CHAPTER III
TEX TAKES AN INTEREST
Jack Roberts was in two minds whether to stop at the Longhorn saloon. Heneeded a cook in his trail outfit, and the most likely employment agencyin Texas during that decade was the barroom of a gambling-house. Everyman out of a job naturally drifted to the only place of entertainment.
The wandering eye of the foreman decided the matter for him. It fellupon a horse, and instantly ceased to rove. The cow-pony was tied to ahitching-rack worn shiny by thousands of reins. On the nose of thebronco was a splash of white. Stockings of the same color marked itslegs. The left hind hoof was gashed and broken.
The rider communed with himself. "I reckon we'll 'light and take aninterest, Jack. Them that looks for, finds."
He slid from the saddle and rolled a cigarette, after which he madefriends with the sorrel and examined carefully the damaged foot.
"It's a li'l bit of a world after all," he commented. "You never cantell who you're liable to meet up with." The foreman drew from itsscabbard a revolver and slid it back into place to make sure that it layeasy in its case. "You can't guess for sure what's likely to happen.I'd a heap rather be too cautious than have flowers sent me."
He sauntered through the open door into the gambling-house. It was alarge hall, in the front part of which was the saloon. In the back theside wall to the next building had been ripped out to give more room.There was a space for dancing, as well as roulette, faro, chuckaluck,and poker tables. In one corner a raised stand for the musicians hadbeen built.
The Longhorn was practically deserted. Not even a game of draw was inprogress. The dance-girls were making up for lost sleep, and the patronsof the place were either at work or still in bed.
Three men were lined up in front of the bar. One was a tall, lankperson, hatchet-faced and sallow. He had a cast in his eye that gave hima sinister expression. The second was slender and trim, black of hairand eye and mustache. His clothes were very good and up to date. The onefarthest from the door was a heavy-set, unwieldy man in jeans, slouchyas to dress and bearing. Perhaps it was the jade eyes of the man thatmade Roberts decide instantly he was one tough citizen.
The line-rider ordered a drink.
"Hardware, please," said the bartender curtly.
"Enforcin' that rule, are they?" asked Roberts casually as his eyesswept over the other men.
"That's whatever. Y'betcha. We don't want no gay cowboys shootin' outour lights. No reflections, y'understand."
The latest arrival handed over his revolver, and the man behind the barhung the scabbard on a nail. Half a dozen others were on a shelf besideit. For the custom on the frontier was that each rider from the rangeshould deposit his weapons at the first saloon he entered. They werereturned to him when he called for them just before leaving town. Thistended to lessen the number of sudden deaths.
"Who you ridin' for, young fellow?" asked the sallow man of Roberts.
"For the A T O."
The dark young man turned and looked at the cowboy.
"So? How long have you been riding for Wadley?"
"Nine months."
"Don't think I've seen you before."
"I'm a line-rider--don't often get to the ranch-house."
"What ground do you cover?"
"From Dry Creek to the rim-rock, and south past Box Canon."
Three pair of eyes were focused watchfully on Roberts. The sallow mansquirted tobacco at a knot in the floor and rubbed his bristly chin withthe palm of a hand.
"Kinda lonesome out there, ain't it?" he ventured.
"That's as how you take it. The country _is_ filled with absentees,"admitted Roberts.
"Reckoned it was. Never been up that way myself. A sort of a bad-landsproposition, I've heard tell--country creased with arroyos, packed withrocks an' rattlesnakes mostly."
The heavy-set man broke in harshly. "Anybody else run cattle thereexcept old man Wadley?"
"Settlers are comin' in on the other side of the rim-rock. Cattle driftacross. I can count half a dozen brands 'most any day."
"But you never see strangers."
"Don't I?"
"I'm askin', do you?" The voice of the older man was heavy and dominant.It occurred to Roberts that he had heard that voice before.
"Oh!" Unholy imps of mirth lurked in the alert eyes of the line-rider."Once in a while I do--last Thursday, for instance."
The graceful, dark young man straightened as does a private called toattention. "A trapper, maybe?" he said.
The cowboy brought his level gaze back from a barefoot negro washing thefloor. "Not this time. He was a rustler."
"How do you know?" The high voice of the questioner betrayedexcitement.
"I caught him brandin' a calf. He waved me round. I beat him to the BoxCanon and saw him ridin' through."
"You saw him ridin' through? Where were you?" The startled eyes of thedark young man were fixed on him imperiously.
"From the bluff above."
"You don't say!" The voice of the heavy man cut in with jeering irony.The gleam of his jade eyes came through narrow-slitted lids. "Well, didyou take him back to the ranch for a necktie party, or did you bury himin the gulch?"
The dark young man interrupted irritably. "I'm askin' these questions,Dinsmore. Now you, young fellow--what's your name?"
"Jack Roberts," answered the cowboy meekly.
"About this rustler--would you know him again?"
The line-rider smiled inscrutably. He did not intend to tell all that hedid not know. "He was ridin' a sorrel with a white splash on its nose,white stockin's, an' a bad hoof, the rear one--"
"You're a damn' liar." The words, flung out from some inner compulsion,as it were, served both as a confession and a challenge.
There was a moment of silence, tense and ominous. This was fightingtalk.
The lank man leaned forward and whispered some remonstrance in the earof the young fellow, but his suggestion was waved aside. "I'm runnin'this, Gurley."
The rider for the A T O showed neither surprise nor anger. He made abusiness announcement without stress or accent. "I expect it's you or meone for a lickin'. Hop to it, Mr. Rustler!"
Roberts did not wait for an acceptance of his invitation. He knew thatthe first two rules of battle are to strike first and to strike hard.His brown fist moved forward as though it had been shot from a gun. Theother man crashed back against the wall and hung there dazed for amoment. The knuckles of that lean fist had caught him on the chin.
"Give him hell, Ford. You can curry a li'l' shorthorn like this guy withno trouble a-tall," urged Dinsmore.
The young man needed no urging. He gathered himself together and plungedforward. Always he had prided himself on being an athlete. He was thechampion boxer of the small town where he had gone to school. Since hehad returned to the West, he had put on flesh and muscle. But he haddissipated a good deal too, and no man not in the pink of condition hadany right to stand up to tough Jack Roberts.
While the fight lasted, there was rapid action. Roberts hit harder andcleaner, but the other was the better boxer. He lunged and sidesteppedcleverly, showing good foot-work and a nice judgment of distance. Forseveral minutes he peppered the line-rider with neat hits. Jack bored infor more. He drove a straight left home and closed one of his opponent'seyes. He smashed through the defense of his foe with a power that wouldnot be denied.
"Keep a-comin', Ford. You shore have got him goin' south," encouragedGurley.
But the man he called Ford knew it was not true. His breath was comingraggedly. His arms were heavy as though weighted with lead. The scienceupon which he had prided himself was of no use against this man ofsteel. Already his head was singing so that he saw hazily.
The finish came quickly. The cowboy saw his chance, feinted with hisleft and sent a heavy body blow to the heart. The knees of the othersagged. He sank down and did not try to rise again.
Presently his companions helped him to his feet. "He--he took me bysurprise," explained the beaten man w
ith a faint attempt at bluster.
"I'll bet I did," assented Jack cheerfully. "An' I'm liable to surpriseyou again if you call me a liar a second time."
"You've said about enough, my friend," snarled the man who had beenspoken to as Dinsmore. "You get away with this because the fight was onthe square, but don't push yore luck too far."
The three men passed out of the front door. Roberts turned to thebarkeeper.
"I reckon the heavy-set one is Pete Dinsmore. The cock-eyed guy must beSteve Gurley. But who is the young fellow I had the mixup with?"
The man behind the bar gave information promptly. "He's RutherfordWadley--son of the man who signs yore pay-checks. Say, I heard BuckNelson needs a mule-skinner, in case you're lookin' for a job."
Jack felt a sudden sinking of the heart. He had as good as told the sonof his boss that he was a rustler, and on top of that he had given him afirst-class lacing. The air-castles he had been building came tumblingdown with a crash. He had already dreamed himself from a trail foremanto the majordomo of the A T O ranch. Instead of which he was aline-rider out of a job.
"Where can I find Nelson?" he asked with a grin that found no echo inhis heart. "Lead me to him."