Part 6

“The rest of the notes, Bunty,” said Sad evenly.

“What for?”

“Because those notes are all signed ‘Jim Steeb.’”

“Signed—Why, you damned fool, that was his name!” Bunty hunched forward, reaching inside his coat, as though to comply with Sad’s request.

“Yeah, his name was Steeb,” said Sad, narrowly watching Bunty. “Anyway, that’s the way it’s pronounced, Bunty. Yore notes are signed S-t-e-e-b, but on the fly-leaf of that book, it says ‘To my little son on Christmas Eve, from his father, and—” Sad hesitated for a moment—“and it’s signed James S-t-e-i-b! You dirty coyote, you tried to steal the Bar S, and you probably killed James S-t-e-i-b!”

[Illustration]

Bunty’s hand flipped from beneath his coat, holding a heavy revolver instead of the package of notes, but Sad suspected that Bunty was wearing a shoulder-holster, and his draw was just enough faster to spoil things entirely for Bunty O’Neil.

Sad’s gun spouted lead from his hip, and the bullet yanked Bunty sideways, throwing him to a kneeling position against the corral fence, while the six-shooter flipped away in the dust. His shoulder was broken, but his spirit, after the shock, remained unbroken. He cursed wickedly, but no one cared what he thought. He had admitted his guilt when he drew his gun. Bill Wyatt’s eyes grew hard, and he shot a meaning glance at Snipe and Abe.

The sheriff went to Bunty, reached inside his coat and took out the rest of the papers. Bunty cursed him fluently, but the sheriff paid no attention to his profanity. The others crowded around and watched the sheriff compare the signatures on the notes with that in the book. He turned to Speck, a grin on his face.

“Speck, I reckon you get your ranch back. Your dad didn’t know how much of a Christmas present he was givin’ yuh when he wrote in that book.”

“Well, he don’t get much, at that,” said Bill Wyatt.

“Don’t he?” Sad grinned at Bill. “Don’t he? C’mere, Swede.”

Swede came forward, carrying the gunnysack, which he upended and dumped out a fresh skin. It was the hide of the belligerent red steer. Swede spread it out on the ground for all of them to look upon.

“Remember that critter, sheriff?” asked Sad.

“By God, that’s one of my steers!” exclaimed Bill angrily.

“Yeah, it shore is,” agreed Wheezer. “That’s the one we filled with lead yesterday. I’d remember that red steer anywhere.”

“What’s the big idea?” demanded the sheriff.

“We went back and skinned it,” said Sad casually. “You jiggers were so mad that yuh wouldn’t even collect the meat. We all had some nice steaks for supper off that animal.”

“You got a lot of nerve!” snorted Bill. “Tried to steal——”

“Don’t talk out of turn,” advised Sad. “Sheriff, I ask yuh to examine that brand, but before yuh do, I’d like to say that we know where the body of old Eph Wyatt is. He lived long enough to help us figure out who shot him.

“Yuh see, he had only one livin’ relative. That livin’ relative would naturally inherit the Diamond W when the old man died. But when the old man declared his intentions of adoptin’ Speck, it was a cinch that Speck would get the Diamond W; so this lone livin’ relative—Don’t move, Wyatt! Keep yore hands where they are.

“You shot old Eph Wyatt from ambush. You and Bunty O’Neil had a fallin’ out; so you stole all the Bar S cattle you and yore gang could handle, and changed the Bar S to the Box 8. You branded some with an iron, but a lot of ’em were hair-branded in yore brandin’ chute. You fool, the floor of that chute looks like the floor of a barber-shop after Saturday’s work.

“Look at the brand on that hide! Keep yore hands——”

But Bill Wyatt had no idea of putting up a fight. He whirled around and darted for the corner of the corral, but stopped with a lurch.

Standing between him and the corner and regarding him calmly was old Eph Wyatt. For Bill it was like looking at a ghost; the ghost of the man he had tried to kill. Bill stared at him, turned back and walked unsteadily to the sheriff. It seemed as though Bill Wyatt were finished; as though he were surrendering. But he was not.

Suddenly he grasped the sheriff, whirled him around, grasped him by the back of the shirt and shoved his gun into the sheriff’s back.

“Keep back!” he snarled at the crowd, who were all in front of him. “Make one fool move and I’ll drill Buck Rainey. Now, Buck, yuh can back up. I’m no quitter.”

There was nothing for Buck to do, except follow orders. Bill reached down quickly and secured the sheriff’s gun. The two began backing away slowly, while the crowd, afraid to make a move for fear that Bill would make good his threat to kill Buck Rainey, stood and watched them widen the distance. Wheezer and Slim had moved in behind Snipe and Abe and quietly taken their guns before either of the Box 8 boys realized what had been done.

“Look at Bunty O’Neil!” gasped Sad. The wounded gambler had managed to get to his feet and had secured his revolver. No one had bothered to pick it out of the dust, because everyone thought that Bunty was too badly hurt to ever attempt to recover it.

Bunty was humped badly, with his right arm swinging loosely, his face the color of wood-ashes, but he was making unsteadily for the sheriff and Bill Wyatt.

“Go back, you damn fool!” commanded Bill.

Bunty shook his head painfully, gripping the heavy gun in his left hand.

“Damn the sheriff!” grunted Bunty. “His life don’t mean nothin’ to me; I’m after you, Wyatt. You double-crossed me, you coyote!”

Bill swung the sheriff around toward Bunty. He was afraid to swing further, because it would give the crowd a chance to shoot him in the back.

“Go back, Bunty,” warned Bill. “I’ll kill yuh if yuh don’t stop.”

Bunty laughed hollowly, but did not stop. He seemed awkward in his handling of the six-shooter in his left hand, and the swinging muzzle was as much of a menace to Buck Rainey as it was to Bill Wyatt.

Suddenly Bill fired at Bunty, but missed him. The bullet tore a splinter from the corral fence, and a steer bawled painfully.

“Your luck is gone, Bill,” said Bunty unsteadily.

“Like hell it has! I’ll show yuh who’s got the luck.”

Wyatt and the sheriff were backing faster now. It was evident that Wyatt was trying to draw far enough away to make a break for the brush. The crowd was powerless to stop him, unless they were willing to take a chance on Wyatt killing Buck Rainey.

Bill fired again at Bunty, and this time he did not miss. Bunty almost went to his knees, but recovered his balance. Bill fired once more, but missed, and the bullet caused the audience to scatter.

Suddenly little Speck Steib darted from the corner of the stable, circling behind Bill and the sheriff.

“Don’t yell!” cautioned Sad. “Bill don’t see him.”

Bill Wyatt did not hear Sad’s warning, nor did he realize that the youngster had sprawled in the dirt not more than six feet directly behind him. He was too interested in his own getaway, which seemed more probable every moment. If he could hold them back until he gained the brush, the odds would be in his favor.

Bunty was laughing drunkenly, as he reeled ahead. The sheriff knew that death was behind him, and he was almost as afraid of Bunty’s erratic gun muzzle as he was of Bill Wyatt’s threats. In fact, he was a trifle more worried about Bunty, because he felt that Bill would not shoot him as long as he obeyed orders.

They had backed almost into Speck now, as Bunty’s advance forced them to increase their backward pace. Suddenly Bill Wyatt’s heels struck the prostrate body, and the boy’s arms wrapped in a tight grip around his boots.

Wyatt cursed viciously, tried to catch his balance, but he had been going too fast. The sheriff backed into him, and they both went down in a heap on top of Speck, while into them, half-falling as he came, fell Bunty O’Neil.

Sad Sontag was running toward them, as Wyatt’s heels first struck Speck, and by the time the three men had piled up, Sad was into them, followed by the rest of the crowd, except Wheezer, who was going to be very sure that Snipe Lee and Abe Snow would not escape.

But Sad was not quick enough to prevent Bunty O’Neil from his vengeance. From the midst of the struggle came the muffled thud of a revolver shot, before the crowd could yank them apart.

The sheriff got to his feet unhurt, when they dragged Bunty O’Neil aside; and Speck, covered with dust and blood, crawled from beneath Bill Wyatt, spitting dirt and blinking blindly.

But Bill Wyatt did not get up. The crowd stood around and looked at him and at Bunty O’Neil, who was too far gone to know what it was all about. The sheriff grabbed Speck and hugged him, while Speck dug both fists in his eyes, trying to remove enough dirt to enable him to see what had happened.

Old Eph Wyatt came among them and looked down at his nephew. No one questioned the old man. They just seemed to take it for granted that everything would be explained. Speck blinked at him foolishly, his eyes filled with dust-tears.

“I—I kinda bull-dogged him, didn’t I?” asked Speck.

“Boy, yuh shore did,” said Buck Rainey. “You done just the right thing at the right time. If there’s goin’ to be any adoptin’ done, I’d like to have a chance at it.”

“I reckon I come first,” said old Eph Wyatt quickly.

Speck looked at them, a half-grin on his face.

“I’m much obliged to yuh,” he said. “I’ve got to think about it.”

“Well, he gets the Bar S all back, don’t he?” queried Sad. “It looks to me like you’d have to pick out all them changed brands and turn ’em back to the Bar S.”

“Y’betcha,” nodded the sheriff. “Speck gets ’em all.”

“Snipe Lee says he’d kinda like to talk,” stated Wheezer.

“I jist wanted to say,” said Snipe, “that me and Abe didn’t have nothin’ to do with shootin’ at the old man. Bill never told us that he did that, but he was awful sore to think that old Eph was goin’ to adopt the kid. Bill had an idea of combinin’ the Diamond W with the Box 8. I reckon Bill done the shootin’, ’cause he rode away that day with a rifle.”

[Illustration]

“What about the cattle stealin’?” asked Buck Rainey.

“We done it, Buck. When Bill registered that Box 8 brand, he had the idea of stealin’ Bar S cattle. It was plumb easy to change the brand to a Box 8. Then Bunty O’Neil came to Oreana. Him and Bill were old friends.

“Bunty pointed out that he had a better scheme to get the Bar S ranch, and he said it would be safer; so we quit pickin’ up the Bar S cattle. Bunty and Bill had trouble and kinda busted up. It kinda looked like Bunty was goin’ to hog the whole works; so we tried to spoil his game by stealin’ all the cattle.

“We branded what we could in the length of time we had, but the bulk of the cattle are back in a box canyon behind the Box 8, where we were goin’ to finish the job. Me and Abe plead guilty right here. We never got a cent for our work, and we didn’t steal because we expected to be paid—but to help Bill git even with Bunty O’Neil.”

“They’re both even now,” said Sad. “I reckon there ain’t much left for anybody to do. The sale is all off, unless Speck wants to sell somethin’.”

“I ain’t sellin’,” grinned Speck. “I reckon I’ll raise cows.”

They packed the two dead men on their horses and prepared to take them to Oreana. One of the boys opened the corral gate and let the cattle drift. Speck went back and picked up the scattered notes and the big book, which had proved Bunty’s duplicity.

“Are you goin’ to town with us, Speck?” asked the sheriff.

Speck shook his head quickly. “No, I reckon I’ll stay home, Mr. Rainey. I thought mebbe Mr. Sontag and Mr. Harrigan might stay all night with me and kinda help me git started.”

“Speck, you’ve got the whole town of Oreana to help yuh, if yuh need help.”

“Mebbe I have now.” Speck was wise beyond his years. “These two men helped me when Oreana wouldn’t.”

Buck rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “That’s right, Speck. They shore ruined yuh for bein’ an orphan.”

The crowd all shook hands with them, and the cavalcade moved back down the road. Old Eph Wyatt was the last to go.

“I’m glad it turned out the way it did,” he said. “I lose a son—mebbe. If we could combine the two ranches, it might be a good thing for both of us. I’m gittin’ old, and I need a young man around the place.”

“I’ll be over,” said Speck. “Mebbe we might work out a deal.”

The old man laughed and rode away. Speck led the way to the porch of the ranch-house, still carrying the book and notes. He sat down and the two cowpunchers sat down on each side of him, while he looked over the papers.

“I can’t read much,” he confessed sadly. “Yuh see, I never had much chance to go to school. Dad worried a lot about it. He said that education was somethin’ I needed pretty bad.” He opened the book at the fly-leaf and squinted at the penciled writing.

“What does that say?” he asked.

Sad squinted curiously at the boy and shot a quick glance at Swede.

“It says, ‘To my little son on Christmas Eve, from his father, James Steib.’”

“Uh-huh.” Speck grew thoughtful as he looked at the notes. “Is my father’s name written on these, too?”

“Sure. They forged his name, Speck.”

“Yuh mean that they wrote it on without him knowin’ it?”

“That’s the idea. Yuh see, Bunty knew he was in bad when I showed him the name in the book. I had an idea that he was a crook, but it took a lot of schemin’ to prove it.”

“Uh-huh.” Speck hardly understood. He pointed at the writing on the fly-leaf. “Who wrote that?”

“Well, I—uh—your father must ’a’—” Sad shifted his feet and looked appealingly at Swede, whose eyes widened humorously.

“That’s kinda funny,” mused Speck. “Yuh see, my dad never knew how to write. He was ashamed of it and never let folks know. That’s why he always wanted me to learn.”

A short lead-pencil in Sad’s pocket seemed to grow warm and he shifted nervously.

“But—but his name was spelled S-t-e-i-b,” said Sad. “I seen it on an old letter I found in the house.”

“Mebbe,” nodded Speck. “Ma could read. After she went away, me and Dad had a hard time. I don’t sabe who wrote that stuff in the book, ’cause Dad couldn’t.”

“Let’s figure it was fate, Speck,” said Sad softly.

“Who is fate, Mr. Sontag?”

“He’s the guy who tied the tin can on Boze.”

“Aw, that was Bill Wyatt.”

“Yuh can’t see fate, Speck.”

The kid nodded, got to his feet and walked into the house. Sad tore the flyleaf from the book, wadded up the notes, put them in his pocket and got to his feet.

He and Swede looked at each other and grinned knowingly.

“Will we head for Sundown, or stay a while and see that the kid gets started out right?” asked Sad.

“Mebbe,” grinned Swede, “we better leave it to fate.”

So fate nodded and they decided to stay.

[Illustration]

Transcriber’s note: This story appeared in the January 10, 1925 issue of _Short Stories_ magazine.