Chapter 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.”

“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?”

“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!”

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.”

“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.

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