Chapter I: Front Matter

THE RANGE-BOOMER

by W. C. Tuttle
Author of “Tangled Trails,” “Ajax for Example,” etc.

The dull hum of conversation in the Thunder County courthouse died down as the door leading to the jury room opened and twelve men filed out. They were all hard-bitted men, wearing the stamp of the range. There was not a hint of the verdict on their impassive faces as they moved into their seats.

From the opposite side of the room, through the door leading to the jail, came the sheriff and a deputy with their prisoner, a tawny-eyed, lithe young man, who walked forward with a half-smile on his thin lips as he looked at the twelve men who had decided his fate.

The judge, portly and gray-haired, came in slowly and sat down behind his desk. The courtroom was filled to suffocation, for the case had caused much local interest and range folks like to sit in court when the case has any interest to their business.

Seated just inside the railing reserved for the principals in the case were four people—two men and two women. One of these men was a giant, with a great shock of grizzled hair and mild blue eyes, which belied the fighting-power revealed by his massive, deep-lined face. He was “Flint” Moore, owner of the Box M cattle outfit, and father of “Wild” Moore, the tawny-eyed prisoner.

Beside him sat his wife and his daughter, Patricia, known as “Pat,” while with them sat “Bud” Deal, the foreman of the Box M. Patricia had the same tawny eyes as her brother, and black hair and a creamy skin which defied tan. Her mouth was full-lipped and her nose was just a trifle tilted. Patricia had been the cause of many a cowboy’s day dreams, but they all grew love-shy under the gaze of her yellow-brown orbs and went away afraid to speak their feelings.

All except Bud Deal, the champion rider and pistol shot of the Thunder Range. Bud’s coal-black eyes clashed with Pat’s tawny ones—and the black eyes won. Bud was thirty years of age, slender, with the face of a Spaniard and the nerve of a wild-cat. Few people loved Bud Deal; but they all respected his ability. He was a first-class cow-man.

Flint Moore’s eyes turned from the jury, flashed to his son and centered on the sheriff, who turned his head. Their eyes met. It was only a flash, yet it was full of bitter hatred. Between Flint Moore and the sheriff, Jeff Garvin, was bad, bad blood. Garvin was nearly as large a man as Moore, with sandy hair and mustache. His eyes were deep set and steel-gray in color.

For several moments there was tense silence in the little courtroom, broken finally by the creak of the judge’s old swivel chair as he faced the jury and said—

“Gentlemen, have you reached a verdict?”

A tall man, with a long, thin face, stood up, hitched nervously at the waist-band of his overalls and said softly:

“Yes, sir, judge, we has. Here is our verdict.”

He held out a sheet of paper to the clerk, who handed it to the judge.

Every one in the courthouse leaned forward, watching the face of the old judge for a hint of the verdict. He glanced down at Flint Moore and handed the paper to the clerk to read aloud.

The drone of several flies, buzzing up and down the dusty windows, was plainly audible.

Then the clerk read—

“We, the jury, find Wild Moore—uh—”

The clerk turned the sheet of paper around to better catch the light from the window.

“We, the jury, find Wild Moore not guilty as charged.”

For an instant there was silence. Then a huge sombrero sailed up from the rear of the room and seemed to skate along the ceiling. Following it came the suppressed yelp of an enthusiastic cowboy—

“Ee-e-e-e-e-yah!”

The judge hammered on his desk, as he got to his feet, but his voice was not heard above the commotion. Flint Moore had got to his feet and stepped closer the sheriff, who had also got up. Patricia and her mother had rushed to Wild and were smothering him in their embrace.

The sheriff was angry, explosively angry, and did not conceal it. Cowboys vaulted the railing to shake hands with Wild Moore and some of them jostled the sheriff nearer Flint Moore. It was like holding a flame near powder for those two men to be near each other.

“That was a —— crooked verdict!” snapped the sheriff, glaring into Flint Moore’s face; and a second later the sheriff went crashing backward into a jumble of loose chairs from a smashing blow to the jaw.

The prosecuting attorney threw himself in front of Flint Moore, trying to stop him, but a huge shoulder crashed into his chest, tossing him aside. The sheriff heaved himself up from the floor, drawing his gun as he came, but Bud Deal sprawled into him, clutching his gun-hand, while other men grasped the sheriff to prevent a killing.

In the middle of the railed space stood Flint Moore, alone, Colt in hand. Jud Frawley, the deputy, was watching him closely, but making no effort to mix into the game. He knew that Flint Moore was in a killing mood.

“Gentlemen! Gentlemen!” cried the judge, trying to elbow his way off his platform; but a number of fight-loving cowboys blocked him from interfering.

The jury had mixed into the quarrel, and it began to look as if the Thunder County court would become a wreck, as far as the interior was concerned. Patricia stepped in and put her hand on her father’s arm.

“Stop it, dad,” she ordered. “Let’s not make things any worse than they are. Nothing can be gained by fighting.”

The boys had managed to take the sheriff’s gun away from him and now the judge was heard above the uproar.

“Clear the courtroom!” he commanded. “This is a disgrace, gentlemen.”

“The whole —— case was a disgrace!” rasped Flint Moore. “Let that star-packin’ coyote loose and fill his arms with guns.”

“Dad!” chided Pat. “Don’t say foolish things. Let’s all go home and call it a day.”

“Good idea,” said Wild Moore, smiling. “Has been quite some day, folks. C’m on, dad. Yuh can’t get no battle out of Jeff Garvin, ’cause he ain’t got no gun—and yore lookin’.”

Jeff Garvin heard the implication, but he did not reply. He was white-hot. His jaw still ached from Flint Moore’s fist, but he knew that the men would not permit him to make any attempt to retaliate. He shifted his glance to Wild Moore, and his eyes clashed with those of irresponsible youth. Then Wild Moore laughed mockingly and turned his back on the sheriff.

Flint Moore turned away and left the courtroom with his family and Bud Deal. Several of the jury shook hands with Wild at the courthouse steps and slapped Flint on the back, telling him to forget Jeff Garvin.

* * * * *

Other men argued with Jeff Garvin, telling him to forget Flint Moore; but Jeff Garvin said nothing. He was a powerful man and jealous of his prestige in the Thunder Range. He had been chief witness against Wild Moore, in which Wild had been accused of rustling cattle. Every one knew that the hard Winter had hit the Box M, and that Flint Moore was pinched for ready cash. Wild was an inveterate gambler—a plunger, and it was reported that he owed some large poker bills. He had suddenly acquired a lot of money. His poker bills were paid and he plunged heavier than usual.

A bunch of seventy steers had disappeared from the ranch in which Jeff Garvin owned half-interest. Garvin knew that several small herds had disappeared prior to his own loss. He wanted to talk with Wild Moore about several things, but Wild was missing. Several days later he showed up and plunged into the gambling-halls. When the sheriff questioned him he merely laughed and told the sheriff to go to a place which, they say, is hotter, on an average, than Fourth of July in Yuma.

Thereupon the sheriff arrested him and tried to build up his case against him, but cattle jurors must be shown something material. In fact, a rustler must almost be found with the stolen animal—to be branded a rustler.

“Whitey” Allen, one of Moore’s punchers, rode out with them from Oxbow, while the crowd from the courthouse watched them go and speculated on what would happen when Flint Moore and Jeff Garvin met again.

Oxbow was the county seat of Thunder County, an unpretentious little cow-city at the terminus of a railroad branch. It had been a stage-station, a trading-post, and the advent of a railroad, the appointment as a county seat, had changed it little.

There was a main street, narrow, dusty, fortified on both sides by unpainted, false-fronted buildings. There was a cross street started, which did not continue beyond a few more buildings of the same type of architecture. There was nothing in Oxbow to attract tourist nor capital. It squeaked in the Winter blizzards and creaked in the Summer heat. Men died with their boots on, and the survivors went on in their own dumb way, talking cattle prices, trading horses and whittling chairs.

When poker, faro and roulette palled, they pitched horseshoes for twenty dollars a corner or spat at a crack for the price of a steer. It was little wonder that Wild Moore’s trial had been of interest.

Whitey Allen was a thin, emaciated, tow-haired cowboy, whose features seemed to blend. He was one of those indescribable individuals who are like a sketchy drawing to which neither shade nor high-light has been added, or a half-tone drawing of a cowboy’s body with the head and face merely indicated.

None of the party had much to say during the ten mile ride to the Box M, which consisted of a rambling old ranch-house in the cottonwoods along Leloo Creek. There were several pole corrals, a long shelter shed and a one-story bunk-house.

Thunder Range was mostly low, rolling hills, which stretched Eastward to the high banks of Bitter River and Westward to the high range of the Thunder Mountains, which circled the big range like a crescent. There was plenty of water, and just now the hills were ablaze with Spring wildflowers and new bunchgrass, which grew up as if nature sought to cover the bones of the stock which she had wiped out with a terrific Winter.

Every ranch on the range had suffered, but none so heavily as the Box M. Magpies chattered over their nest-building in the willows along the stream. Prairie-dogs whistled from the sides of the hills, and overhead, high in the blue haze, flocks of geese and brant honked their way to the Northern lakes.

It was twilight when they rode into the Box M ranch and dismounted beside the rambling old porch. Deal and Whitey took the horses to the sheds, while the family went into the house. Flint Moore seemed to have aged ten years in a week. Wild was silent; but there was a gleam of exultation in his tawny eyes. He faced his father across the center table in the living-room and a defiant look came into his face as he waited for his father to speak.

“Son,” Flint Moore spoke very softly. “Son, where did you get that money yuh was spendin’ so free?”

Wild Moore threw back his head.

“Jeff Garvin asked the same question, dad.”

“I know he did—but you ain’t goin’ to give me the same answer yuh gave him.”

“Ain’t I?”

Flint Moore shook his head.

“No, son.”

“Havin’ money ain’t no crime.”

“No-o-o it ain’t no crime; but after the Winter we had it’s —— noticeable, son.”

Wild laughed.

“Everybody’s so —— poor around this forsaken country that an extra two-bits makes folks suspicious that yo’re a thief.”

“This ain’t no time for jokin’, son. Yo’re goin’ to tell me where yuh got that money, and I’m goin’ to tell the Thunder Range folks where yuh got it. The Box M and the Moore family comes clean with God and man. Now, talk.”

Wild Moore’s eyes narrowed as he looked at his father. He was not a dutiful son; and Flint Moore knew that his question would not be answered. It was with misgivings that Flint Moore had watched the growing-up of his boy. He had never shown affection for any one. There was a queer, wild strain in his blood, which grew into a devil-may-care attitude toward every one and everything. He was a throwback to some remote ancestor, whose eyes were a yellowish brown—probably a laughing, king-hating swashbuckler, who swore allegiance to no power.

Patricia had the same eyes, but Flint Moore knew that Pat was just a sweet, warm-hearted girl, who loved this wild-riding brother, but did not ask his love in return. Perhaps she understood him better than the rest.

* * * * *

For a full minute the two men watched each other. Came the jingle of a spur on the threshold and they turned to see Bud Deal standing in the doorway. Flint Moore had no way of knowing how long he had been there.

“Didja want that roan mare turned into the hills?” asked Deal softly. “Her back’s kinda sore.”

Flint Moore nodded.

“Yeah. Yuh might put a little axlegrease on the spots, Bud.”

Bud nodded in agreement, but made no move to leave. He produced a cigaret paper and tobacco and began leisurely to roll a smoke. Wild relaxed and accepted the “makin’s” from Bud, while Flint Moore studied them closely. Somehow, it seemed to him that the coming of Deal was a bit too opportune. It had saved Wild the clash, which was most surely due between them, when he had refused to explain where the money had come from.

Patricia came into the room, her eyes shining as she threw one arm around her father’s shoulders and patted him on the cheek.

“Just think, dad; this is the first time in three weeks that we have all been able to eat together. Isn’t it fine? I have never had much use for the law; but I was mighty grateful when it spoke up and told us that we didn’t have a thief in our family.”

Wild turned and stared at her.

“Didja have to have the law tell yuh that?”

Bud Deal laughed softly over his cigaret. Patricia did not reply, but her eyes did not waver.

“I hope the law—” began Flint Moore softly, but did not finish.

“I—I think we had better eat supper,” stated Patricia sadly.

“I don’t reckon I’m hungry,” grunted Wild, and turned out of the door, jingling his spurs down the steps and walking away toward the bunk-house.

Bud Deal tossed his cigaret away and turned to Flint.

“Yuh hadn’t ought to try to make him tell——”

“Yo’re only the foreman, Deal,” Flint Moore’s voice was as cold as ice. “Yore business is not connected with my personal affairs. _Sabe?_ You must ’a’ been there quite a while before yuh jingled that spur.”

Deal’s dark face flushed, but he did not reply. Pat looked keenly at him and he tried to smile. Flint Moore turned away and went slowly to the dining-room door, where he turned his head.

“Deal, yuh better give Whitey his time tonight. There ain’t enough work around here for all of us, and I’ve got to cut down expenses. May sell out—I dunno.”

Deal nodded.

“All right, boss. I reckon we’ll get along.”

Flint Moore went into the dining-room, and Deal turned to Pat.

“The old man’s kinda upset, honey.”

“Don’t you think he has a right to be, Bud?”

Bud grinned and shook his head.

“Not a bit. The jury cleared him as clean as a whistle, didn’t they?”

“The jury—yes. Wild refused to testify. There was only the sheriff’s suspicions to pass judgment upon, and you know that no cattle jury will accept suspicions, Bud. That jury knew that Jeff Garvin hates dad.”

“Well, that trial is all over, and your dad ought to forget it. A young feller don’t like to have anybody hornin’ into his business, and I can see why Wild—see how he feels about it.”

“Perhaps you can, Bud,” replied Pat softly, and Bud wondered why she emphasized “you” so strongly.

They went into the dining-room together.