Chapter I: Part 1

THE LOOM OF LIES

W. C. Tuttle

Author of “According to Ng Loy,” “Blind Trails,” etc.

It was an August evening in the valley of the Bunch Grass, and in a year so dry that the poplars and cottonwoods along the Lost Horse River had already turned yellow, and the leaves of the willows were a crackling carpet to the tread of thirsty stock.

No rain had come to the valley since the last Chinook winds had swept the winter snows, and the river was merely a shallow watercourse of evil-smelling fluid. The rolling hills, which extended back to the encircling mountains, were as brown as burlap, and the range cattle were dusty of hide, thin of flank and red-eyed from the heat.

At the north end of this valley, its boundaries extending to the encircling cliffs, through which came the road out of Blackfeet Pass, was the JHF ranch, owned by John H. Fann, known throughout the valley as “John the Baptist.” This was not because of any religious proclivities, but because of his enormous size, his great white beard, which swept almost to his waist, and his massive head of white hair, hanging to his shoulders.

Just now John Fann sat on the broad steps of the JHF ranch house, a rambling, unpainted structure, his elbows on his knees and his hands concealed under his great beard. He might well have posed for Rodin’s “The Thinker,” although there was a trifle more of sorrow than of thought in his half-closed eyes.

Behind him, leaning against one of the porch posts, stood “Ma” Fann, a thin, sad-faced little woman, with large, brown eyes, and a wisp of colorless hair, drawn tightly back and knotted in what was commonly known as a “pug.” She was looking off across the seemingly endless hills, which had lost their drab hues of day and were painted in ivory and lavender in the glow of the setting sun.

But Ma Fann’s eyes and expression did not register that she was viewing the beauties of the painted hills. She had seen them many times in the last fifteen years. Perhaps she had marveled at the Master Artist’s handiwork at some remote time, but that time was long forgotten.

Just out in front of the steps was Bob Kern, squatted on the heels of his boots, as he drew meaningless patterns in the dust with a piece of willow-branch. He was a thin-waisted cowboy, with a face as thin and bony as the face of a half-starved Indian. His nose had been broken and grew at a peculiar angle, and one eye was not exactly set in a straight focus, but his thin-lipped mouth was full of good teeth.

Bob Kern lifted his thin face and squinted narrowly at John Fann. He looked down at the dust-patterns and cleared his throat softly.

“’T’s all right, John--’f yuh look at it thataway. It ain’t noways my point of view. Rustlin’ ’s rustlin’, and it don’t make no difference whether it’s me ’r you or the King of Siam--it’s still rustlin’.”

“Yes, it’s still rustlin’,” said John Fann softly. “Men will always steal, I suppose. Sometimes I wonder why, Bob.”

“Why?” Bob Kern squinted closely, and then looked up at Ma Fann, “Will yuh go inside the house, Ma? I’ve gotta swear a few notes.”

Ma Fann smiled wistfully.

“Swearing doesn’t help, Bob.”

“Mebbe not you, Ma--but it does me. It makes me so ---- mad, I tell yuh. Here they’ve been stealin’ JHF cattle for a year, until--” Bob Kern spread his hands wearily--“Honest, Ma, we ain’t got enough left t’ wad a shot-gun.”

“Is it as bad as that, Bob?”

“Wel-l-ll,” drawled Bob, “mebbe it ain’t quite that bad, Ma, but it sure is gittin’ serious. Another year at this rate and there won’t be a JHF cow on the Bunch Grass range.”

A rider was coming down one of the angling trails toward the main gate, riding slowly. He dismounted and opened the gate, which creaked dismally. Somewhere a cow bawled softly. The gate creaked shut and the man started toward the corral, leading his horse. The man was short and fat, with the waddling walk of a duck.

“‘Splinter’s’ likely hungry, Ma,” observed John Fann.

“He mostly always is,” said Ma Fann, “I’ll put the biscuits in the oven.”

She turned and went slowly into the house. Bob yawned and sat down on the lower step, where he humped over and rolled a cigaret. In a few minutes, “Splinter” Martin waddled up from the corral. He sat down heavily beside Bob and helped himself to Bob’s tobacco.

“I run across ‘Chet’ Gunning t’day,” said Splinter hoarsely. Splinter always talked as if suffering from a severe cold.

“Thasso?” Bob showed little interest.

“Over by Singin’ Angel Flats,” explained Splinter. “Me and him had a little talk.”

“Yuh would,” nodded Bob. “Chet ain’t none secretive.”

“I reckon he’s right, at that,” grunted Splinter. “’F I was the sheriff I’d ’a’ found it out long before this.”

“Oh, yuh would, would yuh?” exploded Bob. “I s’pose you knowed it all the time, didn’t yuh? Now, that’s fine of yuh, Splint.”

“F’r gosh sake, what ails you?” croaked Splinter. “You don’t need t’ ride me, cowboy. Right’s right and don’t wrong nobody.”

“Don’t quarrel,” advised John Fann softly. “That does not mend matters, boys. Splinter, you better wash up for supper.”

Splinter got up slowly and started for the rear of the house.

“And don’t forget that you’ve got two ears and a back to yore neck,” added Bob.

Splinter stopped.

“Zasso? Huh!”

He waddled back, grasped Bob by the ears and looked him over closely.

“Well, well! I sure admire yuh, Robert Emmett Kern. I admires any man who makes a discovery and immediate and soon passes out his information to his friends. You ranks with some of our great discoverers, cowboy; but I’d say you was jist a little more rank, at times.”

“Supper is ready, boys,” said Ma Fann from the doorway. “Have you washed, Splinter?”

“No, ma’am--” quickly--“but I’ve had a lesson in it. Be right with yuh, even if I dislocate m’ shoulders.”

Splinter went to the rear of the kitchen, placed the battered wash-basin on a bench and poured some water from a five-gallon kerosene can, which had been fitted with a bail. Noisily he washed his face and dried it on a coarse towel.

He could hear Ma Fann singing softly as she placed the supper on the table. It was an old church hymn, sung off-key, as if the singer’s mind was far from in tune. Splinter listened, his eyes half-closed, the rough towel held tightly in his two hands. He heard John Fann and Bob Kern clump into the dining-room, the closing of the oven door, as Ma Fann removed the biscuits. He picked up the wash-basin and slowly poured out the soapy water.

“Gawd A’mighty made them two,” he said softly, meaning John and Ma Fann. “He made ’em t’ look kinda like me and the rest of the folks, but He must ’a’ took special pains, I reckon, ’cause they’ve got somethin’--that--we--ain’t--got.”

He hung the battered wash-basin on the wall, picked up his hat and went in through the kitchen door. Ma Fann was standing at the stove, looking down at a pan of brown-topped biscuits, holding a plate in her hand. Splinter stepped in beside her and she looked up at him. Quickly she glanced toward the door which led into the dining-room, and then her hand darted inside her waist and she handed Splinter a small kodak picture.

It showed two little children, little chubby things, sitting on the ground, looking up like two little robins at the approach of the mother bird. Splinter’s face broke into a smile and he glanced at Ma Fann. Tears were running down her cheeks, but her lips were drawn in a hard line.

Splinter cleared his throat softly, gave her back the little picture and patted her clumsily on the shoulder as he went into the dining-room.

“He must ’a’ washed his ears,” stated Bob loudly. “Look at the danged pelican. Whatcha doing--cryin’, Splinter? You’ve got tears in yore beautiful eyes, angel child.”

“Soap!” grunted Splinter, easing himself into a chair. “I’m gittin’ so danged clean that I wash m’ eyeballs. Got a good notion t’ build a bath-tub, so we could take a good washin’ every month or so.”

“My gosh, yuh don’t need to go to extremes!” exclaimed Bob. “Just because yuh washed yore neck and ears once, don’t go and get a lot of dudish notions.”

* * * * *

There was little more said during supper. Splinter, who usually carried the bulk of the conversation, was silent and thoughtful.

He and Bob Kern had been working for the JHF outfit for nearly three years, and they knew the inside life of most of the Bunch Grass range folk. There had been another cowboy working there when they came; a wild-riding, hard-drinking, handsome young man, whose name was Barr Wyeth. He was a good cow-hand, but he did not seem to fit in at the JHF.

And then there had been Nell Fann, the daughter, a dark-haired, dark-eyed, strong-willed girl of nineteen. And she had fallen in love with Bob Kern. But Bob Kern did not have the broken nose and the one unreliable eye at that time. That was a memento of a broken cinch and an outlaw horse.

John and Ma Fann had smiled upon the engagement. They both swore by Bob Kern, and John Fann had made his plans to turn the management of the ranch over to Bob Kern. But when Bob had recovered from his accident--he was not the same Bob Kern, outwardly. And who can say that any maid of nineteen will believe that beauty is only skin deep?

Barr Wyeth was undeniably handsome. Range rumor linked his name with Nell Fann, and John Fann had foolishly taken her to task for it. And John Fann lost. A recital of Barr Wyeth’s failings only seemed to enhance his few virtues to her, and inside of a week they had eloped.

Never by word nor deed had either John or Ma Fann showed that they were broken-hearted over the match, but Nell had never come home--never had seen her father and mother, except at a distance, possibly. But fortune smiled upon Barr Wyeth. With the last few dollars he owned he won a small stake at poker. Then he recklessly plunged into roulette until his winnings went well into thousands. At midnight that night the gambling house of Buck Kelly at Bunch Grass, known as the Buck Horn, closed its games and announced that the house was broke.

Barr Wyeth had cleaned them out. With his winning he had bought the Lightning ranch and brand and set himself up as a stock-man. The Lightning ranch-house was located twelve miles from the JHF, and seven miles from the town of Bunch Grass.

Barr Wyeth drank considerable and gambled at every opportunity, but fortune only smiled upon him once. He hired two wild-riding cowpunchers, Mark Ells and “Windy” Hart, whose monthly earnings went to swell the exchequer of the several drink emporiums in Bunch Grass, or to those who engineered the destinies of green-covered tables.

Many times had Barr Wyeth and John Fann met, but never did they speak nor recognize each other in any way. Barr sneered at the mention of John the Baptist, but the name of Barr Wyeth apparently meant nothing to John Fann.

Then the JHF cattle began to disappear; began to dribble away. Bob and Splinter had noticed it first and had told John Fann about it. He was unconvinced, but after a few months he began to realize that unless something was done the JHF brand would only remain on the iron itself.

Bob Kern had found the first clue--the track of a horse wearing a bar-shoe. This horse had been used in the roping of a calf. There was the remains of a small branding fire. There was nothing to show that it was a JHF calf, but honest cattlemen are not in the habit of roping and branding calves far out in the open range.

Bob had given his information to Splinter, and inside of a week they had discovered the owner of that horse. It was Bob who had discovered the horse and he had sworn Splinter to secrecy.

Then Splinter had found a yearling heifer wearing a blotted brand on the right hip, while on the other hip was the jagged streak of the Lightning brand, which had been burned on with a running-iron. The other brand had been blotted entirely, but the blot was on the exact spot of the JHF registry.

Again Bob swore Splinter to secrecy. There was still no absolute evidence. A week later, Splinter found the evidence of another range branding, and near the fire he found a hand-made bone hondo, on which had been burned the initials B.W. A small piece of frayed rope attached to the hondo showed that the weakened rope had broken and the hondo been lost.

And with this evidence, Bob Kern had gone to John and Ma Fann. Splinter had asked him to do it while he--Splinter--was not there. It had been hard for Bob to do this. Down deep in his heart he still loved Nell Wyeth, and little less was his love for John the Baptist and Ma Fann, who was “Ma” to every cowpuncher the length and breadth of the valley.

Neither of the old folks had expressed an opinion. He had simply stated his evidence and they knew that he would not lie. Their daughter’s husband was robbing them--had been robbing them for nearly a year.

“That is the evidence,” said Bob. “Shall I report it to the sheriff?”

“No,” said John Fann. “This shall be our secret, Bob.”

And that was why Bob Kern had said--“Rustlin’ is rustlin’, and it don’t make no difference whether it’s me, or you, or the King of Siam--it’s still rustlin’.”

After supper was over Bob and Splinter went to the bunk-house.

“You told ’em, didn’t yuh?” queried Splinter, as he removed his boots.

“Yeah.” Bob nodded slowly. “I told ’em, Splinter.”

“Did John get sore?”

“Like he always does. It must ’a’ hurt ’em both like ----, Splinter. They didn’t say nothin’. Ma just kinda took hold of a post with both hands, but John didn’t do nothin’ but look off across the hills. I don’t reckon they was thinkin’ much about Barr Wyeth.”

Splinter shook his head.

“No-o-o, I don’t reckon they was, Bob. Ma showed me a picture of Nell’s twins.”

“I seen it. ‘Pastry’ Pell swiped it at the Lightnin’ and brought it to her.”

Pastry Pell was sort of a lazy cowboy who worked extra at the different ranches, and had a habit of mixing in every one’s business.

“Goin’ t’ tell the sheriff, Bob?”

“Not if John has his way about it. He don’t want anybody t’ know, but--aw----Splinter, suppose we was in his place?”

“A rustler’s a rustler, Bob,” reminded Splinter.

“Jist what I got through tellin’ him. But he won’t do anythin’. I reckon the Lightnin’ can rustle every JHF cow on the Bunch Grass hills and John the Baptist won’t say a word, on Nell’s account.”

“That’s right,” agreed Splinter, and then dolefully, “I--I wonder if I talked too much t’day. Dawg-gone it, I met Chet Gunning and me and him talked quite a little.

“He asked me how things was comin’ along, and I told him we’d likely last six months longer. Kind of a fool remark t’ make, and he asks me what I meant; so I told him that somebody was liftin’ JHF cows.

“He wanted t’ know how long this had been goin’ on and I told him. He got kinda mad and wanted t’ know why John the Baptist hadn’t told him. Then--” Splinter threw down his cigaret and ground out the lighted end with the heel of his boot--“Then I told him about the yearlin’ with the vented brand and the Lightnin’ put on with a runnin’-iron.”

“Uh-huh,” said Bob slowly, thoughtfully. “You told him about all there was t’ know, didn’t yuh, Splinter?”

“Well, I never stopped t’ think how John would take it. I might ’a’ knowed I s’pose. Yuh don’t reckon Chet will start anythin’ on what I told him, do yuh, Bob?”

“There’s an election in November,” said Bob meaningly, and then, “What did Chet say?”

“He said it wasn’t givin’ a sheriff a square deal to keep things quiet thataway. I told him he better talk it over with John, bein’ as it’s John’s cows. We had quite an argument, and he said he’d come out and talk with John.”

Bob yawned wearily and leaned back on his bunk. He was sorry that Splinter had talked with Chet Gunning. Chet had never been friendly to Barr Wyeth, and Bob knew that right now Barr Wyeth was working against Gunning in the coming campaign.

Gunning was a man of about forty years of age, tall, dark, hawk-faced and with a drooping, black mustache. He was known as a good shot, fast on the draw and tireless in the saddle. Gunning was not a good “mixer,” and many expressed surprize that he had been elected.

He was a single man and “batched” alone in a little shack at the outskirts of Bunch Grass. Even his deputy, the genial, roly-poly Andy Allard, had to confess that he had never become well acquainted with the sheriff. But Gunning was efficient, ambitious and had made a good officer.

And Bob Kern knew that Gunning would make trouble for Barr Wyeth. Not that Wyeth did not have it coming to him, but Bob hated to be mixed up in it, because it might look like he was working against the man who had married his sweetheart.

* * * * *

It was the following morning, just after breakfast, when Chet Gunning rode up to the porch of the JHF ranch-house and dismounted. John Fann had watched his coming from within the house, but now he came out on the porch and greeted the sheriff.

Splinter was down at the corral, but Bob had stayed at the breakfast-table talking to Ma Fann. Bob heard John’s greeting to the sheriff; so he picked up his hat and went to the front door. Gunning was leaning against the side of the porch, talking to John Fann about the interminable drouth when Bob came out.

“Howdy, Chet,” greeted Bob, “how’s crime?”

“Well--” the sheriff brushed some tobacco flakes off his shirt-front and half-smiled--“it appears to be doin’ real well, Kern--if what I hear has any truth in it.”

John Fann glanced quickly at Bob, as if wondering who had told the sheriff, but Bob was calmly rolling a cigaret.

“Accordin’ to what I hear, there ain’t no mystery about it,” remarked the sheriff slowly, “but I thought I’d have a little talk with John Fann before I went ahead on the case.”

“I never was good at riddles, sheriff,” said John Fann, “so you had better speak plainly.”

“Riddles?” The sheriff lifted his eyebrows, “I reckon you know what I mean, John. Seems to me that the Lightnin’ has struck in the same place more than once.”

“You’re doing the talking,” reminded John coldly.

“I sure am,” replied the sheriff, just a trifle nettled. “I reckon it’s time for me to do a little talkin’, don’tcha think?”

“Perhaps I might answer that, if I knew what you mean, sheriff.”

“Aw, ----!” exploded Gunning. “You’ve had a lot of cattle stolen and you’ve got enough evidence to send a certain party to the penitentiary, haven’t yuh?”

“Have I?” John Fann seemed mildly surprized.

“Have yuh?” Gunning’s eyes snapped. “Well, haven’t yuh?”

“Did you come out here to find out if I have, or to tell me that I have?”

“Well, ----!” Chet Gunning seemed at a loss to know what to say. “Now, look here, John Fann. I reckon you’re tryin’ to shield Barr Wyeth, but I’m ---- if the law don’t take it up in spite of you. Mebbe you don’t care if the Lightnin’ steals yuh blind, but crime is crime, and I’m goin’ to stop it; _sabe_?”

“Since when did the law hire you to ride herd on the JHF stock?” queried Bob Kern easily, as he came down the steps and stopped near the sheriff.

“About the same time that it gave you the right to horn in on a conversation that don’t concern yuh,” retorted the sheriff sarcastically.

Bob grinned widely.

“Then I reckon we’re both talkin’ foolish, Gunning. Suppose you go back and run yore office, while we runs the JHF, and mebbe we’ll all do well.”

“Thasso?”

Gunning squinted critically at Bob. He knew that Bob would fight with fists or guns, and that he was fairly adept with either. Gunning was not looking for a fight; so he ignored Bob and turned to John Fann.

“I reckon I’ll just go ahead on what evidence I’ve got, John.”

“What evidence have you got?” queried John.

The sheriff hitched up his belt and looked around. Splinter was coming up from the corral and the sheriff greeted him warmly.

“Hello, Martin. I was just checkin’ up on some of the things you told me yesterday about the rustlin’ of the JHF stock. I reckon you had the right idea.”

Splinter flushed slightly and looked at Bob, who was looking straight at him. Splinter spat thoughtfully and knitted his brows.

“The things I told yuh, sheriff?” Splinter’s brow smoothed and he grinned widely. “I reckon yore dreamin’, ain’t yuh? Yesterday? Why, I ain’t seen yuh for a week.”

Gunning stared at him for a moment and then walked over to his horse. He looked coldly at John Fann and Bob Kern and seemed about to speak, but mounted his horse and rode stiffly down through the big gate and headed down the road toward Bunch Grass.

* * * * *

Every city, every town and every community has its one certain eccentric character, and Pastry Pell was the one which fate had dealt to Bunch Grass. He was thin, almost to the point of emaciation, pasty of face, colorless of eye and with protruding teeth, as yellow as dirty ivory.

His garb was as drab as his physique and personality; yet he was a good cow-hand--when he would work, which was not often. He preferred to meander about the range, eating here, sleeping there; tolerated, but never welcome. He was unable to read or write, yet he had an uncanny nose for news or scandal--preferably, scandal. He owned his own horse, saddle and bridle, and carried his six-shooter shoved inside the waistband of his trousers, where, on account of his lack of avoirdupois, it hung precariously, threatening at any time to become an inhabitant of the aforementioned trousers.

But a gun was of little use to Pastry, if you were willing to take Pastry’s own words for it. He had hired out to the Double-Triangle at round-up time, and the foreman had asked him about his outfit.

“I’ve got a bronc and a saddle and a bridle and a six-gun--the ---- thing.”

“What’s the matter with the gun? Ain’t it no good?” queried the boss.

“Yeah, it’s a good gun,” admitted Pastry. “It’s a ---- good gun, but what the ---- good is it? I never see nothin’ to shoot.”

And it was Pastry Pell that Sheriff Chet Gunning met, as he dismounted in front of his office in Bunch Grass. Pastry made it a point to visit the office at irregular times, because he might hear something to tell others about.

Sheriff Gunning knew Pastry very well. Also, Sheriff Gunning was in a bad frame of mind, following his interview with the three men at the JHF ranch. He knew there was nothing he could do, as long as John Fann refused to admit theft. Splinter’s denial of their previous conversation made the sheriff boil.

“Huh! You ain’t eatin’ right, sheriff,” was Pastry’s opening comment.

“What’s that?”

The sheriff turned from tying his horse and stared at Pastry.

“Stummick’s disorderly, that’s what she is,” declared Pastry with conviction. “You ought to quit eatin’ meat f’r a while and stick to vegi-tables.”

“Now, what in ---- are you talkin’ about?” demanded the sheriff.

“Jowls kinda yaller,” explained Pastry. “Eyes blood-shot. Yore either sufferin’ from bad circ-lation, torpid liver, or--” Pastry considered the sheriff closely--“somebody done somethin’ to git under yore skin.”

“Mm-m-yah!” snorted the sheriff and went into the office.

After a moment, which Pastry consumed in masticating a huge chew of tobacco, he followed the sheriff inside.

The sheriff had seated himself at his desk and begun sorting some legal papers, but now he looked up, a scowl on his face. But Pastry ignored the scowl and sat down against the wall, while the sheriff considered him for a space of time.

“Know who rides a horse that wears a bar-shoe?” asked the sheriff.

“Bar-shoe?” Pastry expectorated toward the door and nodded quickly. “Barr Wyeth.”

“Hm-m-m!”

The sheriff squinted closely at Pastry for a moment and went back to examining his papers.

“Why?” queried Pastry. The question had excited his natural curiosity. “What about a bar-shoe?”

The sheriff considered his answer well before he said--

“There’s a lot of JHF stock missin’.”

“Yeah?”

Pastry got slowly to his feet and leaned against the wall.

“And what about the bar-shoe?”

The sheriff leaned back in his chair and considered the ceiling for several moments.

“There’s a yearlin’ somewhere in the hills, wearin’ a vented brand on the right hip, and on the other hip is a Lightnin’ mark, run on with an iron rod.”

“Well, f’r gosh sake!” exploded Pastry. “Does John the Baptist know it?”

“Yeah, he knows it.”

“Huh!”

Pastry’s thin face seemed to twist with eagerness. This surely was a choice morsel; something worth the telling, and it would surely be told with elaborations and variations.

“Hot, ain’t it?” grunted Pastry, moving toward the door. “I ain’t never seen it so hot, ’cept in Death Valley, and I ain’t never been there. Hope we have a rain.”

“Be a long dry spell, if we don’t,” remarked the sheriff, but his sarcastic reply did not quite reach Pastry Pell, who was already hurrying to the hitch-rack in front of the Buck Horn saloon.

For a long time the sheriff stared down at the mass of papers in front of him, a calculating look on his face. He knew that John Fann would not prosecute Barr Wyeth, on account of Barr’s wife, and he wondered what Barr Wyeth would do when he found himself branded publicly as a cattle-rustler.

* * * * *

Pastry lost no time in going to the Lightning ranch; in fact, his horse was a-lather when he swung off at the ranch-house and clumped loudly up the rickety steps. Mrs. Wyeth met him at the door, and even in his excitement, Pastry could see that she had been crying.

She stepped aside to let him in. In the next room a baby was crying fretfully. The room was poorly furnished, but clean as wax. The walls were hung with cheap crayon enlargements of the Wyeth ancestors, but there were no likenesses of any of the Fann family. An old upright organ stood in one corner, with oil lamps surmounting the brackets on each side.

“Where’s Barr?” asked Pastry hoarsely.

“He--he’s asleep,” faltered Mrs. Wyeth, half-indicating a closed door with a jerk of her head.

Pastry knew that Barr Wyeth had spent most of the night at a roulette table in the Buck Horn and had consumed quantities of liquor.

“What did you want of him?” queried Mrs. Wyeth anxiously.

Pastry fidgeted. He wanted to talk to Barr Wyeth, but not in the humor that he would probably find him now; so he decided against waking him up to receive the news.

“I jist wanted t’ tell him t’ look out for the sheriff,” said Pastry nervously.

Mrs. Wyeth’s face went white. She knew that Barr had come home drunk--what had he done that he should look out for the sheriff?

“What is it, Pastry?” she breathed the question. “What has he done?”

Neither of them saw Barr Wyeth’s door open several inches.

“I got this from the sheriff,” said Pastry slowly, “and I dunno what he’s goin’ t’ do, but it kinda looks like Barr has been stealin’ cows from the JHF.”

“From the JHF?”

Mrs. Wyeth shut her eyes tightly, as if trying to blot out the thought.

“Yes, ma’am. Seems that there’s a horse that wears a bar-shoe mixed up in it, and yore husband rides a horse that’s shod thataway. And then there’s a yearlin’ that’s had the JHF blotted and a lightnin’ has been burned on with a runnin’-iron.”

Mrs. Wyeth clutched the top of the table with both hands and stared at Pastry.

“Are you--sure--of--this?” she panted.

“That’s what the sheriff said,” nodded Pastry. “I asks him if John the Baptist knows about it and he said that he did.”

The door behind them creaked warningly and Barr Wyeth came toward them. His eyes were blood-shot and his tousled hair hung down low over his forehead. He had only removed his boots, and his clothes were wrinkled and disarranged. Several days’ growth of beard made Barr Wyeth anything but the handsome young man he had been a year before.

“Barr, you--” began Mrs. Wyeth, but he stopped her with an impatient motion of his hand and walked up close to Pastry.

“What’s this stuff you’ve been tellin’ her?” Barr’s voice was half-angry, half-inquiring.

“Just what the sheriff told me,” explained Pastry nervously. “He said----”

“That I was a rustler?” interrupted Barr.

“Yeah, and he said----”

“Drop that!” snapped Barr, grasping Pastry by the shoulder. “Did Chet Gunning tell you to come out here and tell this to my wife?”

“----, no! He never told me to tell it to anybody.”

“But you found this out from him, didn’t yuh?”

“Yeah, he--don’t pinch me thataway! How’s a feller goin’ to talk with you pinchin’ off his arm? He said that there was a yearlin’ with a vented brand and that the Lightnin’ had been run on with----”

Barr had drawn slightly away, after he had released Pastry’s arm, and now he smashed the luckless Pastry full in the mouth with his clenched fist.

Pastry reeled backward, reaching blindly for support, while into him went Barr, smashing with both fists, driving Pastry out through the open door and knocking him backward off the porch, where he landed on his shoulders in a scraggly rosebush.

Barr halted at the edge of the porch, panting, cursing, while Mrs. Wyeth clung to his sleeve and begged him to stop. Barr shoved the hair out of his eyes and stared at her. He was berserk with rage and shoved her roughly aside as he went back into the house.

Pastry got wonderingly to his feet, dazed, bleeding. He had lost all sense of direction and his first two steps brought him in violent contact with the porch, after which he sat down real hard and held his face in his hands.

Mark Ells and Windy Hart had seen the fight on the porch from down by the corral, and now they hurried up to the porch. Ells was a stoop-shouldered, hard-faced young man with sagging lips and a flat nose. Windy Hart was a big man, narrow between the eyes, almost chinless and with a generous-sized nose, heavily veined in red.

They walked up and considered the fallen Pastry, who managed to get to his feet. He sopped some of the gore off his face with the sleeve of his shirt and groaned whiningly. Mrs. Wyeth was still standing on the porch, one hand braced against a post.

“What’s a matter, Pastry?” asked Windy curiously.

Pastry spat painfully and shook his head.

“Can’tcha talk?” queried Mark.

“Yeth,” Pastry lisped from the loss of teeth.

“Tell us what was the matter, won’t-cha?”

“No, thir,” Pastry shook his head. “I ain’t goin’ t’ thay nothin’. I--I--” Pastry glanced toward the open door of the ranch-house--“I thed too much ath it wath.”

As Pastry turned toward his horse, Barr Wyeth came out of the house. He was dressed now, even to his belt and holster, and under one arm he was carrying a carbine in a scabbard.

He did not speak to his wife, but as he started past her she grasped him by the arm.

“Where are you going, Barr?”

He jerked away from her and started down the steps.

“Barr, where are you going?” she asked again.

He stopped and looked back at her:

“Well, if you want to know so ---- bad; I’m goin’ down to see the sheriff and then I’m goin’ out to the JHF.”

“What for, Barr?”

“What for?” Barr laughed hoarsely. “That’s a ---- of a question.”

He turned and looked at Pastry, who had mounted--

“Get off that horse, you coyote pup!”

Pastry lost no time in dismounting.

“Now, you stay here until I’m gone; _sabe_?” ordered Barr. “I ain’t goin’ to have yuh packin’ a talk to Chet Gunning nor to John the Baptist.”

“What’s gone wrong, Barr?” asked Windy.

“They’re brandin’ us a bunch of thieves--or rather, they’re brandin’ me a thief, and I’m goin’ to vent that brand ---- quick!”

“Huh!” blurted Windy softly.

Barr whirled and hurried down to the corral, where he began saddling. Windy and Mark exchanged glances. Pastry was standing beside his horse, nursing a very sore face, and Mrs. Wyeth still braced herself against the post, white-faced, sick at heart over it all.

From back in the house came the wailing of a child. A grasshopper crackled its way past the house and a vagrant breeze stirred the dusty foliage. Barr Wyeth mounted and rode straight out toward the main highway, never looking back, and they watched him fade out in a cloud of dust.

“Well, I gueth I can go now,” Pastry’s voice broke the stillness, and he got painfully aboard his horse.

They watched him ride away, going slowly, feeling tenderly of his battered face.

Mrs. Wyeth turned her eyes and looked at the two men.

“Isn’t there anything we can do?”

“No, ma’am, I don’t reckon so,” replied Windy.

She turned wearily and went back into the house. For a moment the two men looked at each other, and then they went straight to the corral, saddled their horses and rode into the hills.

* * * * *

Buck Kelly, owner of the Buck Horn saloon and gambling-house, was not a flashy type of gambler; rather he was a quiet dresser, quiet in his conversation and drank little.

But he was a hard man to beat. He played shrewdly, without visible emotion, and it was impossible to tell whether he was a hard loser or not. He had come in from “Nowhere” and bought out the Southern saloon, which he had renamed the Buck Horn.

Physically, Buck Kelly was only average. The lines of his square-cut face were deeply graven, his lips thin, and his black hair slightly tinged with gray. He loaned small amounts of money to the cowboys, which insured their pay-day patronage, and was not averse to giving them a liberal liquor credit.

But Buck Kelly, early in the game, showed that the Buck Horn was not a brawling-hall. With his two hands he had whipped a pair of belligerent cowboys. One of them had tried to draw a gun, but Kelly took it away from him in a way that showed the crowd that Kelly knew a few good tricks.

Then, just to show the crowd that he was not unfamiliar with the weapon in his hand, he called their attention to a mineral-water lithograph on the wall, which depicted a very lovely fairy-like female person, with a flaming jewel for a head-dress. It was at least twenty feet away, but without apparent aim, he obliterated the aforementioned jewel.

This served to establish Buck Kelly as a bad man to seek trouble with, and gave him a standing with the hard-riding sons of the Bunch Grass hills.

Barr Wyeth had left the Lightning with a very definite purpose in mind. He was going to Bunch Grass and make Chet Gunning eat dirt. He was not entirely free of the potations of the night before, and when he came in sight of the drab, unpainted little town of Bunch Grass, after seven miles of dusty road, he was less bloodthirsty than when he started.

He was still firm in his purpose, but his throat was very dry and his nerves were badly in need of a stimulant. He had seen much red, but now it had blended with morose reflections until it was almost indigo. Therefore he headed for the hitch-rack in front of the Buck Horn and lost no time in imbibing liquid cheer.

And not far behind him came Pastry Pell. He had managed to keep Barr Wyeth in sight--or rather he had kept within what would have been sight if Pastry had been able to see things in a normal way, which he was not.

Pastry circled the town and entered the sheriff’s office by the rear door. He found the sheriff standing in the front door, calmly surveying the street. He had seen Barr Wyeth ride into town, and he had noted that Barr rode with a rifle in a boot under his right saddle-fender. Now he turned and squinted at Pastry Pell, who had halted near the center of the room.

“For ----’s sake, what happened to you?” grunted the astonished sheriff. Pastry’s face was not at all nice to look upon, as it had swelled considerably.

“Thed too much,” lisped Pastry painfully.

“Oh!” The sheriff did not need any explanation.

“And he cometh down here to thoot you--Wyeth,” explained Pastry thickly. “Thed he wath.”

“Thasso?”

The sheriff glanced back up the street and walked up to Pastry.

“Pell, you’re a ---- of a lookin’ thing. Did Barr Wyeth do this to you?”

“Yeth,” simply.

“I suppose you went out there and told a lot of ---- lies, like you usually do, didn’t yuh? Some day you’ll get enough sense to keep your mouth shut.”

“That day ith today,” declared Pastry solemnly. “If I knowed that the earth wath comin’ to an end, I’d keep my mouth thut.”

There was no doubt but what Pastry was thoroughly in earnest, and the sheriff smiled grimly.

“So Barr Wyeth has come down here to shoot me, eh?”

“Yeth,” nodded Pastry quickly. “And ath thoon ath that ith over he thed he wath goin’ after John the Baptith.”

“Uh-huh,” nodded the sheriff absently. “He might, at that.”

“You goin’ to arretht him?” asked Pastry.

“Arrest him? What for? Because he came down here to shoot me? Or because he beat you up?”

“No thir, but becauth he ith a rustler.”

“I ain’t got no evidence that he’s a rustler, Pastry.”

“No evidenth?”

Pastry swallowed hard and felt tenderly of his swollen eyes.

“Not a ---- bit!” exclaimed the sheriff.

“Then,” said Pastry slowly, “you ain’t got a lot more thense than I have. I think you better thwear off today too--like I did. You thed too much to me and when I thed what you thed----”

“I reckon you’re right,” interrupted the sheriff, “but I’ll be lucky to get off with only a busted face.”

“If you think thith ith luck,” Pastry patted a swollen lip, which protruded like the bill of a duck, “you muth have a ---- of an idea of mithfortune.”

* * * * *

After the sheriff had ridden away from the JHF ranch, Bob Kern and Splinter saddled their horses and rode away toward Comanche Cañon. John Fann and his wife sat down on the porch and deliberated over the situation.

“It’s going to mean trouble, Ma.” John Fann shook his head sadly. “Not trouble for us, but for----”

“Barr Wyeth is hot-headed, John. Even if you would not prosecute him, there is still--disgrace.”

“And disgrace means a killing in this country, Ma.”

“I wonder if Barr needed the money so badly that he stole to get it? He drinks and gambles.”

John Fann got slowly to his feet and picked up his hat. “I’m going to the Lightning ranch, Ma.”

“To see Barr Wyeth? John, he hates you so badly?” Ma Fann did not want to see him go.

“Yes, he hates me,” agreed John softly. “I think he has taught Nell to hate me, too. I suppose it is my reward for trying to interfere in their marriage.”

“But what can you do--what good can you do in talking to Barr Wyeth, John?”

“I don’t know, Ma. Sometimes I wonder why he is so bitter toward us. Why have we never seen Nell?”

Ma Fann turned away. She too had heard some of the things that Barr Wyeth had said against them; things for which there was no reason. It was true that neither of them was in favor of her marriage to Barr Wyeth, but they had calmly bowed to the inevitable.

“I don’t know what time I’ll be back, Ma,” stated John. “I’ll cut across the hills, and maybe I’ll go to town on my way back.”

It was only about seven miles across the hills to the Lightning ranch, and John Fann rode into the ranch-house yard about fifteen minutes after Pastry Pell had ridden away, following Barr Wyeth to Bunch Grass.

Nell Wyeth was standing in the doorway, staring off across the hills as he rode up. It was the first time he had ever come to her home--the first time she had ever been face to face with him since her marriage. For a long time they looked at each other, and then--

“Where is your husband?”

John’s voice was husky.

“What do you want of him?”

Her voice was barely audible, and she walked slowly out toward him. He looked down at her from his horse, but said nothing.

“What do you want of him?” she repeated anxiously now, and her voice was husky.

“I want to talk with him, Nellie,” softly. She shook her head quickly.

“Don’t try to talk with him. You know how he feels toward you--how he has always felt toward you, after the things you have said about us--and he’s ten times worse now.”

“After the things I have said about you,” repeated John Fann slowly. “What things, Nellie?”

Mrs. Wyeth shook her head.

“Too many things to remember.”

“Too many to remember,” repeated John slowly. “I don’t think I understand. What could I say against you?”

“That’s just it. Just because you did not want me to marry Barr, you have said these things, I suppose. I have managed to make Barr ignore everything, but now--” She turned and looked down the dusty road toward town--“Now, he has gone to Bunch Grass, and I think he is going to make serious trouble.”

“I think I understand,” said John patiently. “More talk.”

“More lies, you mean!”

“I hope so, Nellie.”

“And they started at the JHF ranch, too!” indignantly.

“Yes, I think they did.”

“And Bob Kern had a hand in it,” declared the woman heatedly. “He has been a dog-in-the-manger ever since I married Barr Wyeth. Oh, I’ve heard the things he has said.”

John Fann stared down at her and a sad smile creased his eyes.

“If Bob Kern has mentioned your name, it has been in his prayers, Nellie.”

“Is that so? Well, it wasn’t in his prayers when he said that he would drive Barr Wyeth out of the Bunch Grass range and make me sorry that I ever turned him down because he had a crooked face.”

“No, that don’t sound like a prayer--nor like Bob Kern. I will try to find Barr Wyeth in town.”

And without saying good-by, John Fann turned his horse around and rode toward town on his big, gray horse, while the woman leaned against the side of the porch and stared after him, her eyes filled with sorrow. She wanted to call after him, but she bit her lips and stifled the impulse.

Perhaps, she thought, Bob Kern might be right after all. The Lightning outfit was just about at the end of its rope. Drink and the green cloth had taken its toll of the outfit, and Bob had told her a few days before that he would probably lose the ranch. [see Transcriber’s note at end of text]

Then the suspicion suddenly struck her. Was Bob stealing cattle to try to recoup his losses? If he was, his enmity toward the JHF would naturally cause him to take their stock in preference to any other. Pastry Pell had said that there was a yearling which had been misbranded with the Lightning mark.

She went slowly into the living-room and sank down in a chair. The wife of a cattle-thief! If anything happened to Barr, what would become of her? And Bob Kern had said--but what had Bob Kern to do about it? There were the babies--the twins. And Bob had sworn that he was going to “get” the sheriff and John the Baptist. He was going to kill them.

She sprang out of her chair and ran to the bedroom. The twins were peacefully sleeping--two tiny little bundles of humanity. For a moment she debated, looking at them nervously, then she closed the door, ran swiftly out of the house and down to the barn, where she began saddling her own horse. She was going to try to overtake her father and warn him.

* * * * *

Barr Wyeth did not drink wisely but he drank well--and alone, which was not at all like Barr Wyeth. Buck Kelly noticed this and tried to draw Barr into conversation, but without much success.

“You ain’t drinkin’ on a bet, are you?” queried Buck.

“On a bet?” growled Barr. “Whatcha mean?”

“You’ve had seven glasses of liquor in ten minutes, Barr.”

“What if I have?” Barr grew instantly belligerent, but Buck moved away and grew interested in a poker game.

“What business is it of his?” demanded Barr of the drink dispenser. “Tell me that, will yuh? How ---- old does a feller have to be to know what he wants? Huh?”

Barr surveyed the place, eyes half-closed.

“I just want to tell everybody that I’m of age and that I do as I ---- please. There’s too many people around here that are tryin’ to run my business, and I’m tellin’ yuh all here and now that I’m tired of it; _sabe_?”

“Nobody tryin’ to run you, Barr,” assured Buck. “Go right ahead and get your skin filled with hooch. There’s a bunk in the back room, when yuh get so yuh can’t stand up to drink.”

“Is--that--so?”

Barr spaced his words carefully and his right hand dropped close to the butt of his holstered gun. One of the men shoved back from the poker table and left his cards where they had fallen in that deal. He was taking no chances.

Buck Kelly did not move. He knew that Barr was dangerous. Came the sound of a step at the door and Barr’s eyes flashed sideways to see Chet Gunning, the sheriff, watching him closely.

“Don’t move, Barr.”

The sheriff’s voice was coldly conversational. “Ain’t nobody goin’ to hurt yuh--if yuh don’t move.”

He walked up slowly, took Barr’s gun from the holster and handed it over to the bartender.

“Fangs all pulled nice and pretty,” observed the sheriff. “Now yuh can move, Barr.”

Barr turned and looked at the sheriff, who had stepped back. Barr’s lips showed like a white scar, and the muscles of his jaws stuck out like knotted ropes, but he knew that he was helpless now and might as well make the best of it.

“I’ll thank Pell when I see him,” said Barr thickly. “Let’s have a drink.”

But no one came up to the bar. The bartender handed out the bottle, and Barr poured out a drink. He looked back over his shoulder, but no one was paying any attention to him.

“Nobody wants to drink with a cow-thief,” said Barr bitterly, leaning across the bar and looking at his reflection in the mirror.

He lifted his glass and laughed harshly.

“Here’s how, you ---- thief!”

He started to take his drink, but the glass halted at his lips. John the Baptist was coming in the door. Quick as a flash, Barr dropped his glass, grasped the heavy bottle, whirled around and flung it straight at the old man’s head.

Came the thud of the impact, the crash of breaking glass, as the bottle hit the floor, and John the Baptist went down in a heap, almost blocking the doorway.

And before any one could stop him, Barr Wyeth sprang over him and went out of the door, tore his horse away from the hitch-rack and headed for home in a cloud of dust.

Buck Kelly was the first man to reach John Fann’s side and he swore with relief when he saw that the bottle had struck the old man a glancing blow on the forehead, tearing and bruising the skin, instead of making a solid impact, which most surely would have crushed his skull.

“An inch further to the left and no law on earth would save Barr Wyeth,” said one of the men, as they helped John Fann into a chair and bathed his forehead.

“That sure is some caress to git from a son-in-law,” observed a grizzled cow-man seriously, proffering a none too clean handkerchief to use as a bandage.

Pastry Pell came in and became an interested spectator, and the men looked curiously at his battered countenance.

“My gosh, you must ’a’ been fightin’!” exclaimed one of the men.

Pastry shook his head.

“No, thir--not me.”

“That’s Barr Wyeth’s trade-mark,” said the sheriff.

“Why did he call himself a cow-thief?” queried the grizzled cow-man. “I don’t _sabe_ that, Chet.”

“Booze talk,” said Kelly quickly. “Too much booze.”

John Fann was recovering now. His eyes opened and he looked up at the ring of faces around him.

“Feel better, John?” asked the sheriff.

John nodded and got to his feet. He was a trifle unsteady as he felt of his bandaged head, but he smiled and nodded.

“Yes, I think I am all right again.”

“You had a ---- close call,” observed Kelly.

“And Barr Wyeth never stopped to see whether it was just a close call or a cinch,” added the sheriff. “Right now he thinks he killed you, John.”

“Probably be dithappointed when he finds out that he didn’t,” observed Pastry lispingly.

“You talk too ---- much!” snapped the sheriff, and Pastry nodded quickly in agreement, which brought a laugh from the crowd.

“Kelly, can I have a little talk with you?” asked John.

“Sure yuh can, John. Come back to my room.”

The old man walked unsteadily, as if still dazed from the blow, but followed Kelly to his room at the rear of the saloon. Kelly motioned him to a chair and sat down on the edge of the cot.

“I want to talk with you about Barr Wyeth, Kelly,” said John Fann wearily.

His hand trembled as he smoothed his white beard, which was now streaked with blood.

“All right, John.” Kelly nodded and bit the end off a fresh cigar. “Go ahead.”

“Do you think that Barr would steal?”

“Well, that’s a hard question, John. I heard him call himself a thief today--a cow-thief, I think.”

“He was drunk today,” said John slowly, as if trying to excuse the statement. “Drunk and mad, I guess. My cows are being stolen, Kelly; and the guilt points at Barr Wyeth.”

“Enough evidence for an arrest, John?”

“The law requires too little evidence, Kelly. It is easy to secure an arrest; not difficult to get a conviction. Acquittal does not mean exoneration. No, the law is not fair. All men may be equal before the court, but the process of law, the juggling of lawyers--no, I do not care to talk of evidence, Kelly.”

“And they are your cows, John.”

“Yes, my cows.”

“Why would Barr Wyeth steal your cows?”

“Kelly--” John the Baptist leaned forward and looked the gambler straight in the eyes--“Barr Wyeth must be badly in debt. Cards and drink will eat up any business, and the Lightning never was a rich ranch. I think that Barr stole to try and pay his debts.”

Kelly laughed and considered the tip of his cigar.

“Then why don’t he pay ’em, John?”

The old man shook his head sadly. He knew that Barr must owe Buck Kelly a lot of money, and Buck should be in a position to know if Barr was making any attempt to pay off his debts.

“Kelly, will you take a mortgage on my ranch?” John Fann did not look at Kelly as he spoke.

“Your ranch--the JHF?”

John nodded--

“Yes, my ranch.”

“Why--I dunno.”

Kelly stretched and chewed rapidly on his cigar.

“How big a mortgage, John?”

“Five thousand dollars.”

Kelly stopped chewing his cigar and stared at the old man.

“Yuh ain’t aimin’ to pay Barr Wyeth’s debts, are yuh?”

“Five thousand isn’t much on the JHF, Kelly.” John Fann ignored Kelly’s question.

“No, that’s a fact--nor much toward Barr Wyeth’s debts.” John stared at Kelly curiously.

“You don’t mean that Barr owes more than that.”