The Orphan - Clarence E. Mulford (that summer book .TXT) 📗

“Here, wait a minute,” he said, stepping to the door, where he scooped up a handful of sand. “Throw this on it–it can’t get no muddier, anyhow.”

Shields carefully folded the missive and tucked it in his hip pocket, and then he looked up at the foreman.

“Sneed,” he slowly began, “your punchers ain’t never coming back.”

“What!” yelled the foreman, leaping to his feet, and having visions of his men being cut up by outlaws and Indians.

“Nope,” replied Shields with an air of finality. “Bill Howland gave them the most awful beating up that I ever saw men get, the whole four of them, too! When he got through with them I took a hand and ordered them to get out of the country, and I told them that if they ever came back I’d shoot on sight, and I will.”

Sneed’s rage was pathetic, and was not induced by the beating his men had received, nor by the sheriff’s orders, but because it left him only three men to work a ranch which needed twelve. As he listened to the sheriff’s story he paced back and forth in the small room and swore luridly, kicking at everything in sight, except the sheriff. Then he cooled down, spread his feet far apart and stared at Shields.

“Why didn’t you kill ’em, the d––d fools?” he cried. “That’s what they deserved!” Then he paused. “But what am I going to do?” he asked. “Where’ll I get men, and what’ll I do ’til I do get ’em?”

“I’ll send Charley and half a dozen of the boys out from town to stay with you ’til you get some others,” replied the sheriff, walking toward the door. “And you might tell the three that are left that I’ll kill the next man who tries that kind of work in this country. I’m getting good and tired of it. So long.”

Sneed didn’t hear him, but sat with his head in his hands for several minutes after the sheriff had gone, swearing fluently.

“Orphan h–l!” he yelled as he picked up the water pail and stamped to the cook shack.

THE Limping Water, within a mile after it passed Ford’s Station, turned abruptly and flowed almost due west for thirty miles, where it again proceeded southward. At the second bend stood the ranch houses and corrals of the Star C, in a country rich in grass and water. Its cows numbered far into the thousands and its horses were the best for miles around, while the whole ranch had an air of opulence and plenty. Its ranch house was a curiosity, for even now there were lace curtains in some of the windows, badly torn and soiled, but still lace curtains; and on the floors of several rooms were thick carpets, now covered with dust and riding paraphernalia. Oddly shaped and badly scratched chairs were piled high with accumulated trash, and the few gilt-framed paintings which graced the walls were hanging awry and were torn and scratched. At one time an Eastern woman had tried to live there, but that was when the owner of the ranch and his wife had been enthusiasts. New York regained and kept its own, and they now would rather receive quarterly reports by mail than daily reports in person. The foreman and his wolf hounds reigned supreme, not at all bothered by the stiff furniture and lace curtains, because he would rather be comfortable than stylish, and so lived in two rooms which he had fitted up to his ideas. Carpets and two-inch spurs cause profanity and ravelings, and as for pictures, they have a most annoying way of tilting when one hangs a six-shooter on one corner of the frame, and they are so inviting that one is constantly forgetting. So the unstable pictures, the dress-parade chairs, bothersome curtains and clutching carpets were left under the dust.

The Star C, being in a part of the country little traversed and crossed by no trails, was removed from the zone of The Orphan’s activities and had no cause for animosity, save that induced by his reputation. Several of its punchers had seen him, and all were well versed in his exploits, for frequently Ford’s Station shared its hospitality with one or more of them; and in Ford’s Station at that time The Orphan was the chief topic of conversation and the bone of contention. But the foreman of the Star C would not know him if he should see him, unless by intuition.

Blake was a man much after the pattern of Shields in his ideas, and the two were warm friends and had roughed it together when Ford’s Station had only been an adobe hut. Their affection for each other was of the stern, silent kind, which seldom betrayed itself directly in words, and they could ride together for hours in an understanding silence and never weary of the companionship; and when need was, deeds spoke for them. The Cross Bar-8 would have had more than Ford’s Station to fight if it had declared war on the sheriff, which the Cross Bar-8 knew. The three cleverest manipulators of weapons in that section, in the order of their merit, were The Orphan, Shields and Blake, which also the Cross Bar-8 knew.

The foreman of the Star C rode at a walk toward a distant point of his dominions and cogitated as to whether he could ride over to Ford’s Station that night to see the sheriff. It was a matter of sixty miles for the round trip, but it might have been sixty blocks, so far as the distance troubled him. He had just decided to make the trip and to spend a pleasant hour with his friend, and drink some of the delicious coffee which Mrs. Shields always made for him and eat one of her prize pies, or some of her light ginger bread, when he descried a horseman coming toward him at a lope.