Part 4

Both men whirled, the one lurching to his feet. Jim started to call a greeting to them, when a gun flamed and he felt Blondy jerk back from the impact of the bullet. Another shot blasted, and Jim found himself pitching into space as the horse fell sideways. Only slightly dazed from the fall, Jim got to his feet, dimly realizing that these men were shooting at him. A bullet tugged at his sleeve, and Jim Bailey had a sudden urge to get as far away as possible in the least space of time.

[Illustration: Another shot blasted and Jim pitched into space.]

It has been said that it is impossible to run fast in high-heel boots, but Jim Bailey disproved this theory. It was the first time he had ever been obliged to run in order to save his life, and he made the best of it. There was no soreness left in his legs, and he went into that heavy brush with all the dispatch of a frightened cottontail. Not only did he go into the brush, but he kept right on going, while bullets whistled past him.

Finally he sprawled, exhausted, and waited for the worst. He could not hear any sounds of pursuit. A half-hour passed, but there were no sounds, except the buzzing of a bee, the call of a bird. Jim got carefully to his feet. Something else buzzed near him, and he instinctively held still. After a few moments a diamond-back rattler slowly uncoiled and slid easily away in the undergrowth. Jim Bailey shivered. The snake had rattled not over five feet away.

Cautiously he made his way back to the cleared space. There was Blondy, flat on his side, but no sign of the two men. He went to the horse, but the animal was dead. Jim’s heart sank. He knew it was a long way back to the Lazy H, but in just what direction?

“It must be downhill,” reasoned the young man, “because we came all the way uphill. If I ever get out of this alive, I’ve had all I want of the West.”

It was after sundown that evening, when Skeeter Smith came riding along the base of the hills north of the Lazy H. He saw a man stumble out of the mouth of a small canyon. The man stopped in the open, looking around. When he saw Skeeter he ducked down behind some brush. He was acting so queerly that Skeeter approached him cautiously.

It was Jim Bailey, scratched and torn, his face bleeding, hands cut. One sleeve of his shirt was entirely gone, the rest of the garment in tatters. One bare knee protruded from a split overall leg, and there were cactus spines in that knee.

“Meade! What happened to you?” Skeeter gasped.

“I’ve been walking,” replied Jim wearily.

“Yeah, I reckon you’ve been doin’ somethin’. Here,” Skeeter slipped his left foot out of the stirrup, “hook your foot into that stirrup and come up behind me.”

“You mean two on one horse?”

“That’s right. Hook that stirrup and I’ll help yuh on. Don’t stand there like a billy-owl--climb up.”

With his help, Jim managed to get up behind Skeeter. He drew a deep breath.

“I went riding and somebody shot my horse,” he said.

“They did? Well, that’s interestin’. Shot yore horse, eh?”

“Tried to shoot me, too,” complained Jim. “Are you sure you know the way back to the ranch? I think you’re going the wrong way.”

“Yore compass is busted, pardner,” chuckled Skeeter.

“I feel completely busted,” said Jim. “Even the snakes buzzed at me.”

The boys were all at the ranch, waiting for supper when the two men rode in. Mary was anxious over the safety of Jim. They mopped him off with water and put his blistered feet to soak, while Archibald, with the aid of pliers, began taking out cactus spines.

Jim told them what had happened to him and Blondy. No one offered sympathy. Tex Parker asked Jim if he could find the spot where they had killed Blondy.

“I hope not--ever,” Jim said.

Tex said, “Let’s eat, boys. We’ll have to watch the buzzards to find Blondy and get that saddle back. It sounds to me like somebody was doin’ some range-brandin’ on other people’s cows. That could be their only reason for smokin’ up the kid. I wish I’d been in his place.”

“You’d prob’ly stayed in the canyon,” said Tellurium. “Come and git it--before I dump it out!”

Jim managed to hobble to the table and ate a good meal though he was one mass of sore spots.

“Soon’s yuh git ready for bed,” Tellurium said, “I’ll sneak in with the horse-liniment. That’s a he-man’s cure for everythin’ from ingrown toenails to dandruff. How do you like bein’ a cowpoke?”

“Ask him that in the mornin’,” advised Dell Howard, “he’s sound asleep.”

VII

Skeeter Smith went to Pinnacle City alone that evening. When he tied his horse at the saloon hitch-rack, he saw a light in Ed McLean’s office. The lawyer was working on some papers as the tall, lean cowpoke came in. The fat lawyer shoved the papers aside and leaned back in his chair, wondering what caused the newcomer at the Lazy H to come into his office. Skeeter said “Howdy” and sat down.

“What can I do for you, sir?” asked McLean, reaching for his pipe on the desk-top.

“I thought yuh might like to know that Jim Meade rode into the hills today and some rustlers shot the horse from under him. The kid had to walk home, and he’s pretty sick of his job.”

“Job?” queried the lawyer. “He is not working for the Lazy H.”

“Well,” drawled Skeeter, “we’ll call it a deal, instead, eh?”

McLean puffed violently at his empty pipe, his eyes watching the lean face opposite him.

“Deal?” queried McLean quietly.

“Yeah--deal.” Skeeter leaned forward, lowering his voice.

“I want in on this deal, McLean,” he said.

McLean stared at Skeeter, but encountered only a pair of level, gray eyes. He swallowed painfully and looked at his pipe.

“I don’t understand what you mean,” he protested.

“No?” Skeeter smiled slowly. “What would you say if I told yuh that I know Jim Meade?”

“I’d say you lied--unless you mean the Jim Meade at the Lazy H. He’s the only Jim Meade in this deal.”

Skeeter shook his head. “Yo’re wrong, my friend. I know the real Jim Meade, the only one.”

“That is a lie--and I know it’s a lie!” snapped McLean.

“Clint Haverty told yuh that Jim Meade was dead, didn’t he? Jim Meade was supposed to have been killed seven years ago in a mine explosion in Colorado.”

“Clint Haverty said he was!” snapped McLean. “What are you driving at, Smith?”

“Clint Haverty’s idea of willin’ a ranch to a dead man.”

Ed McLean realized that he had fallen into his own trap. He looked slit-eyed at the tall cowboy and said harshly:

“What’s your price, Smith?”

“What does the kid get?” asked Skeeter.

“Half--I suppose.”

“All right--I’ll take half of your half, McLean.”

“By what right?” snapped McLean hotly. “Why, you--”

“Think it over,” advised Skeeter calmly. “I can ruin yore deal, McLean. And don’t try any funny stuff.”

“What do you mean, Smith?”

“Well,” grinned Skeeter, “you might shoot yourself and ruin the whole deal. I’d like to make some big money.”

Skeeter got up and walked out, closing the door quietly behind him. Ed McLean went to the doorway. In the lights from the Antelope Saloon he saw Skeeter Smith ride away from the hitch-rack, heading back to the Lazy H. McLean sat down at his desk, his expression very grim.

“I don’t dare tell Bailey,” he said to himself. “He’d get so frightened he’d leave. Half of my half, eh? Why, the poor fool, who does he think I am, anyway? If anybody thinks he can stop me from making this deal--let him try.”

He put on his hat, put out the light, locked the front door and went out the rear entrance to his small stable. McLean kept a buggy horse in the stable, but that horse was also a very good saddler.

* * * * *

Aching in every joint, and reeking of horse-liniment, Jim Bailey sat on the ranch-house porch, his swollen feet encased in a pair of Tellurium’s old slippers. Cactus Spears, the deputy sheriff, and Tellurium, the cook, sat on the steps, discussing Jim’s adventure with the rustlers. Cactus said complainingly:

“If you could only remember what color them horses was. They didn’t happen to be pink, did they?”

“Pink?” queried Jim Bailey. “They might have been.”

“Pink!” snorted Tellurium. “Why not green?”

“Not this time of year,” said Cactus. “Most of ’em are ripe now. No, I don’t think you’d find a green one, Tellurium.”

“No, it’s a little late, I reckon,” nodded the cook soberly.

“The boys are watchin’ the buzzards today?” asked Cactus.

Tellurium nodded. “That’s the only way they’ll ever find the saddle and bridle, Cactus. Jim ain’t got no idea where he met his Waterloo.”

Cactus grinned. “You must have went awful fast, Jim,” he remarked.

“I have no recollection of speed nor effort,” replied Jim seriously. “One moment I was there by the horse, being shot at, and the next moment I was yards away from there, hiding under a bush with a snake.”

“Yea-a-ah,” drawled Tellurium, scratching his chin, “I’ll betcha the snake took one look at him and said, ‘No use strikin’ at him, ’cause he’s too blamed fast.’”

After a short pause Tellurium said:

“He’s shore hard on the rollin’ stock of this here ranch. Poor Ol’ Peter the Hermit is all stove up, and Blondy has done gone. I dunno what _caballo_ we’ll issue to him next.”

“If _caballo_ means horse--banish the thought,” said Jim, rubbing the cramped calf of one leg.

Mary came from the main room of the house and joined them.

“We’re wonderin’ what horse to give Jim next,” said Cactus.

“I think he got off very lucky,” said Mary. “Two men shooting at him, getting lost in the hills and all that. It was quite an experience.”

“It shore was,” agreed Cactus, getting to his feet. “I’ll have to go back to town and tell Mace Adams that Jim didn’t stop to look at the colors of the horses. See yuh later, folks.”

The boys came in from work that evening, but had not found the dead horse. Tellurium wanted to go to town after supper. He asked Archibald to go along, but Archibald had a poker date at the bunk-house; so Tellurium asked Jim Bailey to go along. Skeeter Smith and Tex Parker went in ahead of them. Jim had to wear the old slippers, but most of the pains had left him.

Tellurium and Jim rode in the ranch buckboard. Tellurium had a grocery order, and left Jim to his own devices. In front of the hotel a little later Jim met Ed McLean. The lawyer looked disgruntled over something, and his eyes showed the need of sleep. He looked Jim over critically.

“You’re a fine looking heir to the Lazy H.”

Jim Bailey looked back grimly at the fat lawyer.

“You don’t need to be sarcastic, McLean. I darn near got killed yesterday.”

“Yes, I heard about it. You keep out of the hills.”

His tone made Jim Bailey angry. He flared up.

“Don’t try to order me around,” he said. “I’ve told you that before. I’ve got a mighty good notion to throw the whole deal back at you, and leave this country.”

“Oh, you have, have you? Listen to me, Bailey.” McLean came in closer, lowering his voice. “You’re not leaving here.”

“I’m not, eh? Who will stop me?”

“I will--and mighty quick!”

Jim Bailey took aim. Never in his life had he hit a man, but now he hit Ed McLean smack on the nose with every ounce of muscle at his command. It dropped the lawyer squarely on the broad seat of his pants. Then, in a half-hysterical move, Bailey reached down, grasped one of McLean’s ears, yanked his head sideways and yelled into the upturned ear:

“You and who else, McLean?”

* * * * *

If McLean knew, he did not answer.

Jim Bailey stepped back and looked around. Skeeter Smith had emerged from the hotel doorway, and was looking at him, a queer grin on his face.

“That was a funny thing to do, wasn’t it?” Jim asked.

“It looked funny to me,” replied Skeeter.

Ed McLean got slowly to his feet, one hand clutching at his bleeding nose. He did not say anything--just went across the street to his office. Several people had seen what happened, and they looked curiously at Jim Bailey. Tellurium was loading some boxes into the buckboard in front of the general store.

“I guess Tellurium is ready to go back to the ranch,” Jim said.

“Yeah, he’s loadin’ up,” agreed Skeeter, and watched Jim Bailey walk up the sidewalk.

“You and who else?” parroted Skeeter Smith to himself. “I wonder what McLean said to him?”

Jim Bailey and Tellurium rode back to the ranch.

“What’s itchin’ yuh, Kid?” the cook asked. “You ain’t talkin’ none.”

“I knocked a man down on the street,” replied Jim.

Tellurium said, “Whoa!” and slowed the team down to a walk.

“You knocked a man down?” he asked incredulously.

“I struck him right on the nose. You see, I never hit a man before.”

“Yuh mean yuh intended to hit him?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“Hm-m-m-m! Who was he?”

“Ed McLean, the lawyer.”

“McLean, the--you ain’t jokin’ with Ol’ Tellurium, are yuh?”

“No, I’m not joking, Tellurium. I knocked him down.”

“Well, man, howdy!” exclaimed the cook. “Son, yo’re improvin’. Yessir, Arizona is makin’ a man out of yuh. Well, well!”

“Was it terrible?” asked Jim quickly.

“In a way--yeah, it shore was.”

“In a way? In what way?” asked Jim.

“I didn’t git a chance to see it done. I’d have loved it.”

Jim Bailey drew a deep breath. “You don’t like McLean?”

“Well, I never sent him any love and kisses, son.”

The boys in the bunk-house didn’t believe Tellurium until Skeeter Smith came back and told them the same story. There was so much speculation over the reasons for it that the poker game broke up. Dell Howard said soberly:

“It kinda sounds like he might have some Haverty blood in him, at that. Clint Haverty would poke yuh in the nose as quick as he’d look at yuh. Well, it won’t hurt the looks of McLean’s nose, anyway. It might perk him up a little bit.”

“The funny thing about it,” remarked Skeeter, “was the fact that after he knocked McLean down, he grabbed one of McLean’s ears, yanked his head sideways and yelled in his ear, ‘You and who else?’”

“Maybe,” remarked Tex Parker, “we’ve underestimated the boy.”

“He’s been after me to git him a six-gun,” said Tellurium.

“Hold him off,” said Dell Howard. “We all want to live until after the ranch changes hands.”

VIII

At the request of relatives the body of Thomas Estabrook was shipped to Philadelphia. The incoming head of the Cattlemen’s Bank was James Wells, a new man to the country. Ed McLean, still suffering from a sore nose and outraged feelings, lost no time in taking up the matter of the Haverty will with the new banker. Wells, naturally, had no suspicions, and McLean was very persuasive. Wells said he was willing to leave everything to the court and McLean breathed easier.

However, McLean was far from satisfied with the way things were going. Jim Bailey had proved belligerent and Skeeter Smith had thrown a monkeywrench into McLean’s machinery. Between the two of them it would seem that McLean could expect very little from the Lazy H.

There was some small activity around the Lazy H that morning. Mary was upstairs, watching through a window, while Tellurium and Archibald were safely ensconced in the kitchen. Sitting on a corral fence near the stable were Jim Bailey and Cactus Spears. Jim was examining an old Colt .41, with a sicklebill handle, and Cactus was patiently explaining the deal.

“It’ll cost yuh twenty dollars, but I’m willin’ to wait for my money, until yuh--until the court passes judgment on yuh, if yuh live that long. Anyway, I’d get the gun back--I hope.”

“What do you mean--if I live that long, Cactus?”

“The way you’ve been handlin’ that hog-leg would indicate a awful sudden de-mise for you--or somebody.”

“I can learn, can’t I?” asked Jim.

“Do you know what a moot is?” asked Cactus soberly.

“A moot? No, I don’t believe I do, Cactus.”

“Well, this is a moot question. You’ve got a long ways t’ go, before you ain’t a menace to yourself. After that, yo’re a menace to everybody else.”

“I want to learn how to handle a gun,” sighed Jim. “I feel it is necessary, Cactus.”

“All right, we’ll try her again. You don’t shoot with both hands. If that was the right way, they’d put two handles on it. That there thing is the hammer. That point on the face of it is supposed to puncture the cap on the shell, not yore left thumbnail, as heretofore demonstrated.

“That doo-jingus under there is the trigger. Yuh don’t _yank_ it. Now, let’s get together on it. Go ahead and cock it. He-e-ey! Don’t point it at my knee! That’s better. Now it’s cocked. Grip it in yore right hand. That’s right. Now, yuh place the first finger of yore right hand around the trigger and--”

_Wham!_ Part of Cactus’ left heel disappeared, the gun bucked out of Jim’s hand and fell behind him and Cactus Spears swiftly bow-legged his way toward the house and safety!

“Come back here and show me something!” called Jim, but Cactus merely flinched and kept on going into the kitchen.

“I hope yo’re satisfied!” barked Tellurium. “Git away from that door--it’s thin wood!”

“Look at m’ boot-heel!” complained Cactus.

“Too bad it wasn’t yore head,” said Tellurium. “Bringin’ a gun out to that kid! He can’t shoot.”

Jim Bailey came up and peered through the window at them.

“Git away from there, you--you menace!” howled Archibald, grabbing at the curtain.

“I can’t shoot any more--this gun is empty,” called Jim.

“Good!” breathed Cactus. “He shot twice accidently and three times unconsciously. One thing--he ain’t scared of the gun.”

“I suppose yuh call that a virtue!” snorted Tellurium. “I was out there, cuttin’ wood, and that first bullet hit the axe.”

“I done told him to select a simple target for his first shot,” sighed Cactus.

“Yuh mean--he was really shootin’ _at_ Tellurium?” gasped Archibald.

“That’s enough out of you!” snorted Tellurium. “You was scared so bad yuh ate two yeast-cakes, thinkin’ they was crackers!”

“I thought they tasted kinda fuzzy. They won’t hurt me, will they?”

“Keep out of the sun,” advised Tellurium. “If they ever get heated up and start to raise--you better tie yore feet down.”

* * * * *

Jim walked around and sat down on the porch, placing the gun beside him. Mary came out, and he smiled at her.

“Lesson over, Jim?” she asked.

“I ran out of ammunition--and instructors,” he replied. “I am not what you would call an apt pupil, Mary.”

“You will learn,” she said encouragingly.

“I doubt it. I never do anything well. In fact, all I know is how to keep a set of books and not too well, at that. Out here, all that seems so far away and hazy, like something you dream and try to remember.”

“Don’t you love it out here?” she asked.

“Love?” Jim smiled slowly. “No, I can’t say I do. I don’t fit in, Mary. You see, at first I thought most everybody out here was rather dumb. When I try to do the things that they do, I know I am the dumb one.”

“You’ll learn, Jim,” she said quietly. “After you have owned the Lazy H for a while, you wouldn’t trade one little dogie for a whole city. You’ll never want to go back there.”

Jim shook his head slowly. “I don’t understand you, Mary. You will be the only one really to suffer, and still you don’t resent me. Everybody else resents me.”

“Why should I?” she asked. “It isn’t my ranch.”

“But don’t you resent the fact that--that Clint Haverty did not leave you anything?”

“No, Jim, it is not resentment. It hurt a little--at first.”

“You’re a mighty sweet girl,” said Jim slowly, but he did not look at her as he said it. “I think you are the sweetest girl I have ever known. I’ve always been afraid of girls--but I’m not afraid of you.”

There was a chuckle in Mary’s voice as she said:

“You’re not trying to make love to me, are you, Jim?”

“No,” replied Jim, getting to his feet. “I--I couldn’t do that. I guess I just wanted you to know that I appreciate you. I don’t know anything about love--except that it should be honest.”

Then he walked off the porch and went down to the stable. Tellurium came out cautiously and squinted at his back.

“He didn’t find no more shells, did he, Mary?” asked the cook.

“I don’t think so, Tellurium; there’s his gun on the porch.”

“He ain’t such a bad feller, Mary,” remarked the cook. “I don’t reckon he’d hurt anybody intentionally, but, man, what he’d do to yuh accidently! I’d better put that gun away before he finds some more shells. He’s got more, ’cause Cactus gave him almost a full box.”

“I’m sure Jim will be careful next time, Tellurium.”

“He will, huh? Listen, my dear, if he was jist six times more careful next time, there wouldn’t be enough of us left to go to the polls next election. What he needs is a pea-shooter with a busted spring.”

Archibald found a quart of hard liquor hidden in the oat-box at the stable that afternoon. Some one of the cowpokes had cached it there, but Archibald wasn’t choosey. He took his liquor where he found it. Then he notified Tellurium and they went down to the stable and sat on the oat-box. They didn’t need anything for a chaser. After a few drinks Tellurium said thoughtfully:

“Archie, I’ve been doin’ some thinkin’ f’r myself.”

“Gettin’ yore brain all wrinkled, huh?” remarked Archie, who was not interested in Tellurium’s conclusions. “Hit her again, she’s still a-standin’ up.”

* * * * *

They had another drink.

“Yuh know, Archie,” Tellurium said, “I’ve been cogitatin’ to myself. Why didn’t Clint leave somethin’ to Mary? Don’t answer that--you’ll only confuse me. He loved her like a daughter, and you know it.”

“What’r yuh tryin’ t’ do--make me cry?”

“I’m tryin’ to make yuh understand, Archie. There’s been crooked work done. What’d Clint care about this young gallinipper? Why, he never seen Jim Meade in his life. Archie,” Tellurium lowered his voice to a stage-whisper, “there’s dirty work at the crossroads.”

“Which one?” asked Archibald.

“Yo’re a big help,” sighed Tellurium. “What I mean is this; that will ain’t right. Clint Haverty never intended it thataway.”

“There’s three, four big swallers left for each of us,” said Archibald, “and we don’t want the owner of that bottle to find us. We’ll hide the empty in the oats.”

“Archibald,” said Tellurium severely, “how good are you as a holdup man?”

Archibald stared owl-eyed at Tellurium.

“Yo’re tryin’ to dig into m’ past, huh?” he grunted. “Yo’re a-gettin’ me drunk, so yuh can put some deadwood on me, huh?”

“Archie, yo’re the past-master of the Loco Lodge!”

“All right--heap me with honors, but yuh can’t slicker me. Let sleepin’ dogs lie--that’s my motter. Well, who do yuh want to rob?”