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"I Take it I am the One Wanted," Said Williston.]
LANGFORD OF THE THREE BARS
By KATE AND VIRGIL D. BOYLES
With Frontispiece in Color
By N. C. WYETH
A. L. BURT COMPANY
PUBLISHERS--NEW YORK
Copyright
A. C. McClurg & Co.
1907
Published April 15, 1907
Entered at Stationers' Hall, London, England
All rights reserved
Including dramatic rights
TO OUR MOTHER
MRS. MARTHA DILLIN BOYLES
CONTENTS CHAPTER I--THE ISLAND WITH A MYSTERY CHAPTER II--"ON THE TRAIL" CHAPTER III--LOUISE CHAPTER IV--"MAGGOT" CHAPTER V--AT THE BON AMI CHAPTER VI--"NOTHIN' BUT A HOSS THIEF, ANYWAY" CHAPTER VII--THE PRELIMINARY CHAPTER VIII--THE COUNTY ATTORNEY CHAPTER IX--THE ATTACK ON THE LAZY S CHAPTER X--IN WHICH THE X Y Z FIGURES SOMEWHAT MYSTERIOUSLY CHAPTER XI--"YOU ARE--THE BOSS" CHAPTER XII--WAITING CHAPTER XIII--MRS. HIGGINS RALLIES TO HER COLORS CHAPTER XIV--CHANNEL ICE CHAPTER XV--THE GAME IS ON CHAPTER XVI--THE TRIAL CHAPTER XVII--GORDON RIDES INTO THE COUNTRY CHAPTER XVIII--FIRE! CHAPTER XIX--AN UNCONVENTIONAL TEA PARTY CHAPTER XX--THE ESCAPE CHAPTER XXI--THE MOVING SHADOW CHAPTER XXII--THE OUTLAW'S LAST STAND CHAPTER XXIII--THE PARTY AT THE LAZY S
CHAPTER I
THE ISLAND WITH A MYSTERY
He said positively to Battle Ax, his scraggy buckskin cow pony, thatthey would ride to the summit of this one bluff, and that it should bethe last. But he had said the same thing many times since striking thebarren hill region flanking both sides of the river. Hump after hump hadbeen surmounted since the sound of the first promise had tickled theears of the tired bronco, humps as alike as the two humps of a Bactriancamel, the monotonous continuity of which might very well have confusedthe mind of one less at home on these ranges than George Williston. Evenhe, riding a blind trail since sun-up, sitting his saddle with a heavyindifference born of heat and fatigue, began to think it might be thatthey were describing a circle and the sun was playing them strangetricks. Still, he urged his pony to one more effort; just so muchfarther and they would retrace their steps, giving up for this day atleast the locating of a small bunch of cattle, branded a lazy S, missingthese three days.
Had not untoward circumstances intervened, he might still have goneblindly on; for, laying aside the gambling fever that was on him, hecould ill afford to lose the ten or twelve steers somewhere wanderingthe wide range or huddled into some safe place, there to abide the timewhen a daring rustler might conveniently play at witchcraft with thebrand or otherwise dispose of them with profit to himself and withcredit to his craft. Moreover, what might possibly never have beenmissed from the vast herds of Langford, his neighbor of the plainscountry, was of most serious import to Williston for an even weightierreason than the actual present loss.
The existence of the small and independent ranchman was becomingprecarious. He was being hounded by two prolific sources of trouble,these sources having a power and insolent strength contemptuouslyindifferent to any claim set up in their paths by one weaker thanthemselves. On the one hand was the wealthy cattle owner, whoseever-increasing wealth and consequent power was a growing menace to theinterests of the small owner whose very bread and butter depended uponhis ability to buy and sell to advantage. But with bigger interestsslowly but surely gaining control of the markets, who might foretell thefuture? None beheld the ominous signs more apprehensively than didWilliston, who for more than two years, striving desperately to makegood mistakes and misfortunes made back in Iowa, had felt the pinchinggrow more and more acute. On the other hand was the vicious combinationof the boldness, cunning, and greed of the cattle rustlers who harassedall the range country of the Dakotas and Nebraska. Annihilation was thesword of Damocles held over the head of the small ranchman. A handlifted to avert impending doom would have set the air in vibration andthe sword would have fallen. Nemesis was as sure to follow at the handsof the fellowship of rustlers as ever it was at the hands of the SecretTribunal of old.
Williston was chafing under his helplessness as the jaded pony climbeddoggedly this last bluff. To the right of his path a hawk was flutteringfrantically just above the reach of a basilisk-eyed rattlesnake, whosebaneful charm the ill-advised bird was not able to resist.
"Devil take you, Battle Ax, but you're slow," muttered Williston,utterly indifferent to the outcome of this battle royal. "I'd give agood deal to sit down this minute to some of my little girl's flapjacksand coffee. But nothing for us, lazy-bones, till midnight--or morning,more likely. Do walk up as if you had some little standing in the worldof cow ponies. You haven't, of a surety, but you might make an effort.All things are possible to him who tries, you know, which is atremendous lie, of course. But perhaps it doesn't apply to poor devilslike us who are 'has beens.' Here we are. Ah!"
There were no more hills. Almost directly at his feet was one of thoseprecipitous cut-aways that characterize the border bluffs of theMissouri River. A few more steps, in the dark, and horse and rider wouldhave plunged over a sheer wall of nearly two hundred feet. As it was,Williston gave a gasp of involuntary horror which almost simultaneouslygave place to one of wonder and astonishment. He had struck the river ata point absolutely new to him. It was the time of low water, and theriver, in most of its phases muddy and sullen-looking, gleamed silverand gold with the glitter of the setting sun, making a royal highway tothe dwelling-place of Phoebus. A little to the north of this sparklinghighroad lay what would have been an island in high water, thicklywooded with willows and cottonwoods. Now a long stretch of sand reachedbetween bluff and island.
Dismounting, with the quick thought that yonder island might hold thesecret of his lost cattle, he crept as close to the edge as he dared.The cut was sheer and tawny, entirely devoid of shrubbery by means ofwhich one might hazard a descent. The sand bed began immediately at thefoot of the yellow wall. Even though one managed to gain the bottom, onewould hardly dare risk the deceitful sands, ever shifting, fair andtreacherous. Baffled, he was on the point of remounting to retrace hissteps when he dropped his foot from the stirrup amazed. Was the day ofmiracles not yet passed?
It was the sun, of course. Twelve hours of sun in the eyes could playstrange tricks and might even cause a dancing black speck to assume thesemblance of a man on horseback, picking his way easily, though mayhap abit warily, across the waste of sand. He seemed to have sprung from thevery bowels of the bluff. Whence else? Many a rod beyond and above theghostly figure frowned the tawny, wicked cut-away. Path for neitherhorse nor man appeared so far as eye could reach. It must be the sun.But it was not the sun.
Motionless, intent, a figure cast in bronze as the sun went down, thelean ranchman gazed steadfastly down upon the miniature man and horsecreeping along so far below. Not until the object of his fixed gaze hadbeen swallowed by the trees and underbrush did his muscles relax. Thisman had ridden as if unafraid.
"What man has done, man can do," ran swiftly through Williston's brain,and with no idea of abandoning his search until he had probed themystery, he mounted and rode northward, closely examining the edge ofthe precipice as he went along for any evidence of a possible descent.Presently he came upon a cross ravine, devoid of shrubbery, too steepfor a horse, but presenting possibilities for a man. With unerringinstinct he followed the cross-cut westward. Soon a scattering of scruboaks began to appear, and sumach already streaked with crimson. A littlefarther and the trees began to show spiral wreaths of woodbine and wildgrape. Yet a little farther, and doubtless there would be outlet forhorse as we
ll as man.
But Williston was growing impatient. Besides, the thought came to himthat he had best not risk his buckskin to the unknown dangers of anuntried trail. What if he should go lame? Accordingly he was left behindin a slight depression where he would be pretty well hidden, andWilliston scrambled down the steep incline alone. When foothold orhandhold was lacking, he simply let himself go and slid, grasping thefirst root or branch that presented itself in his dare-devil course.
Arrived at the bottom, he found his clothes torn and his hands bleeding;but that was nothing. With grim determination he made his way throughthe ravine and struck across the sand trail with a sure realization ofhis danger, but without the least abatement of his resolution. The sandwas firm under his feet. The water had receded a sufficient length oftime before to make the thought of quicksands an idle fear. No puff ofcloudy smoke leaped from a rifle barrel. If, as he more than halfsuspected, the island was a rendezvous for cattle thieves, a placesurely admirably fitted by nature for such unlawful operations, therustlers were either overconfident of the inaccessibility of theirretreat and kept no lookout, or they were insolently indifferent toexposure. The former premise was the more likely. A light breeze, bornof the afterglow, came scurrying down the river bed. Here and there,where the sand was finest and driest, it rose in little whirlwinds. Nosound broke the stillness of the summer evening.
What was that? Coyotes barking over yonder across the river? That aliensound! A man's laugh, a curse, a heart-breaking bellow of pain.Williston parted ever so slightly the thick foliage of underbrush thatseparated him from the all too familiar sounds and peered within.
In the midst of a small clearing,--man-made, for several stumps werescattered here and there,--two men were engaged in unroping and releasinga red steer, similar in all essential respects to a bunch of three orfour huddled together a little to one side. They were all choice,well-fed animals, but there were thousands of just such beasts herdingon the free ranges. He owned red steers like those, but was there a manin the cattle country who did not? They were impossible ofidentification without the aid of their brand, and it happened that theywere so bunched as to completely baffle Williston in his eager effortsto decipher the stamp that would disclose their ownership. That theywere the illegitimate prey of cattle rustlers, he never for one momentdoubted. The situation was conclusive. A bed of glowing embersconstantly replenished and kept at white heat served to lighten up theweird scene growing dusky under the surrounding cottonwoods.
Williston thought he recognized in one of the men--the one who seemed tobe directing the procedure of this little affair, whose wide and dirtyhat-rim was so tantalizingly drawn over his eyes--the solitary riderwhose unexpected appearance had so startled him a short time before.Both he and his companion were dressed after the rough, nondescriptmanner of cattle men, both were gay, laughing and talkative, andseemingly as oblivious to possible danger as if engaged in the mostinnocent and legitimate business.
A little to the left and standing alone was an odd creature of moststriking appearance--a large, spotted steer with long, peculiar-lookinghorns. It were quite impossible to mistake such a possession if it hadonce been yours. Its right side was turned full toward Williston and inthe centre of the hip stood out distinctly the cleanly cauterized threeperpendicular lines that were the identifying mark of the Three Barsranch, one of those same big, opulent, self-centred outfits whoseastonishingly multiplying sign was becoming such a veritable andprophetic writing on the wall for Williston and his kind.
Who then had dared to drive before him an animal so branded? Theboldness of the transgression and the insolent indifference to theenormity of attendant consequences held him for the moment breathless.His attention was once more called to the movements of the men. Thesteer with which they had been working was led away still moaning withsurprise and pain, and another brought forward from the reserve bunch.The branded hip, if there was a brand, was turned away from Williston.The bewildered animal was cleverly roped and thrown to the ground. Theman who was plainly directing the affair, he of the drooping hat andlazy shoulders, stepped to the fire. Williston held his breath with theintensity of his interest. The man stooped and took an iron from thefire. It was the end-gate rod of a wagon and it was red-hot. In the actof straightening himself from his stooping position, the glowing ironstick in his right hand, he flung from his head with an easy swing theflopping hat that interfered with the nicety of sight requisite in thework he was about to do, and faced squarely that quiet, innocent-lookingspot which held the watching man in its brush; and in the moment inwhich Williston drew hastily back, the fear of discovery beating atattoo of cold chills down his spine, recognition of the man came to himin a clarifying burst of comprehension.
But the man evidently saw nothing and suspected nothing. His casualglance was probably only a manifestation of his habitual attitude ofbeing never off his guard. He approached the prostrate steer withindifference to any meaning that might be attached to the soft snappingof twigs caused by Williston's involuntary drawing back into the densershadows.
"Y' don't suppose now, do you, that any blamed, interferin' off'cer isa-loafin' round where he oughtn't to be?" said the second man with alaugh.
Williston, much relieved, again peered cautiously through the brush. Hewas confident a brand was about to be worked over. He must see--whatthere was to see.
"Easy now, boss," said the second man with an officious warning. He wasa big, beefy fellow with a heavy, hardened face. Williston sounded thedepths of his memory but failed to place him among his acquaintances inthe cow country.
"Gamble on me," returned the leader with ready good-nature, "I'll makeit as clean as a boiled shirt. I take it you don't know my reputation,pard. Well, you'll learn. You're all right, only a trifle green, that'sall."
With a firm, quick hand, he began running the searing iron over theright hip of the animal. When he had finished and the steer, released,staggered to its feet, Williston saw the brand clearly. It was J R. Ifit had been worked over another brand, it certainly was a clean job. Hecould see no indications of any old markings whatsoever.
"Too clean to be worked over a lazy S," thought Williston, "but not overthree bars."
"There were six reds," said the chief, surveying the remaining bunchwith a critical eye. "One must have wandered off while I was gone. Getout there in the brush and round him up, Alec, while I tackle thislong-horned gentleman."
Williston turned noiselessly away from the scene which so suddenlythreatened danger. Both men were fully armed and would brook noeavesdropping. Once more he crossed the sand in safety and found hishorse where he had left him, up the ravine. He vaulted into the saddleand galloped away into the quiet night.