Chapter IV: Part 4

A coyote yapped at him from the side of the hill, and from back in the brushy coulee came the spitting snarl of a hunting bobcat that had probably been cheated of its prey. Bob swung back on his horse and headed into the hills toward the JHF ranch.

He whistled unmusically between his teeth and grinned at the moon which was just peeping over the top of Blackfeet Pass.

“My knittin’ is almost done, bronc,” he told his horse, “or mebbe it’s more like weavin’ a pattern so that both sides come out the same. A fool crook only looks after the big things, and the first thing he knows a little thing gets tangled in his spurs and trips him.”

It was a long ways across the hills to the JHF, but Bob was in no hurry. It was nearly midnight when he rode down the slope behind the big barn and tied his horse to the corral fence. There was a faint light in one of the ranch-house windows, and Bob grinned as he noticed that this was in the spare bedroom.

He went softly into the bunk-house and sat down beside a window, without lighting a lamp. The moonlight flooded the old ranch-house, and cast heavy shadows across the yard. A cow bawled sleepily and a big, gray owl drifted like a shadow across the moonlit space and faded into the cottonwoods behind the house.

Then Bob saw a man come out of the shadows and stand looking toward the house. After a moment he walked boldly across the lighted space and up to the window, where he blended into the shadows.

Bob stepped to the door and opened it a few inches. He heard the soft creak as the window was raised, but could hear no voices. Quickly he turned and went to a rear window, which he opened, and crawled outside. By circling the corral he could keep in the shadows of the barn until he came to the shadows of the cottonwoods.

He went softly, taking plenty of time. The lamp had been extinguished now, but he could hear soft voices. Cautiously he circled the house until only the corner separated him from the man at the window. It was Barr Wyeth talking--

“--last place they’d look for me, and I had to have food.”

He was unable to hear Nell Wyeth’s reply, but she must have told him to come into the kitchen, because he said--

“Anythin’, Nell, just so it’s food.”

He stepped away from the window, came around the corner and ran into the muzzle of Bob’s six-shooter.

He smothered a curse and his arms instinctively went up. Without a word, Bob stepped in and took Barr’s gun from its holster. The moonlight flashed on his badge and Barr saw it.

“Turned sheriff to get me, eh?” he sneered.

“Somethin’ like that,” said Bob coldly. “Turn around and head for the kitchen. Yuh don’t need to keep your hands up, Wyeth.”

Nell Wyeth had unlocked the kitchen door and was putting food on the table when Bob herded his captive inside. She was only dressed in a night gown and her hair was hanging loosely around her shoulders.

She stared at Bob and her hands went to her mouth, as if to stifle a scream. Barr sank down in a chair and stared at the floor. He was uncombed, unkempt and the lines of his face were graved deeply.

“He turned deputy sheriff to get me, Nell,” said Barr in a flat voice. “He’s makin’ good.”

The sound of voices had awakened Ma Fann and now she leaned in around the dining-room doorway, her night-cap awry, her old eyes heavy with sleep.

“What in the world!” she exclaimed wonderingly.

Bob said nothing, but he watched Barr closely. Nell turned away from the table and sank down in a chair, crying wearily.

“Ma,” said Bob softly, “I reckon Barr Wyeth is hungry.”

Barr lifted his face and stared at Bob.

“A ---- of a lot you care, Kern.”

“I s’pose,” said Bob sadly.

“I’ll get him a meal,” said Ma Fann. “Just wait until I slip on some clothes. Nell, you better put on some, too.”

Nell got to her feet and walked to the door, where she turned and looked at Bob.

“You’re satisfied now, aren’t you?” she asked bitterly. “You are a very good prophet, Bob Kern.”

“Yes’m,” nodded Bob, “I s’pose I am.”

Neither of the two men spoke while Ma Fann was dressing. She had explained things to John Fann, who came out with her, his head still swathed in bandages. He looked at Barr Wyeth and shook his head sadly, but turned to Bob--

“You are a deputy sheriff now, Bob?”

“Yeah, I am, John. Took the job today.”

“I suppose I’m already convicted,” observed Barr. There was a trace of his old sarcastic smile now.

Bob nodded--

“Yeah, I s’pose you’d call it that.”

“Can you wait for me to make a pot of coffee?” asked Ma Fann. “Everything else is cold.”

Barr drew his chair up to the table and attacked the food like a starving man.

“Don’t make me wait for the coffee. I’d like some, y’betcha, but I can’t wait.”

Ma Fann watched him for a moment, shook her head sadly and began preparing a pot of coffee. Nell came in and sat down across the table from Barr. She did not look at Bob, who had sat down, holding the six-shooter in his lap. He had put Barr’s gun in his own holster.

“Splinter still in jail?” asked John Fann.

“Yeah.”

“Splinter?”

Barr Wyeth turned and stared at Bob.

“Did you put him in, too?”

“Nope. Andy put him in for gunnin’ a feller in a poker-game. The man will get well.”

“Well, I’ll have company, anyway,” observed Barr.

“Barr, don’t talk like that!” Nell Wyeth’s voice was full of tears. “Oh, why did you come here tonight? We all thought you had left the country and was in a safe place.”

“Our friend Kern didn’t,” said Barr bitterly.

“Do you have to take him to Bunch Grass?” asked John Fann.

“Yeah, I do, John,” nodded Bob. “Why ask me that?”

“Knowing how the people feel about him,” said John, “don’t you think it is a little dangerous? And tomorrow everybody in the country will be in town, Bob.”

“I reckon that’ll be all right, John.”

Barr finished his meal and turned to Bob--

“Well, let’s go, Kern, I’m ready.”

“You ain’t runnin’ this party,” stated Bob, a half-grin on his face. “Yuh see, yo’re a dangerous person, and I’m waitin’ for daylight.”

“What’s the idea?”

“Bob, you don’t mean that, do you?” asked John Fann quickly. “Are you going to let every one----”

“He wants to show me to everybody,” interrupted Barr. “Somebody better make him a banner to carry.”

“Well--” John Fann shook his head--“I don’t know what it is all about, but you’re taking a big chance of having your prisoner taken away from you, Bob.”

“Yeah, I s’pose,” nodded Bob sadly. “This is the first man I ever arrested, and yuh hadn’t ought to try and stop me from advertisin’ it, John.”

John Fann squinted closely at Bob. He knew Bob too well to accept such a shallow excuse. There was something beside vanity connected with bringing Barr Wyeth into Bunch Grass in daylight, but John Fann did not know what it was.

Ma Fann cleared away the dishes and food. On the shelf an old alarm clock ticked noisily. Each of the five people in the little kitchen was deep in his own thoughts. One of the babies cried fitfully and Ma Fann bustled out of the room. Barr Wyeth lifted his head and looked at his wife, but she was staring down at the table-cloth. He turned and looked at Bob Kern.

“It’s goin’ to be hard on them,” he said softly, meaning the babies. There was no bitterness in his voice now.

Bob smiled softly and eased himself in his chair.

* * * * *

For half an hour the inhabitants of Bunch Grass carried water from all available wells, formed a bucket-brigade and did everything possible to save Doctor Knowles’ office and home, but to no avail.

At five o’clock in the morning a cowboy, coming out of the Buck Horn, had seen the flames inside the house. Quickly he had sounded the alarm. The place was an inferno when enough men arrived to carry out Mellody, the wounded cowboy, who had been slightly scorched. The doctor’s desk and a few pieces of furniture had been saved, but the rest of it went up in the flames that threatened to sweep the whole town.

No one knew the cause of the fire. Doctor Knowles swore that he had left no lamp burning, and at that time of the year there was no need of a fire, except for cooking purposes. Shortly after daylight the town began to fill up with people from the outlying districts, who made Saturday sort of a gala shopping day. They gazed upon the ruins, wished aloud that they had been there to see the blaze, and went on about their business.

As usual, Pastry Pell was much in evidence and told a graphic story of the fire. He had been drinking, and as a result the stories were totally different. Buck Kelly’s trade started early, and the thirst-burdened cattlemen crowded the place to capacity.

It had been decided that Chet Gunning’s funeral would be held that afternoon, and the conversation naturally turned to the excitement of the last few days. There was much argument over the robbery of John the Baptist, but that was secondary to the killing of the sheriff.

“And there ain’t been nothin’ done to lay the deadwood on Barr Wyeth either,” declared “Butch” Fletcher, who owned the Flying-M outfit. “It’s a ---- of a note when a feller can shoot the sheriff and git plumb away without even havin’ anybody on his trail.”

“Been wires sent to every sheriff,” said another cattleman, who was so badly crosseyed that no one could ever tell in which direction he was looking.

“Might as well send ’em a Christmas present,” grunted Butch. “Catch him and string him up, that’s my motto.”

Whisky began to percolate widely and it appeared that Chet Gunning was a bloodbrother to every cow-man in the town. A few more drinks, and all they lived for was revenge.

It was about ten o’clock when a half-drunk cowboy floundered into the Buck Horn and blurted out news that sent every man in the place on a run for the door. Bob Kern was riding into town with Barr Wyeth, and just behind them came John the Baptist, Ma Fann and Nell Wyeth in a buggy.

Andy Allard saw them, too. He darted back to Splinter’s cell, threw open the door and handed the surprized Splinter a Winchester rifle.

“C’m on!” he blurted. “What in ----’s the use of havin’ a prisoner, if yuh don’t use him?”

Splinter trotted out behind him and they raced up the street, shoving cartridges into the loading-gates of their rifles.

The crowd from the Buck Horn had swung out into the street, and almost surrounded Bob and Barr. Andy and Splinter shoved their way through and waved the crowd back.

Butch Fletcher shoved his way to the front.

“Yuh might as well cave in and let us have him,” he declared. “It’ll save trouble and expense.”

Most of the crowd were half-drunk and Bob knew they were in a dangerous mood, but he only grinned and shook his head.

“Butch, yo’re a four-flusher,” he said slowly.

“The ---- I am!” Butch snapped.

He turned and looked at those about him.

“Are we goin’ to let him get away with this kinda stuff?”

“No!” yelled a voice at the rear of the crowd. “Git a rope!”

“That sounded like Pastry Pell,” said Bob, standing up in his stirrups and peering over the crowd; but the owner of the voice had ducked.

“Well, whatcha goin’ to do?” asked Andy impatiently. “I’m itchin’ to ruin the census.”

“You fellers want to lynch him, don’tcha?” queried Bob.

“We’re goin’ to lynch him,” corrected Butch.

“Without givin’ him a chance to tell his story?”

“What in ---- story has he got to tell?” demanded Buck Kelly. “This is a dead open-and-shut case.”

“Still, he’s got a right to tell his side, ain’t he?”

There were murmurs of approval.

“Let him tell it,” agreed Butch. “We don’t have to believe it, do we, Kern?”

“No,” Bob shook his head. “I ain’t askin’ yuh to believe it--just to listen, Butch.”

“All right, let him go ahead and tell us,” agreed Butch.

Barr looked questioningly at Bob. He had no defense--nothing to tell that would help his case in any way. The crowd moved in closer and ranged in sort of a semi-circle, so that all might see and hear. Directly in front of Bob and Barr was Buck Kelly, Butch Fletcher, Mark Ells.

Pastry Pell had summoned up enough courage to shove his way to the front, and now he was at the edge of the circle to the right of the two mounted men.

Andy and Splinter still held their rifles ready for action and watched the crowd.

“Well, why in ---- don’t he talk?” asked one of the men. “He had so ---- much to say, didn’t he?”

“I know his story better than he does,” said Bob slowly, “so he won’t mind if I tell it for him. This story kinda dates back a little bit, gents. It starts with the stealin’ of JHF cattle by a man who rides a horse that wears a bar-shoe. We found a yearling with the JHF blotted and the Lightnin’ run on. That was Barr Wyeth’s start.”

“That’s a good story,” applauded a cowboy.

“Barr Wyeth hated John Fann,” continued Bob, “and that was a good excuse for him to steal JHF cattle. Chet Gunnin’ found out about the rustlin’ and the word kinda got to Barr Wyeth. Naturally, he gets mad and declares war. He tries to kill John Fann with a bottle of hooch, but missed a bull’s-eye by an inch.

“Barr Wyeth drank and gambled away his ranch to Buck Kelly, and he needs money goshawful bad. John Fann mortgages his ranch to Buck Kelly for eight thousand dollars and starts home with the money, when he gets shot with a forty-four bullet and robbed of his money.

“Barr Wyeth was in the cañon at that time, and the man who shot and robbed John Fann rode a horse that wore a bar-shoe. I know this, because I found where he had stood when he fired the shot and I trailed that bar-shoe over the rim of the cañon. Kinda looks like Barr Wyeth kept up the good work, don’t it?”

The crowd grunted an approval. They were interested in this story, because the most of it was new to them.

“It must ’a’ been Barr Wyeth,” continued Bob. “There were only three men, Buck Kelly, Judge Freeman and John Fann, who knew about the mortgage money. And I’ll tell yuh why John Fann drew that money. It was to help Barr Wyeth pay off his debts.

“John Fann thought that Barr was stealin’ cows to try and pay off his debts, and he was goin’ to give Barr this money.”

“How did Barr know that John Fann had this money?” asked Butch Fletcher.

“That’s got me beat,” grinned Bob, and looked at the blank face of his prisoner.

He turned and looked at the three people in the buggy. Nell Wyeth’s face was very white and she turned away, a look of loathing for his apparently deliberate speech of accusation. Ma Fann tried to smile at Bob, but it was a pitiful attempt to show that she still had confidence in him.

“Then,” said Bob, turning back to the crowd, “there comes the shootin’ of Chet Gunnin’. I seen a lot of that. Barr Wyeth accused Gunnin’ of havin’ a hand in the robbin’ of John Fann, but I don’t _sabe_ what he meant.

“Anyway, Barr dove out through the window, Chet rushes out through the door and starts shootin’. Somebody plugs him twice and he’s dead.”

Bob stopped and looked around at the circle of faces.

“Barr Wyeth shoots a forty-four Colt gun, gents; remember this. There’s a certain party in Bunch Grass who delights in packin’ lies. Mebbe he can’t help it. Some folks can’t, especially if they want to start a conversation. I mean Pastry Pell.”

All eyes turned to Pastry, who tried to back into the crowd, but they closed ranks and stopped him.

“Yeah, he lied to Barr Wyeth about the JHF and he lied to the JHF about the Lightnin’. Now, we’ll get back to the cattle rustlin’. Over five hundred head of the JHF stock has faded away, and that’s some cows, gents. It’s a man-sized job to dispose of that many cows. Yuh can’t blot brands and get away with it. No sir, you’ve got to be slicker than that.

“It had me fightin’ my head for a long time, but along comes a cowboy from Wyomin’ and hands me the key. He’s lookin’ for the Ten-Bar-B outfit. Ever hear of it?”

The cattlemen shook their heads. It was not a known brand.

“I didn’t _sabe_ it,” grinned Bob. “This puncher is looking for a job with that outfit. He said that the owner of that brand had driven a lot of stock over into Wyoming and sold ’em to the outfit he worked for. Sold ’em cheap, too. Said the range was burnt out over here.

“This was the same puncher that Splinter was supposed to have leaded up in a poker game.”

“Supposed to?” queried Kelly. “Whatcha mean, Kern?”

“What I just said,” replied Bob softly. “Splinter was too drunk to shoot anybody. Mellody had a bullet in him and there’s one in the floor under the table, Buck. That bullet nicked Mellody’s boot.”

“Well, whatcha drivin’ at?” asked Butch Fletcher.

“Here’s what I mean,” said Bob coldly. “Wyeth’s horse that wore the bar-shoe has been dead a month. The shoes are still on its hoofs. Barr Wyeth is too wise to half-blot a JHF and smear on a Lightnin’ brand. Somebody knew of the bar-shoe and they didn’t know that Wyeth’s horse was dead. They bungled the brand-blottin’ to cover their own work.”

“That’s just yore idea, ain’t it?” queried a cowboy.

“Yeah, that’s right,” smiled Bob; “but yuh must remember that a rider of a bar-shoe horse shot and robbed John Fann. Yes sir, and they shot him with a forty-four bullet, but--” Bob fumbled in his pocket and drew out the cartridge shell he had found near the cañon rim--“here’s the shell of that cartridge. It’s swelled so it won’t fit a forty-four.”

Bob held it up for them to see.

“Gents, that shell was fired from a forty-five gun!”

“What does that mean?” asked Kelly, a trifle nervously.

“Just that and nothin’ more, Kelly,” replied Bob. “I’m tellin’ this tale as fast as I can. As I told yuh before, Barr Wyeth shoots a forty-four gun. The bullets that Doctor Knowles took out of Chet Gunnin’ were forty-fives.”

“The ---- they were!” exploded Andy Allard. “I never knowed that.”

“Here’s what happened,” explained Bob. “Somebody was just gettin’ off their horse in front of the JHF ranchhouse when Chet busts out and starts shootin’. They just naturally shoots back at him. Barr Wyeth couldn’t ’a’ fired them shots.”

“Well, who in ---- did?” demanded Butch Fletcher.

“You’d accuse me of guessin’, if I told yuh,” grinned Bob, “but I’ll tell yuh some more. This Mellody cowpuncher comes lookin’ for the Ten-Bar-B outfit, of which there ain’t no such an animal--not visible.

“Accordin’ to Hoyle he ain’t supposed to come here after that ghost-outfit, and there’s certain folks who ain’t noways in favor of his comin’. He gets drunk and sets into a poker game, gents. Then he turns his head and sees the owner of the Ten-Bar-B outfit coming in.”

Bob eased back in his saddle and his muscles seemed to draw taut.

“Pastry Pell,” he said slowly, “you stay where you are.”

Bob’s eyes drew down and he moved a trifle sideways in his saddle.

“Gents, the man who stole JHF cows; the man who shot and robbed John Fann; the man who killed Chet Gunnin’ and the man who sold the Ten-Bar-B cows to the Wyomin’ outfit is the same man. If you take the JHF brand, make an O out of the J, make the F into a B and draw a bar in front of the O, you’ve got the Ten-Bar-B.”

A murmur of astonishment came from the audience.

“By ----, that’s right!” exploded Butch Fletcher. “Who----”

“And this Mellody got shot because he recognized him,” gritted Bob. “There was two shots, gents. Splinter was so drunk that he never knew that they took his gun and fired it into the floor. The hole is there under the poker-table and there’s a notch in Mellody’s boot-sole.”

“But who in ---- was it?” panted Andy, never taking his eyes off the circle.

“A man who talked too much; a man who shoots a forty-five six-gun--our harmless friend, Pastry Pell!”

* * * * *

Pastry Pell’s gun had always been a joke in the Bunch Grass country, but his joke-gun was only part of his harmless make-up. Swiftly as Bob Kern could draw, he would have been far too slow, but Andy was watching closely and fired the Winchester from his hip.

And almost over the spouting muzzle of that rifle, straight out of his saddle plunged Bob Kern, and his arms wrapped in a death-like grip around the body of Buck Kelly. They crashed back into the crowd, just as Pastry Pell spun on his heel and went face-down, riddled with bullets from the Winchester.

The crowd dragged Bob and Buck to their feet, and Andy managed to snap handcuffs onto Buck’s wrists.

“What did Buck have to do with it?” demanded Butch excitedly.

“He was the brains of it,” panted Bob. “It took brains to figure that brand, Butch. I never suspicioned Buck until Mellody got shot. He shot Mellody because Mellody recognized Pastry as the owner of the Ten-Bar-B, and they knew the game was up.”

Bob turned to Buck--

“Pastry set fire to Doc Knowles’ house to try and get rid of Mellody, didn’t he?”

“You know too ---- much now!” snarled Kelly.

“Well, I reckon we’ll just use the rope pronto,” observed Butch. “No use delayin’ this, is there, gents?”

“Wait a minute,” said Bob. “I saved you fellers from doin’ a ---- bad job, didn’t I? Well, let the law handle this case. There ain’t any of yuh so ---- perfect that you’ve got any right to hang a man.”

“That’s right,” agreed a cowboy. “If yuh ever stop to assay yourself--eh, Bob?”

Barr Wyeth came pawing his way through the crowd and clapped Bob on the shoulder.

“I ain’t got words enough to say what I want to, Bob. Pastry Pell lived long enough to tell me that everythin’ you told ’em was true, and he said that Kelly always dealt a crooked game with me ’cause he wanted my ranch, and he told me that he had lied to me about you and John Fann. Kelly wanted to break the JHF and buy it cheap.

“But Pastry told us that Kelly had nothing to do with shootin’ and robbin’ of John Fann. He heard John and Kelly talkin’ about it when he was washin’ his face near the door of Kelly’s office; so he thought he’d make a little money for himself. He thought it would help Kelly break the JHF.”

“Yeah, and I ---- near done it, too,” mumbled Kelly. “But just to show yuh that I quit the game, I’m givin’ yuh back your notes, Wyeth. I don’t reckon I’ll have any use for a cattle ranch. Tear up John Fann’s mortgage. Now put me in jail and call it a day.”

Andy and several of the cowboys led him to the jail, while others picked up the remains of Pastry Pell and carried him into the Buck Horn.

John the Baptist, Ma Fann and Nell Wyeth were still sitting in the buggy in the middle of the street. Barr had walked over to them and now he was leaning on a wheel. None of them were talking, but all were watching Bob Kern, who was still standing in the street, thinking it over.

“Bob Kern!” called Nell Wyeth.

Bob lifted his head and his serious expression faded into a broad grin. He went slowly over, patted the buggy horse and adjusted the bridle.

“Bob Kern, can you ever--” Nell Wyeth’s voice broke--“can you ever forgive me for what I’ve thought and said?”

“Why did you do this for us?” asked Barr hoarsely. “You knew we hated you, Kern. I don’t understand.”

“Well--” John Fann cleared his throat with difficulty--“Well, why don’t you tell them, Bob?”

“I’ll tell yuh,” Bob grinned softly, as he rubbed the palm of his hand on the buggywheel, “I--I--John, you asked me to round up all the JHF cattle, and I’m lazy as the dickens, and I didn’t want to do it; so I stalled around, tryin’ to keep from workin’ and I couldn’t help findin’ out things.

“Yuh see, I wanted to come into town when there was a crowd; so that nobody would miss my oration. Tha’sall, I reckon. Laziness drove me to become a de-teck-itive.”

Bob gave the wheel a final rub and turned away, going toward the sheriff’s office.

“Bob!” called Ma Fann softly.

He stopped and looked back.

“Don’t you know it is wrong to lie, Bob?”

Bob shuffled his toe in the dust and looked back at her seriously.

“Yes’m, Ma, it sure is. Liars don’t never go to heaven.”

He grinned widely and went on.

“If _he_ don’t,” said Nell Wyeth softly, “it’s because there’s a better place than that.”

John the Baptist picked up the lines and nodded his head.

“I reckon we better be goin’ home. Get your horse, son.”

“All right, dad,” said Barr, and headed for the hitch-rack.

Bob Kern stood in the doorway of the office and saw them drive away, a look of unutterable sadness in his homely face. Then he shook his head, as if to drive away memories, and smiled softly to himself.

[Transcriber’s Note: 1: The three paragraphs starting with “Perhaps, she thought” are shown as printed, though there is an apparent localized transposition of the Barr Wyeth and Bob Kern characters. 2: This story appeared in the January 10, 1924 issue of Adventure magazine. ]