Chapter IV

Paint Pablo was not a pleasant sort of a gentleman. In fact, it is stretching the imagination considerably even to speak of him as a gentleman. It is also doubtful whether Pablo ever laid any claims to the appellation.

He was about five feet five inches in height, fairly wide of girth for such a short person, and with an evil, pock-marked face. His little brown eyes were close together, his nose little more than a blob of flesh, his mouth crooked and badly in need of a dentist.

Still, he thought well of Mr. Pablo. He had a passion for pinto horses. His four cowboys, “Tucson Charley,” Mose Dickey, “Pokey” Speed--who had been christened Polk--and Mike John all rode painted ponies.

Tucson Charley’s mother had been a Piute, his father, a Spaniard. Mose Dickey’s paternal ancestors were unknown to him. Pokey boasted Irish and Mexican blood, while Mike John’s blood was a mixture of Yaqui and Basque.

It was an aggregation to be proud of, and Paint Pablo was proud of them. So variegated was everything about the ranch that it was commonly known as the “Paint Pot.” It was located across the Antelope range from the mouth of Rainbow Valley, and about ten miles in a straight line northeast from the town of Antelope.

That Paint Pablo was dishonest, there was no doubt in the minds of Antelope and Rainbow Valley folks. But he had never been caught. If there was a hold-up within miles of that country, Pablo and his crew were under suspicion. But Pablo did not mind. He went along in his own dumb way, caring little what any one thought about him.

His ranch house was a huddle of unpainted shacks in a grove of cottonwoods, sitting high enough on the hill to overlook much of the country. Paint Pablo did not build up there for the view.

And it was at this Paint Pot ranch that Bill Smith, erstwhile Tex Rowland, Number 1733, made his first stop on his return to Antelope. He rode in on a jaded gray horse, cheap saddle and a bridle that was little more than a leather thong.

He had managed to scrape together an outfit of cowboy raiment, belt, gun and a small stock of ammunition. Pablo was sitting in the shade of a cottonwood, putting a hondo on his rope, when Bill Smith rode in and dismounted.

He had known Pablo for years, and felt that Pablo would recognize him, if such a thing was possible. But there was no sign of recognition in his little eyes; only suspicion of this handsome cowpuncher. Pablo was no conversationalist. He grunted softly and continued to work on his rope.

Bill Smith grinned and rolled a cigaret.

“What outfit is this?” he asked.

Pablo grunted, spat thoughtfully, and drew the lightning sign in the dust with his forefinger.

“Lightnin’, eh?” queried Bill.

“Um-m.”

“You know Rory McPherson?”

“---- right.”

“You know Big Jim Mott?”

Pablo shifted uneasily.

“Um-m.”

“You know Tex Rowland?”

Pablo looked up quickly, a glint of suspicion in his eyes.

“You officer?” he asked.

“Nope. Tex was my friend.”

“Um-m. What you want?”

“Job.”

“You look for Tex?”

“Not so you’d notice it. I need a job, and I was just wonderin’ if McPherson could put me to work.”

Pablo squinted closely at him.

“You been sick? You pretty ---- white skin.”

“Yeah, I been sick,” grinned Bill Smith, “Almost died.”

“Too bad. I was sick once. Wood alcohol! ---- near die, too.”

“What about that job?” asked Bill.

Pablo shook his head and went to work on his rope.

“No job here,” he declared, “I got too much help. Mebbe Jim Mott give you job; mebbe McPherson give you job--I dunno.”

“Got a horse yuh want to trade?”

Pablo took a quick glance at the skinny gray and shook his head. He was not interested in anything but painted horses. Bill Smith threw away his cigaret, told Pablo good-by and rode on toward Antelope.

He was satisfied now that no one would recognize him. If he escaped the keen eyes of Pablo, there was little chance of any one discovering that Tex Rowland was back of that handsome face. It was going to be difficult for him to pose as a stranger in a place where he knew every one. He was beginning to get used to his new face and name. It would be like coming back from the grave to hear himself discussed, and he felt sure that he would soon know what folks thought about him.

He rode into Antelope and tied his horse to a hitch-rack. It did not seem to him that he had ever been away from the old town. Old Ase Bradley, who owned a general store, was sitting on the same old bench in front of the store, chewing tobacco and arguing politics with a couple of old cronies.

Pete Sutherland, the blacksmith, was swearing audibly at a broncho that wouldn’t stand still. Pete always swore at them, whether they stood still or not. It was a habit with him. A girl was coming out of the bank, and Bill Smith stood silently watching her.

It was Della Marsh, coming straight toward him; Della Marsh, the girl he was to have married. He stared at her hungrily. It was the supreme test of his disguise. She glanced at him without recognition and passed on into a restaurant. Bill Smith sighed deeply and walked slowly on. For the first time since his recovery he realized that even Della would not know him.

And that moment he realized that he was a stranger to everybody--everywhere. He was the only living person who knew who he was. The gods of fate had created a full grown human being; created a creature which had no past.

“My ----!” exclaimed Bill Smith to himself, “I dunno whether I’m winner in this game or not. I can’t claim relationship with anybody on earth. I was born in a train wreck, where a lot of folks died--and among them was Tex Rowland. I’m just a ghost, tha’sall.”

No one spoke to him in the Fashion Saloon. There were men he had known intimately for years; men who were his friends. They looked at him and saw only the good-looking puncher, a trifle run down as to raiment, a stranger to Antelope.

Big Jim Mott was there, playing poker. He glanced at the stranger and went on with his game. Bill Smith bought himself a drink. It was the first one he had drunk since his arrest. He questioned the bartender about the cattle ranches, intimating that he was looking for a job. The bartender advised him to see Big Jim. Bill Smith grinned to himself. It seemed ridiculous for the bartender not to know him.

Marvin Crane was also in the poker game. He was a thin-faced, swarthy-complectioned, middle-aged man, who was continually blinking his eyes. It was Crane who had sworn to the complaint charging Tex Rowland with the theft of six XO-Bar-5 horses.

Some one had corralled the horses in an old pole-corral in a coulée, several miles from the XO-Bar-5 ranch-house, and with the six XO-Bar-5 horses was a RMP mare which Tex had been looking for.

Tex had dismounted and was inside the corral, rope in hand, when Crane and “Slim” Whelan, his cowpuncher, rode up. Tex had noticed that the animals were covered with sweat and were weary from a long run; but gave it no thought.

He was also unaware that just outside the little corral were the preparations for a branding-fire, which had been recently put together. There was also the rod from the end-gate of a wagon, which, in all probability, was to be used as a running-iron to change the brands.

In range parlance--Tex was caught with the goods. Crane and Whelan covered him with their guns, disarmed Tex and took him to the sheriff. There had been too much horse-stealing in the Antelope country for the law to deal lightly; so Tex had been convicted.

Bill Smith, erstwhile Tex, loafed around the saloon until the poker game broke up, and then approached Big Jim Mott. Luck had smiled upon Big Jim and his grin was expansive.

“Want a job, eh?” he asked jovially. “What can you do?”

“Anythin’ from wranglin’ broncs to runnin’ the ranch,” replied Bill Smith.

“Well, you’re not a bit modest,” laughed Big Jim. “Where are you from and what is your name?”

“Are you hirin’ pedigrees or punchers?” asked Bill.

Big Jim laughed and turned to Crane--

“You can use another man, can’t you, Crane?”

“I might.” Crane was not enthusiastic.

“I’m filled up at my ranch,” explained Big Jim. “Got more punchers than I know what to do with; so I’ll let Crane have you. He needs another man. Got a horse?”

“I’ve got somethin’ with four legs and a tail,” grinned Bill. “It ain’t a bronc.”

They walked outside and he pointed out his gray at the hitch-rack across the street. Big Jim laughed and went toward the bank, while Bill Smith and Crane crossed to the rack and got their horses.

Crane was not strong on conversation, and Bill wondered why Big Jim had hired him to work on the XO-Bar-5. He did not know that Big Jim owned that outfit, but he was beginning to think so.

“Does the big feller own your ranch?” he asked.

Crane nodded jerkily.

“Yeah. That’s Big Jim Mott. Didn’t yuh ever hear of him?”

“What did he ever do?”

“Oh, ----! I dunno. He owns most of this country.”

“Got lots of money?”

“Yeah. Owns the bank in Antelope and helps run the State.”

“Looks like a fighter.”

Crane laughed grimly, but did not express any opinion. He had heard of Big Jim’s fight with old Rory McPherson.

“I came in from that direction,” said Bill, pointing northeast, “and I ran into the Lightnin’-brand ranch. Had a talk with the jeezer that owns it. That is, I tried to have a talk with him. He sure is short on conversation.”

“That was Paint Pablo,” said Crane. “---- Injun!”

“He ain’t very ornamental, that’s a cinch,” grinned Bill.

“No, and yuh don’t want to trust him too far, either. Say, I don’t even know your name.”

“William H. Smith.”

Crane spat dryly and nodded.

“Bill Smith, eh? You don’t look like none of the Smith family I’ve ever seen. Where yuh been workin’, Smith?”

“You don’t expect me to answer that, do yuh?”

Crane grinned and bit a corner off his plug of tobacco.

“All right. If anybody asks me, I’ll say yuh hails from Oklahoma, or from some other seaport. Yuh look honest.”

“Since when did cow-ranches require a puncher to look honest, Crane?”

“All right, all right, Smith. You ain’t no mail-order puncher, that’s a cinch. You’ll bunk with Slim Whelan. He’s a forked gent, with a salty disposition, and kinda addicted to solitaire. I hate two-handed games; so I don’t play with Slim. Mebbe he’ll take exceptions to your looks; but I reckon yuh can take care of William H. Smith.”

“I’ve raised him ever since he was born,” grinned Bill.

“And that wasn’t yesterday,” agreed Crane warmly.

“Nope--it was several weeks ago.”

“I betcha.”

Slim Whelan met them at the gate, which sagged on its hinges so badly that Slim fairly had to carry it open. He squinted at the newcomer and waited for Crane to introduce him.

“I used t’ know a Smith,” he said innocently, “and I wonder if you’re related to him.”

“He was my brother,” said Bill seriously. “Kind of a queer sort of a jigger, with two legs, two arms and a head on top of his neck.”

“By ----, that’s him!” exclaimed Slim. “You shore described him in a few words. And I’ll bet yo’re jist like the cowboy in the story-book--you love your horse.”

Bill looked at the weary-legged gray and nodded slowly--

“Yeah, I think so much of that animal that I wouldn’t even try to sell him.”

“And that saddle, too!” said Slim, “Didja win that at a rodeo?”

“That,” said Bill seriously, “that was the saddle that George Washington used when he crossed the Delaware. It’s a heirloom.”

Crane laughed loudly and slapped Slim on the back.

“I’ll match him agin’ yuh any old time, Slim. Bill H. Smith ain’t no pandowdy puncher. He’s hired to help yuh run the legs off our cows; _sabe_? Be good to him--cause I want yuh to keep your health, Slim.”

“My ----, yuh talk like I wasn’t kind to everybody!”

Slim seemed aggrieved to think that Crane would even question his sweet disposition.

“I never seen yuh bitin’ the legs off yaller-jackets nor ticklin’ the teeth of a rattler--if that’s what yuh mean, Slim. You show Smith where to lean his horse, will yuh? I’ll give yuh some blankets for that other bunk, and Smith can fill the tick with fresh straw.”

Crane went to the ranch-house, while Slim led Bill down to the stable and pointed out an empty stall. As they came outside Slim squinted at Bill and said:

“Dog-gone it, yore voice reminds me of somebody I’ve heard talkin’. I dunno who it was, but it’s familiar.”

“Prob’ly that other Smith you knowed, Slim.”

Slim looked at him quizzically and laughed shortly--

“Yeah, I reckon that’s who it was. Do they all talk alike?”

“All I ever knowed, except one, Slim.”

“How’d he talk?”

“Through his nose.”

Slim’s face was very serious as he digested this mentally.

“Well, there’s exceptions to all cases, I reckon. I’ll show yuh where to fill that straw-tick. I’m glad yuh come to work here, Smith. We sure need another man here.”

“Plenty of work, eh?” queried Bill Smith.

“No-o-o, not much work. But we’ve got twenty hens that are layin’ every day, and the ---- aigs are spoilin’ on us.”

* * * * *

It was near closing time at the bank on the following day. Della’s head was aching from trying to absorb knowledge of the banking business, and she was almost ready to slam down the top of her desk and run away into the hills. It was all so complicated, and Eddy had tried to teach her the whole system in one day. Consequently her mind was awhirl.

Big Jim came in and leaned on her desk, puffing away at his cigar, a grin on his lips.

“Learning the game, Della?” he asked.

“Oh, I don’t know what I’ve learned,” she said nervously. “It is all Greek to me yet. I don’t think I’ll ever understand what it is all about.”

“I don’t understand it,” he laughed. “Too much for me.”

“Why did you give me this position?” she asked.

Big Jim laughed and squinted at his cigar thoughtfully.

“Well, I thought you needed a good job, and,” he lowered his voice and leaned closer, “I wanted to have you around, Della.”

“Wanted to have me around?” Wonderingly.

“Sure. I wanted to have the prettiest girl in the State working for me. You are pretty, Della.”

She looked down at her desk and began arranging papers. It was clear to her now that Big Jim Mott did not hire her because of her ability. She knew that he was looking down at her, but she did not look up.

“I suppose those papers were not sufficiently shuffled,” he laughed softly. “You’ve got pretty hair, Della.”

Still she did not look up; so he laughed and went back to his private room. Eddy, the cashier, was locking the vault, and now he came up to her.

“Closing time, Miss Marsh,” he said pleasantly. “You may go now. I suppose it has been a hard day.”

“Rather a confusing day,” she said wearily, as she put on her hat. “I shall dream of banking terms, I suppose.”

“I have,” he confessed. “But later on it will be all in a day’s work.”

She went out and he locked the door behind her. A man was coming down the sidewalk toward her, and she recognized him as the one they called Tucson Charley. She merely gave him a glance as she started across the street. He was more Indian than white in looks and garb.

As she reached the sidewalk and started up the street, she happened to glance back and saw that Tucson Charley was following her. Perhaps, she thought, he was merely coming up to one of the stores. But he turned down a side path, following her straight to the home of the little milliner.

Della was not afraid of him, but she was curious to know why he was following her. On the steps of the little house she stopped and waited for him to come up. He glanced around, as if wondering if any one was watching him, before coming up to her.

“What do you want?” she asked.

He dug inside his dirty shirt and brought out a begrimed envelope, which he passed to her. There was no name on the envelope. She looked at it curiously, noting that it was sealed.

“What is it?” she asked.

“You open,” he said shortly.

Wonderingly she tore one end off the envelope and drew out a folded piece of paper. The writing on it had been done with a soft lead-pencil and was barely legible. Quickly she glanced at the signature on it and gave a gasp of surprise. It was signed--

_Tex._

“Where did you get this?” she asked hoarsely.

Tucson Charley shook his head and looked blankly.

She stared at him for several moments then read the note,

Dell I want to see you but I’m afraid to show myself.
I have been hurt but am able to travel again. I need
money to get me out of the country and don’t know
where I can get it. I need about $500. Don’t tell
anybody about this because the officers are close
on my trail. You can trust the man who brings this.
Just sign your name on this so I will know you got
it. You will hear from me again.
Tex.

She crushed the letter in her hands. Never for a moment did she question the authorship of the note. She had never seen any of Tex Rowland’s writing. But she did know that Tex Rowland, the man she loved, was hiding away in that country, recovering from injuries, and badly in need of money.

“Where is he?” she asked hoarsely.

Tucson Charley shook his head. Either he did not know, or would not say.

She read it through again before taking a pencil from her little bag. He had only asked her to write her name, but above the name she wrote:

_Tex, I love you in spite of everything._

Quickly she put the message into the envelope, gave it back to the half-breed and watched him walk back toward the main street. She wanted to follow him and ask more questions about Tex; but she knew that Tucson Charley would not talk. She knew that Tucson Charley worked for Pablo, at the Paint Pot ranch, and wondered if Tex were hiding out there.

It was not like Tex to ask her for money. But under the circumstances she was about the only one he could ask for help. Her pocket-book revealed the fact that she had just twelve dollars. It was out of the question for her to get the five hundred dollars for him.

She did not confide in Miss Freeland that night. It would be like trusting the news to a reporter. Miss Freeland’s tongue was of the hinged variety, and no secret was sacred to her. The next morning she went back to the bank, still wondering what she could do to help Tex.

It was difficult for her to get interested in the work. The room seemed hot and stuffy, and her head ached slightly. Some men were talking to the cashier about some accident, and she heard the name of Tucson Charley used several times.

As soon as the men went away she asked the cashier about it.

“One of Pablo’s cowboys,” he said. “They call him Tucson Charley, I think. Anyway, he got drunk last night and his horse kicked him in the head. He likely went out to the hitch-rack and fell into the horse. They found him there this morning.”

“Dead?” she asked breathlessly.

“Yes.”

The cashier went back to his work, while Della slumped back in her chair, her mind awhirl. They would find that letter on Tucson Charley, and it would lead them to Tex Rowland. She knew that Tucson Charley had never delivered that letter to Tex.

It was some time before she could control her nerves sufficiently to ask the cashier more details. But he knew no more than he had told her, except that the body had been turned over to old Paint Pablo for burial.

“Didn’t they notify the sheriff,” she asked, “or the coroner?”

“I don’t think so, Miss Marsh. You see, it was an accident; so there was nothing to interest the law. Doctor Sibley examined him, and they all decided that the horse kicked him.”

“But why don’t they bury him here at the town cemetery?” she asked.

“Nobody wanted to assume the responsibility, I suppose. He has no relatives around here. Some of the boys have taken him out to Pablo’s ranch in a wagon.”

The cashier went to attend to a customer’s wants, and Della made a pretense of working. She felt that there was a bare possibility of no one finding that letter on Tucson Charley. As long as the sheriff or coroner had not been notified, it was hardly likely that any one would search the corpse.

It was nearly noon when Big Jim rode into town and came to the bank. Della was suffering from a severe headache and he noticed that she did not look well.

“You look awful pale,” he told her. “Don’t you feel well?”

“Just a bad headache,” she told him wearily. “The figures get all tangled up in my brain somehow.”

“Say, you sift out of here and go home,” he ordered. “You ain’t in shape to work, Della.”

He walked over and explained it to the cashier, who apologized to Della for not sending her home earlier in the day. She was more than glad to leave the bank. Big Jim went outside with her, offering advice in the cure of headaches.

“You ought to take a ride into the hills,” he said. “You’ve been working too hard. I tell you what to do: You go to the livery stable and tell ’em I said to let you have a good saddle-horse. Pick out the best one there for today, and after this I’ll see that there’s a good horse kept there for you.”

“But I couldn’t do that,” she protested.

“Yes, you can, too. It’s the least I can do for you, Della. If I wasn’t so busy today, I’d ride with you. I’ll try and ride with you once in a while, after today. Now you run along and get that horse. Tell Johnny Harris to put it on my bill. No, don’t tell him anything, Della. You get the horse, and I’ll see Johnny later.”

The temptation was too great for Della. For years she had ridden the hills; riding as wild and free as any cowpuncher, and it had been as much a part of her life as eating and sleeping. She took the horse down to Miss Freeland’s house, where she made a swift change into her riding clothes.

But her clothes were hardly conventional according to riding academy standards. A pair of overalls, light flannel shirt, boots and a sombrero completed the outfit. She owned a .30-30 Winchester carbine, a gift from old Rory McPherson, but decided against taking it with her. On account of its recoil, she had never quite mastered it although she shot fairly well.

At a short distance away she could easily be mistaken for a slim, young cowpuncher, as she rode out of Antelope, heading north into the rolling hills. She was taking the shortest distance to the Paint Pot ranch, and intended to keep away from the road for fear of meeting those who had taken the remains of Tucson Charley to Pablo’s place.