The Coming of Cassidy - Clarence E. Mulford (books to read to be successful TXT) 📗

After riding along in silence for a little while the leader looked at his companions and called one of them to him. “George, this job is too big for the three of us; we can handle the ranch end, but not the drive. You know where Longhorn an’ his bunch are holdin’ out on th’ Tortilla? All right; I’ve got a proposition for ‘em, an’ you are goin’ up with it. It won’t take you so long if you wake up an’ don’t loaf like you have been. Now you listen close, an’ don’t forget a word”: and the little man shared the plan he had worked out, much to his companion’s delight. Having made the messenger repeat it, the little man waved him off: “Get a-goin’; you bust some records or I’ll bust you, savvy? Charley’ll wait for you at that Split Mesa that fool puncher was a-talkin’ about. An’ don’t you ride nowheres near it goin’ up keep to th’ east of it. So-long!”

He watched the departing horseman swing in and pass Charley and saw the playful blow and counter. He smiled tolerantly as their words came back to him, George’s growing fainter and fainter and Charley’s louder and louder until they rang in his ears. The smile changed subtly and cynicism touched his face and lingered for a moment. “Fine, big bodies nothing else,” he muttered. “Big children, with children’s heads. A little courage, if steadied; but what a paucity of brains! Good G-d, what a paucity of brains; what a lack of original thought!”

Of some localities it is said their inhabitants do not die, but dry up and blow away; this, so far as appearances went, seemed true of the horseman who loped along the north bank of Snake Creek, only he had not arrived at the “blow away” period. No one would have guessed his age as forty, for his leathery, wrinkled skin, thin, sun-bleached hair and wizened body justified a guess of sixty. A shrewd observer looking him over would find about the man a subtle air of potential destruction, which might have been caused by the way he wore his guns. A second look and the observer would turn away oppressed by a disquieting feeling that evaded analysis by lurking annoyingly just beyond the horizon of thought. But a man strong in intuition would not have turned away; he would have backed off, alert and tense. Nearing a corral which loomed up ahead, he pulled rein and went on at a walk, his brilliant eyes searching the surroundings with a thoroughness that missed nothing.

Buck Peters was complaining as he loafed for a precious half hour in front of the corral, but Red Connors and Bill Cassidy, his “outfit,” discussed the low prices cattle were selling for, the over-stocked southern ranges and the crash that would come to the more heavily mortgaged ranches when the market broke. This was a golden opportunity to stock the little ranch, and Buck was taking advantage of it. But their foreman persisted in telling his troubles and finally, out of politeness, they listened. The burden of the foreman’s plaint was the non-appearance of one Lanky Smith, an old friend. When the second herd had been delivered several weeks before, Buck, failing to persuade one of the drive outfit to remain, had asked the trail boss to send up Lanky, and the trail boss had promised.

Red stretched and yawned. “Mebby he’s lost th’ way.”

The foreman snorted. “He can foller a plain trail, can’t he? An’ if he can ride past Split Mesa, he’s a bigger fool than I ever heard of.”

“Well, mebby he got drunk an—”

“He don’t get that drunk.” Astonishment killed whatever else he might have said, for a stranger had ridden around the corral and sat smiling at the surprise depicted on the faces of the three.

Buck and Red, too surprised to speak, smiled foolishly; Bill, also wordless, went upon his toes and tensed himself for that speed which had given to him hands never beaten on the draw. The stranger glanced at him, but saw nothing more than the level gaze that searched his squinting eyes for the soul back of them. The squint increased and he made a mental note concerning Bill Cassidy, which Bill Cassidy already had done regarding him.

“I’m called Tom Jayne,” drawled the stranger. “I’m lookin’ for Peters.”

“Yes?” inquired Buck restlessly. “I’m him.”

“Lewis sent me up to punch for you.”

“You plumb surprised us,” replied Buck. “We don’t see nobody up here.”

“Reckon not,” agreed Jayne smiling. “I ain’t been pestered a hull lot by th’ inhabitants on my way up. I reckon there’s more buffalo than men in this country.”

Buck nodded. “An’ blamed few buffalo, too. But Lewis didn’t say nothin’ about Lanky Smith, did he?”

“Yes; Smith, he goes up in th’ Panhandle for to be a foreman. Lewis missed him. Th’ Panhandle must be purty nigh as crowded as this country, I reckon,” he smiled.

“Well,” replied Buck, “anybody Lewis sends up is good enough for me. I’m payin’ forty a month. Some day I’ll pay more, if I’m able to an’ it’s earned.”

Jayne nodded. “I’m aimin’ to be here when th’ pay is raised; an’ I’ll earn it.”

“Then shake han’s with Red an’ Bill, an’ come with me,” said Buck. He led the way to the dugout, Bill and Red looking after him and the little newcomer. Red shook his head. “I dunno,” he soliloquized, his eyes on the recruit’s guns. They were worn low on the thighs, and the lower ends of the holsters were securely tied to the trousers. They were low enough to have the butts even with the swinging hands, so that no time would have to be wasted in reaching for them; and the sheaths were tied down, so they would not cling to the guns and come up with them on the draw. Bill wore his guns the same way for the same reasons. Red glanced at his friend. “He’s a queer li’l cuss, Bill,” he suggested. Receiving no reply, he grinned and tried again. “I said as how he’s a queer li’l cuss.” BiU stirred. “Huh?” he muttered. Red snorted. “Why, I says he’s a drunk Injun mendin’ socks. What in blazes you reckon I’d say!”

“Oh, somethin’ like that; but; you should ‘a’ said he’s a a weasel. A coldblooded, ferocious li’l rat that’d kill for th’ joy of it,” and Bill moved leisurely to rope his horse.

Red looked after him, cogitating deeply. “Cussed if I hadn’t, too! An’ so he’s a two-gun man, like Bill. Wears ‘em plumb low an’ tied. Yessir, he’s a shore ‘nuff weasel, all right.” He turned and watched Bill riding away and he grinned as two pictures came to his mind. In the first he saw a youth enveloped in swirling clouds of acrid smoke as two Colts flashed and roared with a speed incredible; in the second there was no smoke, only the flashing of hands and the cold glitter of steel, so quick as to baffle the eye. And even now Bill practiced the draw, which pleased the foreman; cartridges were hard to get and cost money. Red roped his horse and threw on the saddle. As he swung off toward his section of the range he shook his head and scowled.

The Weasel had the eastern section, the wildest part of the ranch. It was cut and seared by arroyos, barrancas and draws; covered with mesquite and chaparral and broken by hills and mesas. The cattle on it were lost in the chaotic roughness and heavy vegetation and only showed themselves when they straggled down to the river or the creek to drink. A thousand head were supposed to be under his charge, but ten times that number would have been but a little more noticeable. He quickly learned ways of riding from one end of the section to the other without showing himself to anyone who might be a hundred yards from any point of the ride; he learned the best grazing portions and the safest trails from them to the ford opposite Split Mesa.

He was veiy careful not to show any interest in Split Hill Canyon and hardly even looked at it for the first week; then George returned from his journey and reported favorably. He also, with Longhorn’s assistance, had picked out and learned a good drive route, and it was decided then and there to start things moving in earnest.

There were two thousand unbranded cattle on the ranch, the entire second drive herd; most of these were on the south section under Bill Cassidy, and the remainder were along the river. The Weasel learned that most of Bill’s cows preferred the river to the creek and crossed his section to get there. That few returned was due, perhaps, to their preference for the eastern pasture. In a week the Weasel found the really good grazing portions of his section feeding more cows than they could keep on feeding; but suddenly the numbers fell to the pastures’ capacity, without adding a head to Bill’s herd.

Then, came a day when Red had been riding so near the Weasel’s section that he decided to go on down and meet him as he rode in for dinner. When Red finally caught sight of him the Weasel was riding slowly toward the bunkhouse, buried in thought. When his two men had returned from their scouting trip and reported the best way to drive, his and their work had begun in earnest. One small herd had been driven north and turned over to friends not far away, who took charge of the herd for the rest of the drive while the Weasel’s companions returned to Split Hill.

Day after day he had noticed the diminishing number of cows on his sections, which was ideally created by nature to hide such a deficit, but from now on it would require all his cleverness and luck to hide the losses and he would be so busy shifting cattle that the rustling would have to ease up. One thing bothered him: Bill Cassidy was getting very suspicious, and he was not altogether satisfied that it was due to rivalry in gunplay. He was so deeply engrossed in this phase of the situation that he did not hear Red approaching over the soft sand and before Red could make his presence known something occurred that made him keep silent.

The Weasel, jarred by his horse, which shied and reared with a vigor and suddenness its rider believed entirely unwarranted under the circumstances, grabbed the reins in his left hand and jerked viciously, while his right, a blur of speed, drew and fired the heavy Colt with such deadly accuracy that the offending rattler’s head dropped under its writhing, glistening coils, severed clean.

Red backed swiftly behind a chaparral and cogitated, shaking his head slowly. “Funny how bashful these gun-artists are!” he muttered.

“Now has he been layin’ for big bets, or was he?” the words ceased, but the thoughts ran on and brought a scowl to Red’s face as he debated the question.

*

The following day, a little before noon, two men stopped with sighs of relief at the corral and looked around. The little man riding the horse smiled as he glanced at his tall companion. “You won’t have to hoof it no more, Skinny,” he said gladly. “It’s been a’ awful experience for both of us, but you had th’ worst end.”

“Why, you stubborn li’l fool!” retorted Skinny. “I can walk back an’ do it all over again!” He helped his companion down, stripped off the saddle and turned the animal loose with a resounding slap. “Huh!” he grunted as it kicked up its heels. “You oughta feel frisky, after loafin’