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  Title: Brand Blotters

  Author: William MacLeod Raine

  Illustrator: Clarence Rowe

  Release Date: December 7, 2008 [EBook #27436]

  Language: English

  *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BRAND BLOTTERS ***

  Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed

  Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

  * * *

  “WHO ARE YOU?” “WATER!” HE GASPED. Page 20.

  * * *

  BRAND BLOTTERS

  BY

  WILLIAM MacLEOD RAINE

  AUTHOR OF

  WYOMING, BUCKY O’CONNOR, MAVERICKS,

  A TEXAS RANGER, RIDGWAY OF

  MONTANA, Etc.

  ILLUSTRATIONS BY

  CLARENCE ROWE

  GROSSET & DUNLAP

  PUBLISHERS NEW YORK

  Made in the United States of America

  * * *

  Copyright, 1909, by J. B. Lippincott Co.

  Copyright, 1911, by Street & Smith

  Copyright, 1912, by

  G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY

  Brand Blotters

  * * *

  TO

  FRANK N. SPINDLER

  In Memory of Certain Sunday Afternoon Tramps

  Long Ago, During Which We Solved the

  Problems of the Nation

  * * *

  CONTENTS

  PART I

  MELISSY OF THE BAR DOUBLE G

  CHAPTER PAGE

  I A Crossed Trail 11

  II Brand Blotting 18

  III An Accusation 35

  IV The Man with the Chihuahua Hat 49

  V The Tenderfoot Takes up a Claim 61

  VI ”Hands Up” 75

  VII Watering Sheep 98

  VIII The Boone-Bellamy Feud is Renewed 109

  IX The Danger Line 121

  X Jack Goes to the Head of the Class 141

  XI A Conversation 156

  XII The Tenderfoot Makes a Proposition 163

  XIII Old Acquaintances 182

  XIV Concerning the Boone-Bellamy-Yarnell Feud 191

  PART II

  Dead MAN’S CACHE

  CHAPTER PAGE

  I Kidnapped 199

  II A Capture 209

  III The Tables Turned 217

  IV The Real Bucky and the False 231

  V A Photograph 243

  VI In Dead Man’s Cache 255

  VII “Trapped!” 266

  VIII An Escape and a Capture 276

  IX A Bargain 286

  X The Price 301

  XI Squire Latimer Takes a Hand 306

  XII The Taking of the Cache 322

  XIII Melissy Entertains 334

  XIV Black MacQueen Cashes his Checks 340

  * * *

  PART I

  MELISSY OF THE BAR DOUBLE G

  * * *

  CHAPTER I

  A CROSSED TRAIL

  The tenderfoot rose from the ledge upon which he had been lying and stretched himself stiffly. The chill of the long night had set him shivering. His bones ached from the pressure of his body upon the rock where he had slept and waked and dozed again with troubled dreams. The sharpness of his hunger made him light-headed. Thirst tortured him. His throat was a lime-kiln, his tongue swollen till it filled his mouth.

  If the night had been bad, he knew the day would be a hundred times worse. Already a gray light was sifting into the hollow of the sky. The vague misty outlines of the mountains were growing sharper. Soon from a crotch of them would rise a red hot cannon ball to pour its heat into the parched desert.

  He was headed for the Sonora line, for the hills where he had heard a man might drop out of sight of the civilization that had once known him. There were reasons why he had started in a hurry, without a horse or food or a canteen, and these same reasons held good why he could not follow beaten tracks. All yesterday he had traveled without sighting a ranch or meeting a human being. But he knew he must get to water soon—if he were to reach it at all.

  A light breeze was stirring, and on it there was borne to him a faint rumble as of thunder. Instantly the man came to a rigid alertness. Thunder might mean rain, and rain would be salvation. But the sound did not die away. Instead, it deepened to a steady roar, growing every instant louder. His startled glance swept the cañon that drove like a sword cleft into the hills. Pouring down it, with the rush of a tidal wave, came a wall of cattle, a thousand backs tossing up and down as the swell of a troubled sea. Though he had never seen one before, the man on the lip of the gulch knew that he was watching a cattle stampede. Under the impact of the galloping hoofs the ground upon which he stood quaked.

  A cry diverted his attention. From the bed of the sandy wash a man had started up and was running for his life toward the cañon walls. Before he had taken half a dozen steps the avalanche was upon him, had cut him down, swept over him.

  The thud of the hoofs died away. Into the open desert the stampede had passed. A huddled mass lay motionless on the sand in the track of the avalanche.

  A long ragged breath whistled through the closed lips of the tenderfoot. He ran along the edge of the rock wall till he found a descent less sharp, lowered himself by means of jutting quartz and mesquit cropping out from the crevices, and so came through a little draw to the cañon.

  He dropped on a knee beside the sprawling, huddled figure. No second glance was needed to see that the man was dead. Life had been trampled out of him almost instantly and his features battered beyond any possible recognition. Unused to scenes of violence, the stranger stooping over him felt suddenly sick. It made him shudder to remember that if he could have found a way down in the darkness he, too, would have slept in the warm sand of the dry wash. If he had, the fate of this man would have been his.

  Under the doubled body was a canteen. The trembling fingers of the tenderfoot unscrewed the cork. Tipping the vessel, he drank avidly. One swallow, a second, then a few trickling drops. The canteen had been almost empty.

  Uncovering, he stood bareheaded before the inert body and spoke gently in the low, soft voice one instinctively uses in the presence of the dead.

  “Friend, I couldn’t save your life, but your water has saved mine, I reckon. Anyhow, it gives me another chance to fight for it. I wish I could do something for you ... carry a message to your folks and tell them how it happened.”

  He dropped down again beside the dead man and rifled the pockets. In them he found two letters addressed in an illiterate hand to James Diller, Cananea, Sonora, Mexico. An idea flashed into his brain and for a moment held him motionless while he worked it out. Why not? This man was about his size, dressed much like him, and so mutilated that identification was impossible.

  From his own pocket he took a leather bill book and a monogrammed cigarcase. With a sharp stone he scarred the former. The metal case he crushed out of shape beneath the heel of his boot. Having first taken one twenty dollar yellowback from the well-padded book, he slipped it and the cigarcase into the inner coat pocket of the dead man. Irregularly in a dozen places he gashed with his knife the derby hat he was wearing, ripped the band half loose, dragged it in the dust, and jumped on it till the hat was flat as a pancake. Finally he kicked it into the sand a dozen yards away.

  “The cattle would get it tangled in their hoofs and drag it that far with them,” he surmised.

&
nbsp; The soft gray hat of the dead man he himself appropriated. Again he spoke to the lifeless body, lowering his voice to a murmur.

  “I reckon you wouldn’t grudge me this if you knew. I’m up against it. If I get out of these hills alive I’ll be lucky. But if I do—well, it won’t do you any harm to be mistaken for me, and it will accommodate me mightily. I hate to leave you here alone, but it’s what I’ve got to do to save myself.”

  He turned away and plodded up the dry creek bed.

  * * *

  The sun was at the meridian when three heavily armed riders drew up at the mouth of the cañon. They fell into the restful, negligent postures of horsemen accustomed to take their ease in the saddle.

  “Do you figure maybe he’s working up to the headwaters of Dry Sandy?” one suggested.

  A squat, bandy-legged man with a face of tanned leather presently answered. “No, Tim, I expect not. The way I size him up Mr. Richard Bellamy wouldn’t know Dry Sandy from an irrigation ditch. Mr. R. B. hopes he’s hittin’ the high spots for Sonora, but he ain’t anyways sure. Right about now he’s ridin’ the grub line, unless he’s made a strike somewhere.”

  The third member of the party, a lean, wide-shouldered, sinewy youth, blue silk kerchief knotted loosely around his neck, broke in with a gesture that swept the sky. “Funny about all them buzzards. What are they doing here, sheriff?”

  The squat man opened his mouth to answer, but Tim took the word out of his mouth.

  “Look!” His arm had shot straight out toward the cañon. A coyote was disappearing on the lope. “Something lying there in the wash at the bend, Burke.”

  Sheriff Burke slid his rifle from its scabbard. “We’ll not take any chances, boys. Spread out far as you can. Tim, ride close to the left wall. You keep along the right one, Flatray. Me, I’ll take the center. That’s right.”

  They rode forward cautiously. Once Flatray spoke.

  “By the tracks there has been a lot of cattle down here on the jump recently.”

  “That’s what,” Tim agreed.

  Flatray swung from his saddle and stooped over the body lying at the bend of the wash.

  “Crushed to death in a cattle stampede, looks like,” he called to the sheriff.

  “Search him, Jack,” the sheriff ordered.

  The young man gave an exclamation of surprise. He was standing with a cigarcase in one hand and a billbook in the other. “It’s the man we’re after—it’s Bellamy.”

  Burke left his horse and came forward. “How do you know?”

  “Initials on the cigarcase, R. B. Same monogram on the billbook.”

  The sheriff had stooped to pick up a battered hat as he moved toward the deputy. Now he showed the initials stamped on the sweat band. “R. B. here, too.”

  “Suit of gray clothes, derby hat, size and weight about medium. We’ll never know about the scar on the eyebrow, but I guess Mr. Bellamy is identified without that.”

  “Must have camped here last night and while he was asleep the cattle stampeded down the cañon,” Tim hazarded.

  “That guess is as good as any. They ce’tainly stomped the life out of him thorough. Anyhow, Bellamy has met up with his punishment. We’ll have to pack the body back to town, boys,” the sheriff told them.

  Half an hour later the party filed out to the creosote flats and struck across country toward Mesa. Flatray was riding pillion behind Tim. His own horse was being used as a pack saddle.

  * * *

  CHAPTER II

  BRAND BLOTTING

  The tenderfoot, slithering down a hillside of shale, caught at a greasewood bush and waited. The sound of a rifle shot had drifted across the ridge to him. Friend or foe, it made no difference to him now. He had reached the end of his tether, must get to water soon or give up the fight.

  No second shot broke the stillness. A swift zigzagged across the cattle trail he was following. Out of a blue sky the Arizona sun still beat down upon a land parched by æons of drought, a land still making its brave show of greenness against a dun background.

  Arrow straight the man made for the hill crest. Weak as a starved puppy, his knees bent under him as he climbed. Down and up again a dozen times, he pushed feverishly forward. All day he had been seeing things. Cool lakes had danced on the horizon line before his tortured vision. Strange fancies had passed in and out of his mind. He wondered if this, too, were a delusion. How long that stiff ascent took him he never knew, but at last he reached the summit and crept over its cactus-covered shoulder.

  He looked into a valley dressed in its young spring garb. Of all deserts this is the loveliest when the early rains have given rebirth to the hope that stirs within its bosom once a year. But the tenderfoot saw nothing of its pathetic promise, of its fragile beauty so soon to be blasted. His sunken eyes swept the scene and found at first only a desert waste in which lay death.

  “I lose,” he said to himself out loud.

  With the words he gave up the long struggle and sank to the ground. For hours he had been exhausted to the limit of endurance, but the will to live had kept him going. Now the driving force within had run down. He would die where he lay.

  Another instant, and he was on his feet again eager, palpitant, tremulous. For plainly there had come to him the bleating of a calf.

  Moving to the left, he saw rising above the hill brow a thin curl of smoke. A dozen staggering steps brought him to the edge of a draw. There in the hollow below, almost within a stone’s throw, was a young woman bending over a fire. He tried to call, but his swollen tongue and dry throat refused the service. Instead, he began to run toward her.

  Beyond the wash was a dead cow. Not far from it lay a calf on its side, all four feet tied together. From the fire the young woman took a red-hot running iron and moved toward the little bleater.

  The crackling of a twig brought her around as a sudden tight rein does a high-strung horse. The man had emerged from the prickly pears and was close upon her. His steps dragged. The sag of his shoulders indicated extreme fatigue. The dark hollows beneath the eyes told of days of torment.

  The girl stood before him slender and straight. She was pale to the lips. Her breath came fast and ragged as if she had been running.

  Abruptly she shot her challenge at him. “Who are you?”

  “Water,” he gasped.

  One swift, searching look the girl gave him, then “Wait!” she ordered, and was off into the mesquit on the run. Three minutes later the tenderfoot heard her galloping through the brush. With a quick, tight rein she drew up, swung from the saddle expertly as a vaquero, and began to untie a canteen held by buckskin thongs to the side of the saddle.

  He drank long, draining the vessel to the last drop.

  From her saddle bags she brought two sandwiches wrapped in oiled paper.

  “You’re hungry, too, I expect,” she said, her eyes shining with tender pity.

  She observed that he did not wolf his food, voracious though he was. While he ate she returned to the fire with the running iron and heaped live coals around the end of it.

  “You’ve had a pretty tough time of it,” she called across to him gently.

  “It hasn’t been exactly a picnic, but I’m all right now.”

  The girl liked the way he said it. Whatever else he was—and already faint doubts were beginning to stir in her—he was not a quitter.

  “You were about all in,” she said, watching him.

  “Just about one little kick left in me,” he smiled.

  “That’s what I thought.”

  She busied herself over the fire inspecting the iron. The man watched her curiously. What could it mean? A cow killed wantonly, a calf bawling with pain and fear, and this girl responsible for it. The tenderfoot could not down the suspicion stirring in his mind. He knew little of the cattle country. But he had read books and had spent a week in Mesa not entirely in vain. The dead cow with the little stain of red down its nose pointed surely to one thing. He was near enough to see a hole in the forehead jus
t above the eyes. Instinctively his gaze passed to the rifle lying in the sand close to his hand. Her back was still turned to him. He leaned over, drew the gun to him, and threw out an empty shell from the barrel.

  At the click of the lever the girl swung around upon him.

  “What are you doing?” she demanded.

  He put the rifle down hurriedly. “Just seeing what make it is.”

  “And what make is it?” she flashed.

  He was trapped. “I hadn’t found out yet,” he stammered.

  “No, but you found out there was an empty shell in it,” she retorted quickly.

  Their eyes fastened. She was gray as ashes, but she did not flinch. By chance he had stumbled upon the crime of crimes in Cattleland, had caught a rustler redhanded at work. Looking into the fine face, nostrils delicately fashioned, eyes clear and deep, the thing was scarce credible of her. Why, she could not be a day more than twenty, and in every line of her was the look of pride, of good blood.

  “Yes, I happened to throw it out,” he apologized.

  But she would have no evasion, would not let his doubts sleep. There was superb courage in the scornful ferocity with which she retorted.

  “Happened! And I suppose you happened to notice that the brand on the cow is a Bar Double G, while that on the calf is different.”

  “No, I haven’t noticed that.”

  “Plenty of time to see it yet.” Then, with a swift blaze of feeling, “What’s the use of pretending? I know what you think.”

  “Then you know more than I do. My thoughts don’t go any farther than this, that you have saved my life and I’m grateful for it.”

  “I know better. You think I’m a rustler. But don’t say it. Don’t you dare say it.”