The Buckaroo of Blue Wells/Chapter 7
CHAPTER VII
JIMMY WINS HIS SPURS
A FEW short days wrought a great change in Jim Legg. His face had received its baptism of Arizona sun, and no longer was he the pale-faced city dweller. His skin was beginning to peel, and as Johnny Grant said—
“He peels off like a package of cigaret papers.”
His hands were seared from fast-traveling ropes, his silken shirt was minus half of one sleeve, and had a huge rent down the back. His ornate sombrero had fallen off in a corral, where a circling remuda had trampled it into the sand, giving it an antique air.
And out of self-defense he had quit wearing glasses. Just now he leaned against the corral fence, trying to roll a cigaret with cramped fingers. Beside him squatted Johnny Grant, his eyes fixed curiously upon this young man, whose eyes were filled with determination.
About fifty feet away from them were Oyster and Eskimo, saddling a horse. The animal was humped painfully, squirming uneasily under the pull of the cinch, but fearing to move, because a heavy bandage had been fastened across its eyes. The two cowboys were talking softly to each other.
“This has gone past the funny stage,” Johnny Grant spoke to Jimmy Legg seriously. “We was jokin’ when we dared yuh to ride Cowcatcher. You can’t ride him. He ditched Eskimo in four jumps, and Eskimo is the best there is around here, Jimmy.”
“I said I’d ride him,” reminded Jimmy Legg. “I haven’t quit yet, have I?”
Johnny Grant shook his head.
“That’s why I hate to see yuh fork that bronc, Jimmy. I don’t sabe yuh, kid. You ain’t strong. Yore body ain’t built for the shocks yuh get in this business. We was raised for this kinda stuff. You ain’t no youngster. That bronc will jist about flatten yuh for life—and whatsa use?”
“Johnny, I want to be a cowboy,” said Jimmy seriously. “It’s something I can’t explain right now. I appreciate you trying to save me. I’ve been thrown five times since I came here, and I’m still able to hobble around.”
“Yeah, I know. But this is a horse. He’s plumb bad. If there’s any slip in the boys bein’ able to herd him away after he’s spilled yuh, he might tromp yuh.”
“But,” Jim Legg spoke softly, “I’ve got confidence in Oyster and Eskimo. They’ll do their part. If I can ride Cowcatcher, will you admit that I can ride?”
Johnny smiled softly.
“I’ll admit that yo’re the best rider in the Blue Wells country.”
“All set!” called Eskimo. “Johnny, you pull the blind, after me and Oyster get all set, will yuh?”
Johnny held Cowcatcher while Jim Legg mounted. The rough-coated gray outlaw, which had defied the best riders of the Blue Wells ranges, stiffened slightly, but did not move. Oyster and Eskimo mounted and rode in on each side of him, prepared to block the bucker from heading into obstacles, and to herd him away from the rider, in case of a spill.
They did not see the sheriff, deputy and another rider swing around the corner of the corral and come toward them.
Jim Legg straightened up in his saddle, grasped the reins tightly and nodded to Johnny Grant.
Johnny reached up and grasped the bandage.
“Pull leather, Jimmy,” he said softly. “Don’t be ashamed to do it. It’s only fools and contest riders that don’t, when they feel themselves goin’.”
But Jim Legg shut his lips tightly and looked straight ahead. He had asked to ride Cowcatcher, after every half-way bucker on the AK had thrown him, and he was going to ride him, or get thrown clean.
Then the bandage was jerked off, and Cowcatcher was moving as he caught his first flash of sunlight, but not ahead, as they expected. Veteran of many battles, he hated the horses and riders which crowded him too closely; so he had whirled free of them, catching them flat-flooted, headed the wrong way.
Although Jim Legg was not unseated, he was flung sidewise, and his right spur hooked wickedly into Cowcatcher’s flank; hooked in while the outlaw was still in the air, heading, for the three riders which were not over a hundred feet away, just drawing up to witness the sport.
There was no chance for Oyster and Eskimo to ride herd on Cowcatcher. The gray outlaw churned into the dust, fairly screaming with rage, head down, running like a streak, forgetting to buck, because of that spur, socked to the full limit of the rowels into his flank.
Johnny Grant ran toward the corral, trying to see through the cloud of dust. Jim Legg was still in the same position, hands flung up, as if fearful of making a mistake and pulling leather.
The sheriff’s party tried to spur their horses aside, but their slow-moving mounts failed to move quickly enough.
Came the crash of impact, the scream of a horse. A man yelled. Eskimo and Oyster were riding toward them as fast as possible, while Johnny Grant ran through the dust, trying to see what had happened.
He saw one horse and rider heading toward the ranch-house, and a moment later he heard something crash into the corral fence. Two horses were down. A gust of wind blew the dust aside and he saw Scotty Olson on his hands and knees about twenty feet away from his horse, going around and around, like a pup trying to lie down.
Al Porter was flat on his back just beyond the two horses, which were trying to get up, and up by the house was the third member of the sheriff’s party, trying to recover his reins, which he had dropped.
And there was Cowcatcher, standing in an angle of the corral fence, head hanging down, a most dejected-looking outlaw, while still on his back was Jimmy Legg, his hands resting on the saddle-horn, apparently oblivious to everything.
He slowly climbed down and staggered toward Johnny Grant, his lips parting in a foolish smile, as he whispered—
“My , wasn’t that a wreck!”
Oyster and Eskimo had helped Al Porter to his feet, and he was clinging to them, puffing heavily. The sheriff managed to get up without further difficulty, and they waited for him to recover his speech. The two horses scrambled to their feet and moved toward the ranch-house, still frightened.
The sheriff was mad; so much so, in fact, that he almost yanked one side of his mustache off, trying to find words with which to express his feelings.
“Yuh know, Sheriff,” said Johnny Grant, anticipating the sheriff’s coming flood of profanity, “you know it was an accident.”
“Yea-a-a-huh?” blurted the sheriff.
“Wh-wh-who was ridin’ that bub-bucker?” stammered Al Porter.
Johnny looked around at Jim Legg, who was still a trifle dazed over it all. Johnny grasped him by the arm and turned to the deputy.
“This is Jimmy Legg, the only man that ever stayed on Cowcatcher.”
“I don’t give a !” roared the sheriff. “Every time I get in sight of you fellers, somethin’ happens. By , I’m sick and tired of it! Do yuh hear me?”
“Louder and more profane,” begged Eskimo, cupping one hand beside his ear.
“A-a-a-aw, shut up!” The sheriff was too mad to say anything more.
The stranger had ridden up closer to them, and was listening with an amused smile. He was a well-dressed, middle-aged sort of person, rather hard-faced.
“I got out of that pretty lucky,” he said, “I happened to be just outside the crash.”
“Well, I didn’t,” said Porter ruefully. “Any old time there’s a crash—I’m in it. Boys,” he turned to Johnny Grant, “this is Mr. Wade, the detective for the express company.”
The boys of the AK looked Wade over critically, but the keen scrutiny of these sons of the range did not embarrass Wade. He was what is know as “hard-boiled.”
“Hyah,” nodded Johnny Grant. “What do yuh know?”
“Not very much,” admitted Wade. “What do you know?”
“I know m’ head,
I know m’ feet,
I know you’ll soon
Stand up to eat.”
Oyster Shell chanted it softly, noticing that the detective was sitting rather sidewise in the saddle. Wade grinned widely.
“I guess that’s right,” he said. “I’m not used to riding.”
“You workin’ on that train robbery?” asked Eskimo.
“Yes, I’m supposed to be,” he turned and looked at Jimmy Legg, who was still leaning against Johnny Grant. “They tell me you’re a stranger around here, Mr. Legg.”
“I—I’ve been here a while,” stammered Jimmy Legg.
“Uh-huh,” nodded the sheriff, breaking in on the detective. “You showed up the night of the robbery, didn’t yuh?”
“He did not,” said Johnny Grant quickly, “he was here the day before.”
“Here at the AK?” queried Porter.
“Yeah,” defiantly.
“That’s funny,” smiled Porter. “We just met George Bonnette in Blue Wells, and he said you came here to the ranch the day after the hold-up. And that yuh wasn’t even hired yet.”
“And that none of the boys knew yuh, until they met yuh that day in Blue Wells,” added Scotty Olson. “Yuh bought all yore clothes there in Blue Wells, and you near killed me and Lee Barnhardt, because yuh acted like yuh didn’t know nothin’ about a six-gun. And yuh had plenty of money to buy anythin’ yuh wanted.”
Johnny Grant, caught in a lie, did not back up an inch. He stepped in front of Jimmy Legg and glared at the sheriff.
“Well, what if he did?” demanded Johnny.
“It’s nothing to quarrel about,” interposed the detective. “I merely wanted to know when, how and why he came to Blue Wells. He’s a stranger around here, it seems.”
“And if he is—what about it?” asked Eskimo. “There’s no law against a stranger comin’ here, is there?”
“Not at all,” smiled the detective. “This man does not fit the description of any of the robbers, but we can’t afford to miss any lead that might set us on the right track. There’s a man and a dog to be accounted for.
“It seems that this man shipped his dog in the express car. We have a fairly accurate description of the dog, but not of the man. The express messenger fought with a man who got on his car at Encinas. They fell out of the car, while the train was in motion.
“This dog was on the car at that time, because the engineer and fireman saw him when the three robbers led them back to the car. The dog was there when the engineer got the messenger’s shotgun and started battle with the three robbers.
“A few minutes later the engine crew sneaked back to their engine to escape the bullets of the bandits. The fireman says he thought he heard a man walk past the engine, just before they started back to pick up the rest of the train, but he is not sure. At any rate, the dog was missing when the train came to Blue Wells.
“Our theory is that the dog was merely a blind to let the man into the car at Encinas. It gave the robbers an inside man, in case the messenger might refuse to open the door. Of course they could dynamite the door, but that takes time. Perhaps the inside man did not expect the messenger to put up a battle, and that the falling out of the express car was an unexpected incident.
“The messenger states that the man tried to pull a gun, which strengthens the theory of the fourth bandit. It is just barely possible that this dog might be identified; so the owner took a chance, sneaked back to the hold-up and secured the dog. This would make it appear that they felt it necessary to have the dog in their possession. That dog was in the car when the engineer and fireman went back to the engine. When the train arrived at Blue Wells, the dog was gone.”
“Which don’t prove anythin’,” said Johnny Grant. “When the train was robbed there were three masked men on the car, and when the train got to Blue Wells there wasn’t a masked man on it.”
The detective laughed.
“That’s true. But it doesn’t explain when and how Mr. Legg came to Blue Wells.”
“I walked,” declared Jimmy Legg bravely. “The train passed me.”
“Where?” asked the sheriff.
“I don’t know. It was dark, and I’m not familiar with this country. I got a room at a hotel that night.”
“When did you hear that there had been a hold-up?”
“I heard them talking about it the next day,” said Jimmy Legg truthfully.
He did not think it necessary to tell them he had also heard it the night before.
“I don’t think he knows anything about it,” said the sheriff. “He don’t fit the description of any one of the robbers, and it’s a cinch he ain’t the big geezer that fought the messenger.”
“What kind of a dog was it?” asked Oyster.
“No special breed,” replied the detective. “It was of medium size, yellowish-red, and had one black eye. At least that’s the description which was given to me.”
A few minutes later the three officers rode away, and the cowboys turned their attention to Cowcatcher, the gray outlaw, which was still beside the corral fence. The collision with the other two horses had wrenched its right shoulder, which accounted for its not going any farther.
They took off the saddle and turned it loose. The boys were loud in their praise of Jimmy’s ability as a rider. The marvel of it all was the fact that Jim had stayed with the horse.
“If he knowed anythin’ about ridin’, he’d ’a’ been killed,” Eskimo told Johnny a few minutes later, after Jim had gone into the bunk-house. “He had the luck of a drunk. I’m glad it happened thataway, instead of havin’ to pick him up on a shovel.”
“Sure,” grinned Johnny, and then confidentially. “Eskimo, I don’t sabe that feller. Remember when them fellers were shootin’ at us from the express car? Remember the feller we seen, who comes along the track and gets into the car?”
“Yeah, I remember, Johnny. But I was too drunk to remember much more than that.”
“I wasn’t as sober as a judge myself, Eskimo. But I’ll be danged if it was a big man. Do yuh remember somethin’ about somebody named Geronimo?”
“That’s right, Johnny! I wonder if it was the man’s name, or the dog’s.”
“And that man headed for Blue Wells, Eskimo.”
Eskimo nodded seriously.
“That’s right. By golly, don’tcha know,” Eskimo scratched his head thoughtfully, “I’m wonderin’ what our little friend knows about that hold-up.”
“And why he wants to be a cowboy. Anyway,” Johnny grinned widely, “I’m for him. He’s got guts. If the Old Man will hire him, we’ll make a puncher out of him.”
Jimmy Legg was thanking his stars that Geronimo had deserted him. He was stiff and sore from his efforts to learn the cattle business all in a few days, and he did not realize that the boys had been trying to make him quit. He had been thrown from bucking horses, until it seemed to him that ranch life consisted of dull thuds.
Because he could not rope from a horse the boys had let him work from the ground during a day’s calf-branding, and his hands were seared so badly he could hardly shut them. He had managed to make enough good casts to encourage him, and he had spent hours alone in the corral, throwing loops at a snubbing post.
But his unfailing good-humor and earnest endeavor had caused the boys to go easier than they would have had he not been so foolishly innocent. George Bonnette had watched him, but said nothing. He was not running a school for making cowpunchers, but decided that Jimmy Legg was earning his board and keep.
Jimmy had decided to ride to Blue Wells that afternoon, but after a nap, which left him stiff and sore, he decided to saddle a horse and go for a ride into the hills. The other boys had ridden away before Jimmy awoke; so he saddled the horse alone for the first time. It was a fairly well broken roan mare, and he had little difficulty. He buckled on his gun and rode away.
Although the hills were fairly open, Jimmy watched his landmarks carefully. He realized that the hills and dales looked pretty much alike, and it might be difficult for him to hit a straight line back to the ranch.
A coyote crossed in front of him, stopped long enough to get a good look, and went on. Jimmy did not realize that it was a wild animal. A flock of blue quail whirred up in front of the horse and went careening down across a brushy draw. Something told him that these were game birds, and he wondered whether they were prairie chickens. He had heard of them.
He wasted several cigaret-papers, trying to master the art of rolling a cigaret on a moving horse. He did not in the least resemble the James Eaton Legg, who had slid off his high stool in Mellon & Company’s office a short time before. His face was just as thin, but there was none of the office pallor. He was, as Eskimo declared, “burnt to a darned cinder.”
His hands were red, his lower lip cracked. And he had quit wearing glasses. It seemed to him that they were too indelibly stamped with his former occupation. He squinted badly in the bright sun, but his vision was all right. His ornate cowboy garb was no longer ornate, and to the casual eye he would have appeared about the same as the rest of the range riders.
And, to his great delight, he was picking up a smattering of range lingo, a few well-chosen cuss words, and he could draw his six-shooter out of the holster without shooting it accidentally. He had realized later how close he had been to killing two men, and had promised himself that when he went to town with the boys he would leave his gun at the ranch.
He rode into a well defined cattle-trail and managed to light his cigaret. Since leaving the ranch he had ridden at a walk, but now he spurred his horse into a gallop. It gave him a thrill to ride alone; to know that critical eyes were not watching his riding ability. The mare was willing to run, but he curbed her slightly. He tried to remember a song that Eskimo sang, but the words escaped him.
In his reckless abandon he stood up in his stirrups, as he had seen Johnny Grant do many times, whipped off his sombrero and slapped the mare across the rump.
The next thing he realized was that the mare’s ears had disappeared with a terrible lurch, and that he was again flying through space. He struck sitting down in the sand, and skidded along for several feet before stopping. He was badly jarred, but unhurt. His sombrero sailed into the brush, and the mare kept right on going for a hundred feet or so, where she whirled around, cut across a little ridge and went back toward the AK.
“That was an awful fool thing to do.”
The voice seemed to come from nowhere. Jimmy Legg stretched his neck and looked around. Standing in the trail, just a few feet beyond him was a girl—Marion Taylor. Jimmy Legg shut one eye and considered her gravely. He was sure he was mistaken, and wondered whether this could be a mirage. Oyster had told him of many mirages in that country, but he had never mentioned one of a pretty girl, who could talk.
“What was a fool thing?” asked Jimmy.
“Slappin’ a horse, and gettin’ throwed off,” she replied.
Jimmy got to his feet, braced his legs and stared at her.
“I dunno just what did happen,” he confessed foolishly.
Marion eyed him gravely, and he thought she was the prettiest girl he had ever seen.
“You must be the new man at the AK,” she said.
“Yes ma’am, I’m the new cowpuncher.”
“Cowpuncher?”
“Well, yea-a-ah,” he tried to imitate Johnny Grant.
The girl laughed.
“I’m James Eat—Jimmy Legg,” he stammered.
“I am Marion Taylor,” she said, smiling. “We own the Double Bar 8.”
“Oh, yes.”
They considered each other silently for a while. Jimmy glanced around.
“Where’s your horse, Miss Taylor?”
She colored slightly.
“Got away from me. Spike hates snakes, you see. We found a big rattler, and I got off to shoot it. I didn’t want to shoot off Spike, because he hates a gun; so I got off, and when I shot the rattler, Spike yanked away.”
Jimmy nodded.
“We’ve both lost our horses, it seems. You see, I don’t know anything about snakes.”
“No? You know a rattler when you see one, don’t you?”
“No, I’m sure I wouldn’t.”
“Then you better walk carefully, because we’ve got plenty of them around here. You’ll probably see one on your way back to the AK.”
“Possibly,” said Jimmy gravely. “But I’m not going back—not now. You see, I’m going to take you home first.”
“Oh, no,” Marion smiled shortly. “It’s only about three miles, you see. I don’t mind the walk.”
“Well, I’m goin’ along,” declared Jimmy. “You might get bit by a snake, or—or—”
Marion smiled with amusement.
“Do you think you could protect me from a rattler, Mr. Legg?”
“I dunno,” confessed Jimmy.
He glanced at the Colt, which swung from her hip.
“Can you hit anything with that?”
“Sometimes. Why?”
“I was just wondering.”
“Can you shoot?” she asked.
“Yea-a-a-ah, sure,” solemnly. Then he laughed outright. “I almost killed the sheriff and a prominent attorney, I believe. It—it went off when I wasn’t looking, you see.”
“I heard about it.”
They both laughed.
“Why not walk to the AK?” asked Marion. “It’s a lot nearer than the Double Bar 8. We—I could get a horse there.”
Jimmy shook his head quickly.
“Everybody is away, and the only horse there is one they call Cowcatcher.”
“Cowcatcher!” exclaimed Marion. “I’m sure I don’t want to ride him.”
“You couldn’t, anyway. I rode him today, and he ran rather wild, it seems. We knocked the horses from under the sheriff and the deputy, and ran into the corral fence, where Cowcatcher hurt his shoulder.”
Marion looked at him in amazement. She knew the reputation of that outlaw bucker.
“Do you mean to say that you rode Cowcatcher?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And were you on him when he quit?”
“Oh, yes,” innocently. “He’s not very tame, is he?” Jimmy laughed softly. “It was lots of fun.”
“Lots of fun?” Marion bit her lip and stared at this strange young man, whose language and actions did not brand him as a man of the ranges, and yet who had ridden the worst horse in the Blue Wells country, and thought it lots of fun.
And yet she had seen him thrown clean at the first pitching buck of a galloping horse. She could see that he had been freshly sunburned, and that his clothes were comparatively new.
“I don’t understand you,” she told him.
Jimmy looked away, his eyes squinted seriously.
“Do you always have to understand any one?” he asked.
“You’re not a cowpuncher, Mr. Legg.”
Jimmy turned to her, a half-smile on his wide mouth.
“Do I look as raw as all that, Miss Taylor? I know I’m not a cowboy, but I’m going to be. Johnny Grant says I’ll make a good one, if I live to finish my education.”
Marion laughed at his naive confession.
“I didn’t know that anybody ever wanted to be a cowboy,” she said. “It’s just hard work.”
Jimmy Legg looked at her, a curious expression in his eyes.
“And romance,” he said slowly. “It is a big world out here. The blue nights, the sweet air of the hills in the morning, the midday, when the air fairly hums with the heat; and then when the shadows of sunset come, and the birds call—isn’t it worth learning to be a cowboy, to live here?”
“Well, when you see things that way, Mr. Legg. I’ve lived here almost all my life, and I—maybe I’m so used to it.”
“Having cowboys thrown off at your feet?” grinned Jimmy.
Marion flushed slightly.
“No, this is the first time. But you see, you are not a regular cowpuncher.”
“I suppose that does make a difference. Perhaps we better start walking, Miss Taylor.”
“Well, if you insist. I can let you have a horse to ride back to the AK.”
“That will be fine. We should be at your ranch in an hour.”
“But we won’t,” laughed Marion. “Any time you walk three miles an hour through this sand, the State of Arizona will give you a medal for bravery. In about fifteen minutes you’ll decide that high-heeled boots were never made for walking.”
It did not take Jimmy Legg that long to find it out. His left boot rubbed a blister on his heel, and his right boot creased deeply across his toes, adding several more blisters to his grand total. But he gritted his teeth and said nothing.
“Next time I go riding alone,” panted Jimmy, “I’m going to tie the lead-rope around my waist. Then, if my horse throws me off and tries to go home, he’ll have to drag me along.”
“You’ve got silk socks on, haven’t you?” asked Marion. Jimmy admitted that he had.
“No good,” said Marion. “Stylish, but terrible. Wear woolen socks.”
“You make me ashamed,” confessed Jimmy. “You travel along as though it was nothing, while I’m having an awful time. All I need is a handful of lead-pencils and I’d be a first-class cripple.”
The last mile was exquisite torture, but Jimmy managed to stumble into the patio of the Double Bar 8 and sit down on the well-curb.
He took off his boots, while Marion drew a fresh bucket of water. His feet were so swollen that he could hardly get the boots off, and his silk socks were in shreds.
He sat on the edge of the curb and soaked his feet in the cold water of the trough, while Marion found him a pair of Buck’s socks.
“Do you still think there is romance?” she asked, as he grimaced over his blisters. He looked up at her, forgetting the pain in his feet.
“Yes,” he said honestly. “You are the Beautiful Lady, and I am the Knight of the Blistered Feet.” He laughed softly. “As soon as I can get my boots on, I shall try and slay a dragon for you.”
“It isn’t going to be a hard season on dragons,” smiled the girl. “Unless all signs fail, you are going to have a hard time getting those boots on.”
There was no one else at the ranch. A mocking-bird sang from the patio wall, and a huge pepper tree threw a shade across the two at the well.
“Let’s forget about blistered feet,” said Jimmy Legg. “Tell me about this country, Miss Taylor. I’m a tenderfoot—and, oh so tender just now,” he laughed ruefully. “But I don’t mind. I didn’t know there were girls like you in this country. I’ve read stories of Arizona, where the handsome hero fought forty men, and won the heroine, who was very beautiful. But it doesn’t seem true to me, because I haven’t seen forty men since I came.”
“And there are no beautiful heroines,” she said.
“Well,” smiled Jimmy, “they didn’t have to do any heroic things. They were merely the central figure—some one to do great things for, don’t you see.”
“I suppose so,” smiled the girl. “But forty Arizona men would be rather a handful for one man to whip.”
Jimmy nodded seriously.
“Yes, I suppose a man would have to have quite an incentive.”
“He might start in on one and work his way up,” said a strange voice.
They turned quickly to see Tex Alden, who had come in so softly that they did not hear him. Perhaps they were too engrossed in their own conversation to hear him.
Tex smiled at Marion, but the look he gave Jimmy was anything but friendly.
“Hello Tex,” said Marion. “We didn’t hear you ride up.”
“Naturally.”
Marion ignored his sarcasm.
“Tex Alden, this is Mr. Legg,” she said.
“From the AK,” supplemented Jimmy.
“Runnin’ a dude ranch out there, are they?” Tex did not offer his hand to Jimmy, who did not offer his.
Marion explained how she had lost her horse, and of how she and Jimmy had met in the hills. But Tex could not see any humor in the situation. It was too much of a coincidence to suit him.
“Outside of that,” he said dryly, “I’ve got some bad news for you, Marion. Your father, Buck and Peeler are in jail at Blue Wells.”
“In jail?” Marion stared at Tex. “Why, what for, Tex?”
Tex shrugged his shoulders.
“Robbin’ that train, it seems.”
“But they never robbed that train, Tex!”
“Quien sabe. They’re in jail. Between the sheriff and that railroad detective they cooked up some sort of a case against ’em. I didn’t get all of it, but it seems that Olson, Porter and the detective, a man named Wade, came out here to the ranch. During the conversation the detective kicked the dog. Buck bawled him out for it, and the detective asked Buck if it was his dog.
“Buck said it was, it seems. The sheriff asked Buck how long he had owned the dog, and Buck said he raised it. They’ve got the dog in jail, too, holding him until they can get the engineer, fireman and the express messenger here to identify it. From what I can hear, the dog belonged to the bandits.”
Jimmy Legg stared across the patio, his eyes smarting in the bright sunlight.
“Buck never raised that dog,” said Marion hoarsely. “It was a dog that picked up with them—with dad, Buck and Peeler.”
“How long ago?” asked Tex.
“The—” Marion faltered. “It was the day after the robbery that he came here with them, Tex. They had been back on Yellow Horn mesa, looking for cattle. They left the day of the robbery.”
“What kind of a dog was it?” asked Jimmy Legg.
“Just a stray mongrel,” said Marion. “It was coarse-haired and sort of a yellowish-red color.”
There was no question in Jimmy’s mind that this dog was Geronimo.
“Quite a lot of strays comin’ to this country lately,” said Tex Alden, as he looked meaningly at Jimmy.
Jimmy caught the implication, but said nothing. He did not want to have any trouble with Tex Alden.
“I suppose yore father can prove that the dog don’t belong here, can’t he?” asked Tex.
“I don’t see why not,” replied Marion quickly.
“I was just wonderin’, Marion. There’s so many dogs around here that nobody pays much attention to ’em. Anyway, the sheriff says that even if they can prove away the dog, they’ll have to show him where they were the night of the robbery.”
“But they can’t—except their word, Tex. They were back on Yellow Horn mesa, and no one saw them back there.”
Tex smiled.
“Makes it kinda tough. If yo’re aimin’ to ride to Blue Wells, I’ll ride back with yuh.”
Marion looked at Jimmy, who was sitting on the edge of the curb, his sore feet encased in a pair of Buck’s woolen socks.
“I suppose I’ll have to go,” she said slowly. “But I don’t like to leave the ranch alone. If Mr. Legg will stay here until I get back—”
“That won’t hardly do,” said Tex quickly. “You don’t know this man, Marion. We can get some one in Blue Wells—”
“Oh, I don’t mind staying,” said Jimmy earnestly.
“But you can’t stay here with a strange man.”
“I meant—until I got back,” said Marion coldly. “And how long since you started running the Double Bar 8, Tex Alden?”
Tex flushed hotly.
“I’m not tryin’ to run the ranch, Marion.”
“Then don’t. I think Spike is around by the corral; so if you will excuse me, I’ll get him.”
Tex made no effort to get the horse for her, because he wanted a word in private with Jimmy Legg. After she had gone out through the patio gate, Tex turned to Jimmy.
“Let me give you a word of advice, young feller. Yo’re new to this country; so jist take my word for it that we don’t want strangers around. You tramped in here; now tramp out. The climate of the Blue Wells country is sure damp for yore kind.”
“I don’t think I understand what you mean,” said Jimmy. “I’m not a tramp, Mr. Alden.”
“You walked into Blue Wells. Anyway, you told the sheriff yuh did. Ain’t that trampin’?”
Jimmy smiled and shook his head.
“There’s a difference, I think, between a man who merely walks in, and a man who tramps in.”
“Not a bit of difference around here, Legg. I’ll probably ride back with Miss Taylor; and I don’t want to find you here. If yo’re wise, you’ll heed what I’m tellin’ yuh. I’ve give yuh a fair warnin’.”
“Reminds me of what Miss Taylor said about rattlesnakes,” said Jimmy innocently. “They nearly always buzz before they strike, it seems. She says that is what makes them less to be feared than any other poisonous snakes.”
Tex stepped in closer to Jimmy, his eyes snapping.
“Do you mean to call me a snake?”
“No; only the warning. And don’t forget, you called me a tramp.”
“If you wasn’t such an ignorant fool,” began Tex—but at that moment Marion made her appearance leading the blue-black horse which had left her stranded in the hills, and Tex turned to her, leaving his statement to Jimmy unfinished.
“Mr. Legg won’t be able to stay,” stated Tex. “If you’ll show him which horse to ride back to the AK, Marion—”
“I’ve changed my mind,” said Jimmy, hugging his knees. “I’m going to stay, Miss Taylor.”
“Thank you, Mr. Legg.”
Marion turned away to hide a smile. She realized that Tex had tried to make Jimmy’s decision for him, and she was glad that Jimmy defied him.
Tex glared at Jimmy, but said nothing. Marion waved at Jimmy from the patio gate, but Tex did not turn his head. Marion had little to say to Tex on the way to Blue Wells. He tried to apologize to her for what he had said to Jimmy Legg, but she paid little attention to his excuses. As a result, Tex rode to Blue Wells with a distinct peeve against this stranger.
He left Marion at the doorway of the sheriff’s office, and met Lee Barnhardt a little farther up the street. The lawyer might have ignored Tex’s presence had not Tex stepped in beside him. It was the first time they had met since the day after the hold-up.
“What do yuh know about the arrest of Taylor, Buck and the half-breed?” asked Tex. Barnhardt glanced sidewise at Tex, and a knowing smile twisted his lips.
“I know it’s probably lucky for some folks, Tex. You see, I’ve talked with them, and I’ll probably defend their case; so I haven’t any information to give out.”
“Yea-a-ah?”
“Yea-a-ah,” Barnhardt mimicked Tex’s drawl perfectly, but the expression in Tex’s eyes caused Barnhardt’s Adam’s-apple to jerk convulsively. The lawyer was a physical coward, and Tex knew it; so he grasped Barnhardt by the sleeve, whirled him around and slammed his back against the front of the office.
“ you!” gritted Tex. “I’ve stood about all I’m goin’ to stand from you, Lee. Yo’re as crooked as a snake in a cactus patch, and we both know it. You told me about that Santa Rita pay-roll, because you wanted yore share. Now, yuh—get it, if yuh can!”
Tex stepped back, his eyes narrowed dangerously, as he looked at Barnhardt’s thin face, which twisted to a sneering grin, when he felt sure that Tex was not going to do him bodily harm.
“All right, Tex,” he said hoarsely. “No bad feelings, I hope.”
Tex shook his head slowly.
“I don’t sabe you, Lee,” he said softly. “Mebbe some day I’m goin’ to have to kill you.”
Tex spoke in a matter-of-fact way, as though the killing of Lee Barnhardt would be merely a disagreeable task. Barnhardt smiled crookedly.
“You don’t need to threaten me, Tex,” he said.
“Oh, that’s not a threat.”
Barnhardt straightened his collar.
“You called me a crook,” he remarked. “You can’t prove anything, Tex; but you embezzled eight thousand dollars—and I can prove it.”
“How can yuh? You haven’t the bill of sale, nor a copy of it. You had nothing to do with the sale. The check was made out to me.”
“All right,” Barnhardt laughed shortly. “In two weeks the Rail roundup will be held, Tex. There’s going to be a shortage of X Bar 6 stock to account for. My report will show this, and I’ll have to explain just what happened—unless—”
“Unless what?”
“Unless you shoot square with me, Tex.”
“In other words,” said Tex coldly, “if I’ll play a crooked game with you, you’ll protect me, eh?”
“You don’t need to be so virtuous!” snapped Barnhardt. “You’re in pretty deep already. And any time I want to, I can cut you loose from your present job. Don’t forget that I can do you a lot of harm, if I want to, Tex. One of these days that X Bar 6 is going to be mine.”
“Yea-a-ah? How do yuh figure that, Lee?”
“That’s my business. You think things over, Tex.”
Tex nodded shortly.
“All right. What kind of a case have they got against Taylor?”
“I don’t know. That Wade, the railroad detective, seems to think the dog links ’em pretty close to the case, but he’s got to wait until the engine crew and the messenger identify the dog as being the one that was on the express car.”
“Marion says it’s a dog that picked up with them the day after the hold up. I don’t remember any such a dog around the Double Bar 8.”
“Well, you don’t need to worry about it, do you?”
“Why not? I expect to marry Taylor’s daughter.”
“Well? She’s not under arrest. You better look out for Le Moyne, Tex. He’s got the same ideas that you have, and I understand that Apostle Paul thinks a lot of Le Moyne.”
“Le Moyne don’t interest me, Lee.”
“Sure he don’t. But he don’t have to interest you. Le Moyne is a handsome devil, and if I was in your boots—”
“Well, you’re not!” Tex flushed angrily. “I’ve got to help Marion find some woman to stay at the ranch with her. She can’t stay there alone. That tenderfoot from the AK was there when I left. His horse pitched him off in the hills, and he wore his feet out walkin’ to the Double Bar 8.”
“His name is Legg, isn’t it?” queried Barnhardt.
“Yeah.”
“What else do you know about him, Tex?”
“Not a thing—do you?”
“Only what Johnny Grant said. Legg told him that he used to be a bookkeeper in San Francisco.”
“Yeah? Well, he better go back and sling some more ink.”
Barnhardt smiled slowly.
“And he’s staying at the Double Bar 8, is he?”
“Not very long, he ain’t!” snapped Tex.
He whirled on his heel and looked down toward the sheriff’s office, where Marion was just coming out, accompanied by the sheriff.
“How long before they can identify that dog, Lee?” he asked.
“When the train gets in tonight, Tex.”
“Uh-huh. I’ll see yuh later, Lee.”
“All right; and in the meantime you better think over some of the things I’ve told you.”
But Tex did not reply. Marion had mounted her horse. Tex called to her, but she did not reply, as she spurred her horse to a gallop, heading toward home. Tex swore softly and went on, joining the sheriff at the doorway of the office.
“Hyah, Tex,” greeted the sheriff.
“All right, Scotty,” grunted Tex. “Mind lettin’ me see the Taylor family?”
The sheriff shook his head.
“Can’t do it, Tex. I’ve got my orders from the prosecutor. After t’night, yuh maybe can; but no chance, until after we know a little more about things.”
Tex scowled heavily.
“What evidence have yuh got, Scotty?”
“Dog. Answers the description.”
“Yea-a-ah?”
Tex leaned one shoulder against the wall of the building and began rolling a cigaret. He looked quizzically at the sheriff as he said—
“Scotty, did yuh ever wonder why them three men locked yuh in yore own jail?”
The sheriff considered the question gravely, as if it had never occurred to him before. He smiled softly and shook his head.
“No; did you, Tex?”
“It’s none of my business, Scotty.”
“No? You don’t think Eskimo, Johnny and Oyster had anythin’ to do with the hold-up, do yuh?”
“I didn’t say they did, Scotty.”
“There was four men in that hold-up. Old George Bonnette was in Blue Wells that night. They’d ’a’ had to get an outsider to help ’em, Tex. We’ve got to find four men.”
“But there’s only three in yore jail right now, Scotty.”
“Yeah; there’s still the owner of the dog.”
“Then yuh don’t think the dog belongs to Taylor?”
“No, I don’t. The man who owns the dog is the man who got on the express car at Encinas, and fought with the messenger. The dog was just a blind for that man to get on there. He was the fourth one of the gang, and he probably didn’t figure on the messenger puttin’ up a fight. He caught up with the express car as quick as possible and took the dog. The fact that he took a chance to get the dog makes it look like a cinch that if we can find the owner of that dog, we can land the whole bunch.”
It was a long explanation for Scotty Olson, and he was all out of breath.
“How about that feller Legg, at the AK, Scotty? He’d make a fourth man.”
“Him!” Scotty laughed. “Which man would he make? Not the big feller that fought the messenger. And knows he ain’t one of the masked men that blew the safe.”
“Don’t be too sure. He’d look pretty big behind a black mask, looking over the top of a six-gun. That engine crew was so scared they wouldn’t have known whether they were big men or small ones.”
“How do you know how scared they was, Tex?”
The sheriff snapped the question quickly. Tex stiffened slightly and his shoulder swayed away from the wall.
“Just figurin’ ’em to be human,” he said softly.
“Oh, yeah.” The sheriff’s smile was hidden behind his big mustache. “I reckon we’ll get along all right. It takes time to figure out things, Tex. Wade’s no fool. He’s investigatin’ every clue—him and Porter. I understand that the Santa Rita has hired a detective. Him and Le Moyne are on the case, kinda workin’ independent of my office, I suppose.” Scotty smiled. “But that’s all right. We want the men who got that thirty thousand.”
Tex nodded coldly.
“Good luck to yuh, Scotty. But if I was you, I wouldn’t look for them men in Blue Wells. They’re a of a long ways from here, I’ll betcha.”
“I’m no palmist,” said Scotty slowly. “If they’re out of the county I can’t do nothin’, but if they’re around here, I’m goin’ after ’em good and hard.”
“Sure,” nodded Tex, and went after his horse, while the sheriff looked after him quizzically.
“I wonder what you know, Tex Alden,” he said to himself. “I seen yuh talkin’ with Lee Barnhardt—and he’ll prob’ly defend Taylor, if this comes to court. By golly, I’m gettin’ suspicious of everybody. Wade says you’ve got to suspect everybody, if yo’re goin’ to be a successful detective; so I expect I’m startin’ out in the right way.”