Essential Western Novels - Volume 4. Max Brand

around the shack before that there'd been fellers up here at night. I don't know who they was or what they come for, and I never seen 'em. I just seen horse tracks around once in a while; and I knew fellers had been here, but it was none of my business, and I kept my mouth shut."

      "Here comes a car," said the cowhand.

      "That'll be the sheriff and the coroner," said Mason.

      "Lizzie made pretty good time," said Kidder. "They must have packed her on their shoulders and run."

      "She's hittin' on two and a half," said the cowhand; "which is better than I ever seen her do before."

      As the car wheezed to a stop, the fat and jovial Doc Bellows lowered himself ponderously to the ground; and after the brief greetings of the cow country he asked a few questions.

      "When you go in the shack," said Mason, "I wish you'd both notice that boot of Ole's that's lying in front of the cot. You seen it, didn't you, Kidder?" The foreman nodded. "Well," continued Mason, "guess all of you'll remember where you seen it; and then, sheriff, I wish you'd take care of it and not let nobody touch it."

      "Is that a clue?" demanded the sheriff.

      "I don't know that it amounts to nuthin'," replied Mason, "but I'd like to have the chance to follow it up."

      "Sure," said the sheriff.

      "All right then, I'll be gettin' along," replied the deputy. "There aint nuthin' more I can do here," and as the other men entered the shack he mounted and turned Bull's Eye's nose down the road toward the main highway.

      It was late when the sheriff returned to his office, but Uncle Billy Cage was still there.

      "There weren't no call for you to stay all night, Uncle Billy," said the sheriff.

      "I wanted to see you," said the old man. "I got some important news for you, but by gum I don't believe it."

      "What is it?" demanded the sheriff.

      "About an hour after you left the telephone rung and some feller at the other end that talked like he had a harelip said, 'Is this the sheriff's office?' and I said, 'Yes'; and he said, 'Do you want to know who killed Gunderstrom?' and I said, 'Sure'; and he said, 'Well, it was Buck Mason,' and then he hung up."

      "I don't believe it," said the sheriff.

      "Neither do I," said Uncle Billy Cage.

      ––––––––

      III

      BRUCE MARVEL

      THE TF ranch in Porico County, Arizona, had fallen upon bad days. For three generations its great ranges, its wooded mountains, its widely scattered streams and water holes had remained in one family; but the males of the third generation, educated at Eastern colleges, softened by contact with the luxuries of large cities, had left their vast principality in the hands of salaried managers and contemporaneously the cattle business had suffered one of its periodic slumps.

      It is not necessary to go into the harrowing details that are all too familiar to cattle men. Several years before, title had passed to a group of banks that held paper far in excess of the present value of the property, which, in order to maintain grazing rights on Government land, had been forced into the operation of the ranch while they sought frantically and futilely for a buyer all the way from the Atlantic to the Pacific.

      An experienced cattle man was operating the business for them in an endeavor to make expenses; and following his policy of taking advantage of every opportunity to augment the income, he had leased the home ranch together with the hunting and fishing privileges of the entire property to Cory Blaine, who had thus become a pioneer in the dude ranch business.

      It takes time and capital to establish a going business, and Cory Blaine had discovered that a dude ranch was no exception to the rule.

      For two years it had been rather hard sledding, but at last he felt that the venture was on the high road to success. The number of his guests was satisfactory and so were their bank accounts, but even so Cory Blaine was not perfectly satisfied. He wanted more than a living. He wanted big money; and the more he came in contact with people who had it, the more determined he had become to have it himself; for Cory Blaine's ambition was developed almost to the point of a disease.

      He was sitting late one afternoon upon the front porch of the ranch house with some of his guests when a buckboard swung into sight on the dusty road that wound for miles through the property down to the railroad.

      "Here comes the tenderfoot," said a man from Boston, who, three weeks previously, had never been west of Philadelphia.

      "I hope he can play bridge," said a fat lady in khaki bloomers and high heeled shoes.

      "I'm just hoping he can stay on a horse without help," said Blaine.

      The buckboard that was approaching, drawn by a team of broncos, was the result of Cory Blaine's instinct for showmanship. He used it exclusively to transport his guests between the railroad and the ranch house, feeling that it lent an atmosphere that no automobile could induce.

      The man who drove the buckboard was also a showman, as was evidenced by the magnificent style in which he drew up in front of the ranch house, covering the last two or three hundred yards at a gallop, setting the broncos on their haunches in a cloud of dust at the finish.

      A couple of cowhands had sauntered over from the bunk house when the buckboard had first appeared in the distance; and as Bruce Marvel alighted, they were unroping his trunk at the back of the vehicle while they sized him up with inward contempt. All other eyes were upon the new arrival as Cory Blaine descended from the porch and took him by the hand.

      "You'd be Mr. Marvel, I reckon," said Blaine.

      "Yes," replied the newcomer.

      "My name's Blaine," said the host. "I'm glad to meet you."

      "Thanks," said Marvel.

      "Have a good trip?"

      "Yes, but a dirty one. I'd like to go to my room and clean up."

      "Sure," said Blaine. "Come ahead. The boys will be right up with your stuff," and he led the way into the house, followed by his new guest.

      "Here ye are," said Blaine, opening the door of a small box- like room. "Guess you'll find everything here you need. When yer done come on out and meet the rest of the folks. We feed at six o'clock. It's pretty near that now."

      "By the way," said Marvel as Blaine was leaving, "shall I dress for dinner?"

      "Aint you dressed now?" asked the other.

      "I mean do the men wear dinner clothes?—tuxedos, you know."

      Blaine tried to hide the pity in his heart as he explained that that was not at all necessary; but when he closed the door behind him he grinned; and upon the other side of the door his guest grinned, too.

      "What do you suppose?" asked Blaine as he joined the others on the porch.

      "What?" asked a girl in overalls.

      "He wants to know if he should put on a spike tailed coat and a stove pipe hat for dinner."

      "My God!" exclaimed a young woman, who was rigged up in an outfit that would have turned Tom Mix green with envy. "He's got a lot to learn."

      "Perhaps," said the blond girl in overalls, "he is just trying to be himself and act natural. You know there are a lot of people who dress for dinner every night."

      "When you are in Rome, do as the Romans do," said the man from Boston.

      "Give him a chance," said the blond girl, "and don't forget that on the first camping trip we took after you arrived you brought along green silk pajamas."

      "Oh,