At the edge of the river below the John Vail camp, it was wash day. There was a brisk fire, with buckets of water heating above it. There was a galvanized washtub set on a flat rock where Kip Vail was up to her elbows in sudsy foam, scrubbing industriously on a washboard. One line of wash, strung between two trees, was already drying.
The girl was humming to herself as she worked, and even at this homely chore, every move was one of slim, strong grace. The terror of the night of the horse stampede was something already forgotten, for such is the way of youth. But other circumstances of that night, Kip Vail told herself, she’d never forget—like the steely strength of the arm that had caught her up and carried her to safety, the sound of that man’s voice, and the hard, clean bronze of his face as picked out by match light when he lit a cigarette. Kip smiled to herself and tried to blow aside a lock of hair that had fallen down across her face.
The click of hoofs on a gravel bar made her straighten up and turn. To her surprise, she found herself looking up at the very man she’d been thinking about. That stubborn lock of hair had fallen down across her face again and when, forgetful of the suds on her hands, she tried to brush it hastily aside, she left a soapy smear across one smooth, brown cheek.
Lee Cone chuckled. “Reminds me of a little tune or jingle my mother used to say. ‘There was a little girl, and she had a little curl, right in the middle of her forehead …’”
“And when she was good, she was very, very good, and when she was bad she was horrid,” cut in Kip.
Lee shook his head. “I doubt that last part. It doesn’t fit.”
“That,” said Kip, “is because you don’t know me very well. You should see me when I’m really stirred up. Dad says I should have red hair to match my temper.”
Startled at first, she was now completely at ease.
Lee Cone, looking at her, thought that this girl would always be poised and self-reliant. He thought other things, too. Her eyes were a clear blue and entirely honest. For no good reason, he found himself comparing her with Lucy Garland, and he was startled by the realization that she in no way suffered by contrast.
She did not have Lucy’s full, sultry beauty, but she had a clearness and a freshness about her. She colored a little under the unconscious intentness of his glance.
“If I look a fright,” she said, smiling, “it’s because it’s that kind of a day. Whoever looked their best up to their eyes in soapsuds?”
“I was just thinking,” said Lee, “that you most likely look your best under any conditions.”
Now her cheeks flamed and her eyes dropped.
Lee, with discernment, changed the subject. “Where’s your father?”
John Vail answered that himself by coming up with another armful of wood for the fire. He nodded to Lee, but with no great friendliness. John Vail had the common feeling of grangers toward men of the saddle. He was distrustful of them, and, moreover, he didn’t like the warm color in his daughter’s cheeks and the shine in her eyes, just because this particular man of the saddle was talking to her.
Lee stepped from his saddle, reached into the pocket of his shirt, and drew out some folded greenbacks.
“Came by to take care of that damage claim of yours, Mister Vail. You said fifty dollars would cover it … so here’s your money.”
John Vail stared at the money laid in his palm, then spoke gruffly. “This surprises me. I never expected to collect. That fellow Boland didn’t act too happy over the idea of paying. He struck me as being on the slippery side … meaning no offense, if he’s a friend of yours.”
“No friend of mine,” assured Lee. “And he … decided to pay.”
John Vail, no fool, looked at Lee shrewdly. “What made him decide?”
Lee met Vail’s glance and grinned. “This and that.”
Vail pocketed the money and put out his hand, his manner mellowing. “Let’s shake. It’s a pleasure to meet a square saddle man. Looks like we’re in your debt, after what you did for Kip here, and then this.”
“Lots of square saddle men out there, Mister Vail,” said Lee briefly, as they shook hands. “Just a question of meeting up with them.”
He paused to build a cigarette, then turned back to his horse. “Got to be getting along. Long way to Carbide Junction.”
Kip Vail, listening and watching, gave a soft little exclamation of dismay.
John Vail said: “Carbide Junction? You mean you’re pulling out of Maacama Basin?”
“Just for a few days,” Lee told him. “Got some business to look into over that way. I’ll drop in on my way back, if it’s all right with you.”
“You do that,” Vail said heartily. “Stop in and have a meal with us.”
Lee stepped into his saddle, and sent his horse splashing across the river shallows.
On the far bank he turned in his saddle and looked back. Kip Vail was watching him. He lifted an arm in salute and she waved back. It seemed he could feel the warmth of her smile, even at this distance.
* * * * *
Carbide Junction’s main claim to existence was that of a water stop on the railroad, that and a spread of cattle shipping pens. There was a combined hotel and eating establishment of sorts, a store, two saloons, a station house, and a dozen odd shanties.
The station agent’s name was Turner. He was short, stout, genial, and just lazy enough to be contented with a minor job entailing little responsibility and less real work. He was brewing a pot of coffee on the station house stove when Lee Cone came in, dragging his spurs.
The dust of hard travel lay thick on Lee, and he was worn and sunken-eyed with weariness. He sniffed the fragrance of the coffee avidly, but got right down to business.
“Want you to do me a favor, friend,” he said, nodding toward the telegraph key on the table in a far corner of the room. “Take hold of that and drop a call to Jeff Barron at Crestline. Reckon you’ve wire talked with Jeff many a time?”
Turner looked Lee over, then nodded. “It’ll cost you money if it’s a business message.”
“Not exactly business,” explained Lee. “Though I can stand a couple of dollars if that’s the way it has to be.” He paused and eyed Turner. “Mainly, I just wanted you to ask Jeff if he knows a guy named Lee Cone, and if Cone is a friend of his. The whole thing adds up by way of being an introduction. You see, I’m Lee Cone.”
“Which,” said Turner shrewdly, “adds up that you may be asking another favor of me. Right?”
“That’s right.”
Turner went over to the key, threw a switch, and then rattled out a series of station calls.
Almost immediately the answer came clacking back. Turner sent and received messages for a couple of minutes, his eyes beginning to twinkle and a smile splitting his round face.
Presently he signed off and turned around to face Lee.
“Jeff Barron said this fellow Cone is a damned highbinder at the game, two-handed pedro,” the agent smiled, waiting for a reaction from Cone, but Cone remained static. Turner continued: “But he also said he’d do to ride the river with, and that if he wanted to borrow ten dollars to let him have it, and that he’d guarantee the loan.”
Lee grinned wearily and shook his head. “Not money I want. But I could stand a cup of that coffee, and later on that second favor.”
Turner swung open the wicket in the counter. “Come on in.” Then, noting the eagerness with which Lee reached for a cup of coffee, he added: “How would a plate of ham and potatoes go with that coffee?”
“Man,” exclaimed Lee, “you make me rubber-legged with the thought!”
* * * * *
Half an hour later, fed and relaxed, Lee spoke through a cloud of cigarette smoke.
“Maybe I’m going to ask you to break a regulation, Mister Turner. But I’d like the chance to look over some of your past cattle shipping records. Don’t know how far back they go and how long you keep them, but the longer you hold onto them the better.”
“I have them a couple of years back, at least,” Turner responded. “Two or three times I been of a mind to burn some of the older ones, but there’s always a chance that some smart young beaver of an auditor will come through and want to dig into ancient stuff just out of damned orneriness. About regulations … well, it’s fun to bust ’em once in a while. How far back you want to start?”
“A year or year and a half should be about right,” Cone told him.
From a shelf under the counter, Turner produced several twine wrapped bundles of shipping invoices. He glanced at some dates, then handed one of the bundles to Lee.
“Try this one.”
Lee began poring through the bundle. Presently he gave a low exclamation of satisfaction.
Turner threw him a sharp glance. “Find something interesting?”
“Plenty!” exulted Lee. “Listen to this,” he said, then read:
One hundred and thirty head of Hereford cattle. Primary brand, Flat T. Vented to Lazy Dollar. Consigned to Gimball & Reese, Kansas City. Shipped by T. R. Scott.
“Sounds regular enough,” observed Turner. “What’s so interesting about it?”
“To my knowledge,” said Lee, “T. R. Scott neglected to pay for … or get a bill of sale … for any Flat T cattle that he vented to Lazy Dollar.”
“Ouch!” exclaimed Turner. “That could be bad.”
“Very bad,” Lee said, then grinned. “At least for T. R. Scott.”
He laid the invoice aside and looked for others. He found one that listed a straight shipment of Flat T cattle, vented to Lazy Dollar, to add to the first. He found two others showing a mixed shipment of Lazy Dollar with some Flat T, vented. All consigned to the same destination, all shipped by T. R. Scott.
He leaned back. “These are enough. If I can’t put the dead wood on that jigger with these, then I couldn’t with a hundred. You got some place you can put these particular ones, Mister Turner, where nobody can lay hands on them but yourself?”
Turner nodded toward an iron safe against the far wall. “That should do the job for us.”
Lee built another cigarette before saying gravely: “I hope this won’t cause you any trouble. You know there’s a chance that Scott will get wind of this and try to get hold of the invoices. If he does, he’ll be in a bad frame of mind.”
“Know what you mean,” said Turner.
His round, amiable face suddenly seemed leaner and harder. He reached under the counter again and came up with a sawed-off shotgun. “A couple of times in the past I’ve had occasion to flash this. I can do it again. Packs a lot of authority. Those invoices will be here right where I put them, should you ever want them again.”
Lee stood up, stretched. “You’ve been mighty fine. Don’t know what I can do by way of thanks.”
Turner waved a dismissing hand. “Any friend of Jeff Barron’s is a friend of mine. This fellow Scott hangs out in Maacama Basin, doesn’t he?”
Lee nodded. “That’s right. Going to be my stamping ground from now on, too.”
“Then I’ll probably see you again,” said Turner. “There’s some pretty straight talk drifting through the channels that because of this land rush into Maacama Basin, the railroad is going to build a branch line from here across the desert and into Maacama Basin by way of Smoky Pass. When that happens, I’m going to put in for the station agent job there.”
“When you show up,” promised Lee, “we’ll sure kill the fatted calf. Now, I got to be traveling again. Once more … thanks!”
Lee led his weary horse down to the general store, stocked up on a little food, filled his canteen with water, and sacked a couple of good feeds of oats for his mount. Then he headed back into the desert.
* * * * *
John Vail was breaking camp. With Kip and her mother helping, he was loading all his gear into the big wagon. Most of the job was finished when Lee Cone came riding down the slope from Smoky Pass, dusty, unshaven, saddle worn.
At sight of Lee, Kip Vail’s eyes shone for a moment, before going grave and troubled once more.
Lee touched his hat to her and her mother.
“Looks like you folks are packing up. What’s the matter?”
John Vail answered, wearily gruff: “We’re pulling out. With a family like I got, I can’t afford any trouble.”
“Trouble! What kind of trouble?”
“They claimed I’m on land already filed on,” growled Vail. Then, with a sudden show of anger: “They must be lying. Look around, Cone. Do you see any signs of occupancy besides me and mine? Do you see any signs of improvements being made? They were lying. But there’s trouble ahead if I stay, and I’m in no position to fight.”
Lee slouched sideways in his saddle, built a cigarette. “Tell me about it,” he urged quietly.
“There were two of them,” explained Vail. “Hard cases, both. They showed up right after breakfast this morning. They told me I was on land already taken up, and that I had to get off. When I demanded proof, one of them put a hand on his gun and said that was all the proof necessary. They said they’d be back tomorrow morning, and if I hadn’t moved they’d move me off. So …” Vail shrugged.
“These two,” asked Lee, “what did they look like?”
“One was heavyset, pockmarked, and with red hair. The other—”
“Lank and stringy-looking, with a ragged mustache,” Lee supplied.
Vail’s head came up. “How did you know?”
“I’ve met those two buckos,” Lee said succinctly. “Go by the names of Stump and Pecos. Tasker Scott’s men.”
“Tasker Scott! I can’t hardly believe that!” exclaimed Vail. “I understood that Tasker Scott was very friendly toward grangers. In fact, he’s the man who encouraged us to come to Maacama Basin.”
“Probably did”—Lee nodded—“for his own profit. Mister Vail, you know your own business. But before you give up your claim, think on this. You’ve filed on what could be one of the most valuable pieces of ground in the whole basin. There’s strong talk that the railroad is going to build a spur line out from Carbide Junction that will come into Maacama Basin by way of Smoky Pass, up yonder.” Lee pointed toward the pass. “If it does … and I think it’s going to … they’ll be wanting right of way across some of your claim, and they’ll pay good money for it. That’s why Tasker Scott wants you off this land, so he can claim it and be the one to collect on the railroad deal when it comes through.”
John Vail squared himself. “You giving it to me straight, Cone? The railroad is really coming in?”
“All I can tell you is that it’s been rumored for a long time that when and if Maacama Basin was really settled up, the railroad would come in. I’ve just returned from Carbide Junction. While I was there I had a talk with the station agent. He told me the talk all along the line was that the railroad was going to build that spur … through Smoky Pass.”
John Vail stared up toward the pass and let his glance rove across the slope, as though visualizing how the railroad grade would run.
“You’re right,” he finally stated. “That line would have to cross part of my land. If I didn’t have a family, I’d give those fellows the fight of their lives. I’d …”
Mrs. Vail walked up beside her husband and placed her hand on his shoulder.
“You will, anyhow, John Vail,” she said. “We have every right in the world to this land. We filed on it according to law and regulation. We’ve occupied it and are ready to start with the improvements. It means a home and security for us. We’re not going to let a couple of bullies with guns run us out.”
“Mother’s right, Dad,” put in Kip.
Lee Cone flashed an admiring glance at the two women before addressing John Vail. “With that kind of backing, you can’t lose. And just so you’ll feel better about it, you won’t be putting up a fight by yourself. You’ll have friends to back your hand.”
“What friends? Mighty few people we know in this basin, and them only casually.”
“You can count on me and two others, for sure,” said Lee. “And if that isn’t enough, then we’ll tell the other settlers what Tasker Scott is trying to do to you … and why. The effect of that will give Scott plenty to worry about.”
John Vail peered up at Lee. “You don’t seem to like Tasker Scott. Why?”
“Among other things, he’s the biggest crook unhung,” Lee said succinctly. “As time will prove. Mister Vail, you hang on to your land. And tomorrow morning, should those hard cases show again, they’ll probably run into a wild surprise.”
Lee straightened up, crushed out the butt of his cigarette on his saddle horn. “I got things to do. Be seeing you folks again, shortly.”
His glance went to Kip Vail again, and the swift brightness of her smile was something he carried away with him.