Out of the blue

by Bertrand W. Sinclair

Then, as if some one had turned a switch, it all went black.

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?”