CHAPTER XVI—“CERTAINLY NOT SAD.”
On the plain slanting imperceptibly toward the Marias River, a herd grazed south in loose formation, nearly a thousand head of mature cattle. All these horned beasts bore on their ribs a freshly seared brand—the Maltese Cross. Also, rather strangely, considering that the Maltese Cross home ranch lay just out of sight in the valley, taken in conjunction with this foreign brand, the four riders loafing on the fringes of the herd rode horses with a Capital K gracefully curved on each glossy shoulder.
A mile from the leaders of this herd, now occasionally sniffing at water afar, the clustered buildings of the Maltese Cross stood beside the river. In a stout log bunk house, with one door and two windows, a group of sullen-faced men sat disconsolate. The door was shut. Each window was boarded to the top, so that the interior lay in a sort of gray gloom. And, outside, by the single door and by each window stood a bored cowpuncher, doing sentry duty with a rifle in the crook of his arm.
A pleasant, comfortably furnished house of several rooms stood apart from the lesser buildings. In the center room, occupying an armchair, Rock Holloway sat with an elderly, thin-faced gentleman, who stroked a long mustache, while Rock talked.
“I would like to have got them both alive,” Rock was saying. “But Buck must have gone loco when he saw what he was up against. I expect, he concluded he would get me then and there, if it was the last act of his life. Which, of course, it was. Wells fought ’em to the last, the boys say. So we got what was left, who didn’t feel like shooting it out to the last man. And while we were at it, we brought along all these cattle they worked over—come home from the wars bringing our trophies, you might say. If you know of any Indian fighting, going on anywhere, Uncle Bill, I wish you’d tell me. I think I’d go mingle into it, so I could lead a peaceful life for a while. This last two weeks has been much too hair raising for my taste.”
“You done well,” Uncle Bill muttered. “You done damn well. My hunch was right.”
“As it happens, it don’t matter whether Wells or Walters owned the Steering Wheel,” Rock said thoughtfully. “We caught ’em red-handed, with the goods on ’em. Funny, how things work out. If I hadn’t had trouble with Mark Duffy, I’d never have seen the Steering Wheel or known there was such an outfit across the Canada line. If Buck hadn’t been so eager to shut Doc Martin’s mouth first, and then transferred his attention to me, as soon as he found I’d been with this precious outfit up North, I would not have tumbled to his game. I began to smell a rat when I saw him and Wells together in Fort Benton. When I got Stack to talk, of course, it was simple to put the whole thing together, seeing that I’d wondered just where the Steering Wheel got a whole herd of fresh-branded steers so early in the spring. All I had to do was make a few marks, like those on a piece of paper to satisfy myself. It’s an old trick—almost as old as the crime of forgery which you bloated bankers are always hounding men for. But it was well thought out, just the same. Buck was a pretty brainy man. He would have stolen the Maltese Cross blind in two or three years.”
Uncle Bill stared at a piece of paper lying on the table. Rock had made certain marks on it a few minutes earlier. To a range man the meaning was as words of one syllable to an eighth-grade schoolboy. He had demonstrated in four figures how easy it was to transform a Maltese Cross into a steering wheel. The change was easy, as both men knew, when it was a finished product on the ribs of a steer. It was a suspicion-proof job, once the hair had grown out on the worked-over brand.
“Yes, sir, you done well,” Uncle Bill repeated. “I can tell you how it started—this Steering Wheel business. I found out before I left. Buck borrowed twenty-five thousand dollars a year ago last winter on the strength of his prospects as coadministrator of Snell’s estate. He used that money to buy twelve hundred head of cattle in the Panhandle. But I hadn’t connected him up with Dave Wells or the Steering Wheel brand. The how of it, as you say, don’t matter so much now. We got to get them cattle out of Canada. My idea would be to clean everything outa that country. If Wells or Buck Walters has any kin or creditors to put in a claim, we can settle with them. Eh?”
“I’d grab the Steering Wheel, lock, stock and barrel,” Rock advised. “They may have stolen that herd in the South, for all we know. No, hardly. I told you the brands, didn’t I? That’s how you found out he bought ’em?”
Sayre nodded.
“There’s a heap to do,” he ruminated. “I have this whole darned thing on my shoulders now. Say, Rock, will you take hold here for me? You can name your own figure to run the Maltese Cross till this estate is cleaned up? Will you?”
Rock sat thoughtful for some seconds.
“I’ll tell you ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ to-morrow, Uncle Bill,” he said. “Right now, I don’t know——”
He relapsed into frowning silence. After a time he said:
“I wonder if there’s a buggy around this ranch? I am too darned stiff and sore to fork a horse, and I want to go up to the Parke ranch.”
“There sure is,” Uncle Bill replied. “I drove one out from Benton. Say, Alice is up there, one of the men told me. How’d it be if I come along an’ drive you? I want to see that young woman.”
“Fine,” Rock agreed. “Kill two birds with one stone. Alice’ll be wanting to pin medals on us, I expect. She was death against Buck Walters. I don’t blame her much, seeing he killed off a boy she’d set her heart on.”
“Yes, I heard about him soon after I got here,” Uncle Bill observed. “They say he was a twin for you.”
“Quite a lot like. That resemblance got me into a heap of trouble.”
“Maybe you could console Alice,” Uncle Bill suggested hopefully. “She’s a mighty fine girl, and she is going to be a mighty rich girl.”
“No, thank you, kind sir. I ain’t marrying for either good looks or riches,” Rock murmured. “Let’s get that buggy hitched and be on our way, Uncle Bill.”
Sayre, grinning, went to call a man.
“I think them boys around the ranch are all right,” he confided to Rock, as they went rolling across the river flats. “I don’t think they are the sort Buck would mix into his nefarious schemes. Swear they didn’t know he was crooked, anyhow. So I expect we got to give ’em the benefit of the doubt.”
“Probably,” Rock agreed, with more or less indifference. He had done his job, and he was ill at ease in mind and body for the doing. Let Uncle Bill or some one else fret about the welfare of the Maltese Cross and the loyalty of its riders. He had other things on his mind just then.
“Say, Uncle Bill, although there was not much mixed stock among these stolen cattle, there was some,” Rock said, after a long time. “And this girl I’ve been working for is shy sixty or seventy calves this spring.”
“We’ll brand a hundred for her on fall round-up,” Sayre said largely. “A couple of hundred, if you say so. We’ll treat our friends right and give our enemies their due. I listened to that towhead boy rave about Nona Parke this morning. Always did admire a woman with brains to undertake things and the spunk to see ’em through. You tell her I said so.”
They fell silent. A breeze from the west played on their faces, killing the sweltering heat in that valley. A little bunch of Nona Parke’s horses tore out of a low place, snorted, and wheeled to stand, with heads high, watching them pass. The river sang its ancient crooning song, white on the riffles, dark and still in the pools that mirrored overhanging willows. Beautiful, Rock thought, peaceful, tranquil beyond words. The last time he had crossed that flat—— It made him shiver a little to remember. He was still sick from building a fire at Stack’s feet, and his head swam sometimes from pain. But that was past. The bushwhackers and hanging squads would ride no more. There had been close shaves. Yes. Perhaps the gods had flung a protecting mantle about him so that he could come back and enjoy this in restful security. He had no great pride or joy in his success; only a mild satisfaction, a relief that it was over. And he found himself afflicted with a strange mixture of eagerness and nervousness, as they drove in to the TL.
Uncle Bill drew his team to a halt by the kitchen door. A saddled horse stood there—a Seventy Seven mare. Rock got out of the buggy. Perhaps he had disposed of one enemy only to encounter another. He did not want a feud with Elmer Duffy. But who could fathom another man’s moods and tenses? And Rock was not organized for war. Still, a man must do the best he could, always.
“I’ll drive this team down to the barn and tie ’em to the fence,” Uncle Bill said. “I don’t see no ranch hands around to take hold of ’em.”
“What do you think this is? A livery stable?” Rock scoffed. Uncle Bill grinned amiably and drove on.
Rock stood, uncertain. He suspected that was Elmer’s mount, and he hadn’t come there to exchange either civilities or animosities with Elmer. He was tempted to go on to the porch and the bunk house. He could hear voices in the kitchen. But he was instinctively direct. He hated subterfuge. If Elmer Duffy was there, what did it matter? He granted the man common sense equal to his own.
He stepped, hobbled rather, to the kitchen door, for he had a very sore leg, where Buck Walters’ frenzied horse had fallen across him. A stray bullet had furrowed a streak under one armpit. He had been fortunate, but these minor injuries crippled him and made his step uncertain. His actions were slow.
As once before he had approached Elmer Duffy unseen, from the rear, so it happened now. Elmer was talking. Rock didn’t catch the words—had no wish to—but the note in his voice was pleading. And Nona’s expression was of annoyance, even of worry. But her eyes lit up at sight of Rock. And that swift change on her face warned Duffy. He swung on his heel, just as Rock called: “Hello, people.”
A scowl formed on Duffy’s homely, angular face. He didn’t speak. His countenance spoke for him. A storm gathered in that look, Rock felt. What he could, he did, to ward that off.
“Like the cat, I came back,” he said easily. “Somewhat the worse for wear. Say, Elmer, you should have been in on the big doings up in the Sweet Grass with us. Did it ever strike you that Buck Walters was making some queer moves around here lately?”
Duffy looked puzzled. After a moment he asked briefly:
“How?”
“Stirring up a lot of agitation over petty rustling,” Rock said casually, “when he was stealing wholesale from his own outfit, the Maltese Cross.”
“Buck Walters stealin’ cattle! What you talkin’ about?”
“They say you should never speak ill of the dead,” Rock went on, “but what I tell you is a solemn fact. Some of his crowd went over the divide with him. The rest of them are on their way to jail. We got them dead to rights, working over the brand in a set of hidden corrals on the slope of East Butte. There’s been some excitement, I wish to remark. Uncle Bill Sayre, the other executor of the Snell estate, came up from Texas. He’s tying up his buggy team down at the stable. You know Bill Sayre from Fort Worth, don’t you? You’ve heard of him, anyway.”
He addressed his remarks directly to Elmer who glanced out and saw a tall figure approaching the house.
“Well, by heck!” he said in frank astonishment. “That’s the darnedest thing I ever heard of. You say Buck is dead?”
Rock nodded.
“I was on his trail. He knew it, I guess. That’s why he was so anxious to put me away. He started a war, and he got what was coming to him. He had worked the brand on nearly two thousand Maltese Crosses that we know of already.
“I’ll be darned,” Elmer said again feebly. “I wonder if that was why he was sicking me onto you?”
“I expect,” Rock said coolly. “He made a dirty break that morning, here. He was pretty deep, Buck was.”
Duffy shuffled his feet, then looked at Nona and at Rock.
“No hard feelin’s about that hangin’ expedition?” He inquired diffidently.
“None whatever.” Rock shook his head. “You spoke for me like a man, Elmer, when you were satisfied who I was. I thank you for that.”
“Well, shake on it.” Duffy suddenly held out his hand. “You never bamboozled me, anyway. I respect you enough to admit I’d rather be friendly than fight.”
“Same here,” Rock agreed heartily.
“Guess I’ll step out an’ say hello to Uncle Bill,” Duffy said quietly. “Then I guess I’ll split the breeze. So long. So long, Nona.”
So he went. As he stepped out, Alice Snell from somewhere about the house espied the elderly gentleman from Fort Worth and ran to meet him with welcoming shrieks. The three of them stood in a knot talking.
“So it was you that Charlie went off with!” Nona exclaimed.
Rock nodded.
“Say, mind if I camp myself in a chair, Nona? I’ve got a game leg, and I’m more or less caved in otherwise.”
“Goodness, yes. Here.” Nona came around the table, dragging a chair to him against his protest. “What happened, anyhow?”
“Plenty.” Rock sank thankfully on the seat. “I went up to the Sweet Grass with that outfit, looking for something, and I found a heap.”
“Trouble?”
“Lots of it. What I really came up here to tell you, Nona, is that Charlie got shot,” Rock said wearily. “I’m sorry, because I partly got him into the mix-up. He knew where these hidden corrals were, and he went along to show us. But he has lived it out three days now, and he seems strong. He’s a nervy, husky kid. I think he will be all right. I sent him on to Benton in a wagon. He will have the best of everything that can do him good. He helped us clean up a dirty mess.”
“Tell me about it,” Nona begged. “All about it, please.”
Rock began at the beginning and told her briefly, but clearly, all that had happened since the day Uncle Bill Sayre called him into Fort Worth and laid a mission on his shoulders, down to the present. She sat staring at him, mute, impassive-faced, but with a queer glow in her eyes.
“I am glad that man is dead,” she said at last. “Now we can all go about our business, easy in our minds.”
“Can we?” Rock said. “I wonder? What was Elmer so earnest and so eloquent about when I came in?”
Nona flushed.
“Oh, pestering me to marry him, as usual,” she said. “He makes me tired.”
“Yes? And I have a sort of feeling in my bones that when I get all right again, if I should come back to work for you again, I’d make you tired like that, too,” Rock said dispiritedly.
“You?” Nona looked at him earnestly. “We-ll—you’re different.”
“Eh?” He stared at her unbelievingly. She was smiling at him. A bit wistfully, it is true, but smiling. He couldn’t find any of that old imperious disdain. A ripple of amusement crossed her face and vanished.
Rock disregarded his game leg. Impetuously he rose. So did Nona. He put his hands on her shoulders and looked searchingly into the gray pools of her eyes. He could read nothing there. It seemed to him that his heart was coming up into his throat to choke him.
“Darn you!” he whispered. “Do you like me, or don’t you?”
She looked up at him with a smile, just the faintest quiver of a smile.
“To tell the truth,” she said, in a breathless sort of tone, “I like you a heap—and that’s saying a lot—for me.”
A minute or so later, Rock tilted her head away from his breast, to stare down at her with a strange misgiving. The gray eyes uplifted to his own were wet, shiny and filled with tears.”
“Why, honey,” he asked, “what’s the matter? What’s gone wrong now?”
“You silly thing,” she murmured. “Don’t you know that there are two times when every woman cries? When she’s very sad, and when she’s very happy. And I’m certainly not sad!”
Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the July 7, 1927 issue of The Blue Book Magazine.