Chapter I: Part 1

THE MISDEAL

W. C. Tuttle

Author of “Tramps of the Range,” “Sticky Ropes,” etc.

“I tell yuh he did make out a will! You’re danged right he did! That day he had Williams, the lawyer, from Broken Butte he made out that will. Aw-w-w, ----, you make me tired!”

“Wheezer” Bell spat angrily and hammered his boot-heel against the wall of the NR bunk-house. Wheezer was half-inclined to be mad at “Leather” Kleig, who was humped up in the shade, his thin, impassive face hidden under the brim of his wide sombrero.

“Chet” Wells, a broken-nosed, scar-faced cowboy, was stretched out, half in shade, half in sun, chewing a big portion of tobacco; while just beyond him sat “Wooden-shoe” Van Dorn, a fat, stolid-faced, pig-eyed cowboy.

“You engineered this deal, Leather--” Wheezer stopped hammering the bunk-house wall and glared down at the top of Leather’s hat--“and you sure raised ---- and put a block under it, if anybody rises from the dead to inquire.”

Leather did not look up, but said slowly--

“Wheezer, you’re talkin’ too ---- much!”

“Well, there ain’t no use of talkin’--much,” observed Wooden-shoe slowly, “and we don’t want to make trouble among us, do we, Wheezer?”

“Aw, I ain’t huntin’ trouble,” Wheezer assured him, “but we ain’t got a ---- thing t’ show that the NR owes us a danged thing.”

“True as gospel preachin’,” agreed Chet warmly. “If Leather’d only said like this to the old man: You write----”

“Now, you’re gettin’ the tongue-trouble, too, eh?” interrupted Leather ominously, but did not look up.

Wheezer shoved away from the wall and stepped around in front of Leather Kleig, his thumbs hooked over the top of his cartridge-belt.

“Kleig, if you think for a minute that you can stop me from talkin’--cut yore wolf loose.” Wheezer’s voice was pitched low, but was full of meaning. “You’ve bossed this outfit too ---- much; _sabe?_ We’ve been gypped out of everythin’. Now, put up or shut up.”

Kleig did not move, but his eyes flashed to Wheezer for a second.

“Like I said before,” stated Wooden-shoe impassively, “we shouldn’t quarrel among us. Whatcha say, Wheezer? Let’s all be good little friends together.”

“Thassall right,” nodded Leather. “I ain’t sayin’ that I didn’t make a mistake, but yuh gotta agree that I lose as much as you fellers do.”

“Sure, sure,” agreed Chet indifferently. “I heard the old man tell yuh that he was goin’ to sell the NR and split the pot. Yuh can’t blame Leather ’cause the old man decides to die off, can yuh, Wheezer?”

“’S far as that’s concerned--no,” admitted Wheezer. “But it sure leaves us high and dry, Chet.”

Wooden-shoe suddenly burst into a dry chuckle.

“Now, what in ---- are you laughin’ at?” demanded Chet.

“Just laughin’,” replied Wooden-shoe. “Here we’ve been stealin’ stock for over a year for old Nick Ralls, and ain’t got nothin’ for ourselves.”

“Except experience,” said Wheezer gloomily.

All of which was both sad and true. Many years previous to this time, Nick Ralls, an old gun-man of the Southwest, had migrated to the Broken Butte ranges and taken up the NR ranch. Nick Ralls was a bitter old codger, quick of temper, and very flexible of conscience.

He did not prosper, but made a living. There were few NR cows on the Broken Buttes when Leather Kleig, Wheezer Bell, Wooden-shoe Van Dorn and Chet Wells rode into the yard of the tumble-down ranch-house and informed old Nick that they were both hungry and tired.

The sheriff of the adjoining county lost them in the breaks and went home disgusted; but they did not know this. They needed sanctuary, and old Nick Ralls gave it to them, because he recognized them as kindred spirits.

Old Nick was growing old--raspingly old. The Broken Butte range was a fertile field for those who carried a running-iron and little regard for the law. And when the adjoining county had practically forgotten the four men who attempted to rob the bank at Dry Wells, the four men made an oral contract with old Nick Ralls.

Leather Kleig was a brand counterfeiter. His skill with a running-iron or razor was uncanny. Combination brands were an open book to him. Every animal that fell within their loop or corral was quickly made over into an NR, which would pass muster even on close examination, and old Nick Ralls chuckled evilly, while his herd grew until the hills of Broken Butte range were dotted with his possessions.

Then, as Wheezer described it:

“He ups and dies. And the or’nary old son-of-a-sea-cook knowed he was goin’ to die, didn’t he? Then why does he send for a lawyer to make out his will?”

All of which was not at all cheerful to the four men in the shade of the NR bunk-house.

“Yeah, it leaves us high and dry,” admitted Chet. “We ain’t got nothin’ to show for all our hard work. If yuh asks my opinion, I’d suggest that we all line up, give the word and all start shootin’. If there’s any survivor, he can take what money the other fellers has got and pull out.”

“Good idea!” exploded Wooden-shoe. “I’d like----”

“You would!” interrupted Wheezer sarcastically. “You ain’t got a danged cent to lose. Leather must have about six-bits, which is four-bits more than I’ve got. I dunno about Chet, but I reckon two-bits would about tap him.”

“Then that idea ain’t so good,” said Chet mournfully. “What’ll we do? Brand the NR cows all over and sell them to the sheriff?”

“----, the sheriff!” grunted Leather. “He’s too pious. Goes to church! ---- deliver me from a church-goin’ sheriff.”

“One thing’s a cinch,” observed Chet thoughtfully. “If them misbranded critters are ever discovered, they can’t hang the deadwood on to us. We don’t own ’em. And no sensible man ever steals cows as a pastime.”

“I’m through stealin’ cows,” declared Wooden-shoe, emphatically. “I tell yuh, I’m through.”

“Reformin’, eh?” sneered Leather Kleig.

“Yeah, I’m goin’ to rob banks or trains--and I’m goin’ to steal for me; _sabe?_”

“We’re a ---- of a fine bunch of outlaws,” declared Wheezer. “Bad men from Bitter Crick. ----! ’F we don’t look out, some old lady is goin’ to hoodle us off this range with a parasol.”

“For his heart was hard and so was his hide,
And the rattlesnake crawled away and died,
The da-a-a-y he bit Bill Jo-o-o-nes.”

Chet’s voice quavered lovingly on the last line, and his broken nose twitched feelingly.

“You can do a lot of things better than yuh can sing,” observed Wooden-shoe sadly. “You ought to twist yore ears a little, Chet. Yuh sound like a couple of yore strings was loose.”

“Bein’ funny ain’t gittin’ us no place--” Wheezer dug his heel into the hard dirt. “What are we goin’ to do? That’s the question. If old Ralls didn’t leave no will, I s’pose the whole works will be sold by the sheriff.”

“I’d love to set on a fence and see that ---- sheriff sell my cows!” exploded Leather.

“What ’d yuh do?” asked Wheezer. “Would yuh tell him how it comes that yuh feel bad about it, Leather?”

“Talkin’ makes me hungry,” stated Wooden-shoe. “Let’s go and see what Ma Coogan’s got for supper.”

“And that’s another thing,” said Wheezer. “What in ---- is goin’ to become of Ma Coogan?”

“Yessir, that’s another thing,” agreed Wooden-shoe.

* * * * *

Ma Coogan was the cook and housekeeper of the NR, and was as much a part of the ranch as the old ranch-house. She was about sixty years of age; thirty of which had been spent in the range country.

Ten years previous to this time, Jim Coogan and his wife had been nesters in the Broken Butte range. Nesters were not wanted, and old Jim had absorbed a bullet; which left Ma Coogan destitute.

Nick Ralls, whose heart was bitter against everything, and nesters in particular, had installed the old widow as cook and housekeeper in the NR. He swore at the time that he did not do it to be kind, but to prove that he could be contrary to his own nature.

Ma Coogan was a little woman, with a typically Irish face, a heart of gold, but with a tongue that proved to Nick Ralls the advisability of running his end of the ranch and not interfering with the household.

It was five days since the burial of Nick Ralls, and Ma Coogan was beginning to get back to normal. She had never considered what Ralls’ death might mean to her. She was sitting on the porch, as the four men came up to the ranch-house, fanning herself with a magazine.

“Ye’re all hungry, I suppose,” she remarked. “And what have ye done to make ye hungry, I’d ask? Are ye goin’ to sit in the shade all the rest of your life?”

“Looks kinda like it, Ma,” said Wheezer. “But what’s the use of workin’? There’s nobody to pay salaries.”

“Nobody?” Ma Coogan stopped fanning herself. “Nobody to pay--well, bless me soul!”

She stared at them and her eyes shifted to the hazy hills, as a sudden realization of things came to her.

“I never thought of that,” she said softly. “Nobody to pay salaries, nobody to run the ranch. Now, what’s to become of everybody, I’d like to know?”

Wheezer shook his head.

“I dunno, Ma. Do you remember that lawyer comin’ up here a couple of days before Nick Ralls died?”

“That fat, fish-eyed feller from Broken Butte? Aye, he was with Nick Ralls for a long time.”

“He’s a lawyer, Ma. We was wonderin’ if Nick made out a will. He knowed he was goin’ to die, I reckon.”

“He did that,” declared Ma. “Belike he heard the banshee wailin’; I dunno.”

“What’s a banshee, Ma?” asked Wooden-shoe.

“Sure, it’s an Irish ghost. When ye hear one wailin’, ye’r goin’ to die, Wooden-shoe. There’s a lot of thim that has heard the banshee.”

Leather Kleig laughed sarcastically.

“Ghosts! No ghost would wail over Nick Ralls. What I’d like to know: Did Nick Ralls make out a will?”

“There was such a thing mentioned,” said Ma slowly. “I heard thim speak of a will, and there was a paper that I had to sign me name to, but I did not read it.

“This fish-eyed feller he puts his finger on one spot, and he says for me to write me name there. Ould Nick says that I’m a witness. I dunno what it was all about, but it looked like some sort of a cer-ti-fic-it.”

“That was a will,” declared Wheezer. “Did he ever tell yuh about any of his relatives, Ma?”

“He did not, Wheezer. I misdoubt if he had any. But Nick Ralls was no man to blather about any one. Hated the world, so he did. He even swore at the lawyer. Well, the poor soul has gone to glory, and if I don’t go in and finish gittin’ supper, the rest of ye will be failin’ for want of food.”

“If Nick Ralls has gone to glory, I hope I don’t,” declared Leather Kleig. “He wasn’t entitled to it.”

“Aw, sure, now--” Ma Coogan turned at the doorway and looked down at Leather, “ye mustn’t wish ill of a dead man. He wasn’t all bad, Leather. Do ye think that God is goin’ to punish ye by sendin’ ye to a hot place? What would He gain by it, I’d ask ye? Would it be a lesson to thim that stayed behind in this life?

“We wouldn’t see it. A lovin’ God wouldn’t git no satisfaction out of it, would He? Thin where is your reasons for a place of damnation, I dunno? I tell ye, I think that Nick Ralls went to glory.”

“All right, Ma,” said Leather gloomily. “I hope, if he has, that he can look down and see what a ---- fool he was to leave the NR in this kinda shape.”

“Amen,” said Ma Coogan piously.

* * * * *

It was three days later that Eph Williams, the lawyer from Broken Butte, came again to the NR; and with him came Ben Murtch, the sheriff, and a lady.

The four cowboys looked with great disfavor upon Ben Murtch and Eph Williams, because they had little use for the law in any of its forms. But there was a certain amount of speculation regarding the lady.

Murtch was a bandy-legged person, broad-shouldered, and with a massive head. His features were of the type commonly known as bulldog, and he was reputed fast with a gun. On account of their wild doings in Broken Butte, Murtch had no use for the boys of the NR--and did not conceal his feelings.

Both Murtch and Williams attended the little church at Broken Butte, and at times Williams would pass the collection plate. The four cowboys from the NR went to church one Sunday night, more out of curiosity than from piety, and observed the actions of Williams and Murtch.

Hence Leather Kleig’s remark of--

“Lord deliver me from a church-goin’ sheriff.”

Williams, Murtch and the lady came out to the ranch in a top-buggy, and went straight to the ranch-house. The four cowboys sat at the bunk-house and speculated as to who the lady might be, until Murtch left the house and came down to see them.

“Howdy, boys,” he greeted them pleasantly, but they were not receptive to his greeting.

He stopped near them and hitched up his belt.

“Thought yuh might like to know who the lady is,” he remarked.

“Yeah?” Wheezer squinted sideways at him. “Yuh thought so, did yuh?”

“Yeah, I thought yuh would.”

“Reckon we ought to take a vote on it?” questioned Chet.

“That,” said Murtch, not a bit perturbed over their indifference, “that is Miss Jane Cleveland, who owns this ranch, lock, stock and barrel.”

“Oh, yeah!” Wheezer nodded quickly. “That’s who she is, eh?”

“Yeah, that’s her.”

“Who’s she?” Wooden-shoe hugged his knees and grinned at Murtch.

“That’s a ---- of a question,” declared Murtch.

“It’s a good question, and there ought to be an answer layin’ around somewhere.”

Eph Williams was coming down from the house, and Murtch decided to wait and let him explain things.

“Fish-eye,” chuckled Wheezer. “Shore fits him.”

The rest of the cowboys grinned, and Eph looked uncomfortable, even if he did not know what had been said.

“Did you tell ’em, Murtch?” asked Williams. His voice was rather husky, as if suffering from a heavy cold.

“I left the job to you,” said Murtch. “You sabe it better than I do.”

“I sure as ---- hope he does,” growled Leather.

“Well, it is simple,” smiled Williams. “Miss Cleveland just arrived from Helena to take charge of this ranch. Just before Nick Ralls passed on he had me make out his will. Miss Cleveland is the daughter of his only sister, and the only living relative of Nick Ralls. He had kept track of her all these years, and when he felt that his days were numbered, he sent for me, made out his will, and--” Williams spread his hands--“that is all there is to it.”

“Well, now, that’s quite a lot,” admitted Leather, and the other three cowboys knew what he meant.

“Miss Cleveland knows nothing about cattle,” stated Williams, “but she was more than willing to take charge. I do not know whether she will retain any or all of you boys. I have made no suggestions. As far as I can see there is no use of having four cowboys to handle the cattle, but I am leaving it to her to do things to suit herself.”

“That’s ---- kind of yuh, I’m sure,” applauded Chet. “What did you say your business was?”

“I am an attorney-at-law,” said Williams stiffly.

“Oh, yeah--a lawyer?”

“Don’t waste words on ’em, Eph,” advised Murtch. “They’re tryin’ to get under your hide.”

“Wouldn’t be under it for the world,” denied Chet. “I’d smother t’ death in a minute.”

Williams whirled on his heel and went back toward the horse and buggy, walking stiff-legged, like an angry bear. Murtch looked after him and turned to the grinning cowboys.

“You fellers likely don’t know that Williams will have quite a lot to say about this place, do yuh? He’s goin’ to advise Miss Cleveland on business matters.”

“Lord help her,” said Wheezer sadly.

Murtch scowled and turned away, starting back to where Williams was getting into the buggy.

“You didn’t tell us what your business is,” reminded Wooden-shoe.

Murtch grunted something unintelligible, but did not turn his head.

They drove down past the bunk-house, on their way out of the ranch, but neither of them looked at the four grinning cowboys on the steps.

“A heiress,” said Wheezer dolefully. “A blasted heiress to our cows!”

“And a fish-eyed lawyer advisin’ her what to do with them,” added Chet. “If somebody’d stick a fork into us they’d find us well done.”

Chet got to his feet and executed a double-shuffle on the steps, while he sang sadly:

“Oh, Williams, yo’re a ----
Oh, Williams, yo’re a bum;
There’s nothin’ good about you,
And yore breath sure smells of rum.
Yo’re killin’ us by inches,
I know I am yore slave
But when you die, you son-of-a-gun,
I’ll dance upon yore grave.”

“That record sounds scratched,” observed Wheezer dryly. “Sounds like a Injun with hay-fever, tryin’ to give a imitation of C’ruso singin’ soprano.”

“Aw, ----!” Leather Kleig snorted his disgust and got to his feet. “Let’s go and meet the new boss.”

“Mebbe she’ll appreciate my voice,” said Chet hopefully. “I’ll take a chance.”

“I’ll shoot yuh, if yuh try singin’ to her,” threatened Wheezer, as they trooped to the ranch-house.

“Aw, he won’t make no never mind,” assured Wooden-shoe. “I hope he yodels and busts his windpipe.”

“What’s a yodel?” asked Wheezer.

Wooden-shoe stopped, pointed his nose toward the sky and began:

“_Hi-i-i lee-e-e-e o la lay-ee-e-e--_ Leggo! Ouch!”

Wheezer and Chet had moved in swiftly beside him, each grabbing him by collar and boot and dumped him unceremoniously on top of his head. Then they let go at the same time and his heels hit the ground with a thud.

For a moment, Wooden-shoe’s breath was jarred from his body, and he lay there goggling at the sky.

“I hope he isn’t injured.”

The cowboys turned and stared at Jane Cleveland, who was standing on the porch, staring at Wooden-shoe, who sat up and puffed the atmosphere back into his lungs. He saw her and tried to laugh.

“No, ma’am,” said Wheezer foolishly. “You can’t hurt him.”

Wheezer had removed his hat, and now he stepped over, lifted Wooden-shoe’s hat off his head and placed it in his lap.

Jane Cleveland was a stately brunette, well-dressed, possibly twenty-five years of age. There was no question of her beauty, but it was marred a trifle by the superiority of her manner. She might well have been a queen, looking down upon them; making them feel rather out of place before her. Her lips lifted slightly in a semblance of a smile at Wheezer’s rough wit.

“You are the cowboys, I suppose?”

“Yes’m, I s’pose we are,” nodded Chet.

He looked at the other three and back at the girl.

“Yes’m, I’m sure of it now. Get up, Wooden-shoe. My gosh, you ain’t got no manners a-tall.”

“You’re Miss Cleveland, I s’pose,” observed Leather.

It was a perfect imitation of her question, and her eyes hardened slightly.

“Yes, I am Miss Cleveland, the owner of this farm.”

“My ----!” breathed Chet. “Farm!”

Ma Coogan had come out of the door, and Miss Cleveland turned.

“Was there something you wanted?”

“Nothin’, me dear,” said Ma Coogan.

“Then I think your place is in the kitchen--not on the veranda.”

Ma Coogan looked wonderingly at Miss Cleveland.

“Would ye mind sayin’ that again?”

“Are you not the cook?”

Miss Cleveland’s voice was icy.

“Yes, I’m the cook.”

“There is nothing to cook out here.”

“Well--” Ma Coogan swallowed painfully and looked appealingly at the four cowboys--“well, I s’pose that’s right. I never thought of that--in ten years.”

She turned and went back into the house. Leather Kleig cleared his throat, and his eyes narrowed dangerously, but Wheezer trod heavily on the side of his ankle and saved Leather from saying the wrong thing.

“I have not made up my mind what I am going to do with this place.” Miss Cleveland was talking, but the four boys were still staring at the doorway where Ma Coogan had disappeared and paid no attention to her.

“I would like to know just what I inherited from my uncle. Can you give me an estimate of how many cows, horses, etc., are included in this ranch?”

“Well--” Wheezer scratched his head thoughtfully--“that’s kinda hard, ma’am. There won’t be no round-up for a month, and ’till we kinda bunches them cows there ain’t no way of tellin’.”

“Didja know yore uncle very well?” asked Wooden-shoe.

“No, I never have seen him.”

“He didn’t have much sense, ma’am.”

“Is that so?” Miss Cleveland seemed indifferent to that statement.

“You goin’ to run the ranch yoreself, ma’am?” asked Leather.

“I suppose I will. Mr. Williams, the lawyer, will advise me in some of the details, and Mr. Murtch has offered his services at any time. Is there any reason why I cannot handle it?”

“Not with all that help--” Leather shook his head. “Of course you’ve got to hire some cowboys.”

“Naturally. Mr. Williams said that I could probably get along with less hired help than my uncle did. In fact, they informed me that every one wondered how uncle managed to make the ranch pay, with four cowboys in his employ.”

“Yeah, it is a wonder,” agreed Leather softly. “Yuh see, he hired us by the year and died two days before payday. This ranch owes us each four hundred and eighty dollars apiece.”

“Four hundred and eighty dollars apiece?”

“Yes’m,” said Wheezer grinning widely and making some rapid calculations. “The old NR owes us four punchers the grand total of nineteen hundred and twenty dollars.”

Wooden-shoe blinked and wet his lips with his tongue. He was a willing but slow liar, and he marveled at Leather telling a thing like that.

“And we sure worked faithful-like,” added Chet sadly. “A year’s a long time to go without a payday. ’Course the ranch is good for it, ma’am; so we ain’t worryin’.”

“Well,” said Miss Cleveland dubiously, “I know nothing about such things, but I shall take it up with Mr. Williams.”

“And Ma Coogan kinda got the worst of it,” said Wheezer mournfully. “Yuh see, when she goes to work for yore uncle, he says to her--

“ ‘If you work for me for ten years without pay, I’ll give yuh enough to keep yuh for the rest of yore life.’

“Well, she’s sure worked faithfully, y’betcha. It ain’t no cinch runnin’ her end of the job. Now, she’s old and can’t land no other job, but I reckon you’ll see that she gets what old Nick Ralls promised her.”

“But I know nothing about these things,” protested Miss Cleveland. “Is there any agreement--a written agreement, I mean?”

“Shucks, folks use their word instead of ink out here,” said Leather. “We’ve all heard Nick tell what he was goin’ to do for Ma Coogan. Why, jist the other day he says to me, like this--

“ ‘Leather, if anythin’ happens to me, will you see that Ma Coogan gits what’s comin’ to her?’

“I told him that I sure would, ma’am.”

“Why wasn’t she mentioned in the will?”

“I’ll tell yuh why, ma’am.” Chet moved in closer and lowered his voice. “Old Nick Ralls wasn’t in his right mind. He heard the banshee wailin’.”

“The--what do you mean?” Miss Cleveland frowned slightly. “What did he hear?”

“A banshee wailin’. There’s lot of ’em, ma’am. When yuh hear one, yuh might as well practise up on some kind of a harp, ’cause yuh ain’t got no chance left.”

“I do not think I understand--nor care. By the way, I do not know your names.”

“I’m Wheezer Bell,” Wheezer indicated himself. “That’s Leather Kleig. Got his front name from reachin’ for a saddle-horn so often. This’n,” pointing at Chet, “this’n is Chet Wells. He’s old man Wells’ son. That other one is Wooden-shoe Van Dorn, the only Dutch cowpuncher in captivity. He can squeak like a windmill, and he wakes up yelling at night, thinkin’ that the dykes have busted.”

“Thank you very much.”

She turned and went into the house.

* * * * *

The four cowboys looked at each other and went back to the bunk-house, where they draped themselves in the shade and stared at each other.

“Leather,” said Wheezer softly, “yo’re the first ---- liar I ever loved. But can we work that idea?”

“Who in ---- can say that we lied?” queried Chet. “Nick Ralls never kept no books.”

“I dunno--” Leather shook his head sadly--“I’m a son-of-a-gun if I ever seen a look on anybody’s face like there was on Ma’s, when Miss Cleveland ordered her back to the kitchen.”

“Aw, that was too bad,” nodded Wheezer, “and Ma took it, too.”

“Yeah, and we better kinda look a little out,” said Wooden-shoe. “She’d fire the whole bunch of us. There wasn’t no use lyin’ about Ma Coogan. Us liars can stick together, but Ma wouldn’t back us up.”

“She’s goin’ to be advised by Williams and helped by Murtch,” mused Leather aloud; “I dunno----”

He shook his head sadly and began manufacturing a cigaret.

“---- old Nick Ralls!” exploded Chet.

“He sure had a cause to keep away from his relation,” said Wheezer. “That woman ain’t got no heart, don’tcha know it?”

“Pretty ones hardly ever do have,” said Leather.

“You’ve knowed so many of them,” grinned Chet.

“I betcha she won’t eat at the table with us,” offered Wooden-shoe. “I betcha she makes Ma set a table in the front room for her.”

“I sure hope she does,” declared Chet. “If she don’t--we will. By golly, she’s pretty, though.”

“Yore rope’s draggin’,” cautioned Wheezer.

“Well, suppose it is, I didn’t say I was stuck on her, did I?”

“I suppose Wooden-shoe will be makin’ love to her pretty quick,” said Leather.

“No sir,” Wooden-shoe shook his head vehemently and his face flushed hotly. “I stole cows for a year for her, and that’s enough. She can’t expect too much.”

Ma Coogan’s hammering of the steel triangle, which hung at the kitchen-door, broke up the meeting, and the four cowboys trooped to the rear of the kitchen to wash up for supper.

There was no sign of the new owner, and Ma Coogan was strangely silent. Even the cowboys ate silently, which was unusual.

“My ----!” grunted Wheezer. “You’d think somebody done died around here.”

“Somethin’ has, I reckon,” whispered Chet seriously, and Ma Coogan shook her head warningly at him.

At the conclusion of the meal, which none of them enjoyed, Leather Kleig drew Ma Coogan out of the back door, while the others grouped close around them.

“Ma,” said Leather, “did you know that Nick Ralls told you that, if yuh stayed here ten years, he’d fix yuh up so yuh wouldn’t have to work no more?”

She squinted at Leather and around at the other cowboys wonderingly.

“You know he said that, don’tcha, Ma?” asked Chet.

“Well, bless my soul! Where did ye ever get that strange idea?”

“That’s what he told me.”

Leather Kleig was serious enough to have been telling the truth.

“Nick Ralls told ye that, Leather?”

“Honest Injun, Ma.”

“Well, I dunno--” Ma looked vacantly around. “That’s news, so it is. I’ve niver heard--sure, you’re jokin’, now.”

“Ma, look here.” Wheezer put his hand on her shoulder. “You’ve been here ten years, workin’ hard. Did yuh ever think what Nick Ralls’ death would mean to you? This here lady boss ain’t noways human. She’d fire her own father. If she lets yuh out--what’ll become of yuh, Ma?”

Ma Coogan gasped slightly and shook her head.

“Sure, I--I dunno, boys. Why, the old ranch has been a home and I niver thought of bein’ fired. I--I’d hate to leave--here. But,” she lifted her head and smiled around at them, “sure, there’s no use of borryin’ a lot of trouble. The things ye worry the most about never happen.”

“Jist the same it’s wise to have your gun loaded,” observed Wheezer. “We was jist wonderin’ if yuh knowed what Nick Ralls intended to give yuh. We supposed that you knowed all about it, ’cause he told us.”

Ma Coogan looked straight into Wheezer’s eyes, and he turned away under her steady gaze.

“Ye’r’ a lovable liar, Wheezer,” she said softly, “but ye can’t fool old Ma Coogan. Sure, it’s nice of ye all, but ye know well that Nick Ralls niver had any such foolish ideas.”

Wheezer shuffled his feet nervously and shoved his hands deep into his pockets.

“Ma, we’re tryin’ to get a square-deal, thassall. If that fish-eyed lawyer asks yuh about it, would yuh mind just askin’ him if it ain’t in the will?”

“In the will?”

“Yeah. You don’t have to tell no lie, Ma. If he starts jawin’ around, which he will, just ask him that, will yuh?”

“Sure, I dunno what good it’ll do, but I’ll ask him.”

“Where’s the beautiful princess?” asked Wooden-shoe.

“Eatin’ in her own room. She’ll have her breakfast in bed, so she says--at tin o’clock. She asked me if you boys were fair samples of cowboys, and I told her that the NR niver hired samples.

“Thin,” Ma Coogan lowered her voice, “she asked me what a cattle-rustler was, and I told her it was a cowpuncher out of work. She said she’d have more respect, or there’d be four cattle-rustlers lookin’ for new positions. Sure, that’s what she said--‘positions’.”

Leather grinned and shook his head--

“She’s goin’ to be advised by the fish-eyed lawyer, Ma.”

“Thin, may God help the old ranch!” Ma exclaimed piously.

“It’ll sure need somethin’ from the outside,” said Wheezer sadly. “Don’t forget what you’ve got to say to him, Ma. It won’t be lyin’.”

Ma nodded and went back into the kitchen, while the four cowboys went back to the bunk-house.

“Suppose we can’t make that stick with the lawyer; what’ll we do?” asked Wooden-shoe.

“Do?” Leather Kleig flung one of his boots across the rough floor and wiggled his toes through a hole in his sock. “What’ll we do? By ----, we stole most of them NR cows for Nick Ralls, didn’t we? Then what in ---- is goin’ to stop us from stealin’ ’em from the NR?”

“Not me,” Wooden-shoe shook his head quickly. “I’m a re-formed cattle-rustler, by gosh! From now on, I don’t rob nothin’ but stages and banks.”

“You goin’ to Broken Butte tomorrow, Leather?” asked Wheezer.

“What for? We ain’t even got enough money to play a game of seven-up.”

“Mebbyso we will have. Clay Hardy offered me fifty for that glass-eyed sorrel a week ago, but I wanted a hundred. Mebbe he’ll be wantin’ sixty dollars worth tomorrow, and if he does--that’s fifteen apiece.”

“I sabe a roulette system,” declared Wooden-shoe. “It’s a cinch. All yuh do----”

“Make it twenty apiece for three of us,” interrupted Leather. “That’s a better system than Wooden-shoe’s.”

* * * * *

The town of Broken Butte was a county seat, but, outside of that fact it had little to boast about. Perhaps there were a few more false-fronted buildings than in the average Western cow-town; perhaps it was a little hotter in Summer and colder in Winter; but it was still a weather-beaten, hitch-rack decorated, dusty-streeted cow-town.

There was the usual array of restaurants, where the inner man might be well appeased for two-bits. The fact that there were two livery-stables rather lifted Broken Butte out of the mediocre class, but its chief claim to distinction was the Shoshone Saloon, where wine, women and song brought surcease from range-land sorrows, and kept the cowboys broke but contented.

“Battler” Morgan owned the Shoshone, a pugnacious jaw, one cauliflower ear and a memory of the days when men fought with bare knuckles. He could throw a bottle almost as straight as a cowboy could shoot a gun--but not quite.

He had found this out to his sorrow, when he essayed to bounce a bottle off the head of Wheezer Bell. Wheezer had incurred Battler’s displeasure by slamming a bullet into the bottle, in mid-air. The bottle was coming toward Wheezer, but the .45 bullet caused it to sort of evaporate, and the neck of the bottle boomeranged into Battler’s front teeth.

Wheezer admitted that he shot at the bottle, which the rest of the NR gang knew to be a mistake, but it established Wheezer as a bad man to monkey with. Battler bought some “store” teeth and quit throwing bottles at gunmen.

Eph Williams owned an office on the main street, and he was climbing into a top-buggy when the four cowboys rode in from the NR ranch. Williams sighed with relief as he drove out of town.

He had no wish to meet these four men. He knew, to his sorrow, that they did not respect him in the least, and he secretly wished that they might be hailed into court, charged with a serious offense.

For Eph Williams, in spite of the fact that he passed the collection plate at church, did not “Do unto others as you would have others do unto you.” These four men laughed at him, and he did not like that. He had often wondered why Nick Ralls hired these four men. One day he had asked Nick Ralls regarding them, and Nick Ralls had told him that it was none of his adjectived business.

The four cowboys watched Eph Williams drive out of town, and Chet wailed over the fact that they would not be at the ranch to greet him.

“We’d take off his wheels and make him walk home.”

“Yeah, and have him advise Cleopatra to fire us,” said Wheezer. “You ain’t got a ---- bit of fi-ness.”

“That’s a nice word to call a friend,” said Chet accusingly. “You go and sell that wall-eyed cayuse to ‘Clay’ Hardy, professor.”

“Yeah, you do that,” agreed Leather. “But if yuh see that bat-headed Murtch, don’t antagonize him. He’s in cahoots with Williams.”

“Rope’s draggin’!” Wheezer whispered warningly.

Leather turned quickly and saw Murtch standing within five feet of him. He had come out of the Shoshone Saloon while they were talking. There was not the slightest doubt but what Murtch had heard what Leather Kleig had said, but his face told them nothing.

“All right, I’ll go and find Clay,” said Wheezer. Then to Murtch--

“Is Clay at the office?”

Clay Hardy was Murtch’s deputy; a vile-tempered, pasty-faced individual, who was reputed to be the best rifle-shot in the country, in spite of the fact that he was of the jerky, nervous type.

“I reckon he’s there,” replied Murtch softly, and walked past them, going across the street.

Wheezer led the sorrel down the street toward the sheriff’s office, while the other three cowboys went into the Shoshone, to wait for Wheezer to bring them funds enough for a little riotous living.

There was little warmth in Battler Morgan’s reception, but he did invite them to have a drink.

“What’sa matter with it?” asked Chet wonderingly.

“With what?” asked Battler.

“Yore liquor,” explained Chet. “You givin’ it away, kinda makes me wonder. How’s tricks, Battler?”

“All right,” growled Battler. He was not very quick witted. “Whatcha drinkin’?”

“I’ll smoke a see-gar,” stated Wooden-shoe. “Gift whisky hurts my stummick. Got any of them two-bit Flor de Loco Weeds? Yuh know what I mean--them dusty ones.”

“Never look a gift see-gar in the dust,” advised Leather, leaning across the bar and studying the labels on some dusty-looking case-goods.

“Well, name your drinks,” said Battler impatiently.

“W-h-i-t-e S-e-a-l,” spelled Leather. “What’s that--sody-water, Battler?”

“Champagne,” gruffly.

“I’ll take a chance on her,” nodded Leather.

“Yuh will? At ten dollars per bottle?”

“Well, ain’t we yore friends?” asked Chet. “Ten per bottle ain’t nothin’ between friends, ’specially when we’ve got a lady boss. Didja hear about it, Battler?”

Battler nodded.

“Murtch was tellin’ me. What you jaspers goin’ to do for a job?”

“Work for the NR,” replied Leather dryly, motioning for the bartender to open a bottle of champagne.

“Want me to open a bottle, Battler?”

The bartender wanted official sanction.

“No!” snapped Battler. “I ain’t wastin’ champagne on cowpunchers. Whisky’s good enough.”

“Not for me, it ain’t,” declared Leather, turning his back on the bar. “Battler won’t treat us right, ’cause he thinks we ain’t got nothin’ to spend in his danged place.”

“You fellers ain’t had no pay-day.”

Battler was so old in the liquor business that he did not mind admitting a lack of enthusiasm in treating men who were broke.

“Did yuh ever know us to have a pay-day?” asked Chet.

Battler thought it over and shook his head.

“No, I don’t think I have. You fellers has spent money, but I never heard yuh mention pay-day.”

“You remember that, will yuh?” asked Leather, but before Battler could ask a reason for remembering such a trifling thing, Wheezer came bustling in, kicking his spurred heels on the floor.

“Hookum cow!” he chortled, executing a very poor jig-step. “Nailed Clay for seventy dollars.”

He pulled the money out of his chaps pocket and piled it on the bar.

“Are you a sport?” queried Leather.

“Dang right!” exploded Wheezer. “Gimme action.”

Leather poked a ten-dollar gold piece out of the pile and shoved it across the bar.

“Give me that bottle of champagne.”

The bartender handed it across to him, while Wheezer leaned in close and peered at the dusty, long-necked bottle.

“Whazzat?” he asked curiously.

“This?” Leather patted the bottle. “This is the drink of kings, Wheezer.”

He took out his knife and inserted the blade under the wired top.

Wheezer glanced at the cash register and blinked at Leather.

“Ten dollars for a little bottle? My ----, what’s in it?”

_Pwhop!_

The cork hit Wheezer in the mouth, and most of the champagne struck him in the chest. Leather tried to hold his hand over the neck of the bottle, with the result that a stream of the liquor shot square into Wooden-shoe’s face. A shift of the hand shot the stream up into Leather’s face and he dropped the bottle on the floor.

Wheezer wiped his sleeve across his face and looked down at the bottle. He scooped up the rest of the money and stuffed it into his pocket.

“Yo’re all through playin’ king with my money,” he announced.

“You don’t open champagne like that,” explained the bartender chokingly. “You put a towel over----”

“Aw-w-w, ----!” snapped Leather. “I’ve opened lots of it.”

“Yeah, there was quite a lot in that bottle,” admitted Chet, feeling of his sticky shirt collar. “Kind of a magic bottle, ain’t they?”

“I’ll open a bottle,” announced Battler joyfully. “I’ll show yuh how it’s done.”

“After we’re gone, Battler--not now--” Wheezer was very emphatic--“I’ve swallowed a cork and I smell like I’d had a bath in hard cider. If yuh want to treat, I’ll take a see-gar.”

The other three nodded dismally and accepted an ancient cigar on the house, which they discarded after a puff or two in favor of a Durham cigaret. Wheezer relented and split his money among them, after which they wooed the goddess of chance in their own ways.

* * * * *

It was about three hours later that Eph Williams drove back to Broken Butte. It was only five miles to the NR ranch, which was far enough to give him a chance to cool his anger against the four cowboys.

He took his horse and buggy to the livery-stable and went back to his little office. Murtch had seen him, and wended his way to Williams’ office, where he found Williams in a vile mood. Murtch sat down and waited for Williams to cool down. These two understood each other very well.

“What’s the matter?” queried Murtch. “You act all het up, Eph.”

“Aw, ----!” exploded Eph, kicking a perfectly good law book off the corner of his desk, that he might have a resting-place for his feet.

“I just came in from the NR, and I find out that them four punchers are claiming that Ralls agreed to pay them once a year, and that the NR owes them four hundred and eighty dollars apiece.”

“That’s a ---- of a thing to claim!” exclaimed Murtch indignantly. “Why, they can’t----”

“That ain’t all, Murtch. Miss Cleveland told me that Nick Ralls had promised old lady Coogan that he was going to settle enough money on her, after she had been there ten years, to keep her the rest of her life. And she’s been there just ten years.”

“Of all the ---- fool things I ever heard!”

“Nick Ralls never kept any books. There ain’t a scratch of a pen to show how he run his ranch.”

“But they can’t git away with anythin’ like that,” protested Murtch. “There ain’t nobody runs a ranch that way, Eph.”

“Them four claim a total of nineteen hundred and twenty dollars,” said Eph thoughtfully. “That’s a ---- of a lot of money, Murtch.”

“Ain’t she goin’ to fire ’em, Eph?”

“I suppose.”

Eph got to his feet and walked over to the door. Wheezer and Chet were coming across the street and their legs seemed a trifle unsecure. Eph opened the door and scowled at them.

“H’lo,” greeted Wheezer owlishly. “We’re after some legal advice.”

“Legal advice, eh?”

Williams squinted at them closely, but, in spite of the fact that they had been drinking, they seemed deadly serious.

Murtch came to the door and looked at the cowboys, who grinned widely at him.

“H’lo, sheriff!”

Wheezer cuffed his hat on to one side of his head and grinned wickedly.

“Whazza matter? You in trouble, too?”

“Not that anybody knows about,” retorted Murtch.

“Oh--” Wheezer’s lips formed a perfect O and he nodded wisely. “Not that anybody knows about, eh? Well, I s’pose it ain’t right to expose yoreself, but me and Chet are open and above-board in everythin’, ain’t we, Chettie?”

“Oh, very much so,” nodded Chet. “We don’t have no mustache to deceive the eye.”

Murtch grunted angrily and hooked his thumb over his belt above his holster. But this action did not frighten the two cowboys.

“He’s half-way home after his gun,” observed Chet wisely.

“Just what did you want to know?” asked Williams.

He knew that this talk was only leading up to trouble, and he wanted to avoid it if possible.

“Li’l point of law,” explained Wheezer.

“Me ’n Chet has had a argument about lawyers, don’tcha see?”

“What was the argument?”

“Well--” Wheezer cuffed his hat sideways again and grew very solemn--“well, this was the argument: I said that lawyers was predatory animals, but Chet argues that there must be a open and a closed season on ’em. Me ’n Chet don’t want to break no game laws.”

Williams’s lips tightened and his face flushed. He was fighting mad, but his better judgment told him to move carefully. Murtch swore under his breath and looked away, but Williams said nothing, as he turned slowly and went back into the office.

“There ain’t no answer,” said Chet softly.

“Betcha he’s gone to look in a book. Lawyers always have to look into books, Chettie.”

“My advice to you fellers would be--” began Murtch angrily, but Wheezer interrupted with--

“Nobody asked you for advice, Murtch.”

“And nobody, if they’ve got any brains, ever will,” added Chet.

“Is that so? Lemme tell you fellers somethin’. Broken Butte is tired of you four jaspers from the NR, and if you want to get away with a whole hide, yuh better move fast.”

“My ----, you frighten me!” squeaked Wheezer. “My tonsils are weak and any sudden shock makes me choke all up.”

“Aw, that’s too bad,” wailed Chet sadly. “Broken Butte is all through with us, Wheezer, don’tcha know it. Just like the song:

“Out in thish wide wor-r-rld alo-o-one,
Nothin’ but sorrow I see-e-e-e;
I’m-m-m nobody’s dar-r-rling,
Nobody car-r-r-res for me-e-e-e.”

Chet’s unmusical voice clung lovingly to the last notes and his eyes closed with ecstasy. Murtch snorted his indignation and walked swiftly away toward his office, both hands clenched around his cartridge-belt, while Wheezer sat down on the wooden sidewalk and shook with unholy mirth.

“What’s so ---- funny about it?” demanded Chet. “That’s a sad song, ain’t it? Somebody has to tell yuh when to cry. My, my! Yo’re ignorant, cowboy.”

Leather came out of the Shoshone and crossed the street to them. He was perfectly sober and his thin lips were tightly drawn, as if suppressing a grin.

“I tapped the old roulette for a hundred and fifty,” he informed them. “And Wooden-shoe has corralled most of the chips in the stud-poker game. C’mon.”

“Where yuh goin’?” demanded Wheezer.

“Clerk and Recorder’s office. I’m goin’ to take a look at old Nick Ralls’ will.”

“Why spoil a perfec’ day? We jist insulted Williams and Murtch.”

“We hope we did,” amended Chet, “but I doubt it.”

“All right,” nodded Leather. “Go ahead and get us all fired.”

The clerk’s office was located at the north end of the town. Broken Butte had never been financially able to build a court house; so the county offices were badly scattered.

The clerk showed them the recorded will, and even volunteered to read it to them. It was short and to the point.

“Bein’ in good health and sound of mind, eh?” grinned Leather, as the clerk finished reading. “That danged old gopher never was sound of mind. Leaves all his earthly possessions to Miss Jane Cleveland, his niece, who is his only known living relative.”

“I understand that she has taken possession,” remarked the clerk.

“Yo’re danged right she has,” grinned Wheezer. “Man, she’s sure took right hold of the old ranch.”

They left the clerk’s office and started down the street. The stage was just driving up to the front of the general merchandise store, in which the post-office was located, and the three cowboys stopped to watch a newcomer disgorge himself from the interior of the dusty stage.

He was of medium height, slender of build and well dressed. His olive-tinted face was handsome, in spite of its lines of dissipation, and his tiny black mustache was waxed to needle-like points.

He dusted himself off with his hands, paid the driver his fare and watched him unpack two valises off the boot of the stage. He looked at the three cowboys and a flash of recognition crossed his face, but he turned back to the driver, picked up his valises and went down the side-walk toward the Broken Butte hotel.

“You know that dude _hombre_, Leather?” asked Wheezer.

“Yeah. That’s the crookedest gambler unhung. I dunno who he is now, but when I knew him in Sunset City he was called ‘Spade’ Hollister.”

“Here comes Wooden-shoe,” said Chet. “He’s grinnin’; so I betcha he made a cleanup, too.”

“Hundred and eighty dollars,” announced Wooden-shoe joyfully. “Such an easy game to beat.”

“Let’s go home,” suggested Leather. “This town ain’t noways friendly, and I’m kinda curious to know what the beautiful maiden has done to the NR since we left.”

“Go home--now!” Wooden-shoe was explosively surprized. “And me with a hundred and eighty?”

“Ain’t noways fair to the heathen,” admitted Chet.

“All right, I’m goin’,” announced Leather, starting toward the hitch-rack.

“I’ll trail yore bet, Leather.”

Wheezer turned and followed Leather, but Chet and Wooden-shoe laughed derisively at such a foolish move, and went back to the Shoshone Saloon. That hundred and eighty dollars was burning a hole in Wooden-shoe’s pocket, and the fact that Broken Butte was hostile to him made not the slightest difference.

Leather and Wheezer went back to the ranch. Miss Cleveland was sitting on the ranch-house porch, as they rode past, and motioned for them to stop. They dismounted and came up to her.

“Mr. Williams was here this morning, and I spoke to him in regards to your yearly salaries,” she stated evenly. “He said that your claims were absurd. I quite agree with him. We have decided to pay you each forty dollars and dispense with your services, beginning tomorrow.

“Mr. Williams will be here in the morning and pay you off, I believe. I also spoke to him regarding Mrs. Coogan, and her claims, and he said that such a thing would be impossible.”

“Yeah, I see,” nodded Leather absently. “Williams is takin’ quite a lot upon himself, ain’t he, ma’am?”

“He is handling the legal matter for me.”

“You known Eph Williams long, ma’am?”

She shook her head.

“You need somethin’ beside legal advice, ma’am,” said Wheezer solemnly. “That fish-eyed shyster’ll git yuh into trouble, if yuh don’t watch out.”

“I am perfectly able to attend to my own affairs.”

Miss Cleveland’s tone chilled Wheezer, but he grinned widely.

Leather dropped his reins and leaned against the railing of the porch.

“Ma’am, I’d like to talk to yuh a little,” he said. “I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ for me and the boys. We don’t like this ranch--much. Losin’ a job don’t mean nothin’ to us, but I’d like to say somethin’ for Ma Coogan.

“Ma’s old, ma’am. Must be past sixty. It ain’t noways easy for her to land another job, don’tcha see? She’s fine, Ma is. You won’t find nobody like her. She’s got to have a home. Old folks, like her, has got to have a home, don’tcha see, ma’am?”

Miss Cleveland studied Leather, as he talked, but he knew that she was not impressed with his argument.

“I am sorry,” she said, “but Mr. Williams will handle that part of it for me. I have no doubt but that Mrs. Coogan is a fine cook, but Mr. Williams has advised that I change the personnel of this ranch entirely and I am following his advice. Of course, you know, I am not running a charitable institution.”

“No, I didn’t reckon yuh was,” Leather sighed and picked up his reins.

For a moment he seemed downcast over her decision, but lifted his eyes and looked squarely into her face. Wheezer started instinctively forward as he saw the expression on Leather’s face.

Wheezer knew that Leather was at white heat. He had seen that same expression on Leather’s face before, and it meant that the devil within him had torn loose.

“Ma’am,” Leather’s tone was hoarse, as if he were suffering from a bad cold, “we ain’t askin’ for charity--ain’t askin’ nothin’ from you--now. You own the NR ranch, and you can do what yuh please with it. Lookin’ at you, I wonder what makes yore blood circulate. You ain’t got no heart.”

She sprang to her feet and faced him, and for a moment Wheezer thought she would attack him with her hands, but Leather’s eyes did not waver and she stepped back, as if wondering.

“You coward!” she exclaimed. “To talk that way to a woman!”

“You are a woman,” Leather nodded slowly. “But you are not a lady--not human.”

“You get off this ranch!” Miss Cleveland bit her under-lip and pointed back to the road.

Leather shook his head.

“No. You own this ranch, but you don’t know how much of it you don’t own.”

“What do you mean?”

“This is what I mean.” Leather turned and pointed toward the rolling hills.

“There’s a lot of NR cattle out in them hills, but you don’t own many of them.”

“Why--if they are NR brand--what do you mean?”

Leather laughed and walked off the porch to his horse, before he replied.

“Ask Eph Williams what I mean. If he don’t know, I’ll tell him. C’mon, Wheezer.”

They led their horses down to the barn, while the girl looked after them, her face a mixture of emotions. Then she swore a good United States oath and went into the house.

* * * * *

It was nearly daylight the next morning when Chet Wells rode up to the NR corral-fence, tied his horse and hammered loudly on the bunk-house door. After making considerable racket he kicked the door open and went inside, where he war-whooped, like an Indian.

“Shut up and come to bed,” said Leather sleepily. “Whatcha think this is around here?”

“Yee-o-o-o-ow!” yelped Chet. “I’m a coyote!”

“Dang right yuh are,” agreed Wheezer. “Crawl into a hole before a he-human collects yore ears. Chet, you ---- brayin’ burro, shut up!”

But Chet would not shut up. He climbed up on Wheezer’s chest and sat down, while he sang--

“I’m a tough ol’ jasper and I’m lookin’ for a fight;
I’ll cut, shoot or rassel from mornin’ until night
With a whang de oodle addy aye, addy aye.”

“Yeah, and you’ll get it, too,” declared Leather angrily.

“Woosh!”

Wheezer managed to dump Chet on to the floor and sat up, gasping for breath.

“Are yuh all woke up?” queried Chet. “My gosh, you sure are heavy sleepers!”

“Where’s Wooden-shoe?”

“Wooden-shoe is in jail.”

“In jail?”

“Yeah, in jail! Want me to yell it louder?”

“What for, Chet?”

“Talkin’ too much.”

Leather slid out of bed and reached for the makings of a cigaret.

“Oh, he talked too much, eh?” said Wheezer. “If that was a crime, you’d ’a’ been hung years ago, Chet. What did he talk about?”