Part 5

“Huh? Say,” Bill Wyatt’s voice shook with anger, “do yuh think yuh can get away with jist an apology? What kind of a cow-country didja come from, anyway?”

“Pretty fair,” said Sad seriously. “’Course it ain’t the best in the state, but we kinda like it up there. Lots of nice folks up thataway, Wyatt.”

“Yeah, I’ll betcha!”

“Got ’em before they had a chance to heat an iron,” observed Snipe. The sheriff looked all around and even inspected their saddles. He seemed disappointed not to find anything which they might have used to misbrand an animal. He brought Sad’s horse up beside Swede’s, and dropped the reins.

“I don’t sabe this,” he admitted. “What was you fellers tryin’ to do, anyway?”

“Jist bein’ playful,” grinned Swede.

“Yeah, I’ll betcha.” The sheriff scratched his chin and studied the steer. Wheezer squatted on his heels, holding Sad’s gun in one hand, and Swede’s in the other.

“Well, I reckon I’ll have to take you fellers to town.” The sheriff motioned to Snipe Lee. “Let the steer go, Snipe. We’ve got enough witnesses to this, I reckon.”

“Yo’re danged right we have!” grunted Bill Wyatt.

Snipe Lee walked over to the steer and loosened the rope. It was not the ethical thing to do, and under any other circumstances, it is doubtful that any of them would have considered turning a range steer loose among unmounted men.

Wheezer had placed the two six-shooters on his lap, holding them between his shirt and chaps, as he manufactured a cigarette.

Snipe yanked off the rope and stepped back, slapping the big red animal across the rump with the coils. The steer heaved to its feet with a deep bellow of rage, whirled with the agility of a deer and lunged straight at Buck Rainey and Bill Wyatt, who were standing close together.

The left horn of the animal caught in one side of Buck’s vest, threw him off his feet and he went headlong into the washout, while Wyatt and Wheezer collided, each having a different idea of which way to go, and they went down together.

The steer whirled at the brink of the washout and headed for Snipe Lee, who was waving his rope and yelling unheard advice to everyone. Sad and Swede were not merely spectators. Wheezer had forgotten the fact that he was custodian of the captured artillery, and the guns had barely fallen in the dust when Sad swept them up, whirled and went into his saddle.

Swede was mounted almost as soon, and while the sheriff’s posse scrambled for safety and took pot-shots at the infuriated steer, Sad and Swede rode out of gunshot, turning their tear-streaked faces toward a place where they might cry out their mirth in safety.

A forty-five bullet finally took all the fight out of the steer, and the dusty, scratched, bruised and otherwise injured posse managed to get together for a mutual condemnation meeting. Wheezer had lost a tooth in his collision with Wyatt, and he seemed inclined to think that Wyatt had done it with malice aforethought. Snipe Lee had a lump the size of an egg over his right eye, which pained him greatly.

“Blame yourself for that, Snipe,” wailed Wheezer. “You hit yourself with that hondo.”

“I did not! The steer hit me!”

“You never was within fifty feet of that steer!”

“What did yuh turn it loose for?” demanded Wyatt.

“He told me to,” pointing at Buck, who was rubbing his shoulder.

“Ain’t you got no sense of your own?” queried Wyatt painfully.

“You ort to listen to nobody but Bill,” declared Wheezer sarcastically. “He’s yore boss, Snipe—the clumsy danged fool! Yeah, I mean you, Bill! How didja ever expect to dodge a steer, goin’ the way you was? If it hadn’t been for you, I’d still have them guns and we’d have our prisoners.”

“You didn’t have them guns when we met,” declared Wyatt. “Not by a dang sight, you didn’t! An’ I’m no clumsy danged fool, either.”

“Well, you ain’t an active one, that’s a cinch. No, and by golly, you ain’t no medium one.”

“Aw-w-w, don’t fight about it,” wailed Buck. “Neither one of yuh are acrobats, and yo’re both fools. Why didn’t yuh watch the prisoners?”

“Why didn’t you?” countered Wheezer angrily.

“’Cause I was hangin’ to that steer’s horn by my vest, that’s why. It’s a danged good thing that vests don’t have sleeves.”

[Illustration]

“Well, we might as well go back,” said Wheezer painfully. He put his right forefinger in his mouth and invited them to inspect the damage within.

“Aw-w-gle ugl nahk umf foot ’n aw-w-gl,” he told them distinctly.

“Yawgl nawgl woggle,” replied the sheriff seriously.

Wheezer spat painfully. “Think yo’re danged smart, don’tcha?”

“Well, I can talk any language you can. Let’s go home.”

They limped back down the draw to where they had left their horses, mounted and went back toward Oreana.

“What’ll you do if them fellers come back to Oreana?” asked Bill Wyatt.

“Yuh don’t think they will, do yuh?” asked Buck.

“I said, if they do.”

“Oh, yeah.” The sheriff was inclined to be sarcastic. “Well, if they do, I don’t know what I’ll do, Bill. And if they don’t, I don’t know either; so there yuh are. There wasn’t a thing around there that they could use to blot a brand nor change one.”

“Then why did they throw that steer?” demanded Bill.

“I dunno, do you? If this askin’ questions is some kind of a game, deal me a hand. You seen as much of it as I did.”

“Why did they turn that steer over, if they wasn’t goin’ to get at the brand?” remarked Lee.

The sheriff turned in his saddle and glared at Snipe.

“That’ll be about all for this lesson,” he said angrily.

“Well, can’t we discuss the thing?” asked Bill peevishly.

“Shore yuh can. But don’t ask me things. I ain’t got no brains, and I’m willin’ to admit it. I don’t know the why of anythin’. Go ahead and ask Snipe a few questions, if yuh must ask somebody.”

“Ask him why he turned that steer loose,” suggested Wheezer.

“Or yuh might go and ask the steer,” said Buck. “He prob’ly heard ’em say what they was goin’ to do with him.”

The questions ended right there, and the four men said little more to each other on the way to Oreana. It was rather late in the afternoon when they arrived. The sheriff and Wheezer went to their office, where they rubbed their bruises with liniment and used up their supply of courtplaster.

“This afternoon’s work wasn’t anythin’ to brag about,” said Buck meaningly. “I don’t reckon that Bill and Snipe will spread the joyous tidin’s; so we won’t.”

“I read about a sheriff that always got his man,” said Wheezer. “He jist never made no mistakes. I don’t jist remember who the feller was that wrote the book.”

“Some feller with considerable imagination,” said Buck.

“Yeah, I sh’d say he did,” agreed Wheezer. “He’d prob’ly been able to figure out what them two fellers was tryin’ to do with that red steer, Buck. Nobody had to ask him questions. Shucks, he up and tells ’em right on the spot.

“I never seen such a feller as this’n was. Deduct things! Whooee! Always knowed jist what to say, too. As I said before, nobody had to ask him any questions. I suppose he could ’a’ answered any question without no trouble. And I s’pose he would, too.”

Buck squinted at Wheezer, who was innocently examining his mouth in the mirror.

“And nobody asked him any questions, Wheezer?”

“Nossir.”

“Well, I wish I could be elected in his county. If yo’re tryin’ to make me mad—go ahead, pardner. I know just how much I can stand, and you don’t.”

“Well,” grinned Wheezer. “I ain’t fool enough to ask yuh when you’ve got a-plenty.”

A few minutes later there entered young Speck Steeb, carrying Boze, the pup, in his arms and smiling triumphantly.

“The gol derned pup found me,” he declared.

“Where did he find yuh?” grinned Wheezer.

“In the restaurant garbage can.”

“My gosh!” exploded Buck. “What was you doin’ in the garbage can, Speck?”

“Well,” grinned Speck, “that’s where I found Boze.”

“Our family is all united,” observed Wheezer. “I reckon we’ll pick fleas from now on, Buck. What do yuh know, Speck?”

“I know that Bill Wyatt is tellin’ folks that Sontag and Harrigan are rustlers. He said they was ropin’ his cows, and that they got away from yuh. Is that right?”

“He’s tellin’ it, is he?” grunted Buck.

“Yeah, and he said that it was time that the cattlemen took the law in their own hands.”

Buck and Wheezer looked at each other. Wheezer grinned widely, but Buck was serious. Slim Wray and Art Alberts rode up to the front of the office and dismounted. They were dusty and tired.

“We put twenty-five head in the Bar S pasture,” said Slim. “And that’s every darned head we could find. We picked most of ’em up near the Box 8, and it kinda looks like they might be a little bunch that got away from that main herd. If that bunch hadn’t been stolen, it’s a cinch we’d find more, Buck.”

“I s’pose,” nodded Buck. “It ain’t goin’ to be much of a sale, but we’ll sell what there is.”

“Sontag and Harrigan came down here to buy stock, didn’t they?”

“That kinda remains to be seen, Slim. They probably won’t be at the sale tomorrow.”

“I’d like to make a bet on that,” said Speck.

Buck laughed at the boy. “You’d like to bet on it, eh? What have yuh got to bet?”

“Well,” Speck hesitated and shifted his feet. “I ain’t got no money, but I’ll bet—I’ll bet my dog.”

Buck rubbed his chin thoughtfully for a moment.

“No bet, Speck,” he said. “Yore hunch is too good. Any old time a kid is willin’ to bet his dog, the odds are all agin’ the other feller.”

Abe Snow had been in town nearly all day, and now he rode back toward the Box 8 with Bill Wyatt and Snipe Lee, who had imbibed much liquor in a short space of time. Abe had been left in town to see if he could hear anything regarding Sontag and Harrison, but it was Wyatt and Lee who had the information.

They rode in at the Box 8, stabled their horses and went to the ranch-house. There was no one there, except the Chinese cook, whose cognomen was One Bum Lung. He was cooking supper when Bill went into the kitchen to see how long it would be before eating time.

[Illustration]

“Two men come heah today,” stated One Bum Lung. “I no sabe ’em. One loan ho’se, one bay ho’se.”

“Yeah?” Bill scowled thoughtfully. “One roan horse and one bay horse, eh? What did they want?”

“No talk. I seeum on collal fence. Long time set on fence.”

“Long time set on fence, eh? Where did they set on the fence?”

“Longside li’l chute, where bland put on. You sabe place?”

“Uh-huh.” Bill whirled and went back into the living-room, where Snipe and Abe were arguing over the ownership of an old magazine.

“Sontag and Harrigan were here today,” said Bill. “Lung says they sat on the corral fence beside the brandin’-chute.”

“The hell they did!” snorted Snipe. “What for?”

“How would I know?” retorted Bill.

“That don’t look so good,” said Abe seriously. “The sooner we run them jiggers out of the country the better it’ll be for us.”

“And that’s no danged lie,” agreed Bill heartily. “If they show up at that sale tomorrow, there’ll be somethin’ doin’. You fellers keep sober and keep yore eyes open, sabe?”

“Yeah, we’ll do that, too,” agreed Snipe. “I reckon Bunty will be at the sale, eh?”

Bill laughed shortly. “Yeah, he’ll be there. I threw a spoke into his machine, but he don’t dare yelp. Keep yore eye on Bunty, too. This Sontag and Harrigan think they’re smart, buttin’ into things that don’t concern ’em.”

“Started over that damn dog!” snapped Abe. “If we hadn’t tied a can on the kid’s dog, these two wouldn’t never mixed into it. If it hadn’t been for the dog, you and Sontag wouldn’t ’a’ had a fight. And then the old man wanted to adopt the kid, ’cause the kid didn’t like you.”

“Glub pile!” called One Bum Lung, and they filed into the kitchen.

VI

“Didja ever read ‘Robinson Crusoe’?” asked Sad Sontag, leaning back in a dilapidated chair at the Bar S ranch and looking through a big book, balanced on his knees.

Swede Harrigan squinted through his revolver barrel at the window, decided that it was clean enough, and reached for the oil can.

“Know it by heart,” he declared wisely. “It was written on Friday by a man who found tracks in the sand. Where’d yuh get that book, Sad?”

“Found it upstairs. It’s probably a book that old man Steeb gave to the kid on Christmas. I ain’t read that story for years, and it kinda brings back memories of my childhood.”

“Yeah, it must,” agreed Swede. “You was eighteen years old before yuh learned to spell yore name.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s right. Well, it brings back memories of my callow youth. How does that suit yuh?”

“Suits me,” Swede shoved the gun into his holster and wiped his hands on his knees. “That danged deputy sheriff shore was careless to let our guns fall in the dust thataway. Say, I wonder what they’ll say when we show up at the sale? I dunno whether it’ll be just the right thing to do, or not, Sad.

“We don’t know how the sheriff feels about it. My gosh, he may be out gunnin’ for us right now. He—say, why don’tcha listen to me? You don’t seem to care a dang, Sad.”

“I was just wonderin’,” said Sad thoughtfully. “By golly, it’ll be a good way to find out for sure.”

“Find out what?”

“What didja say, Swede?”

“Well, now that’s sure intelligible,” declared Swede. “I suppose yuh found somethin’ in that book that’ll help yuh out, didn’t yuh?”

“Uh-huh—mebbe. When yuh don’t know the answer to anythin’—look in the book and see,” grinned Sad. “In a couple of hours they’ll come out here to hold that sale, and I might read ’em somethin’ out of the book.”

“I hope Bill Wyatt and his gang shows up,” mused Swede. “If the Lord ever did make three danged fools, them are the ones. They’re either ignorant, or they’ve got a lot of nerve.”

“They think they’re clever,” grinned Sad.

“Then this is an awful ignorant settlement. We better get all set before they show up.”

And while Sad and Swede got ready to receive them, the delegation rode from Oreana to attend the sale. Several buyers had come from the lower ranges, lured by the chance of buying something cheap.

Bunty O’Neil rode with the sheriff and his assistant, Wheezer. He was in hopes that the sale would bring enough money to pay his notes against the Bar S; but the sheriff assured him that it would not. The ranch itself was not worth over five thousand, and thirty or forty head of cattle would not bring enough more to cover the amount of the notes.

It was doubtful if a buyer could be found for the ranch. The story of the arrest and escape of Sad and Swede had become known, although the steer episode had only been touched upon lightly. Bill Wyatt and his two men rode together, and it seemed that they were unusually quiet of demeanor.

Speck rode with the sheriff, and was still willing to bet his dog that Sad and Swede would attend the sale. Speck had begun to realize that the Bar S was to be sold for debts, and that it no longer would be home to him. Buck Rainey had explained it to him in detail, and a great wrath welled up within Speck against Bunty O’Neil, the man who was indirectly responsible for this loss.

“That shore is dirty work,” Speck declared hotly. “Don’t I have the worst luck? Lose m’ ranch, and then somebody shoots the old man who was goin’ to help me out. I hope to gosh that somebody gets paid for all this.”

They rode in at the Bar S and dismounted at the big corral near the stable. The sheriff sent Slim Wray and Art Alberts to round up the cattle in the pasture, while the buyers walked around, inspecting the buildings. The sheriff was a busy man, trying to get an opinion on the value of the ranch itself, but none of the cattlemen seemed inclined to make a bid. Bunty sat on the corral fence, gloomy of face, surly of speech. He wanted his money, and he did not care who knew it.

“Close to ten thousand,” he wailed, when someone asked him how much the place owed him. “Got the notes right with me. That’s the last time anybody will ever hook me for that much.”

[Illustration]

“Well, where are all the Bar S cattle?” asked Gilroy, a rancher, who owned an outfit on Bitter River. He arrived too late to find out that the cattle had disappeared.

“Stolen,” said Wheezer.

“Stolen? How long since they disappeared?”

Wheezer started to explain, but the boys were bringing the herd; so those at the corral separated and helped swing them in through the wide gate.

“Hey!” called Slim. “There’s a Box 8 in that bunch.”

“Leave him in,” yelled the sheriff. “We can cut him out later.”

They shut the gate behind the last animal and prepared for the sale. The assemblage sat down on the top-pole of the corral fence and watched the cattle milling around, seeking an exit. The dust clouded up the scene to some extent, but the men were all old dust-eaters and did not mind.

“There’s thirty-nine head,” declared the sheriff. “It’s a mixture of breeds, ages, et cettery. How much am I bid for the bunch?”

“Three hundred and ninety dollars,” offered the Bitter River man. The price of ten dollars per head brought a laugh from the crowd.

“Three hundred and ninety-one,” bid another.

“Three ninety-one and two-bits.”

“Three ninety-two.”

“Wait a minute,” begged the sheriff. “My gosh, that ain’t no way to bid. Them animals would be dirt cheap at thirty per head.”

“I’ll give twenty dollars per head.”

The sheriff turned quickly at the sound of a familiar voice. Sad Sontag was just outside the corral and behind the men on the fence. Bunty O’Neil tried to turn quickly and almost fell off the fence. Swede Harrigan was standing near Sad, hanging on to the neck of a half filled gunny-sack, a grin on his face.

“Well, I’ll be damned!” The sheriff seemed justified in making his statement. He climbed over the fence and faced Sad, who merely grinned and asked the sheriff if his bid was high enough to buy the cattle.

“Hello, Mr. Sontag,” called Young Speck from his perch.

“Hello, Speck. How’s Boze?”

“He’s fine. By golly, I’m glad they didn’t catch yuh.”

Sad laughed and turned to the sheriff. “I hope the old red cow didn’t hurt yuh, sheriff,” he said.

“Myah!” snorted the sheriff. “You’ve got yore nerve to come here.”

“Not so much. Yuh see, we intended to come to the sale.”

“Don’t let ’em bluff yuh,” said Snipe Lee anxiously.

“Nobody’s goin’ to bluff me,” declared the sheriff.

“Nobody’s tryin’ to,” smiled Sad. “Let’s go ahead with the sale.”

“Yeah, let’s go on with it,” agreed Bunty.

For the first time the sheriff noticed that Sad had a big book under his left arm. He squinted closely.

“What’s the idea of the book, Sontag?”

“The book of wisdom,” grinned Sad. “It might answer a question that’s been botherin’ me quite a lot. Yuh see, I’ve been wonderin’ who stole them Bar S cattle.”

“Are yuh lookin’ for the answer in a book?” asked Bill Wyatt sarcastically.

“Mebbe.” Sad considered Bill thoughtfully. “Say, we was up to yore place yesterday, after the red steer busted up yore party. You’ve got quite a place, Wyatt. From the number of Box 8 cattle in the hills, you must be doin’ quite well.”

Bill Wyatt did not reply, but shot a glance at Snipe and Abe, who were wishing that they were somewhere else.

“Yessir, you seem to be doin’ quite well,” continued Sad. “You don’t brand very deep, do yuh?”

“What do yuh mean?” demanded Bill.

“Just what I said. Beauty may only be skin-deep, but a brand shore ought to go into the epidermis.”

“I don’t git yore drift.” Bill spoke evenly and straightened up slowly. “If this is a sale—let’s sell somethin’ and have it over.”

He climbed down off the fence and leaned against the nearest post. Several more got down, as though tired of their position, and Bunty O’Neil was one of them.

“I made my bid,” said Sad. “Is somebody goin’ to raise it?”

“Those cattle are worth more than that,” declared Bunty.

“Go ahead and bid more,” growled Wheezer. “Nobody stoppin’ yuh, Bunty.”

“I ain’t goin’ to bid on what already belongs to me.”

“Does it belong to yuh?” asked Sad.

“You’re damned right it does. I’ve got the notes to show for it right here.” Bunty slapped his pocket. “I’ve got enough to more than cover the ranch and everythin’ on it.”

“Lemme see one?” demanded Sad.

“Let yuh see nothin’!”

“I don’t believe you’ve got a note,” persisted Sontag.

“Thasso?” Bunty spat dryly. “Well, I have. The sheriff has seen ’em, and so has a lot of other folks.”

“Say!” snorted Wyatt. “This is a joke. These men tried to steal a steer from me yesterday, and the sheriff arrested ’em, but they got away. Why don’t he arrest ’em again?”

“That’s my business!” snapped Buck Rainey uneasily.

“What’s the idea, Buck?” asked Gilroy.

“I dunno,” Buck shook his head.

“Scared of ’em,” fleered Bill Wyatt.

“It was your steer,” reminded Wheezer. “Why don’t you do somethin’, Bill? Are yuh handcuffed?”

“I still think that yuh ought to show them notes, Bunty,” said Sad, paying no attention to Bill Wyatt.

“Why?” demanded Bunty.

“I don’t believe they’re any good, Bunty.”

“Yuh don’t, eh?” Bunty took an assortment of papers from his inside coat pocket. “Yuh don’t think they are, eh? Then take a look at one.”

Sad accepted the folded sheet of paper and looked it over. It was a properly constructed ninety day note for twenty-six hundred dollars, and signed by Jim Steeb. Sad opened the book and looked at something on the fly-leaf.

“Was Jim Steeb sober when he signed this note?” he asked.

“As sober as a judge,” declared Bunty. “I didn’t want any slip in my dealings with him, Sontag. I never let him sign a note when he was drunk. Are yuh satisfied?”

“Nope.” Sad looked up from the book and motioned to Speck.

“C’mere, Speck, I want to ask yuh a question.”

Speck came willingly enough and Sad held out the book to him.

“Do yuh remember that book, Speck?”

“Sure I do. My dad gave it to me last Christmas.”

“Yuh see, gents, he recognizes the book,” said Sad. The men nodded. Sad opened it at the fly-leaf. “Was yore dad sober when he wrote that, Speck?”

The boy nodded quickly. “He never was drunk at home, Mr. Sontag.”

Sad closed the book, placed it on the ground and held the note out to the sheriff.

“Take a look at that, will yuh sheriff. I’m goin’ to ask Bunty to show us the rest of ’em.”

“The rest of ’em?” parroted Bunty. “Whatcha mean?”