Chapter XIII: The Brand Venters

The following morning Steve and Hashknife rode to town, and Sid Brayton went along in the buckboard to bring some needed groceries. Steve told Sleepy and Thursday to ride to Spotted Horse Springs and see if the water supply was in good shape. The spring needed digging out every season, so they took a shovel and a pick along.

Mary asked to go along. She had not been riding for several weeks. The boys saddled her sorrel, and the three of them rode away together. They took a lunch along to eat at the springs, and Sleepy chuckled when he saw the boiled eggs. Mary did not know that Hashknife had told him about the other boiled eggs, and wondered why he was so amused.

It was about three miles to the springs, and the two boys spent an hour getting the hole into good shape again. Sleepy went out into some weeds to wipe his muddy boots, and got struck in the ankle by a sleepy-eyed rattler, which failed to sound any warning. But the stout boot resisted the fangs, and Sleepy kicked the reptile out on some open ground, where he proceeded to kill it with a shovel.

“It’s shore funny it didn’t rattle,” said Thursday.

“Nothin’ funny about it,” drawled Sleepy. “I was standin’ on his alarm clock.”

They wanted to skin it and present Mary with the trophy, but she did not want it.

“They don’t always rattle,” said Sleepy. “They’re a lot like folks—shoot first and buzz afterwards. Lucky thing I had on boots—I might have had a sore ankle and the snake would probably have died.”

Mary did not seem as happy as usual, and Thursday asked her if she felt well.

“Oh, I feel all right—I was thinking about Dad. He walked the floor most of the night. I can’t imagine what’s the matter with him, unless it’s the robbery of the bank and the murder of Mr. Hart. He didn’t eat any supper or breakfast.”

“He’s all right—jist upset,” assured Thursday. “Mebbe that calf—”

“What calf?” asked Mary quickly.

“Oh, I was jist thinkin’ out loud. Queer what things will come into your mind. Well, I reckon we might as well start back. Let’s go around and take a look at that little waterhole at the old nester’s place. It don’t run much water, but it helps a lot to clean it out once in awhile.”

They mounted their horses and rode eastward from the Spotted Horse Spring. They were much higher than the ranch buildings of the SP, and they could see, far down the hazy valley, yellow and blue hills. Wild bees buzzed among the sage flowers, and humming birds, like streaks of gold, darted from flower to flower.

One of them—gold, with a scarlet throat—investigated Mary at close range, became suddenly frightened and buzzed past Sleepy’s ear like a bullet. He ducked quickly and his hand snapped back to his holster.

“Danged things scare me,” he admitted, laughing.

“Beautiful things.” Mary smiled.

“If they ever hit you, you’ll think so.” Thursday grinned. “One hit me. I was pickin’ some wild strawberries one day, kinda behind some bushes, and I lifted up right in front of a hummin’ bird. _Zowie!_ He hit me right between the eyes and I went flat. Woke up with both eyes swelled shut.”

“Kill the bird?” asked Sleepy.

“I dunno. He wasn’t big enough to stumble over, and I couldn’t see.”

Thursday led the way across a mesa, and down through an old wash-out, where a cloudburst of some remote age had torn a deep swale. They swung back to the left along a narrow mesa and then went down the hill above what was known as the old nester place. Breaking through a screen of mesquite, they came out on an open slope, possibly a hundred and fifty yards above the old pole corral.

“What the hell!” snapped Thursday, jerking back his horse.

There were cattle in the corral. A man was running along the fence, crouched low. He picked up a rifle at the corner, turned and ran down the other side of the fence.

One man was in the corral, scurrying back among the cattle. There came the thud of a bullet and Mary’s horse went down in a heap, throwing her down the slope on her hands and knees, while from down at the corral came the rattling report of a rifle. Sleepy was down, running to Mary, who was dazed. He picked her up in his arms and went stumbling after his horse, which had gone back through the mesquite.

Another bullet screamed off the dirt near him, and some gravel hit him in the ear. Thursday had spurred his horse around, buck-jumping the animal toward the heavy cover, while more bullets crashed through the mesquite. Sleepy reached the brush, staggered ahead a dozen feet and dropped flat.

Mary was unhurt, except for a skinned knee, but she was frightened. Thursday came running to them and dropped down on his hands and knees.

“Are you hurt, Mary?” he asked anxiously.

“Skinned one knee,” she replied, panting a little. “I’m all right.”

“Catch my horse,” said Sleepy. “We’ve got to duck out of here. We ain’t got a chance against rifles, and they may try to head us off. Mary can ride my bronc, and we’ll double up.”

“Is my horse dead?” asked Mary.

“Neck broke square off. Hurry up, Thursday.”

Sleepy’s horse only went a short way, and in a few minutes they were mounted and riding toward the ranch at top speed. There was no chance for conversation. Thursday took the shortest way back to the house, but his horse was floundering badly from the double weight before they arrived.

“Didja recognize any of ’em?” asked Sleepy, as they dismounted.

“Not one,” replied Thursday.

Mary said she had not, either. Her knee was stiff and she limped badly.

“Well, they think we did,” decided Sleepy. “Saddle another horse and get us a couple of rifles.”

“The rifles are all in the house,” said Mary, and went with Sleepy to get them.

Sleepy selected a pair of .30-30 Winchesters, and was outside with them when Sid Brayton drove in with the buckboard and load of groceries.

* * * * *

Sleepy told him what had happened, and Sid unhitched quickly, calling to One Hop to unload the buckboard. Sleepy

got another rifle and met them at the stable. It was not over ten minutes from the time they arrived until the three men were riding away from the ranch.

They swung out about a quarter of a mile apart, with Sleepy keeping to the route they had followed back. They rode swiftly, keeping an eye on the tops of the ridges. They saw no one. Sleepy came out on the open ridge where Mary’s horse had been killed, but found the corral empty and the branding fire extinguished.

He waited there until he saw Brayton riding in from the north side, and went down to meet him. In a few minutes Thursday came riding in from the south, carrying his rifle in the crook of his left arm. They dismounted and looked around the burned-out fire. There were plenty of boot tracks and cigarette butts. There was also an old can half full of axle grease.

Near the fire was an old log, on which several hot irons had been tested.

“What do you make of this?” queried Thursday, pointing at a rather queer burn on the log, which appeared to be fresh.

Sleepy did not know what it was, and neither did Brayton.

“I can danged soon tell you what it is,” said Thursday. “It’s the vent iron of the Diamond R. They use a six pointed star, cut out of a flat piece of iron, big enough to cover most any brand.”

Sleepy nodded slowly. It was the iron used to vent another brand when an outfit bought branded cattle and wanted to run their own mark on the animal. The vent brand was registered the same as a regular brand, but was supposed only to be used legally.

“That don’t mean nothin’,” said Brayton. “You can’t prove that mark was burned today, and you can’t prove it was used on our cows.”

“Look for a six pointed star vent on the left shoulder.”

“Yeah, and the HN outfit brand on the left shoulder, too.”

“That’s the worst of it. But them jaspers was stealin’ cows. You’ve got to admit that, Sid.”

“You’re danged right they was. Golly, it’s lucky they didn’t hit Mary.”

“Didn’t miss her far,” said Sleepy grimly. “Broke her bronc’s neck near the shoulder, and the animal was facin’ them. A few inches higher—”

“You looked at the animal?”

“Before I came down here. We better collect her saddle and bridle on the way back. There’s no use huntin’ for them jiggers. They faded out of here mighty quick after we left, and they probably scattered the cattle. How many men did you see, Thursday?”

“I’m sure of three. Mebbe there was more. I dunno.”

They took the rig off the dead horse and rode back to the ranch, where they found Steve. Mary had told him all about it, and he was anxious to get more news. He looked a little pale, but his jaw bulged angrily when they told him about the vent mark on the log.

“Of course, you can’t put the deadwood on anybody through that,” said Thursday.

“No, you can’t. Well, I dunno.” Steve’s eyes narrowed as he looked off across the hills. “I reckon we’ll call it a day. If they’d hurt Mary—”

Sleepy explained how close she came to being shot. Steve sighed and went back to the house. Thursday shrugged his shoulders dismally at the lack of fight in Steve Pelliser.

“The killin’ of Ed Hart has shore handcuffed Steve,” he declared. “He ain’t been the same man since. He jist don’t seem to care what happens. If we got killed protectin’ his danged cows, he prob’ly wouldn’t give us a decent burial.”

“Prob’ly not,” agreed Sleepy.

In the meantime, Hashknife rode out to the Diamond R ranch. He was curious to know how Scotty had squared that calf deal with Steve, but he was not going to be foolish enough to ask him. There was always a chance that Scotty might say something that would give him a lead. Hashknife had never been there before. It was on the main road to Newton, one of the old type ranch-houses, part adobe, part weathered lumber. The stables and outhouses were all one story affairs. The Diamond R was one of the oldest cattle outfits in the country. The first owners had set out a big grove of cottonwoods, which nearly concealed the old place.

Scotty and Smith were home, and Scotty’s greeting was none too friendly. Hashknife had the feeling that Scotty was suspicious of him. Smith was braiding a quirt, seated on a box in the shade of the stable, while Scotty humped on his heels beside him, watching the operation. Neither of them got up when Hashknife rode in and dismounted.

“What’s new?” asked Scotty curiously.

“Not a thing,” replied Hashknife. “I got tired of listenin’ to folks talk about bank robbers, so I went for a ride.”

“I reckon it made plenty talk.” Scotty smiled.

“And that’s all,” growled Smith. “That’s about all the law does these days.”

“That’s true,” agreed Hashknife. “But what can the law do? When a criminal don’t leave any tracks, how can you find him?”

“If I robbed a bank I’d prob’ly leave my photograph on the floor,” said Scotty, flipping pebbles at a lizard. “They’d get me before I got a mile away.”

“I dunno about me.” Hashknife grinned. “It looks like a safe way to get some money. Still, I’m not smart enough to leave without losin’ a hat or my gun, or somethin’ with my name on it.”

The conversation shifted to the killing of Edward Hart.

“You knew him pretty well, didn’t you?” asked Hashknife.

“Ever since I’ve been in the Valley. He was all right.”

“What become of the kid that killed him?” queried Smith.

Hashknife smiled.

“The county is bettin’ you a thousand dollars against nothin’ that you can’t find him.”

“Funny deal,” said Scotty soberly. “Didja ever find out anythin’ about the dozen men that turned him loose?”

Hashknife shook his head.

“They didn’t leave any tracks.”

“And the kid faded out, eh? I don’t blame him—he was guilty as hell.”

“That’s a matter of opinion.”

“It’s shore my opinion, Hartley.”

“I don’t think there’s any question of a jury convictin’ him.”

“Not a bit.”

“A cow jury—” Smith grinned crookedly—“ain’t nothin’ to monkey with.”

“I’ve seen ’em do strange things.”

“Well, a jury won’t never try that kid,” declared Scotty. “In the first place, our sheriff’s office is damned inefficient.”

“Did you ever work in a sheriff’s office?” asked Hashknife.

“I never did. Why?”

“Oh, nothin’. I knew your brother used to be a sheriff, and thought mebbe you worked with him.”

Scotty was silent for several moments, scowling at the ground. Then:

“No, I never worked with him at that time. Who told you he was sheriff?”

“I think it was Caliente Jones. He merely mentioned the fact while he was tellin’ a story of his experiences as a stage driver. Santa Dolores, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah—Santa Dolores. He’s buried there, Hartley. You didn’t know him, didja?”

“No; that was before I came here.”

“Uh-huh.”

Smith went into the stable to get more leather.

“Queer sort of a _hombre_,” said Scotty. “Good worker, but kinda queer. I suppose that kickin’ didn’t help him much. He gets bad headaches—bad enough to put him in bed. I kinda feel sorry for him.”

“Nice of you to give him a job.”

“Oh, he’s able to work for his money. Don’t smoke nor drink much. Likes to set and work on ropes and things like that. He looks bad, but he ain’t.”

Smith came out and resumed his seat on the box.

“The killin’ of Hart kinda hurt Steve Pelliser,” said Hashknife.

Scotty nodded thoughtfully.

“They were good friends. Steve’s all right. Me and him get along fine.”

* * * * *

The talk shifted and they spoke about cattle, with no mention of calves. And as Hashknife did not want to broach the subject, he rode back to town no wiser than when he came. He talked for awhile with Pink, who was still a little sour over his promise to Mary.

“Every cloud has a silver linin’,” said Hashknife. “Sometimes you got to put the silver on for yourself. If you wasn’t as dumb as an oyster and as sore headed as a bee-stung bear, you’d go out to see her.”

“She don’t want to see _me_.”

“Well, she _might_.”

“Yea-a-aah?” Pink brightened visibly. “Well, I—what the hell do you know about it anyway?”

“I’m just tellin’ you, tha’s all.”

“Thank you—kindly.”

“You’re welcome.”

Hashknife went on out to the ranch, where Sleepy and Thursday told him about their run-in with the rustlers.

“Too bad you didn’t wait and see what they looked like,” said Hashknife.

“Yeah!” snorted Sleepy. “And us with two puny six-guns and a shovel and a pick, against rifles. And with a girl. You’d have stayed and peeked, eh?”

“No.” Hashknife grinned. “I’d have come home as fast as I could. Mebbe I wouldn’t have waited for a horse, ’cause when they’re shootin’ at me, I’m not botherin’ about anythin’ but myself.”

After supper Hashknife talked with Steve about it. Mary was hobbling around with a bandaged knee, and Steve watched her with gloomy eyes. Steve had little to say to Hashknife, not even making a guess as to who had fired the shots.

“That brand mark on the log don’t prove anythin’,” he said.

“And,” said Hashknife, “if you did find a vented brand on the left shoulder, you couldn’t tell whether it was your cow or a HN cow, or some other cow that the Diamond R had shipped in here.”

“That’s right, Hashknife, you couldn’t. It’s a mistake for two outfits to brand on the same spot, but both brands have been registered for years, and neither of us have ever thought of making a change. Uncle Hoddy’s outfit was originally located below where Newton is now, but he came up here fifteen years ago.”

“Sleepy says that bullet only needed a few inches elevation to have hit Mary.”

Steve shook his head wearily.

“That’s somethin’ I don’t even want to think about.”

“You think a lot of Mary.”

“Think a lot of her? Hartley, I’m not a man to make a fuss over anybody, but if anythin’ ever happened to her—”

“I know how you feel. Mary is a wonderful girl.”

“Well, I don’t care much for anythin’ else. I sent her away to school, and I was scared she’d get some tall notions—but she didn’t. You can’t change Mary.”

“If I was twenty years younger—” Hashknife smiled.

“I wouldn’t put anythin’ in your way, Hashknife. I wonder why you never got married.”

“Well, I never stopped long enough in one place.”

“You don’t believe in love at first sight?”

“Shore. But not marriage, Steve.”

“I reckon that’s a good way to look at it. I think Mary is kinda sweet on Pink Lowry. Pink’s a nice kid. But he don’t come out to see her. He’s fought shy of here ever since Jim McGowan was killed. Nobody blames him.”

“He’s jealous of Bill McGill.”

“Ho-o-o! Of Bill McGill, eh? Well, Bill’s gone, and there’s nothin’ to stop him.”

“Would you have considered Bill as a son-in-law?”

“Not in a million years! Why—well, I wouldn’t, that’s all. I—I want her to marry her own kind of people.”

“That’s right. Well, I reckon I’ll hit the hay.”

“Do you know anythin’ new?”

“Nothin’ worth talkin’ about. I think I’ll go out and read some brands tomorrow. Mebbe I can find some six pointed stars.”

Steve nodded slowly.