know.” Deuce glanced toward the Mexican.
Joe shrugged. “Bob mus’ fin’ out for heemself. We have only w’at you call sus-pee-cion. We theenk ’orse ees fall and break hees leg; we theenk thees rus’ler eshoot heem; we theenk that Deek ees give heem hees own caballo. We theenk that; but we do not know. Señor Bob weel not believe.”
“He’ll believe if I dig a forty-one slug outa that horse’s head!”
“He weel say maybe thees outlaw ees eshoot forty-one also.”
“Joe’s right,” agreed Ace. “The only thing we can do is sit tight and watch. Dang Dick Markley anyhow!”
They found the two awaiting them at the mouth of the ravine, and rode swiftly and in silence across the valley toward Tomlinson’s camp fire. As they drew near, a rifle barked and its slug whined over their heads. They pulled up and Bob called his identity across the intervening space.
Continuing to the wagons, they dismounted. Tomlinson was seated with his back against a tree, one leg supported by a pillow. Near him stood a girl with a rifle, and at sight of her all five stopped and stared.
Never had Bob seen a girl just like her. Western, by her rig and the way she handled the weapon, yet different from any sun-browned daughter of the range he had ever known. Perhaps it was the pure gold of her hair beneath the white Stetson, or the dark brows and lashes which contrasted so strikingly with her fair skin. Perhaps it was the slender delicacy of her lissom form or the erect, almost jaunty, way she carried her head. Pretty was too frail a word with which to describe her; beautiful, not sufficiently all-covering.
Dick’s low exclamation aroused Bob. Markley had swept his hat from his head and was staring at her with bold, admiring eyes. Bob removed his own Stetson and stepped forward.
“Good evenin’, Miss. Evenin’, Mr. Tomlinson. You badly hurt?”
“Broken leg,” replied the Texan. “June, this is Bob Lee.”
The girl smiled. “I’m glad to know you, Mr. Lee. Father tells me you are from Texas, too.”
“Yes, ma’am. Meet Charley Talbot, Harry Lowery, José Villegas, and Dick Markley, ma’am. The first three are from Texas also. Dick isn’t, but he tries hard to make up for it.”
“Proud to meetcha, ma’am,” gulped Ace.
“Same here,” mumbled Deuce.
José bowed, teeth gleaming. “Ees ver’ gr-r-reat pleasure.”
Dick stepped forward and took her hand. His eyes were dancing. “I’m a sinful man,” he told her gravely, “but that’s because I never before knew just what an angel looked like. I’m reformin’ from this moment.”
Bob turned to her father. “We chased the leader of the crowd into the hills. He got away from us. Did yore men have any better luck?”
“I reckon not. They shore caught us flat-footed. We had to catch up horses, and by that time it was all over.”
The Tomlinson crew rode up and dismounted. The guard whose horse had been shot was riding behind a companion. The fall had rendered him unconscious, but except for a superficial head wound he was uninjured.
“I’ll ride to Lariat for a doctor,” June said. “Dad needs one badly.”
“If yore father will lend me a horse, I’ll ride with you,” offered Dick.
“I wish you would,” Tomlinson said. “You know the country. Take yore pick of the remuda.”
Dick and the girl moved away from the fire, and presently Bob heard the drum of hoofs and caught a brief glimpse of the pair as they rode northward.
Tomlinson stoically retained his position against the tree. He was a big, ruddy-faced, heavy-mustached man—a pioneer, inured to hardship. Despite the pain, he went about introducing the four to his crew and listened to his foreman’s report. Unfamiliar with the terrain, they had not established contact with a single rustler. The cattle were scattered in a dozen gullies and ravines.
They put up their horses and dropped beside the fire. Bob went about making Tomlinson comfortable. He found an opiate in the medicine chest, and administered enough to make the Texan drowsy. When Tomlinson had closed his eyes, Bob rejoined his companions. They were discussing Dick and the girl.
“He always was lucky,” sighed Ace.
“Don’t blame it on luck,” said Deuce peevishly. “If you had half his gall you’d ’a’ offered to ride to town with her.”
“You weren’t overflowin’ with words yoreself. All you done was mumble ’Same here’ and stand starin’ like a sick calf.”
José Villegas sighed dolorously. “Me, I’m theenk I’m w’at you call in the loff.”
Deuce turned to him in amazement. “Why, you black-eyed son of sin! You go twangin’ that gui-tar under her window and I’ll wrap it around yore neck!”
Bob grinned as he rolled himself in his blanket. “Reckon you’re all sort of premature. Here you are fallin’ in love with a lady and not one of you can tell me the color of her eyes.”
“They are blue,” stated Deuce.
“You’re color blind,” sniffed Ace. “They’re brown.”
“Me, I’m theenk they are black lak the night.”
Bob spoke with his back turned. “Wait until mornin’ and see.” But he knew all the while that they were violet; deep, fathomless, soul-stirring. And through the night they haunted him until at last he kicked free of the blanket and sat by the dying embers smoking until dawn.
June and Dick arrived with Doc Witherspoon just as the crew, supplemented by Bob and his friends, were about to start after the cattle.
“Me, I’m good from feex the leg which is bus’,” suggested Joe. “I’m stay weeth the señorita and help the medico.”
“You’ll start after them cows with the rest of the fellas,” Dick told him. “I’ll do all the helpin’ that’s necessary. Who went after that doctor, anyhow? Besides, I haven’t had my breakfast. Get goin’.”
“Danged upstart!” muttered Deuce as they started for their horses. “How’s he get that way—givin’ us orders!”
“He mus’ have hees leetle moment,” said Joe. “Wait till I’m get my guitar; I’m show heem how we mak the loff in old Mejico.”
“You try it and I’ll show you how we make the hash in New Mexico!”
By noon the cattle were once more bunched in the valley. The doctor had departed, and Tomlinson was resting comfortably. That afternoon they drove north over the pass, and two days later found the cattle safely on what had been the Wagonwheel, Bob’s old spread. Here had been gathered the stock sold to Tomlinson by Lee and John Rutherford. The animals were tallied and the work of rebranding began. Tomlinson, unable to direct the work himself, hired Bob to assist his foreman, retaining at the same time Bob’s old crew. John Rutherford was the Cleanup Party’s candidate for sheriff, and left for a swing around the county immediately after an accounting had been rendered.
The end of the week saw order established, with every animal on the spread bearing the Tumbling T of the new owner. June Tomlinson had worked with the boys, all of whom thought themselves in love with her. Ace and Deuce were abashed and more or less tongue-tied in her presence. Joe sighed often and wished repeatedly for his guitar. Dick was ever at her side, anticipating every wish, grinning that devil-may-care grin, joking with her, teasing her.
Bob gave no outward indication of his feelings. Dick had monopolized her company, and Dick was his friend. If, on occasion, he experienced a little pang of jealousy, he smothered it instantly under a blanket of cold fact.
“Keep yore feet on the ground, cowboy,” he would tell himself. “She’s young: nineteen or twenty; Dick is twenty-three. Just right. You’re almost thirty. And the kid has the inside of the track. You’re no poacher. Keep yore feet on the ground and yore head out of the clouds.”
It was Monday afternoon—the day before election—when they finally bade the Tomlinsons good-by and rode into Lariat. The town was humming, with every man who could be spared from the range on hand for the election. Saloons and gambling joints were running at top speed. Dismounting and tying at the hitching rack before the Paris Hotel and Saloon, the four stepped to the plank sidewalk, an oddly assorted group.
A traveling salesman seated on the hotel veranda eyed them curiously and turned to his companion for information. Pop Purvis, retired cattleman, spat and enlightened him.
“Them there are the former owner and crew of the old Wagonwheel. Right now they’re on the loose, Bob Lee havin’ sold out to a Texan named Tomlinson. Bob drove some cows up from Texas three, four years ago. The Mexican, Joe Villegas, came with him. When he’d got a start, he sent for the other two. The high altitude fella is named Talbot; the short one is Harry Lowery. They been travelin’ together so long folks got to callin’ ’em Ace and Deuce. Bob Lee, I reckon, is the jack.”
“Sounds like a game of seven-up.”
“Seven-up is right. The Mex ain’t no slouch; he stacks up a ten-spot anyhow, and that counts right smart towards game. Seven-up she is, with high, low, jack, and game in one hand. You cain’t beat that!”
“And the other lad?”
“Dick Markley? Well, I’d call him a sort of joker. Wild young buck, always gettin’ in trouble and makin’ Bob git him out. Never seen a fella cotton to another like Bob has to Dick. Jest like a big brother, only closer.”
The five, in the meanwhile, had passed into the Paris saloon. While the other three elbowed their way to the bar, Bob and Dick paused by a roulette wheel to watch the play. Suddenly Dick swore and turned away. Bob followed him, wondering, and when he joined him at the bar spoke quietly.
“What’s worryin’ you, old son?”
Dick shrugged impatiently. “I don’t know. I reckon it was that pile of gold on the roulette table. I was thinkin’ what I could do with it. Here I am reachin’ the point where I ought to think of marryin’ and havin’ a little spread of my own, and what have I got? Ten dollars, a horse, and a saddle! Not even a job. And plenty of cheap-skate gamblers and bloated bankers and hard-shell cattle barons with more than they can ever use.”
“You’re young,” began Bob, but Dick interrupted him harshly.
“Young hell! I’m twenty-three. If I’m to get anywhere it’s time I was makin’ a start.” He downed his drink and turned away. “See you later. Got business with a fella.”
Bob frowned thoughtfully. Dick was in love with June Tomlinson and had begun to realize that he possessed very little to offer the girl of his choice. Perhaps the realization was a good thing for him. If the feeling he entertained for June was genuine, he would buckle down and make something of himself.
Somebody tugged at his sleeve and Bob turned his head to see Ace.
“Let’s get out of here,” suggested the tall cowboy. “It’s too danged crowded. How about the Red Front?”
Bob backed through the mob into the open and glanced about the room. At a table sat two men, talking. One was Dick, the other was Duke Haslam, owner of the Paris. Bidding Ace wait, Bob approached the pair.
“Hello, Duke,” he said. “Don’t aim to horn in; just wanted to tell Dick that he’ll find us at the Red Front.”
Dick nodded. “I’ll be over in a few minutes.”
Haslam removed a cigar from his mouth and asked a question. “You’ll be in town for the election tomorrow, Bob?”
“I reckon so.” Bob’s answer was a bit short. He did not like Duke Haslam; never had and never would, although he was fair enough to admit that his dislike was based entirely on prejudice. Duke was heavy-set, well-dressed, and prosperous-appearing. His sleek black hair was plastered against his forehead in the prevailing mode, and his dark mustache was carefully waxed and curled. The lips were full, the eyes a bit too close together. To Bob he seemed oily; too much like a snake.
Haslam went on. “I’ve been talking to Dick about the election. We need the support of every good man. This so-called Cleanup Party has taken in a lot of gullible folk. John Rutherford is all right, but he is getting along in years and he hasn’t the experience of Peter Grubb. Grubb is a good sheriff, honest and fearless in the performance of his—”
“Pete Grubb,” interrupted Bob, “is crooked and would run from his own shadow. If you don’t believe it, tell him what I said and see what he does.”
Haslam’s face slowly reddened. “You have no call to speak that way of him. Grubb is efficient—”
Again Bob cut him short. “Grubb is a weak-kneed sister without enough backbone to stand up to a horny toad. I’m talkin’ plain, Duke. You’re a politician, and just about run Lariat. Well, go ahead and run her as long as you can get away with it. But when you try to tell me Pete Grubb is efficient and honest and fearless, I’m tellin’ you that you’re talkin’ through yore Stetson.”
“Then I take it that you’re supporting Rutherford?”
“You take it correctly. Ever since Grubb has been in office, that outlaw, Kurt Dodd, has been runnin’ wild.”
“You can’t prove that Dodd runs that outfit.”
“If I could, he wouldn’t be runnin’ it long! Cattlemen have lost stock, banks and stages have been robbed. Grubb has had two years in which to round up tbe bunch, but what bas he done? Nothin’—plus! He gets on a horse, makes war talk to a posse, and goes cbasin’ around in the hills. Supper time finds him back in town lookin’ sad and tellin’ what he’ll do the next time. John Rutherford has been rustled blind. So have I. That’s the main reason for our sellin’ out. By watchin’ night and day I could save my stock, but I refuse to run myself into bankruptcy by hirin’ a double crew. Yes, sir; you can bet yore boots I’m supportin’ Rutherford.”
Haslam rose and leaned across the table so that only inches separated their faces. His voice was pitched quite low, but there was no mistaking his earnestness. “I’ll do some plain talking myself. Lee, this is a bad climate for some folks. You’ve sold out to Tomlinson, so there is nothing to hold you in Lariat. All kind of distance extends to the north, east, south, and west; there are undoubtedly wonderful opportunities for a young man with newly acquired capital. My advice to you is to get out of Lariat, and to get out while the getting is good.”
Lee smiled tightly. “And if I fail to take that advice?”
Haslam’s eyes were narrowed and glinting. “Then I’m afraid you’ll never vote in tomorrow’s election.”
“Duke, I always was a curious cuss! You plumb intrigue me. Yes, sir. Now I just got to stay to see how true a prophet you are. And that regardless of the golden opportunities awaitin’ me north, south, east, and west.”
For another moment their gazes locked—held. There was a little smile on Bob’s lips, although his eyes were cold. Haslam stood rigidly, jaws tightly clamped. Suddenly he relaxed and shrugged.
“You’re a fool,” he said shortly, and resumed his seat.
Bob joined his friends, who had watched the exchange from a place near the door.
“What’s eatin’ his elegance?” inquired Deuce as they pushed through the swinging doors.
“He’s riled because I disputed his claims in favor of honest, efficient, fearless Pete Grubb.”
Deuce snorted. “‘Mouldy’ Grubb honest? Why that hairpin is so crooked he leaves a track like a clock spring.”
They mounted their horses and rode down the street toward the Red Front. Presently they were forced to pull to one side to permit the passage of a half-dozen horsemen. Leading them was a big, black-bearded giant of a man.
“Kurt Dodd,” said Deuce. “Come to help elect his friend, Mouldy Grubb.”
“The danged cowthief!” growled Ace.
The others mentally agreed with him. Ostensibly Dodd was a rancher, his spread extending far back into the foothills. There were hidden parks within the limits of his domain where cattle could be held until worked-over brands had healed, or where loot from bank and stage could be concealed until danger of detection had passed. Many and devious trails crossed and crisscrossed his holdings—trails which would serve admirably to confuse pursuing posses.
Kurt was in the Red Front when Bob and his friends entered. He was standing before the long bar, drinking and talking with the weak-kneed Pete Grubb. Mouldy was nodding approval of something Dodd was saying. He was as lacking in personality as a sack of bran, weak of chin, lackluster of eye, insignificant in both size and bearing.
“And that,” muttered Ace, “is what Duke Haslam wants us to vote for!”
“There’s the man gets my vote,” said Deuce.
He nodded toward the far end of the bar. John Rutherford was talking with two cattlemen, Frank En-right of the Big 4 and Dutch Trumbauer, who owned the Candlestick. Rutherford was in his late sixties, tall and broad and florid, with close-cropped gray mustache and grizzled hair. A pair of dark, hawk-like eyes peered from beneath shaggy brows. A blind man could have sensed his superiority to Pete Grubb.
The Cleanup Party’s candidate turned at their approach.
“Howdy, Bob; howdy, boys. Glad to see you-all. Belly up here. I ain’t much on electioneerin’ but I am buyin’ the drinks.”
“We’re for you drinks or no drinks,” Bob told him. “How’s the outlook?”
Frank Enright answered. “Mighty fine, Bob. If everybody votes like they promised, John is as good as elected.”
“Theese Duke Haslam,” observed Joe, “ees one foxy hombre. May be she have w’at you call the treek up my sleeve, no?”
“It no difference makes vat trick he hass his sleeve up,” said Dutch Trumbauer. “Dis time it iss der people vat speak, ain’t it, Frank?”
“You told the truth that time, Dutch. The voice of the people is callin’ for a change, and it’s callin’ mighty loud.”
Bob raised his glass. “Well, here’s to success.”
Rutherford followed suit. “Thanks, Bob. I shore appreciat—”
Behind them came the roar of a sixgun and the tinkle of glass. Rutherford’s big frame jerked spasmodically, his jaw went slack; then the sturdy knees gave beneath him and he slid slowly downward along the face of the bar.