Chapter V

The next morning Sheriff Buck Rainey and Wheezer Wilson his assistant went hunting cows. They went past the Bar S, and were agreeably surprised to find most of the last fifteen Bar S cattle in the pasture. They stopped to put up the broken wires, and rode on.

Slim Wray and Art Alberts, the sheriff’s punchers, had gone further north, looking for the missing herd. The following day the sheriff was to sell out the Bar S, and he wanted more than fifteen head of cattle.

“Looks like a short chance,” observed Wheezer, as they rode further into the hills. “We can’t find much except Box 8’s and Diamond W’s. Old Eph Wyatt must have quite a lot of cows, Buck.”

“Y’betcha.” The sheriff spat reflectively. “I wonder what did happen to the old man. It don’t seem reasonable to think that Sontag and Harrigan had anythin’ to do with the shootin’. There ain’t no motive.”

“We don’t know of any,” amended Wheezer.

“My gosh, you’re gettin’ particular. Pretty soon you’ll be doin’ all your eatin’ with a fork, jist to be correct.”

“Not ’less they make a kind that don’t leak food. There’s Bill Wyatt and Snipe Lee.”

Wheezer pointed at the opposite hillside, where two riders were coming toward them. They drew rein and waited for the Box 8 boss and his puncher to join them.

“Lookin’ for Bar S stock?” asked Bill, after the customary greetings had been exchanged.

“That’s about all it amounts to,” replied Buck Rainey. “We ain’t found none yet.”

Bill twisted in his saddle and pointed east. “We seen five or six head over thataway this mornin’, and there was fifteen or twenty head out near the Box 8.”

“That ain’t noways three hundred and ten head,” grinned Buck.

Wheezer grinned at Snipe Lee. “What happened to yuh last night, Snipe? I heard Jimmy Logan, the stable-keeper, talkin’ about findin’ yuh in the oatbin, with the lid locked.”

Snipe twisted his face disgustedly.

“I must ’a’ been awful drunk. Don’t remember a thing about it. Took our broncs to the stable, set down on the oatbin, and don’t know a darned thing what happened after that.”

“And somebody roped two doors together at the hotel,” said Buck. “McKinney showed me the rope. Slim Wray was pretty drunk when he found the lariat half-hitched around his door-knob; so he thought it was a warnin’ that somebody had hung to his door. He slept in the barn with a six-gun strapped to his wrist.”

“That must ’a’ been after we left,” said Bill dryly. “Got any track of the old man, Buck?”

“No!” replied the sheriff.

“Uh-huh. I happen to know that Sontag and Harrigan rode out of Oreana about midnight.”

“How’d yuh know?”

“Jimmy Logan said they did.”

“Thasso?” The sheriff squinted reflectively. “I wonder where they went. I don’t sabe that pair, Bill.”

“You ain’t got nothin’ on the rest of us, Buck.”

“They’re sure full of fun,” offered Wheezer.

“They’re full of hell!” snorted Bill. “They’ll run against a snag, if they don’t watch out.”

“They ain’t so young,” observed Wheezer. “’S funny they ain’t run agin’ it before this.”

“This ain’t findin’ us any Bar S stock,” reminded the sheriff. “Want to ride with us, Bill?”

“Yeah, we might as well.”

And while Bill and Snipe joined forces with the sheriff, Sad Sontag and Swede Harrigan also rode into the hills, also looking for Bar S stock. They found one of that brand, which they examined closely, noting that the iron had been run on the right shoulder.

“Well, that’s one of the three hundred and ten,” observed Sad, as they moved on. There were numerous Box 8 cattle scattered along the brushy draws.

“This sale won’t be worth attendin’,” declared Swede. “By golly, I wish we’d stayed in Sundown.”

“I’m havin’ a good time,” grinned Sad. “You want too much. I wonder what Bill Wyatt and his bunch had to say? I’ll betcha Snipe Lee didn’t know what happened to him, Swede.”

“I’ll bet he didn’t. Only thing I hope is that somebody let him out of the oatbin before he suffocated.”

“Aw, he was all right. That lid was full of cracks. Wyatt was foxy enough to take that adjoinin’ room, where they’d have a swell chance to hear us talk, and I’ll betcha he cursed the man who invented a maguey rope.”

Sad pulled up his horse, as several Box 8 cattle came out of a draw beyond them and moved into an open swale. He studied them for several moments, a half-smile on his face, and then took down his rope.

“Whatcha goin’ to do, Sad?” asked Swede.

“Practice a little,” grinned Sad, spurring his horse forward and shaking out his loop. Swede swore foolishly, but did not follow him.

The cattle broke into a gallop, heading back toward the ravine, but Sad singled out a rangy, red steer and spurred swiftly in pursuit. The animal twisted along the edge of the shallow ravine, trying to reach the cover of a willow thicket, but the loop sailed true, dropped fair over the horns, and Sad Sontag made his dally around the horn in approved style.

It was all very well done, except that Sad’s cinch was far too loose for a roping-stunt, and when the jerk came it yanked the saddle high up over the horse’s withers, throwing it sideways, and upsetting the calculations of a well regulated roping horse.

The big steer took a header into the brush, the horse skidded sideways over the edge of the washout, and Sad went out of the saddle, much after the manner of a flying-squirrel hunting for a more favorable location.

The action had hardly taken place before Swede spurred past, his own rope in hand, dismounted almost on the run and proceeded to hog-tie the steer, which had had the shock of its life. Sad’s horse regained its feet, kicked a few times, blew the alkali dust from its nostrils and looked back at Sad, who was sitting against the opposite bank, rubbing the alkali out of his eyes.

“You rised something, didn’t yuh?” fleered Swede, red of face. “You’ll never get no sense, Sad Sontag. Ropin’ a steer as big as that one on a loose cinch! I’ve seen a lot of fools in my time!”

“You hadn’t ort to be vain,” said Sad painfully. “It’s all right for a feller of yore physique to look in a mirror, but he shouldn’t brag about it. Didja tie up the little pet?”

“Yeah, I tied it,” Swede spat out some alkali viciously. “If I hadn’t, that red steer would ’a’ made a pet out of you, cowboy.”

“Thank yuh kindly, Swede.” Sad climbed out, after working his saddle back into place, and walked over to the wheezing steer. It was lying on its right side, glaring its hate from a pair of blood-shot eyes.

Sad squatted on his heels and reached for his cigarette papers, while Swede complained audibly.

“I dunno why yuh done this, Sad. That steer feels the insult awful strong, and I’m goin’ to ask _you_ to turn it loose. I’m no matador. I’ll betcha even money that when yuh take the piggin’-string off that steer, he’ll beat yuh to yore bronc.”

Sad frowned over his cigarette, and sang mournfully, “O-o-o-oh, Susie Jones was a clingin’ vi-i-i-ine, but her father was a pi-i-i-izen o-o-oak.”

“Oh, all right,” sighed Swede.

Sad got to his feet and walked over to the steer.

“C’mere, Swede, and help me turn him over.”

“Do yuh think he’s tired, Sad? And after we turn him over, do we have to set him up for a spell?”

“Don’t strain yourself,” grinned Sad. They completed their turning process, when something unexpected happened.

“Don’t move, gents!”

It was the voice of Buck Rainey, the sheriff of Oreana. Sad and Swede whirled quickly to see Buck, Wheezer Wilson, Bill Wyatt and Snipe Lee, standing just a few feet away, guns in hand.

“Keep yore hands where they are,” warned the sheriff. “Get their guns, Wheezer.”

Wheezer came forward and emptied their holsters, while the two Sundown cowboys looked blankly at each other.

“We been watchin’ yuh,” said the sheriff easily. “Yuh see, it ain’t ethical to hang yore rope on other men’s stock in this range, Sontag.”

“That’s one of my animals, too,” said Wyatt angrily.

“I shore apologize,” said Sad contritely.

“Apologize!” snorted Bill. “I—guess—you—would!”

“Yuh might at least be gentleman enough to accept it.”

“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.”

“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.

“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.