The Range Boss by Charles Alden Seltzer (reader novel .TXT) 📖

after the fall round-up, she had not seen so much of him. He rode alone, sometimes not even asking her to accompany him. These omissions worked no great hardship on her, for the days had grown hot and the plains dry and dusty, so that there was not so much enjoyment in riding as formerly. Besides, she knew the country rather well now, and had no need to depend upon Masten.

Chavis had severed his connection with the Flying W. He had ridden in to the ranchhouse some weeks ago, found Ruth sitting on the porch, announced that he was “quittin’” and wanted his “time.” She did not ask him why he wanted to quit so pleased was she with his decision, but he advanced an explanation while she counted the money due him.

“Things don’t suit me here,” he said venomously. “Randerson is too fresh.” He looked at her impudently. “Besides,” he added, “he stands in too well with the boss.”

She flushed with indignation. “You wouldn’t dare say that to him!” she declared.

He reddened darkly. “Meanin’ what he done to Pickett, I reckon,” he sneered. “Well, Randerson will be gettin’ his’n some day, too!”

Ruth remembered this conversation, and on a day about a month later when she had gone riding alone, she saw Randerson at a distance and rode toward him to tell him, for she had meant to, many times.

Evidently Randerson had seen her, too, for he had already altered his pony’s course when she wheeled hers. When their ponies came to a halt near each other it was Randerson who spoke first. He looked at her unsmilingly over his pony’s head.

“I was ridin’ in to the house to see you, ma’am. I thought you ought to know. This mornin’ the boys found two cows with their hoofs burned, an’ their calves run off.”

“Their hoofs burned!” she exclaimed. “Why, who would be so inhuman as to do that? But I suppose there was a fire somewhere, and it happened that way.”

“There was a fire, all right,” he said grimly. “Some one built it, on purpose. It was rustlers, ma’am. They burned the hoofs of the mothers so the mothers couldn’t follow when they drove their calves off—like any mother would.” He eyed her calmly. “I reckon it was Chavis, ma’am. He’s got a shack down the crick a ways. He’s been there ever since you paid him off. An’ this mornin’ two of the boys told me they wanted their time. I was goin’ in to get it for them. It’s likely they’re goin’ to join Chavis.”

“Well, let them,” she said indignantly. “If they are that kind of men, we don’t want them around!”

He smiled now for the first time. “I reckon there ain’t no way to stop them from goin’, ma’am. An’ we sure don’t want them around. But when they go with Chavis, it’s mighty likely that we’ll miss more cattle.”

She stiffened. “Come with me,” she ordered; “they shall have their money right away.”

She urged her pony on, and he fell in beside her, keeping his animal’s muzzle near her stirrup. For he was merely an employee and was filled with respect for her.

“I suppose I could have Chavis charged with stealing those two calves?” she asked, as they rode. She looked back over her shoulder at him and slowed her pony down so that he came alongside.

“Why, yes, ma’am, I reckon you could. You could charge him with stealin’ them. But that wouldn’t prove it. We ain’t got any evidence, you see. We found the cows, with the calves gone. We know that Chavis is in the country, but we didn’t see him doin’ the stealin’; we only think he done it.”

“If I should complain to the sheriff?”

“You could do that, ma’am. But I reckon it’s a waste of time.”

“How?”

“Well, you see, ma’am, the sheriff in this county don’t amount to a heap—considered as a sheriff. He mostly draws his salary an’ keeps out of trouble, much as he can. There ain’t no court in the county nearer than Las Vegas, an’ that’s a hundred an’ fifty miles from here. An’, mostly, the court don’t want to be bothered with hearin’ rustler cases—there bein’ no regular law governin’ them, an’ conviction bein’ hard to get. So the sheriff don’t bother.”

“But there must be some way to stop them from stealing!” she said sharply.

“I reckon there’s a way, ma’am.” And now she heard him laugh, quietly, and again she turned and looked at him. His face grew grave again, instantly. “But I reckon you wouldn’t approve of it, ma’am,” he added.

“I would approve of most any method of stopping them—within reason!” she declared vindictively, nettled by his tone.

“We mostly hang them, ma’am,” he said. “That’s a sure way of stoppin’ them.”

She shuddered. “Do you mean that you hang them without a court verdict—on your own responsibility?”

“That’s the way, ma’am.”

“But doesn’t the sheriff punish men who hang others in that manner?” she went on in tones of horror.

His voice was quietly humorous. “Them sort of hangin’s ain’t advertised a heap. It’s hard to find anybody that will admit he had a hand in it. Nobody knows anything about it. But it’s done, an’ can’t be undone. An’ the rustlin’ stops mighty sudden.”

“Oh,” she exclaimed, “what a barbarous custom!”

“I reckon it ain’t exactly barbarous, ma’am,” he contended mildly. “Would you have the rustlers go on stealin’ forever, an’ not try to stop them?”

“There are the courts,” she insisted.

“Turnin’ rustlers off scot-free, ma’am. They can’t hold them. An’ if a rustler is hung, he don’t get any more than is comin’ to him. Do you reckon there’s a lot of difference between a half dozen men hangin’ a man for a crime he’s done, than for one man, a judge for instance, orderin’ him to be hung? If, we’ll say, a hundred men elect a judge to do certain things, is it any more wrong for the hundred men to do them things than for the man they’ve elected to do them? I reckon not, ma’am. Of course, if the hundred men did somethin’ that the judge hadn’t been elected to do, why then, it might make some difference.”

“But you say there is no law that provides hanging for rustling.” She thought she had him.

“The men that elected the judge made the laws,” he said. “They have a right to make others, whenever they’re needed.”

“That’s mob law,” she said with a shiver. “What would become of the world if that custom were followed everywhere?”

“I wouldn’t say that it would be a good thing everywhere. Where there’s courts that can be got at easy, there’d be no sense to it. But out here there’s no other way for a man to protect his property. He’s got to take the law into his own hands.”

“It is a crude and cold-blooded way.”

She heard him laugh, and turned to see him looking at her in amusement.

“There ain’t no refinement in punishment, ma’am. Either it’s got to shock some one or not get done at all. I reckon that back East you don’t get to see anyone punished, or hung. You hear about it, or you read about it, an’ it don’t seem so near you, an’ that kind of takes the edge off it. Out here it comes closer, an’ it seems a lot cruel. But whether a man’s punished by the law or by the men who make the law wouldn’t make a lot of difference to the man—he’d be punished anyway.”

“We won’t talk about it any further,” she said. “But understand, if there are any cattle thieves caught on the Flying W they must not be hanged. You must capture them, if possible, and take them to the proper officials, that they may have a fair trial. And we shall abide by the court’s decision. I don’t care to have any more murders committed here.”

His face paled. “Referrin’ to Pickett, I reckon, ma’am?” he said.

“Yes.” She flung the monosyllable back at him resentfully.

She felt him ride close to her, and she looked at him and saw that his face was grimly serious.

“I ain’t been thinkin’ of the killin’ of Pickett as murder, ma’am. Pickett had it comin’ to him. You was standin’ on the porch, an’ I reckon you used your eyes. If you did, you saw Pickett try to pull his gun on me when my back was turned. It was either him or me, ma’am.”

“You anticipated that he would try to shoot you,” she charged. “Your actions showed that.”

“Why, I reckon I did. You see, I’ve knowed Pickett for a long time.”

“I was watching you from an upstairs window,” she went on. “I saw you when you struck Pickett with your fist. You drew your pistol while he was on the ground. You had the advantage—you might have taken his pistol away from him, and prevented any further trouble. Instead, you allowed him to keep it. You expected he would try to shoot you, and you deliberately gave him an opportunity, relying upon your quickness in getting your own pistol out.”

“I give him his chance, ma’am.”

“His chance.” There was derision in her voice. “I have talked to some of the men about you. They say you are the cleverest of any man in this vicinity with a weapon. You deliberately planned to kill him!”

He rode on, silently, a glint of cold humor in his eyes. He might now have confounded her with the story of Masten’s connection with the affair, but he had no intention of telling her. Masten had struck the blow at him—Masten it must be, who would be struck back.

However, he was disturbed over her attitude. He did not want her to think that he had killed Pickett in pure wantonness, for he had not thought of shooting the man until Uncle Jepson had warned him.

“I’ve got to tell you this, ma’am,” he said, riding close to her. “One man’s life is as good as another’s in this country. But it ain’t any better. The law’s too far away to monkey with—law like you’re used to. The gun a man carries is the only law anyone here pays any attention to. Every man knows it. Nobody makes any mistakes about it, unless it’s when they don’t get their gun out quick enough. An’ that’s the man’s fault that pulls the gun. There ain’t no officials to do any guardin’ out here; you’ve got to do it yourself or it don’t get done. A man can’t take too many chances—an’ live to tell about it. When you know a man’s lookin’ for you, yearnin’ to perforate you, it’s just a question of who can shoot the quickest an’ the straightest. In the case of Pickett, I happened to be the one. It might have been Pickett. If he wasn’t as fast as me in slingin’ his gun, why, he oughtn’t to have taken no chance. He’d have been plumb safe if he’d have forgot all about his gun. I don’t reckon that I’d have pined away with sorrow if I hadn’t shot him.”

She was much impressed with his earnestness, and she looked quickly at him, nearly convinced. But again the memory of the tragic moment became vivid in her thoughts, and she shuddered.

“It’s too horrible to think of!” she declared.

“I reckon it’s no picnic,” he admitted. “I ain’t never been stuck on shootin’ men. I reckon I didn’t sleep a heap for three nights after I shot Pickett. I kept seein’ him, an’ pityin’ him. But I kept tellin’ myself that it had to be either him or me, an’ I kind of got over it. Pickett would have it, ma’am. When I turned my back to him I was hopin’ that he wouldn’t try to play dirt on