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Randerson watches the newcomers [Page 2]]
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THE RANGE BOSS
BY CHARLES ALDEN SELTZER
AUTHOR OF THE BOSS OF THE LAZY Y, ETC.
ILLUSTRATED BY FRANK E. SCHOONOVER
NEW YORK GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS
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Copyright A. C. McClurg & Co. 1916 ------ Published September, 1916 ------ Copyrighted in Great Britain
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CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE I At Calamity Crossing 1 II The Sympathetic Rescuer 12 III At the Flying W 33 IV A Memory of the Rider 42 V Love vs. Business 56 VI A Man and His Job 65 VII How an Insult Was Avenged 78 VIII What Uncle Jepson Heard 97 IX "Somethin's Gone Out of Them" 104 X The Law of the Primitive 111 XI Hagar's Eyes 130 XII The Rustlers 143 XIII The Fight 160 XIV The Rock and the Moonlight 166 XV The Runaway Comes Home 184 XVI Two Are Taught Lessons 188 XVII The Target 202 XVIII The Gunfighter 217 XIX Ready Gun and Clean Heart 233 XX The Bubble--Dreams 245 XXI One Too Many 254 XXII Into Which a Girl's Trouble Comes 265 XXIII Banishing a Shadow 278 XXIV Realizing a Passion 291 XXV A Man Is Born Again 313 XXVI A Dream Comes True 328
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ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
Randerson watches the newcomers Frontispiece
"I am Ruth Harkness, the new owner of the Flying W" 64
The twilight was split by a red streak 96
The grim, relentless figure behind him grew grotesque and gigantic in his thoughts 320
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THE RANGE BOSS CHAPTER I
AT CALAMITY CROSSING
Getting up the shoulder of the mesa was no easy job, but judging from theactions and appearance of wiry pony and rider it was a job that would beaccomplished. For part of the distance, it is true, the man thought itbest to dismount, drive the pony ahead of him, and follow on foot. Atlength, however, they reached the top of the mesa, and after a breathingspell the man mounted and rode across the table-land.
A short lope brought pony and rider to a point where the mesa sloped downagain to meet a plain that stretched for miles, to merge into somefoothills. A faint trail came from somewhere through the foothills, woundover the plain, and followed a slope that descended to a river below therider, crossed the stream, led over a level, up another slope, to anotherplain, and so away into the distance.
Up and down the river the water ran deeply in a canyon, the paintedbuttes that flanked it lending an appearance of constriction to itscourse, but at the crossing it broadened formidably and swirledsplashingly around numerous rocks that littered its course.
The man's gaze rested briefly on the river and the crossing.
"She's travelin' some, this mornin'," he said aloud, mentally referringto the water. "I reckon that mud over there must be hub deep on abuckboard," he added, looking at the level on the opposite side of thecrossing. "I'd say, if anybody was to ask me, that last night's rain hasmade Calamity some risky this mornin'--for a buckboard." He drew out asilver timepiece and consulted it with grave deliberation. "It's eleven.They'd be due about now--if the Eight O'clock was on time--which she'snever been knowed to be." He returned the timepiece to the pocket androde along the edge of the mesa away from the river, his gazeconcentrated at the point where the trail on the plains below himvanished into the distant foothills. A little later he again halted thepony, swung crossways in the saddle and rolled a cigarette, and whilesmoking and watching drew out two pistols, took out the cylinders,replaced them, and wiped and polished the metal until the guns glitteredbrightly in the swimming sunlight. He considered them long beforerestoring them to their places, doubt in his gaze. "I reckon she's beenraised a lot different," was his mental conclusion.
"But anyway, I reckon there ain't nothin' in Poughkeepsie's name to giveanyone comin' from there any right to put on airs." He tossed the butt ofthe cigarette away and frowned, continuing his soliloquy: "The Flyin' Wain't no place for a lady. Jim Pickett an' Tom Chavis ain't fit for nolady to look at--let alone talkin' to them. There's others, too. Now, ifshe was comin' to the Diamond H--why, shucks! Mebbe she wouldn't thinkI'm any better than Pickett an' Chavis! If she looks anything like herpicture, though, she's got sense. An'--"
He saw the pony flick its ears erect, and he followed its gaze to see onthe plain's trail, far over near where it melted into the foothills, amoving speck crawling toward him.
He swung back into the saddle and smilingly patted the pony's neck.
"You was expectin' them too, wasn't you, Patches? I reckon you're a rightknowin' horse!"
He wheeled the pony and urged it slowly back over the mesa, riding alongnear the edge until he reached a point behind a heavy post-oak thicket,where he pulled the pony to a halt. From here he would not be observedfrom the trail on the plains, and he again twisted in the saddle, saggingagainst the high pommel and drawing the wide brim of his hat well overhis eyes, shading them as he peered intently at the moving speck.
He watched for half an hour, while the speck grew larger in his vision,finally assuming definite shape. He recognized the buckboard and theblacks that were pulling it; they had been inseparable during the pasttwo years--for Bill Harkness, the Flying W owner, would drive no othersafter his last sickness had seized him, the sickness which had finallyfinished him some months before. The blacks were coming rapidly,shortening the distance with the tireless lope that the plains' animaluses so effectively, and as they neared the point on the mesa where therider had stationed himself, the latter parted the branches of thethicket and peered between them, his eyes agleam, the color deepening inhis face.
"There's four of them in the buckboard," he said aloud, astonished, asthe vehicle came nearer; "an' Wes Vickers ain't with them! Now, what doyou think of that! Wes told me there'd be only the girl an' her aunt an'uncle. It's a man, too, an' he's doin' the drivin'! I reckon Wes gotdrunk an' they left him behind." He reflected a moment
, watching withnarrowed eyes, his brows in a frown. "That guy doin' the drivin' is astranger, Patches," he said. "Why, it's mighty plain. Four in thebuckboard, with them bags an' trunks an' things, makes a full house, an'there wasn't no room for Wes!" He grinned.
The buckboard swung close to the foot of the slope below him, and heeagerly scrutinized the occupants, his gaze lingering long on the girl onthe seat beside the driver. She had looked for one flashing instanttoward him, her attention drawn, no doubt, by the fringing green of themesa, and he had caught a good glimpse of her face. It was just like thepicture that Wes Vickers had surreptitiously brought to him one day someweeks before, after Harkness' death, when, in talking with Wes about theniece who was now the sole owner of the Flying W, and who was coming soonto manage her property, he had evinced curiosity. He had kept thepicture, in spite of Vickers' remonstrances, and had studied it manytimes. He studied it now, after the passage of the buckboard, and wassupremely pleased, for the likeness did not flatter her.
Displeasure came into his eyes, though, when he thought of the driver. Hewas strangely disturbed over the thought that the driver had accompaniedher from the East. He knew the driver was an Easterner, for no Westernerwould ever rig himself out in such an absurd fashion--the cream-coloredStetson with the high pointed crown, extra wide brim with nickel spanglesaround the band, a white shirt with a broad turndown collar and a flowingcolored tie--blue; a cartridge belt that fitted snugly around his waist,yellow with newness, so that the man on the mesa almost imagined he couldhear it creak when its owner moved; corduroy riding-breeches, tight atthe knees, and glistening boots with stiff tops. And--here the observer'seyes gleamed with derision--as the buckboard passed, he had caught aglimpse of a nickeled spur, with long rowels, on one of the ridiculousboots.
He chuckled, his face wreathing in smiles as he urged the pony along theedge of the mesa, following the buckboard. He drew up presently at apoint just above the buckboard, keeping discreetly behind some brush thathe might not be seen, and gravely considered the vehicle and itsoccupants. The buckboard had stopped at the edge of the water, and theblacks were drinking. The girl was talking; the watcher heard her voicedistinctly.
"What a rough, grim country!" she said. "It is beautiful, though."
"She's a knowin' girl," mused the rider, strangely pleased that sheshould like the world he lived in. For it was his world; he had been bornhere.
"Don't you think so, Willard?" added the girl.
The rider strained his ears for the answer. It came, grumblingly:
"I suppose it's well enough--for the clodhoppers that live here."
The girl laughed tolerantly; the rider on the mesa smiled. "I reckon Iain't goin' to like Willard a heap, Patches," he said to the pony; "he'srunnin' down our country." He considered the girl and the driver gravely,and again spoke to the pony. "Do you reckon he's her brother, Patches? Iexpect it ain't possible--they're so different."
"Do you think it is quite safe?" The girl's voice reached him again; shewas looking at the water of the crossing.
"Vickers said it was," the driver replied. "He ought to know." His tonewas irritable.
"He's her brother, I reckon," reflected the man on the mesa; "no loverwould talk that way to his girl." There was relief in his voice, for hehad been hoping that the man was a brother.
"Vickers said to swing sharply to the left after passing the middle,"declared the driver sonorously, "but I don't see any wagon tracks--thatmiserable rain last night must have obliterated them."
"I reckon the rain has _obliterated_ them," grinned the rider, laboringwith the word, "if that means wipin' them out. Leastways, they ain'tthere any more."
"I feel quite sure that Mr. Vickers said to turn to the right afterpassing the middle, Willard," came the girl's voice.
"I certainly ought to be able to remember that, Ruth!" said the driver,gruffly. "I heard him distinctly!"
"Well," returned the girl with a nervous little laugh, "perhaps I wasmistaken, after all." She placed a hand lightly on the driver's arm. Andthe words she spoke then were not audible to the rider, so softly werethey uttered. And the driver laughed with satisfaction. "You've said it!"he declared. "I'm certainly able to pilot this ship to safety!" He pulledon the reins and spoke sharply to the blacks. They responded with a jerkthat threw the occupants of the buckboard against the backs of the seats.
The rider's eyes gleamed. "Hush!" he said, addressing no one inparticular. "Calamity's goin' to claim another victim!" He raised onehand to his lips, making a funnel of it. He was about to shout at thedriver, but thought better of the idea and let the hand drop. "Shucks,"he said, "I reckon there ain't any real danger. But I expect the bossgasser of the outfit will be gettin' his'n pretty quick now." He leanedforward and watched the buckboard, his lean under jaw thrown forward, agrim smile on his lips. He noted with satisfaction that the elderlycouple in the rear seat, and the girl in the front one, were holding ontightly, and that the driver, busy with the reins, was swaying from oneside to the other as the wagon bumped over the impeding stones of theriver bed.
The blacks reached the middle of the stream safely and were crowding oftheir own accord to the right, when the driver threw his weight on theleft rein and swung them sharply in that direction. For a few feet theytraveled evenly enough but when they were still some distance from thebank, the horse on the left sank quickly to his shoulders, lunged, stoodon his hind legs and pawed the air impotently, and then settled back,snorting and trembling.
Too late the driver saw his error. As the left horse sank he threw hisweight on the right rein as though to remedy the accident. This movementthrew him off his balance, and he slipped off the seat, clawing andscrambling; at the instant the front of the buckboard dipped and sank,disappearing with a splash into the muddy water. It had gone down awry,the girl's side high out of the water, the girl herself clinging to theedge of the seat, out of the water's reach, the elderly couple in therear also safe and dry, but plainly frightened.
The girl did not scream; the rider on the mesa noted this withsatisfaction. She was talking, though, to the driver, who at first haddisappeared, only to reappear an instant later, blowing and cursing, hishead and shoulders out of the water, his ridiculous hat floating serenelydown stream, the reins still in his hands.
"I reckon he's discovered that Vickers told him to swing to the right,"grinned the rider from his elevation. He watched the driver until hegained the bank and stood there, dripping, gesticulating, impotent rageconsuming him. The buckboard could not be moved without endangering thecomfort of the remaining occupants, and without assistance they mustinevitably stay where they were. And so the rider on the mesa wheeled hispony and sent it toward the edge of the mesa where a gentle slope sweptdownward to the plains.
"I reckon I've sure got to rescue her," he said, grinning with someembarrassment, "though I'm mighty sorry that Willard had to get his newclothes wet."
He spoke coaxingly to the pony; it stepped gingerly over the edge of themesa and began the descent, sending stones and sand helter-skelter beforeit, the rider sitting tall and loose in the saddle, the reins hanging, hetrusting entirely to the pony's wisdom.