CHAPTER VIII: VISITORS
Manzanita County was not heavily populated, nor were there many towns, which possibly accounted for the fact that Lobo Wells was the county seat. Lobo Wells was really the head of the valley, at the north end, being situated near the mouth of Manzanita River, and almost against the hills. Manzanita River promised much, near its source, but as it flowed farther south the desert sands were too much for its existence, and it finally ceased to be a stream less than twenty miles south of Lobo Wells.
Fifteen miles due south of Lobo Wells was the town of Kernwood City on the bank of the fast fading stream, an outfitting place for a few scattering cattle ranches in that vicinity.
On the stage road to Kernwood City, below Lobo Wells, was the OK ranch, owned by Oscar Knight. Three miles west of Lobo Wells was the JP ranch, owned by “Silver” Prescott, the biggest ranch in the Manzanita country, while to the east, almost against the Broken Hills, was the Box S. Between the JP and the OK was the little Circle A, which had been owned by Len Ayres, but which his wife had sold to the JP. It was only a JP line camp now.
The Broken Hills were well named. Jagged cañons, towering, vermilion cliffs; a world on edge and on end, where still remained evidences of the cliff dwellers. Ten miles east of Lobo Wells was the Devil’s Punch Bowl, a miniature Grand Cañon, without inlet or outlet, almost round in contour.
It was the morning after Amos Baggs had received the letter from Jack Pollock. Harry Cole, ex-sheriff, now boss gambler of Lobo Wells, came down the stairs of the hotel and paused at the little counter to exchange a few words with the hotel-keeper, as was his custom, before going to breakfast.
Harry Cole had been a hard-riding cowpuncher before his election as sheriff, but his county office and his present occupation had smoothed off some of the rough edges and his huge frame was carrying extra weight. Perhaps liquor had something to do with it. Cole was not an early riser, because he did not retire early. He exchanged a few words with the man behind the desk, and his eyes idly roved over the dog-eared register, which usually remained open at the same page for weeks at a time. But this morning there were two strange names entered in a scrawling hand: H. Hartley and D. Stevens.
“Couple o’ cowpunchers,” explained the proprietor. “Got in late last night. Said they rode in from Kernwood.”
Harry Cole smoothed his moustache and lighted a cigarette.
“Train just got in,” said the proprietor, apropos of nothing whatever.
“I heard it whistle,” nodded Harry. He flung a match in the cuspidor, brushed off his fancy vest and walked to the doorway, where he stopped.
A man was coming up that side of the street, carrying a small valise, and Cole recognised him as John T. Grant, president of the Lobo Wells Bank, who lived in Randall, about fifty miles south-east of Lobo Wells. Grant was nearing sixty years of age, a kindly appearing man, with snow-white hair and a slight limp.
For years he had been in active charge of the Lobo Wells Bank, but for over six months he had transferred most of the work to Charley Prentice, while he conducted the business of the Randall Bank, owned by the same group of stockholders.
“Good-morning, Mr. Grant,” said Cole pleasantly.
“Oh, good-morning, Mr. Cole.”
The banker switched the valise to his left hand, while he shook hands with the big gambler.
“Yo’re quite a stranger around here,” laughed Cole.
“Yes, indeed.”
The banker sighed deeply and looked around.
“I came rather suddenly,” he said confidentially. “Perhaps you are in a position to give me a few facts regarding Charley Prentice.”
Harry Cole studied the face of the old banker curiously, wondering who had told him about Prentice.
“I have been informed,” said the banker sadly, “that Charley is drinking heavily and neglecting his work.”
“I don’t know anythin’ about the work,” said Cole.
“But you do know he is drinking?”
“Well, I don’t reckon it’s any secret, Mr. Grant.”
“Thank you. I’m very sorry, because I had implicit confidence in Charley Prentice. Do you know of any reason why he should suddenly take to drink, Mr. Cole?”
“I’m sure I don’t.”
“Thank you.”
The banker walked on and entered the bank. Charley Prentice was seated at his desk in a dejected attitude, and looked up at the banker through bloodshot eyes. He needed a shave and a haircut, and his collar was soiled, his necktie askew.
“Well, Charley,” said the banker coldly.
Prentice got to his feet, a crooked grin on his lips.
“Wasn’t looking for you to-day, Mr. Grant,” he mumbled.
“I suspected as much,” Grant said, dryly. He glanced around the bank, but no one was there, except Johnson, the bookkeeper, who was busy at his work. Prentice tried to straighten his tie, to adjust himself generally.
“I’m sorry, Charley,” said the old man slowly. “We’ve had some bad reports on you lately. At first I didn’t believe it, but when the report came again, I felt obliged to come and see for myself. I’d have staked anything on you, Charley.”
Charley Prentice’s face twisted foolishly.
“Well, what’s wrong?” he asked thickly.
“You’re drunk right now, Charley; unfit for work. Go home and sober up.”
“You mean—I’m fired?”
“That is what it amounts to, Charley. I’m sorry.”
Charley Prentice took a deep breath and looked around. Perhaps he was a trifle sorry too, but he was also mad. He shoved his hands deep in his pockets as he stood on unsteady legs.
“Fired, eh? That’s fine! After all, I’ve—who reported me? Who told you I was drunk, eh?”
“That doesn’t matter,” said Grant mildly. “It doesn’t seem to be any secret around here.”
“Doesn’t, eh? I’ll tell you who reported me—Len Ayres. He’s the one. By God, he said he’d get me. Well, he got me, didn’t he? Ha, ha, ha, ha! That’s fine. But I’ll fix him. I’ll show him if he can come back here and—well, well! So you believed him, eh? You took his word for things. He said I was drunk, and you believed him. Came sneaking in to find out, eh? Well, I’m not worrying about the job.”
“Charley, you better go home and sober up.”
“Sober? I tell you, I’m as sober as a judge! Look at me.”
“That’s the trouble—I can see you, Charley.”
Charley shrugged his shoulders and walked out, but he didn’t go to his home—he went to the Oasis. The old banker sat down at his desk and lit a cigar with trembling fingers. Lester Johnson, the bookkeeper, came over to him and shook hands.
“I’m sorry, too, Mr. Grant,” he said. “It was rather hard for me to send you those reports.”
“I understand. Is Len Ayres back here in Lobo Wells?”
“I hear he is, Mr. Grant. I don’t know him, of course.”
“Charley Prentice married his wife after Len was sent to the penitentiary for robbing this bank.”
“I have heard the story.”
“Ayres is a bad man, Johnson—a gunman.”
“Charley Prentice was taking a chance, don’t you think?” Johnson inquired.
“I suppose he was. Still, five years is a long time, and the woman was pretty. I understand that she left everything to Charley—everything she took from Len Ayres. The court awarded her everything in the divorce.”
“Broke Ayres, eh?”
“Financially. He’d be a hard man to break physically.”
“I think Prentice is afraid of him, Mr. Grant.”
“That may be why he is drinking. I’m really sorry about it.”
“I liked Prentice, Mr. Grant.”
“We all did; but business is business, Johnson.”