The Range Boss. Charles Alden Seltzer

I

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AT CALAMITY CROSSING

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      Getting up the shoulder of the mesa was no easy job, but judging from the actions and appearance of wiry pony and rider it was a job that would be accomplished. For part of the distance, it is true, the man thought it best to dismount, drive the pony ahead of him, and follow on foot. At length, however, they reached the top of the mesa, and after a breathing spell the man mounted and rode across the table-land.

      A short lope brought pony and rider to a point where the mesa sloped down again to meet a plain that stretched for miles, to merge into some foothills. A faint trail came from somewhere through the foothills, wound over the plain, and followed a slope that descended to a river below the rider, crossed the stream, led over a level, up another slope, to another plain, and so away into the distance.

      Up and down the river the water ran deeply in a canyon, the painted buttes that flanked it lending an appearance of constriction to its course, but at the crossing it broadened formidably and swirled splashingly 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 referring to the water. “I reckon that mud over there must be hub deep on a buckboard,” he added, looking at the level on the opposite side of the crossing. “I’d say, if anybody was to ask me, that last night’s rain has made Calamity some risky this mornin’—for a buckboard.” He drew out a silver 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’s never been knowed to be.” He returned the timepiece to the pocket and rode along the edge of the mesa away from the river, his gaze concentrated at the point where the trail on the plains below him vanished into the distant foothills. A little later he again halted the pony, swung crossways in the saddle and rolled a cigarette, and while smoking and watching drew out two pistols, took out the cylinders, replaced them, and wiped and polished the metal until the guns glittered brightly in the swimming sunlight. He considered them long before restoring them to their places, doubt in his gaze. “I reckon she’s been raised a lot different,” was his mental conclusion.

      “But anyway, I reckon there ain’t nothin’ in Poughkeepsie’s name to give anyone comin’ from there any right to put on airs.” He tossed the butt of the cigarette away and frowned, continuing his soliloquy: “The Flyin’ W ain’t no place for a lady. Jim Pickett an’ Tom Chavis ain’t fit for no lady to look at—let alone talkin’ to them. There’s others, too. Now, if she was comin’ to the Diamond H—why, shucks! Mebbe she wouldn’t think I’m any better than Pickett an’ Chavis! If she looks anything like her picture, though, she’s got sense. An’—”

      He saw the pony flick its ears erect, and he followed its gaze to see on the plain’s trail, far over near where it melted into the foothills, a moving 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 right knowin’ horse!”

      He wheeled the pony and urged it slowly back over the mesa, riding along near 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 observed from the trail on the plains, and he again twisted in the saddle, sagging against the high pommel and drawing the wide brim of his hat well over his 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 the blacks that were pulling it; they had been inseparable during the past two years—for Bill Harkness, the Flying W owner, would drive no others after his last sickness had seized him, the sickness which had finally finished him some months before. The blacks were coming rapidly, shortening the distance with the tireless lope that the plains’ animal uses so effectively, and as they neared the point on the mesa where the rider had stationed himself, the latter parted the branches of the thicket and peered between them, his eyes agleam, the color deepening in his face.

      “There’s four of them in the buckboard,” he said aloud, astonished, as the vehicle came nearer; “an’ Wes Vickers ain’t with them! Now, what do you 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 got drunk an’ they left him behind.” He reflected a moment, watching with narrowed eyes, his brows in a frown. “That guy doin’ the drivin’ is a stranger, Patches,” he said. “Why, it’s mighty plain. Four in the buckboard, 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 he eagerly scrutinized the occupants, his gaze lingering long on the girl on the seat beside the driver. She had looked for one flashing instant toward him, her attention drawn, no doubt, by the fringing green of the mesa, and he had caught a good glimpse of her face. It was just like the picture that Wes Vickers had surreptitiously brought to him one day some weeks before, after Harkness’ death, when, in talking with Wes about the niece who was now the sole owner of the Flying W, and who was coming soon to manage her property, he had evinced curiosity. He had kept the picture, in spite of Vickers’ remonstrances, and had studied it many times. He studied it now, after the passage of the buckboard, and was supremely pleased, for the likeness did not flatter her.

      Displeasure came into his eyes, though, when he thought of the driver. He was strangely disturbed over the thought that the driver had accompanied her from the East. He knew the driver was an Easterner, for no Westerner would ever rig himself out in such an absurd fashion—the cream-colored Stetson with the high pointed crown, extra wide brim with nickel spangles around the band, a white shirt with a broad turndown collar and a flowing colored tie—blue; a cartridge belt that fitted snugly around his waist, yellow with newness, so that the man on the mesa almost imagined he could hear it creak when its owner moved; corduroy riding-breeches, tight at the knees, and glistening boots with stiff tops. And—here the observer’s eyes gleamed with derision—as the buckboard passed, he had caught a glimpse of a nickeled spur, with long rowels, on one of the ridiculous boots.

      He chuckled, his face wreathing in smiles as he urged the pony along the edge of the mesa, following the buckboard. He drew up presently at a point just above the buckboard, keeping discreetly behind some brush that he might not be seen, and gravely considered the vehicle and its occupants. The buckboard had stopped at the edge of the water, and the blacks were drinking. The girl was talking; the watcher heard her voice distinctly.

      “What a rough, grim country!” she said. “It is beautiful, though.”

      “She’s a knowin’ girl,” mused the rider, strangely pleased that she should like the world he lived in. For it was his world; he had been born here.

      “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 I ain’t goin’ to like Willard a heap, Patches,” he said to the pony; “he’s runnin’ 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? I expect it ain’t possible—they’re so different.”

      “Do you think it is quite safe?” The girl’s voice