The Heart of the Range Read online

  CHAPTER II

  THE YELLOW DOG

  It was a chastened Racey Dawson that returned to Farewell. He wentdirectly to the blacksmith shop.

  "'Lo, Hoss Thief," was Piney Jackson's cheerful greeting.

  "Whose is it?" demanded Racey Dawson, wiping his hot face. "Whose hosshave I stole?"

  "Oh, you'll catch it," chuckled the humorous Piney. "Yep, you betcha.You've got a gall, you have. Camly prancing out of a saloon an'glooming onto a lady's hoss. What kind o' doin's is that, I'd like toknow?"

  "You blasted idjit!" cried the worried Racey. "Whose hoss is this?"

  "I kind o' guessed maybe something disgraceful like this here wouldhappen when I seen you and yore friend sashay into the Happy Heart.And the barkeep said you had two snifters and a glass o' milk, too.Honest, Racey, you'd oughta be more careful how you mix yore drinks."

  "Don't try to be a bigger jack than you are," Racey adjured him ina tone that he strove to make contemptuous. "You think yo're awfulfunny--just too awful funny, don't you? I'm askin' you, you fish-facedape, whose hoss this is I got here?"

  "Don't you know?" grinned Piney, elevating both eyebrows. "Lordy, Iwouldn't be in yore shoes for something. Nawsir. She'll snatch youbaldheaded, she will. The old lady was wild when she come out an'found her good hoss missing. And she shore said what she thought ofyou some more when she seen she had to ride home on that old crow'sdinner of a moth-eaten accordeen you left behind."

  Racey Dawson was too reduced in spirit to properly take umbrage atthis insult to his horse. He could only repeat his request that Pineymake not of himself a bigger fool than usual. And when Piney didnothing but laugh immoderately, Racey grinned foolishly.

  "If my head didn't ache so hard," he assured the chortling blacksmith,"I'd shore talk to you, but--Say, lookit here, Piney, quit yorefoolin', will you? Who owns this hoss, anyway?"

  "Here comes Kansas," said Piney. "Betcha five even he arrests you fora hoss thief."

  "Gimme odds an' I'll go you," Racey returned, promptly.

  "Even," stuck out Piney.

  "Naw, he might do it. You Farewell jiggers hang together too hard forme to take any chances. 'Lo, Kansas."

  "Howdy, Racey," nodded Kansas Casey, the deputy sheriff. "How long youbeen rustlin' hosses?"

  "A damsight longer'n I like," Racey replied, frankly. "Who _does_ ownthis hoss?"

  "Y' oughta asked that question yesterday," said Kansas, severely, butwith a twinkle in his black eyes that belied his tone. "This herewould be mighty serious business for you if the Sheriff was in town.Jake's so particular about being legal an' all. Yessir, Racey,old-timer, I expect you'd spend some time in the calaboose--if youwasn't lynched previous."

  "Don't scare the poor feller," pleaded Piney in a tone of deepestcompassion. "He'll be cryin' in a minute."

  "In a minute I'll be doing somethin' besides cry if you fellers don'tstop yore funning. This here is past a joke, this is, and--"

  "Shore it's past a joke," Kansas concurred, warmly, "an' I ain'tfunning, not for a minute. You go give that hoss back, Racey, oryou'll be sorry."

  "Well, for Gawd's sake tell me who to give it back to!" bawled Racey,and immediately batted his eyes and gingerly patted the back of hishead.

  "Head ache?" queried Kansas. "I expect it might after last night. Yougo give that hoss back like a good boy."

  So saying Kansas Casey turned his back and retreated rapidly in thedirection of the Starlight Saloon.

  Racey Dawson glared vindictively after the departing deputy. Then heswitched his angry blue eyes to the blacksmith's smiling countenance.

  "You can all," said Racey Dawson, distinctly, "go plumb to hell."

  He turned the purloined pony on a dime and loped up the street,followed by the ribald laughter of Piney Jackson.

  "They think they're so terrible funny," Racey muttered, mournfully,as he dismounted and tied at the hitching rail in front of the HappyHeart. "Now if I can only find Swing--"

  But Swing Tunstall, it appeared on consulting the bartender, had goneoff hunting him (Racey). The latter did not appeal to the bartender todivulge the name of the horse's owner. He had, he believed, furnishedthe local populace sufficient amusement for one day. He had a smalldrink, for he felt that he needed a bracer, and with the liquor heimbibed inspiration.

  Miss Blythe, Mike Flynn's partner in the Blue Pigeon Store! She wouldknow whose horse it was, for certainly the horse's owner had boughtthe undershirt and the stockings at the Blue Pigeon. Furthermore,Miss Blythe looked like a right-minded individual. She would take nopleasure in devilling a man. Not she.

  Racey Dawson set down his glass and hurried to the Blue Pigeon Store.Miss Blythe, at his entrance, ceased checking tomato cans and cameforward.

  "Ma'am," said Racey, "will you come to the door a minute? No, no,don't be scared!" he added as the lady drew back a step. "I'm kindof in trouble, an' I want you to help me out. I'm--my name's RaceyDawson, an' I used to ride for the Cross-in-a-box before I got a jobup at the Bend. Jack Richie knows me. I ain't crazy--honest."

  For Miss Blythe continued to look doubtful. "I--" she began.

  "Lookit," he interrupted, "yesterday I got a heap drunk an' I rode offon somebody's hoss without meaning to--I mean I thought it was my hossand it wasn't. An' I thought maybe you'd tell me who the hoss belongsto so's I can return him and get mine back. She took mine, they tellme. Not that I blame her a mite," he added, hastily.

  Pretty Miss Blythe smiled suddenly. "I did hear something about aswitch in horses yesterday afternoon," she admitted. "But I thoughtMr. Flynn said Tom Dowling was the man's name. Certainly I rememberyou now, Mr. Dawson, although at first your--your beard--"

  "Yeah, I know," he put in, hurriedly. "I ain't shaved since I left theBend, and I slept mostly on my face last night, but it's li'l ol' meall right behind the whiskers and real estate. Yeah, that's the hossyonder--the one next the pinto."

  "I know the horse," said Miss Blythe, drawing back from the doorway."It belongs to the Dales over at Medicine Spring on Soogan Creek."

  "Oh, I know _them_," Racey declared, confidently (he had been at theDales' precisely once). "The girl married Chuck Morgan. Shore, Mis'Dale's hoss, huh? I'll take it right back soon's I get shaved. Is'pose I'll have a jomightyful time explaining it to the old lady."

  "It isn't the mother's horse. It's the daughter's. She was in townyesterday."

  "You mean Chuck's wife, Mis' Morgan?"

  "I mean _Miss_ Molly Dale, the _other_ daughter."

  "I didn't know they had another daughter," puzzled Racey, thinking ofwhat Piney Jackson had said anent an "old lady." "They must 'a' kepther in the background when I was there that time. What is she--a oldmaid?"

  "Oh, middle-aged, perhaps," was the straight-faced reply.

  "Shucks, I might have known it," grumbled Racey; "middle-aged oldmaid! I know what they're like. I had one once for a school-teacher. Ican feel her lickings yet. She was the contrariest female I ever met.Shucks, I--Well, if I gotta, I gotta. Might's well get it over withnow as later. Thanks, ma'am, for helping me out."

  Racey Dawson shambled dejectedly forth to effect the feeding of MissMolly Dale's horse at the hotel corral. For his own breakfast he wentto Sing Luey's Canton Restaurant. Because while Bill Lainey offeredno objections to feeding the horse, Mrs. Lainey utterly refused toprovide snacks at odd hours for good-for-nothing, stick-a-bed puncherswho were too lazy to eat at the regular meal-time. So there, now.

  "But I ain't gonna shave," he told himself, as he disposed of friedsteak and potatoes sloshed down by several cups of coffee. "If she's aold maid like they say it don't matter how tough I look."

  He was reflectively stirring the grounds in the bottom of his sixthcup when a small and frightened yellow dog dashed into the restaurantand fled underneath Racey's table, where he cowered next to Racey'sboots and cuddled a lop-eared head against Racey's knee.

  Racey had barely time to glance down and discover that the yellownondescript was no more than a pup when a burly y
outh charged intothe restaurant and demanded in no uncertain tones to know where thatadjective dog had hidden himself.

  Racey took an instant dislike to the burly youth, still--it was hisdog. And it is a custom of the country to let every man, as the sayingis, skin his own deer. He that takes exception to this custom andhorns in on what cannot rightfully be termed his particular business,will find public opinion dead against him and his journey unseasonablyfull of incident.

  Racey moved a leg. "This him, stranger?"

  The burly youth (it was evident that he was not wholly sober) glaredat Racey Dawson. "Shore it's him!" he declared. "Whatell you hidin'him for? Get outa the way!"

  Whereupon the burly youth advanced upon Racey.

  This was different. Oh, quite. The burly youth had by his brusquemanner and rude remarks included Racey in his (the burly youth's)business.

  Racey met the burly youth rather more than halfway. He hit him so hardon the nose that the other flipped backward through the doorway andlanded on his ear on the sidewalk.

  Racey followed him out. The burly youth, bleeding copiously from thenose, sat up and fumbled uncertainly for his gun.

  "No," said Racey with decision, aiming his sixshooter at the word."You leave that gun alone, and lemme tell you, stranger, while we'retogether, that I want to buy that pup of yores. A gent like you ain'tfit company for a self-respecting dog to associate with. Nawsir."

  "You got the drop," grumbled the burly youth.

  "Which is one on you," Racey observed, good-humouredly.

  "Maybe I'll be seein' you again," suggested the other.

  "Don't lemme see you first," advised Racey. "Never mind getting up.Just sit nice and quiet like a good boy, and keep the li'l handsspread out all so pretty with the thumbs locked over yore head. 'At'sthe boy. How much for yore dog, feller?"

  "What you done to my dog?" A woman's voice broke on Racey's ears. Buthe did not remove his slightly narrowed eyes from the face of theburly youth.

  "What you done to my dog?" The question was repeated, and the speakercame close to the burly youth and looked down at him. Now that thewoman was within his range of vision Racey perceived that she was theHappy Heart lookout, a good-looking creature with brown hair and alithe figure.

  The girl's fists were clenched so tightly that her knuckles showedwhitely against the pink. Two red spots flared on the white skin ofher cheeks.

  "Dam yore soul!" swore the lady. "I want my dog! How many tunes Igotta ask you, huh? Where is he? Say somethin', you dumb lump of slumgullion!"

  "He ain't yore dog!" denied the burly youth. "He never was yores! He'smine, you--!"

  Which last was putting it pretty strongly, even for the time, theplace, and the girl. She promptly swung a brisk right toe, kicked theburly youth under the chin, and flattened him out.

  "That'll learn you to call me names!" she snarled. "So long as I actlike a lady, I'm a-gonna be treated like one, and I'll break the neckof the man who acts different, and you can stick a pin in that, youdirty-mouthed beast!"

  Muttering profanely true to form, the aforementioned beast essayed torise. But here again Racey and his ready gun held him to the ground ina sitting position.

  "You leave her alone," commanded Racey. "You got what was coming toyuh. Let it go at that. The lady says it's her dog, anyway."

  "It's my dog, I tell yuh! I--"

  "Yo're a liar!" averred the girl. "You kicked the dog out when he wassick, and I took him in and tended him and got him well. If that don'tmake him my dog what does?"

  "Correct," said Racey. "Call him."

  The girl put two fingers in her mouth and whistled shrilly. Forth fromthe Canton came the dog on the jump and bounced into the girl's armsand began to lick her ear with despatch and enthusiasm.

  "You see how it is," Racey indicated to the man on the ground. "It'sthe lady's dog. You can go now."

  The burly youth stared stupidly.

  "You heard what I said," Racey told him, impatiently. "G'on. Gosome'ers else. Get outa here."

  "Say," remarked the burly youth in what was intended to be a menacinggrowl, "this party ain't over yet."

  "Ain't you been enough of a fool already to-day?" interrupted Racey."You ain't asking for it, are you?"

  "You can't run no blazer on me," denied the other, furiously.

  Racey promptly holstered his sixshooter. "Now's yore best time," hesaid, quietly.

  When the smoke cleared away there was a rent in the sleeve of Racey'sshirt and the burly youth sat rocking his body to and fro and groaningthrough gritted teeth. For there was a red-hot hole in his rightshoulder which hurt him considerably.

  Racey Dawson gazed dumbly down at the muzzle of his sixshooter fromwhich a slim curl of gray smoke spiralled lazily upward. Then his eyesveered to the man he had shot and to the man's sixshooter lying on theedge of the sidewalk. It, too, like his own gun, was thinly smoking atthe muzzle. The burly youth put a hand to his shoulder. The fingerscame away red. Racey was glad he had not killed him. He had notintended to. But accidents will happen.

  He stepped forward and kicked the burly youth's discarded sixshooterinto the middle of the street. He looked about him. The girl and herdog had vanished.

  Kansas Casey had taken her place apparently. From windows and doorwaysalong the street peered interested faces. One knew that they wereinterested despite their careful lack of all expression. It is neverwell to openly express approval of a shooting. The shooter undoubtedlyhas friends, and little breaches of etiquette are always remembered.

  Racey Dawson looked at Kansas Casey and shoved his sixshooter downinto its holster.

  "It was an even break," announced Racey.

  "Shore," Kansas nodded. "I seen it. There'll be no trouble--from us,"he added, significantly.

  The deputy sheriff knelt beside the wounded man. Racey Dawson wentinto the Happy Heart. He felt that he needed a drink. When he came outfive minutes later the burly youth had been carried away. Remained astain of dark red on the sidewalk where he had been sitting. PiggyWadsworth, the plump owner of the dance-hall, legs widespread and armsakimbo, was inspecting the red stain thoughtfully. He was joined bythe storekeeper, Calloway, and two other men. None of them was awareof Racey Dawson standing in front of the Happy Heart.

  "Was it there?" inquired Calloway.

  "Yeah," said Piggy. "Right there. I seen the whole fraycas. Raceystood here an'--"

  At this point Racey Dawson went elsewhere.