The Heart of the Range Read online

  CHAPTER III

  THE TALL STRANGER

  "You'll have to manage it yoreself." Lanpher, the manager of the 88ranch, was speaking, and there was finality in his tone.

  "You mean you don't wanna appear in the deal a-tall," sneered hiscompanion.

  Racey Dawson, who had been kneeling on the ground engaged in bandaginga cut from a kick on the near foreleg of the Dale pony when the twomen led their horses into the corral, craned his neck past the pony'schest and glanced at Lanpher's tall companion. For the latter's wordsprovoked curiosity. What species of deal was toward? Having ridden forLanpher in the days preceding his employment by the Cross-in-a-boxand consequently provided with many opportunities for studying thegentleman at arm's-length, Racey naturally assumed that the deal was ashady one. Personally, he believed Lanpher capable of anything.Which of course was unjust to the manager. His courage was not quitesufficient to hold him abreast of the masters in wickedness. But hewas mean and cruel in a slimy way, and if left alone was prone to makelife miserable for someone. Invariably the someone was incapable ofproper defense. From Farewell to Marysville, throughout the lengthand breadth of the great Lazy River country, Lanpher was knownunfavourably and disliked accordingly.

  To his companion's sneering remark Lanpher made no intelligible reply.He merely grunted as he reached for the gate to pull it shut. Hiscompanion half turned (his back had from the first been towardRacey Dawson), and Racey perceived the cold and Roman profile of along-jawed head. Then the man turned full in his direction and behold,the hard features vanished, and the man displayed a good-lookingcountenance of singular charm. The chin was a thought too wide andheavy, a trait it shared in common with the mouth, but otherwise thestranger's full face would have found favour in the eyes of almost anywoman, however critical.

  Racey Dawson, at first minded to reveal his presence in the corral,thought better of it almost immediately. While not by habit aneavesdropper he felt no shame in fortuitously overhearing anythingLanpher or the stranger might be moved to say. Lanpher merited noconsideration under any circumstances, and the stranger, in appearancea similar breed of dog as far as morals went, certainly deserved nobetter treatment. So Racey remained quietly where he was, and was gladthat besides the pony to whom he was ministering there were severalothers between him and the men at the gate.

  "Why don't you wanna appear in this business?" persisted the stranger,pivoting on one heel in order to keep face to face with Lanpher.

  "I gotta live here," was the Lanpher reply.

  "Well, ain't I gotta live here, too, and I don't see anything roundhere to worry me. S'pose old Chin Whisker does go on the prod. Whatcan he do?"

  "'Tsall right," mumbled Lanpher, shutting the gate and shoving homethe bar. "You don't know this country as well as I do. I got troubleenough running the 88 without borrowing any more."

  "Now I told you I was gonna get his li'l ranch peaceable if I could. Igot it all planned out. I don't do anything rough unless I gotto. ButI'm gonna get old Chin Whisker out o' there, and you can stick a pinin that."

  "'Tsall right. 'Tsall right. You wanna remember ol' Chin Whisker ain'tthe only hoss yo're trying to ride. If you think that other outfitis gonna watch you pick daisies in their front yard without doinganything, you got another guess. But I'll do what I said--and nomore."

  "I s'pose you think that by sticking away off yonder where the grassis long nobody will suspicion you. If you do, yo're crazy. Folks ain'tso cross-brained as all that."

  "Not so dam loud!" Lanpher cautioned, excitedly.

  "Say, whatsa matter with you?" demanded the stranger, leaning backagainst the gate and spreading his long arms along the top bar. "Whichyo're the most nervous gent I ever did see. The hotel ain't closeenough for anybody to hear a word, and there's only hosses in thecorral. Get a-hold of yoreself. Don't be so skittish."

  "I ain't skittish. I'm sensible. I know--" Lanpher broke off abruptly.

  "What do you know?"

  "What yo're due to find out."

  "Now lookit here, Mr. Lanpher," said the stranger in a low, cold tone,"you said those last words a leetle too gayful to suit me. If yo'replanning any skulduggery--don't."

  "I ain't. Not a bit of it. But I got my duty to my company. I can'tget mixed up in any fraycas on yore account, because if I do my ranchwill lose money. That's the flat of it."

  "Oh, it is, huh? Yore ranch will lose money if you back me up, hey?And you ain't thinkin' nothin' of yore precious skin, are yuh? Oh,no, not a-tall. I wonder what yore company would say to the li'l dealbetween you and me that started this business. I wonder what they'dthink of Mr. Lanpher and his sense of duty. Yeah, I would wonder awhole lot."

  "Well--" began Lanpher, lamely.

  "Hell!" snarled the stranger. "You make me sick! Now you listen to me.Yo're in this as deep as I am. If you think you ain't, try to pullyore wagon out. Just try it, thassall."

  "I ain't doing none of the work, that's flat," Lanpher denied,doggedly.

  "You gotta back me up alla same," declared the stranger.

  "That wasn't in the bargain," fenced Lanpher.

  "It is now," chuckled the stranger. "If I lose, you lose, too.Lookit," he added in a more conciliatory tone, "can't you see how itis? I need you, an' you need me. All I'm asking of you is to backme up when I want you to. Outside of that you can sit on yoreshoulder-blades and enjoy life."

  "We didn't bargain on that," harked back Lanpher.

  "But that was then, and this is now. Which may not be logic, but it_is_ necessity, an' Necessity, Mr. Lanpher, is the mother of all kindsof funny things. So you and I we got to ride together."

  Lanpher pushed back his hat and looked over the hills and far away.The well-known carking care was written large upon his countenance.

  Slowly his eyes slid round to meet for a brief moment the eyes of hiscompanion.

  "I can't answer for my men," said Lanpher, shortly.

  "Can you answer for yoreself?" inquired the stranger quickly.

  "I'll back you up." Grudgingly.

  "Then that's all right. You can keep the men from throwing in with theother side, anyway, can't you?"

  "I can do that much."

  "Which is quite a lot for a ranch manager to be able to do," was thestranger's blandly sarcastic observation. "C'mon. We've gassed so muchI'm dry as a covered bridge. I--What does Thompson want now? 'Lo,Punch."

  "'Lo, Jack. Howdy, Lanpher." Racey could not see the newcomer, buthe recognized the voice. It was that of Punch-the-breeze Thompson,a gentleman well known to make his living by the ingeniouscapitalization of an utter lack of moral virtue. "Say, Jack,"continued Thompson, "Nebraska has been plugged."

  "Plugged?" Great amazement on the part of the stranger.

  "Plugged."

  "Who done it?"

  "Feller by the name of Dawson."

  "Racey Dawson?" nipped in Lanpher.

  "Yeah, him."

  Lanpher chuckled slightly.

  "Why the laugh?" asked Jack Harpe.

  "I'd always thought Nebraska could shoot."

  "Nebraska is supposed to be some swift," admitted the stranger. "How'dit happen, Punch?"

  Thompson told him, and on the whole, gave a truthful account.

  "What kind of feller is this Dawson?" the stranger inquired after amoment's silence following the close of the story.

  "A skipjack of a no-account cow-wrastler," promptly replied Lanpher."He thinks he's hell on the Wabash."

  "Allasame he must be old pie to put the kybosh on Nebraska thataway."

  "Luck," sneered Lanpher. "Just luck."

  "Is he square?" probed the stranger.

  "Square as a billiard-ball," said Lanpher. "Why, Jack, he's so crookedhe can't lay in bed straight."

  At which Racey Dawson was moved to rise and declare himself. Then thehumour of it struck him. He grinned and hunkered down, his ears on thestretch.

  "Well," said the stranger, refraining from comment on Lanpher'sestimate of the Dawson qualities, "we'll have to g
et somebody inNebraska's place."

  "I'm as good as Nebraska," Punch-the-breeze Thompson stated, modestly.

  "No," the stranger said, decidedly. "Yo're all right, Punch. But evenif we can get old Chin Whisker drunk, the hand has gotta be quickerthan the eye. Y' understand?"

  Thompson, it appeared, did understand. He grunted sulkily.

  "We'll have to give Peaches Austin a show," resumed the stranger."Nemmine giving me a argument, Punch. I said I'd use Austin. C'mon,le's go get a drink."

  The three men moved away. Racey Dawson cautiously eased his long bodyup from behind the pony. With slightly narrowed eyes he stared at thegate behind which Jack Harpe and his two friends had been standing.

  "Now I wonder," mused Racey Dawson, "I shore am wonderin' what kind ofskulduggery li'l Mr. Lanpher of the 88 is a-trying to crawl out of andwhat Mr. Stranger is a-trying to drag him into. Nebraska, too, huh? Iwas wondering what that feller's name was."

  He knelt down again and swiftly completed the bandaging of the cut onthe pony's near fore.

  As he rode round the corner of the hotel to reach Main Street he sawLuke Tweezy single-footing into town from the south. The powdery dustof the trail filled in and overlaid the lines and creases of LukeTweezy's foxy-nosed and leathery visage. Layers of dust almostcompletely concealed the original colour of the caked and matted hideof Luke Tweezy's well-conditioned horse. It was evident that LukeTweezy had come from afar.

  In common with most range riders Racey Dawson possessed an automaticeye to detail. Quite without conscious effort his brain registeredand filed away in the card-index of his subconscious mind the picturepresented by the passing of Luke Tweezy, the impression madethereby, and the inference drawn therefrom. The inference was almosttrivial--merely that Luke Tweezy had come from Marysville, the townwhere he lived and had his being. But triviality is frequentlyparadoxical and always relative. If Dundee had not raised an arm tourge his troopers on at Killiekrankie the world would know a differentEngland. A single thread it was that solved for Theseus the mystery ofthe Cretan labyrinth.

  Racey Dawson did not like Luke Tweezy. From the sparse and sandystrands of the Tweezy hair to the long and varied lines of the Tweezybusiness there was nothing about Mr. Tweezy that he did like. For LukeTweezy's business was ready money and its possibilities. He drove hardbargains with his neighbours and harder ones with strangers. He boughtcounty scrip at a liberal discount and lent his profits to the needyat the highest rate allowed by law.

  Luke Tweezy's knowledge of what was allowed by territorial law was notlimited to money-lending. He had been admitted to the bar, and no casewas too small, too large, or too filthy for him to handle.

  In his dislike of Luke Tweezy Racey Dawson was not solitary. LukeTweezy was as generally unpopular as Lanpher of the 88. But therewas a difference. Where Lanpher's list of acquaintances, nodding andotherwise, was necessarily confined to the Lazy River country, LukeTweezy knew almost every man, woman, and child in the territory.It was his business to know everybody, and Luke Tweezy was alwaysattending to his business.

  He had nodded and spoken to Racey Dawson as they two passed, and Raceyhad returned the greeting gravely.

  "Slimy ol' he-buzzard," Racey Dawson observed to himself and reachedfor his tobacco.

  But there was no tobacco. The sack that he knew he had put in his vestpocket after breakfast had vanished. Lack of tobacco is a seriousmatter. Racey wheeled his mount and spurred to the Blue Pigeon Store.

  Five minutes later, smoking a grateful cigarette, he again startedto ride out of town. As he curved his horse round a freight wagon infront of the Blue Pigeon he saw three men issue from the doorway ofthe Happy Heart Saloon. Two of the men were Lanpher and the stranger.The third was Luke Tweezy. The latter stopped at the saloonhitching-rail to untie his horse. "See yuh later, Luke," the strangerflung over his shoulder to Luke Tweezy as he passed on. He and Lanpherheaded diagonally across the street toward the hotel. It seemed odd toRacey Dawson that Luke Tweezy by no word or sign made acknowledgmentof the stranger's remark.

  Racey tickled his mount with the rowels of one spur and stirred himinto a trot. Have to be moving along if he wanted to get there sometime that day. He wished he didn't have to go alone, so he did. Theold lady would surely lay him out, and he wished for company to sharehis misery. Why couldn't Swing Tunstall have stayed reasonably inFarewell instead of traipsing off over the range like a tomfool. Mightnot be back for a week, Swing mightn't. Idiotic caper (with otheradjectives) of Swing's, anyway. Why hadn't he used his head? Oh,Racey Dawson was an exceedingly irritable young man as he rode out ofFarewell. The aches and pains were still throbbingly alive in his ownparticular head. The immediate future was not alluring. It was a hardworld.

  When he and his mount were breasting the first slight rise of thenorthern slope of Indian Ridge--which ridge marks with its long,broad-backed bulk the southern boundary of the flats south of Farewelland forces the Marysville trail to travel five miles to go two--arider emerged from a small boulder-strewn draw wherein tamaracks grewthinly.

  Racey stared--and forgot his irritation and his headache. The drawwas not more than a quarter-mile distant, and he perceived withoutdifficulty that the rider was a woman. She quirted her mount intoa gallop, and then seesawed her right arm vigorously. Above thepattering drum of her horse's hoofs a shout came faintly to his ears.He pulled up and waited.

  When the woman was close to him he saw that it was the good-looking,brown-haired Happy Heart lookout, the girl whose dog he had protected.She dragged her horse to a halt at his side and smiled. And, oddlyenough, it was an amazingly sweet smile. It had nothing in common withthe hard smile of her profession.

  "I'm sorry I had to leave without thanking you for what you done forme back there," said she, with a jerk of her head toward distantFarewell.

  "Why, that's all right," Racey told her, awkwardly.

  "It meant a lot to me," she went on, her smile fading. "You wouldn'tlet that feller hurt me or my dog, and I think the world of that dog."

  "Yeah." Thus Racey, very much embarrassed by her gratitude and quiteat a loss as to the proper thing to say.

  "Yes, and I'm shore grateful, stranger. I--I won't forget it. That doghe likes me, he does. And I'm teaching him tricks. He's awful cunnin'.And company! Say, when I'm feeling rotten that there dog _knows_, andhe climbs up in my lap and licks my ear and tries his best to be acomfort. I tell you that dog likes me, and that means a whole lot--tome. I--I ain't forgetting it."

  Her face was dark red. She dropped her head and began to fumble withher reins.

  "You needn't 'a' come riding alla way out here just for this," chidedRacey, feeling that he must say something to relieve the situation.

  "It wasn't only this," she denied, tiredly. "They was something else.And I couldn't talk to you in Farewell without him and his friendsfinding it out. That's why I borrowed one of Mike Flynn's hosses an'followed you thisaway--so's we could be private. Le's ride along. Iexpect you was going somewhere."

  They rode southward side by side a space of time in silence. Raceyhad nothing to say. He was too busy speculating as to the truesignificance of the girl's presence. What did she want--money? Thesesaloon floozies always did. He hoped she wouldn't want much. For heruefully knew himself to be a soft-hearted fool that was never able toresist a woman's appeal. He glanced at her covertly. Her little chinwas trembling. Poor kid. That's all she was. Just a kid. Helluva lifefor a kid. Shucks.

  "Lookit here," said Racey, suddenly, "you in hard luck, huh? Don't youworry. Yore luck is bound to turn. It always does. How much you want?"

  So saying he slid a hand into a side-pocket of his trousers. The girlshook her head without looking at him.

  "It ain't money," she said, dully. "I make enough to keep me going."Then with a curious flash of temper she continued, "That's always theway with a man, ain't it? If he thinks yo're in trouble--Give her somemoney. If yo're sick--Give her money. If yo're dyin'--Give her money.Money! Money! Money! I'm so sick of money I--Don't
mind me, stranger.I don't mean nothing. I'm a--a li'l upset to-day. I--it's hard for meto begin."

  Begin! What was the girl driving at?

  "Yes," said she. "It's hard. I ain't no snitch. I never was even whenI hadn't no use for a man--like now. But--but you stuck up for meand my dog, and I gotta pay you back. I gotta. Listen," she pursued,swiftly, "do you know who that feller was you shot?"

  "No." Racey shook his head. "But you don't owe me anything. Forget it.I dunno what yo're drivin' at, and I don't wanna know if it bothersyou to tell me. But if I can do anything--anything a-tall--to helpyou, why, then tell me."

  "I know," she nodded. "You'd always help a feller. Yo're that kind.But I'm all right. That jigger you plugged is Tom Jones."

  The girl looked at Racey Dawson as though the name of Tom Jones shouldhave been informative of much. But, Fieldings excluded, there are manyTom Joneses. Racey did not react.

  "Dunno him," denied Racey Dawson. "I heard his name was Nebraska."

  "Nebraska is what the boys call him," she said. "He used to be foremanof the Currycomb outfit south of Fort Seymour."

  "I've heard of Nebraska Jones and the Currycomb bunch all right," headmitted, soberly. "And I'd shore like to know _what_ was the matterwith Nebraska to-day."

  "So would I. _You_ were lucky."

  Racey nodded absently. The Currycomb outfit! That charming aggregationof gunfighters had borne the hardest reputation extant in aneighbouring territory. Regarding the Currycomb men had beenaccustomed to speak behind their hands and under their breaths. Forthe Currycomb politically had been a power. Which perhaps was the_reason_ why, although the rustling of many and many a cow and thekilling of more than one man were laid at their unfriendly door,nothing had ever been proved against them.

  They had prospered exceedingly, these Currycomb boys, till theelection of an opposition sheriff. Which election had put heart intothe more decent set and a crimp in the Currycomb. It did not matterthat legally the Currycomb possessed a clean bill of health. Thecommunity had decided that the Currycomb must be abolished. Itwas--cow, cayuse, and cowboy.

  While some had remained on the premises at an approximate depthbeneath the grass of two feet (for the ground was hard), the otherCurrycombers had scattered wide and far and their accustomed placesknew them no more.

  Now it seemed that at least one of the Currycomb boys, and that onethe most notorious character of the lot, had scattered as far asFarewell and obtruded his personality upon that of Racey Dawson.Nebraska Jones! A cold smile stretched the corners of Racey's mouth ashe thought on what he had done. He had beaten to the draw the foremanof the Currycomb. Which undoubtedly must have been the first timeNebraska had ever been shaded.

  The girl was watching his face. "Don't begin to get the notion youbeat him to it," she advised, divining his thought. "He was stunnedsort of that first time, an' the second time his gun caught a little.Nebraska is slow lightnin' on the pull. Keep thinkin' you was luckylike you done at first."

  Racey laughed shamefacedly. "Yo're too much of a mind reader for me.But what you telling all this to me for? I ain't the sheriff with awarrant for Nebraska Jones."

  "I'm telling you so you'll know what to expect. So you'll get out oftown and stay out. Because, shore as yo're a foot high, you won't livea minute longer than is plumb necessary if you don't."

  "I beat Nebraska once, and he won't get well of that lead in theshoulder so jo-awful soon."

  "Can you beat a shot in the dark? Can you dodge a knife in the night?It ain't a question of Nebraska Jones himself. It's the gang he'smanaged to pick up in this town. They are meaner than a nest of crossrattlesnakes. I know 'em. I know what they'll do. Right this minutethey're fixing up some way to give you yore come-uppance."

  "Think so?"

  "Think so! Say, would I come traipsing out here just for my health--oryores? Figure it out."

  "Seems like you know a lot about Nebraska and his gang," he cast at aventure, glancing at her sharply.

  "I lived with Nebraska--for a while," she said, matter-of-factly,giving him a calm stare. "Li'l Marie knows all they is to know aboutNebraska Jones--and a little bit more. Which goes double for hisgang."

  "Shucks," Racey grunted contemptuously. "Does he and his gang runFarewell? I'd always thought Farewell was a man's size town."

  "They're careful," explained the girl. "They got sense enough notto run any blazers they can't back to the limit. Yeah, they'recareful--now."

  "Now, huh? Later, when they've filled their hands and there's more of'em playin' they might not be so careful, huh, Marie?"

  "Unless yo're a heap careful right now you won't have a thing to dowith 'later,'" she parried. "You do like I say, Mister Man. I ain't abit anxious to see you wiped out."

  "Wiping me out would shore cramp my style," he admitted. "I--"

  At this juncture hoofbeats sounded sharply on the trail behind them.Racey turned in a flesh, his right hand dropping. But it was onlyLanpher and the stranger riding out of a belt of pines whose deep andlusty soughing had drowned the noise of their approach.

  Lanpher and his comrade rode by at a trot. The former mumbled agreeting to Racey but barely glanced at the girl. Women did notinterest Lanpher. He was too selfishly stingy. The stranger was moreappreciative. He gave the girl a stare of frank admiration before helooked at Racey Dawson. The latter perceived that the stranger's eyeswere remarkably black and keen, perceived, too, that the man as herode past and on half turned in the saddle for a second look at thegirl.

  "Who's yore friend?" asked Marie, an insolent lift to her upper lipand a slightly puzzled look in her brown eyes as her gaze followed thestranger and Lanpher.

  "Friend?" said Racey. "Speaking personal, now, I ain't lost either of'em."

  "I know who Lanpher is," she told him, impatiently. "I meant theother."

  "I'll never tell yuh. I dunno him."

  "I think I've seen him somewhere--sometime. I can't remember where orhow--I see so many men. There! I almost had it. Gone again now. Don'tit make you sick when things get away from you like that? Makes youthink yo're a-losing yore mind almost."

  "He looked at you almighty strong," proffered Racey. "Maybe _he'll_remember. Why don't you ask him?"

  "Maybe I will at that," said she.

  "Didja know he was a friend of Nebraska's?" he asked, watching herface keenly.

  She shook her head. "Nebraska knows a lot of folks," she said,indifferently.

  "He knows Punch-the-breeze Thompson, too."

  "Likely he would, knowing Nebraska. He belongs to Nebraska's bunch."

  "What does Nebraska do for a living?"

  "Everybody and anything. Mostly he deals a game in the Starlight."

  "What does Peaches Austin work at?" he pursued, thinking that it mightbe well to learn what he could of the enemy's habits.

  "He deals another game in the Happy Heart."

  "'The hand is quicker than the eye,'" he quoted, cynically, recallingwhat the stranger had said to Punch-the-breeze Thompson.

  "Oh, Peaches is slick enough," said she, comprehending instantly. "ButNebraska is slicker. Don't never sit into no game with Nebraska Jones.Lookit here," she added, her expression turning suddenly anxious, "didI take my ride for nothing?"

  "Huh?... Oh, that! Shore not. You bet I'm obliged to you, and I hope Ican do as much for you some day. But I wasn't figuring on staying hereany length of time. Swing--he's my friend--and I are going down to tryArizona a spell. We'll be pulling out to-morrow, I expect."

  "Then all you got to look out for is to-night. But I'm telling you youbetter drag it to-morrow shore."

  Racey smiled slowly. "If it wasn't I got business down south I'dadmire to stay. I ain't leaving a place just because I ain't popular,not nohow. I'm over twenty-one. I got my growth."

  "It don't matter why you go. Yo're a-going. That's enough. It's a goodthing for you you got business, and you can stick a pin in that."

  "I'll have to do something about them friends of his alla same, beforeI go," Racey sai
d, thoughtfully.

  "Huh?" Perplexedly.

  "Yeah. If they're a-honing to bushwhack me for what I did to Nebraska,it ain't fair for me to go sifting off thisaway and not give 'emsome kind of a run for their alley. Look at it close. You can see itain't."

  "I don't see nothing--"

  "Shore you do. It would give 'em too much of a chance to talk. Theymight even get to saying they ran me out o' town. And the more I thinkof it the more I'm shore they'll be saying just that."

  "But you said you was going away. You said you had business inArizona."

  "Shore I have, and shore I'm going. But first I gotta give Nebraska'sfriends a chance to draw cards. A chance, y' understand."

  "You'll be killed," she told him, white-lipped.

  "Why, no," said he. "Not never a-tall. Drawing cards is one thing andplaying the hand out is a cat with another kind of tail. I got hopesthey won't get too rough with me."

  "Well, of all the stubborn damn fools I ever saw--" began the girl,angrily.

  At which Racey Dawson laughed aloud.

  "That's all right," she snapped. "You can laugh. Might 'a' knowed youwould. A man is such a plumb idjit. A feller does all she can to showhim the right trail out, and does he take it? He does not. He laughs.That's what he does. He laughs. He thinks it's funny. You gimme apain, you do!"

  On the instant she jerked her pony round, whirled her quirtcross-handed, and tore down the back-trail at full gallop.

  "Aw, hell," said Racey, looking after the fleeing damsel regretfully."I clean forgot to ask her about the rest of Nebraska's friends."