Bluffer's luck

by W. C. Tuttle

CHAPTER II: LEN AYRES RETURNS

“I tell yuh, nothin’ never happens around here,” declared Johnny Harris. “Gimme three cards, mostly aces.”

“Some day,” said Smoky Ash seriously, “yo’re goin’ to fill one of them two-card flushes yo’re always drawin’ to, Johnny. How many do you desire, Harry?”

Harry Cole, owner of the Oasis Saloon and Gambling House, indicated that he wasn’t drawing any cards.

“Out on a limb, eh?” grinned Johnny. “Some day I’m goin’ to saw that limb off between you and yore bank roll.”

He peeked carefully at the cards he had drawn, spat disgustedly and shoved the cards aside.

“Just like I said,” he declared plaintively, “nothin’ ever happens in Lobo Wells. Punch cows twenty-nine days in the month for enough to have a few drinks and try to make two danged deuces beat a pat hand.”

Johnny Harris was lean, lank, with a long nose, sad eyes and stringy hair. He had been voicing the same complaint as far back as any of them could remember, but he stayed on at the JP ranch in spite of all the drawbacks.

Harry Cole was an ex-sheriff of Lobo Wells, a man about forty years of age; a big man physically, swarthy of complexion, with black hair and a small moustache. Just now business was dull, and he was playing draw poker with a few of the cowboys, who had finished loading a train of cattle.

“Nothin’ never happens nowhere as fur as that goes,” said Smoky Ash, who also worked for the JP outfit. “Yuh can read about things happenin’ in the newspapers, but they don’t. I’ve heard that them newspaper fellers are bigger liars than cowboys. That’s prob’ly exaggerated, but—I’ll pass it to a pat hand, Harry. Make yore bluff, feller.”

Cole smiled and made a sizable bet, but there was no opposition, so he yawned and raked in the pot.

“Didja ever try sleepin’ for that?” asked Johnny. “Yuh might dislocate yore jaw and then⸺”

Johnny had glanced toward the door, where a man was coming in, and he did not finish the sentence. The newcomer was of medium height, dressed in an old suit of store clothes, with an old felt hat on his head, disclosing a tinge of gray hair at his temples.

His face was rather long, deeply lined, and his greenish-gray eyes were as hard as agates. He came slowly, unblinking.

“My Gawd, if it ain’t Len Ayres!” blurted Johnny. “Len, you old son-of-a-sea-cook!”

Harry Cole jerked around so quickly that his elbow swept some of his stacked chips to the floor as Johnny kicked back his chair and arose to greet Len Ayres. Smoky got to his feet, a grin on his lips, waiting for a chance to shake hands with the man who did not smile.

“By golly, it’s good to see yuh ag’in, Len,” declared Johnny.

“It’s—it’s kinda good to be back, Johnny. Hello, Smoky. Still the same as ever, eh? Hello, Sam,” he nodded to Sam Lytel, of the OK outfit, and turned to Harry Cole.

“Changed yore occupation, eh?”

“Hello, Len,” said Harry hoarsely. “Yes, I’ve changed. Went out of office two years ago, you know.”

“No, I didn’t know it. A fellow don’t hear much about the outside world where I’ve been for the last five years.”

“Well, it’s good to see yuh back, Len,” declared Johnny, “and I’ll buy a drink.”

“Thank yuh, but I’m not drinkin’, Johnny. Found out I didn’t need it, yuh see.” He turned to Cole. “Who took yore job?”

“Ben Dillon.”

“Bennie Dillon, eh?”

“And he hired ‘Breezy’ Hill for a deputy,” added Johnny.

A semblance of a smile flashed across Len’s hard mouth.

“Breezy Hill? About as much fitted to be a deputy as I would be to be Governor of the State. He still drinkin’?”

“He ain’t never slacked up none,” grinned Smoky.

Johnny Harris cashed in his few chips, and a few minutes later he and Len Ayres walked outside and sat down together on the edge of the wooden sidewalk.

“How much do yuh know of the things that happened after yuh left, Len?” asked Johnny.

Len’s lips tightened perceptibly.

“Harmony wrote me two or three letters,” he said slowly.

Jim Singer—“Harmony” Singer he was always called—had been Len’s best friend, and owned the Box S outfit.

“He told yuh about yo’re—yo’re wife, Len?”

Len turned his head away, nodding quickly.

“Yeah, he told me, Johnny. She got her divorce right away and married Charley Prentice.”

“But that ain’t all, Len.”

“I know—she died. Harmony wrote me about it.”

“Charley’s still got the kid, Len.”

“He’s seven now,” said Len slowly. “Do yuh ever see him?”

“Every little while, Len. They call him Larry Prentice. Yuh see, he wouldn’t remember yuh, Len.”

Len shook his head, but his eyes were soft now.

“I know it, Johnny. He was such a little feller when I went away. That was the hellish part of it—leavin’ the kid. Oh, I wasn’t fooled in my wife, Johnny. But that kid—he didn’t know better than to like me. He was my kid!” Len’s voice was savage. “I used to talk to myself about him at first—I mean until I got that last letter from Harmony—the one about Della marryin’ Charley. He wrote me one after that, about her dyin’.”

“You heard about Harmony Singer, didn’t yuh, Len?”

Len stared at Johnny for several moments.

“Heard about him? What do yuh mean?”

“O-oh,” breathed Johnny softly. “You didn’t hear about him gettin’ killed?”

“About him gettin’ killed? Harmony Singer?”

Johnny nodded sadly.

“Yeah, about a week ago, Len. Horse dragged him to death. They buried him in the old cemetery. I thought you’d heard.”

Len shut his eyes tightly, his lips quivering slightly. For possibly a minute neither of them spoke. Then—

“He was my friend,” said Len.

“I know it, Len. Old Whisperin’ and Sailor are still out there at the ranch. It was a shock to them. They’re gettin’ old, don’tcha know it?”

“Yeah, that’s right. But old Harmony. You say a horse dragged him to death, Johnny?”

“Uh-huh. Harmony was in town here and he had a lotta drinks. You know how he could drink, Len. Well, he wasn’t ridin’ a particularly bad bronc, but I s’pose he—well, anyway, the horse drug him home. He was shore in a awful shape. Whisperin’ Taylor found him. Queer old coot, Whisperin’ is. It hurt him a lot—him and Sailor Jones.”

“It hurts me too,” said Len softly. “I liked Harmony.”

“He was a square shooter, Len.”

“My best friend. Nothin’ could make him believe the things they said about me.”

“I know it.”

A man was going down the opposite side of the street, and Len looked across at him, squinting his eyes sharply.

“Amos Baggs, eh?” he said bitterly. “Still here.”

“Yeah, he’s still here, Len. But he ain’t prosecutor no more. Still runnin’ a law office. Nick Collins beat him bad at the election after you left. I reckon Amos is still sour over that election.”

“He ain’t changed much,” Len said slowly.

“His kind don’t change, Len. He shore can say mean things in a court room.”

“Don’t I know it,” bitterly. “You don’t know how I wished for a six-shooter then, Johnny. I wanted to fill his whole body with lead. Mebbe I still want to. But if I ever do anythin’ they could send me back there for, they’ll never take me alive. I know what that place is now. You probably wonder why I came back, Johnny. Sometimes I wonder too. Lack of brains, mebbe. No sane man would ever come back here, after what happened to me. But I paid the penalty, didn’t I? And my kid is here,” he added softly. “My kid, Johnny. Oughtn’t that bring a man back?”

“Shore,” said Johnny thoughtfully. He thought he knew why Len Ayres came back. Perhaps the kid had something to do with it, but it was the money that had brought him back.

Nothing had been proved, except that Len had robbed the Lobo Wells bank and half-killed the cashier. They found Len’s hat there on the floor, where it fell off in his getaway. That hold-up only netted him seven thousand, but there were others, a lone-handed train robbery, which netted the bandit about ten thousand dollars, a stage robbery of five thousand dollars. Of course, they were unable to fix the blame for all of these on Len, but his description fitted that of the bandit.

Len had had no chance to spend any of the money; so the people of Manzanita Valley knew he had cached it, and that he would come back and get it when his five years were up. Len’s wife had married the cashier of the bank, where Len had left his hat, but she had died from pneumonia a short time later.

Len had managed to beat his way back from the penitentiary and was in Lobo Wells without a cent in his pocket. The town was not changed; the same people were there, except those who had died off.

“Well,” Len said finally, “I reckon I’ll go out to the Box S, Johnny.”

“How are yuh goin’, Len?”

“Walk, I reckon. Ain’t been on a horse for a long time.”

“Ain’t scared to ride, are yuh?” smiled Johnny. Len had been one of their best riders.

“No-o, I ain’t scared.”

“I’ll get yuh a bronc at the livery stable, Len. Never mind about the money. You’d do it for me. C’mon.”

Johnny secured a horse and saddle at the stable, and Len climbed into a saddle for the first time in five years. The stable keeper was a man who had come to Lobo Wells after Len had been sent to the penitentiary, but he had heard men tell of Len Ayres, the single-handed bandit.

“So that’s Len Ayres, eh?” he said to Johnny. “Well, he don’t look so mean.”

“He ain’t mean,” replied Johnny quickly. “There ain’t a mean bone in his body.”

“Jist looks kinda sour, thasall.”

“You go through what he’s gone through, and you’ll shore look sour. Charge that horse up to me, and I’ll pay yuh on the first of next month.”

“Sure, thasall right, Harris. Didn’t the cashier of the bank marry Ayres’s wife after he was sent up?”

“Yeah, but she died.”

“That’s what I heard. That little boy belongs to him, they say. Nice lookin’ kid, too. I wonder if there’s any truth in this talk about Ayres makin’ a cache of all that money he stole.”

“Don’t let that ache yuh,” said Johnny seriously. “He paid what the law asked, didn’t he?”

“He paid for the bank robbery.”

Johnny yawned heavily.

“Yea-a-ah, that’s right. I reckon he’ll get along.”

Len rode out to the Box S, located about three miles south-east of Lobo Wells. As far as any change in the country was concerned, Len might have been away only a week. There were the same old chuckholes in the road, which had never been repaired. The cattle along the road looked the same. He saw an old spotted steer, with extra long horns, which he was sure was the one which had driven him to the top of the corral fence one day.

He halted on the edge of a small mesa and looked down at the huddle of unpainted buildings which constituted the Box S ranch. Nothing had been changed in five years. For a long time he sat there, lost in memories. Off to the westward he could see the smoke of a train heading for Lobo Wells. Beyond that was the green ribbon, which marked the twisting of Manzanita River, now only a small stream. Far to the south was the blue haze of the lower valley, and to the north and the east stretched the Broken Hills, piled-up mesa and broken cañon, fantastically coloured in the changing lights.

Finally he rode on down to the ranch, where he dismounted at the old front porch, tied his horse and halted at the bottom step.

“That jist makes seventy-seven times I’ve done told yuh that I don’t know, Sailor,” declared a querulous voice. “Why don’tcha ever go out and cut wood, ’stead of settin’ in there and askin’ questions? How in hell do I know what’s to become of this here rancheria?”

“Don’t chide me, you ol’ weepin’-willer,” retorted the voice of Sailor Jones, so named because he got drunk one day and sent to a mail-order house for a rowboat.

“You make me bilious,” said Whispering Taylor.

“Yeah, I’ll betcha! It’s yore cookin’ that makes yuh bilious. I’m goin’ to quit yuh, before I git dyspepsy. Anyway, there ain’t no future for a feller around here no more.”

“Future!”

“Yea, future. I’m three year younger than you are, ain’t I? By the time I’m yore age⸺”

“You’d be older, if yuh didn’t lie.”

“I ain’t sixty yet.”

“Not yet—yo’re past it, feller. Why didn’tcha stop arguin’ and use up some of yore youthful wim and wigger on the woodpile? I shore hate to argue with a child. Go set on the corral fence and repeat yore ABC’s, while a man mixes up some biscuits in peace, will yuh?”

“Put some sody in ’em this time, Whisperin’, will yuh? You allus leaves out somethin’, and I’d rather have anythin’ left out rather than sody.”

“Mebbe you’d like to make’ em, eh?”

“No, I wouldn’t, Whisperin’. I’ll get yuh some wood, if yuh crave it real hard. But I’d shore like to know what’s to become of this here rancho, since Harmony died.”

“That makes seventy-eight times,” groaned Whisperin’.

“I never asked yuh, you bat-eared pelican! I said I’d like to know, thasall. You couldn’t tell me.”

Len smiled softly. He had known these two men for years, and they had always argued like this. Came sound of a squeaking boot, and Sailor Jones came out on the porch.

He stopped short, staring at Len. Sailor was a little, wizened person, with high cheek-bones, crooked nose, deep-set blue eyes and a wide, thin-lipped mouth. His slightly gray hair was thin, and stood up on his head like fox-tail tops.

He blinked rapidly, rubbed the palm of his right hand violently on his thigh, as he cleared his throat, which action caused his prominent Adam’s apple to jiggle nervously.

“By Gawd!” he said softly. “If it is, I’m glad, and if it ain’t, I swear that me and the gin bottle ain’t never goin’ to git together no more.”

“Yeah, it’s me, all right, Sailor,” said Len slowly.

Sailor came slowly to the steps and stopped.

“Yeah, it’s you, Len,” he said softly. “It’s you jist as sure as the Lord made little apples. You ain’t changed. Nossir, you ain’t changed—much. Len!” He shoved out a skinny hand. “My gosh, I’m shore glad to see yuh again!”

“Hey!” yelled Whispering from inside the house. He had heard Sailor say Len’s name, and out he came, with a skillet in one hand and a rag in the other.

He stopped short in the doorway, his mouth sagging open. Whispering was nearly six feet tall and would weigh two hundred and forty pounds. His face was like a full moon—a fairly red moon, too, and his head was as innocent of hair as a billiard ball.

He dropped the skillet with a clang, strode out and shoved Sailor inside.

“Git out and let him shake hands with a man!” he blurted in his high-pitched voice. “Len, you dern old pelican! Oh, you dog-gone rascal! Sneakin’ in on us thataway! Shut up, Sailor!”

“I wasn’t sayin’ anythin’.”

“Then don’t. Len, c’mon up here on the verandy and let me look at yuh. Same person. Don’t say anythin’, Sailor.”

“I wasn’t sayin’ anythin’.”

“Don’t, I tell yuh. I jist want to contemplate Len.”

“I’ll help yuh,” grinned Sailor.

“I don’t need yuh. Go git some wood.”

Len laughed aloud for the first time since he reached Lobo Wells, and Whispering patted him on the arm.

“Well, I’m glad to see you both,” he said. “In fact, you don’t know how glad I am, boys. It’s good to be back.”

“Yeah, I’ll betcha,” said Sailor. “You shore had a long drag out there, didn’t yuh, Len. Five year.”

“It was a long time, Sailor—a mighty long time.”

Whispering sighed and looked sidewise at Sailor, who went creaking down the steps and headed for the woodpile. Len chuckled softly and Whispering shook his head sadly.

“Jist as ornery as ever, Len. Gittin’ old, I reckon. C’mon in and watch me throw a feed together.”

They started in the house, when Whispering stopped and turned to Len.

“You heard about Harmony?” he asked softly.

Len nodded.

“Jist awhile ago.”

“Yeah, he’s dead, Len. Bronc drug him to death. Reckon he got drunk, as usual. He drank pretty heavy, yuh know. Me and Sailor tried to slow him down. Even drank up his liquor, tryin’ to keep him from gettin’ to it. That was Sailor’s idea. He gits one once in a while. Well, come on in. Harmony said he wrote yuh about yore—yore wife, Len. That shore wasn’t no good news to send to a man in yore position. But he said he had to do it, yuh know. I see the kid once in a while. Looks like you, Len. ’Bout seven year old now, ain’t he? Uh-huh. Good-lookin’ kid.”

“I ain’t seen him,” said Len slowly. “He wouldn’t remember me, Whisperin’.”

“No, that’s true. Still, he’s yore flesh and blood. I said to Harmony that I’d hate to be in Charley Prentice’s shoes when you came back, Len.”

Len shook his head slowly.

“Charles Prentice didn’t do me no dirt, Whisperin’. I wasn’t blind. My wife was the wrong woman for me, and she might as well have married Charley as anybody else.”

“Well, I don’t know how yuh felt about her, Len. Me and Harmony talked about her a lot, yuh see. Of course she sold the place you had in town and all yore horses, saddles and all them things. Harmony was pretty mad. He tried to save somethin’ out of it, but it wasn’t no use. She comes out here and talks with Harmony. Said she wanted to git a line on some money you had. To hear her talk you’d think it was a lot of money, Len. She knowed that Harmony was yore best friend, and she thought he’d know. But he said he didn’t know anythin’. She got what was in the bank, but it wasn’t what she expected, by any means.”

Len smiled thinly.

“I wonder if she meant the money they say I stole?”

“No, that wasn’t it,” quickly. “She said it was money you got when some kin of yours died in the south. Said she never got on to it, until she found an old letter of yours, after you went away.”

“Oh, I see,” grunted Len thoughtfully. “Well, how’s this outfit gettin’ along, Whisperin’?”

“Fine! Yessir, it’s shore doin’ well. Old Harmony’s made money here. He was thinkin’ of puttin’ another man or two on the job. We’re raisin’ cows, pardner. The three of us has handled things fine, but she’s growin’ pretty big. The last round-up count showed about a thousand head of Box S brands, not countin’ horses. Harmony’s been raisin’ a lot of horses. A year ago he sold a hundred head to the United States for cavalry horses. Got a hundred apiece for every danged one. And he sold twenty head to a feller who wanted ’em for polo, whatever that is. Got a top price for every one of ’em. And he sold quite a bunch of steers to a Chicago buyer, too.

“Oh, I’ll tell yuh, this ranch is shore on a payin’ basis. Betcha she’s payin’ better than the JP right now, even if the JP is the biggest. Silver Prescott keeps himself broke payin’ wages to a lot of lazy punchers. The OK is doin’ right well, I think. Oscar Knight was over here the other day and he said everythin’ was fine. We don’t see many of the boys these days. I’ll tell yuh, me and Sailor has shore been busy. But”—Whispering shook his head—“we dunno what it’s all about. Nobody left to pay us wages. We don’t even know who owns this here rancheria.”

“Well, I wouldn’t worry about that,” said Len slowly. “It will all come out in the wash.”

“Oh, shore. Well, here comes Sailor with six sticks of wood. That’s his limit. How would yuh like some dried apple pie?”

“You know how I used to like it, Whisperin’?”

“I shore do, Len.”

“Well, I ain’t had none for five years.”