The Texan by James B. Hendryx (reading in the dark .TXT) 📖

be thinkin' about now, I wonder?"

"Oh! Naw! They ain't ready to make any arrests yet. The grand jury set special an' returned a lot of indictments an' you're one of 'em, but the districk attorney, he claims he can't go ahead until he digs up the cripus delinkty——"

"The what?"

"Oh, that's a nickname the lawyers has got fer a pilgrim."

"Wasn't one stranglin' enough for spreadin' out Purdy? What do they want of the pilgrim?"

"Spreadin' out Purdy!" exclaimed the other, "don't you know that Purdy didn't stay spread? Wasn't hardly hurt even. The pilgrim's bullet just barely creased him, an' when Sam Moore went back with a spring wagon to fetch his remains, Purdy riz up an' started cussin' him out an' scairt Sam so his team run away an' he lost his voice an' ain't spoke out loud since—an' them's only one of the things he done. So, you see, you done your lynching too previous, an' folks is all stirred up about it, holdin' that lawless acts has got to be put a stop to in Choteau County, an' a pilgrim has got as good a right to live as the next one. They're holdin' that even if he had got Purdy it would of be'n a damn good thing, an' they wasn't no call to stretch a man for that. So the grand jury set, an' the districk attorney has got a gang of men diggin' up all the coulees for miles around, a-huntin' for the pilgrim's cripus delinkty so he kin go ahead with his arrests."

The eyes of the Texan were fixed on the mountains. He appeared not interested. Twenty feet away in a deep crevice at the edge of the coulee, Bat Lajune, who had overheard every word, was convulsed with silent mirth.

"You say they've dug up all the coulees? Red Rock an'—an' all, Buffalo, Six-mile, Woodpile, Miller's?" The Texan shot out the names with all appearance of nervous haste, but his eye was sombre as before as he noted the gleam of quick intelligence that flashed into the cowboy's eyes. "You're sure they dug up Buffalo?" he pressed shrewdly.

"Yes, I think they finished there."

The Texan gave a visible sigh of relief. "Say," he asked, presently, "do you know if they're fordin' at Cow Island this year?"

"Yes, the Two Bar reps come by that way."

"I'm right obliged to you. I reckon I'll head north, though. Canada looks good to me 'til this here wave of virtue blows over. So long."

"So long, Tex. An', say, there's some of us friends of yourn that's goin' to see what we kin do about gettin' them indictments squashed. We don't want to see you boys doin' time fer stretchin' no pilgrim."

"You won't," answered the Texan. "Toddle along now an' hunt up Mr. Kester's horses. I want room to think." He permitted himself a broad smile as the other rode at a gallop toward the mountains, then turned his horse into the coulee he had just left and allowed him his own pace.

"So Purdy ain't dead," he muttered, "or was that damned fool lyin'? I reckon he wasn't lyin' about that, an' the grand jury, an' the district attorney." Again he smiled. "Let's see how I stack up, now: In the first place, Win ain't on the run, an' I am—or I'm supposed to be. But, as long as they don't dig Win up out of the bottom of some coulee, I'm at large for want of a party of the first part to the alleged felonious snuffin'-out. Gosh, I bet the boys are havin' fun watchin' that diggin'. If I was there I'd put in my nights makin' fresh-dug spots, an' my days watchin' 'em prospect 'em." Then his thoughts turned to the girl, and for miles he rode unheeding. The sun had swung well to the westward before the cowboy took notice of his surroundings. Antelope Butte lay ten or twelve miles away and he headed for it with a laugh. "You must have thought I sure enough was headin' for Cow Island Crossing didn't you, you old dogie chaser?" He touched his horse lightly with his spurs and the animal struck into a long swinging trot.

"This here's a mixed-up play all around," he muttered. "Win's worryin' about killin' Purdy—says it's got under his hide 'til he thinks about it nights. It ain't so much bein' on the run that bothers him as it is the fact that he's killed a man." He smiled to himself: "A little worryin' won't hurt him none. Any one that would worry over shootin' a pup like Purdy ought to worry—whether he done it or not. Then, there's me. I start out with designs as evil an' triflin' as Purdy's—only I ain't a brute—an' I winds up by lovin' her. Yes—that's the word. There ain't no mortal use beatin' around the bush to fool myself. Spite of silk stockin's she's good clean through. I reckon, maybe, they're wore more promiscuous in the East. That Eagle Creek Ranch, if them corrals was fixed up a little an' them old cattle sheds tore down, an' the ditches gone over, it would be a good outfit. If it was taken hold of right, there wouldn't be a better proposition on the South Slope." Gloom settled upon the cowboy's face: "But there's Win. I started out to show him up." He smiled grimly. "Well, I did. Only not just exactly as I allowed to. Lookin' over the back-trail, I reckon, when us four took to the brush there wasn't only one damned skunk in the crowd—an' that was me. It's funny a man can be that ornery an' never notice it. But, I bet Bat knew. He's pure gold, Bat is. He's about as prepossessin' to look at as an old gum boot, but his heart's all there—an' you bet, Bat, he knows."

It was within a quarter of a mile of Antelope Butte that the Texan, riding along the bottom of a wide coulee met another horseman. This time there was no spurring toward him, and he noticed that the man's hand rested near his right hip. He shifted his own gun arm and continued on his course without apparently noticing the other who approached in the same manner.

Suddenly he laughed: "Hello, Curt!"

"Well, I'm damned if it ain't Tex! Thought maybe I was going to get the high-sign."

"Same here." Both men relaxed from their attitude of alertness, and
Curt leaned closer.

"They ain't dug him up yet," he said, "but they sure are slingin' gravel. I hope to God they don't."

"They won't."

"Anything I can do?"

The Texan shook his head: "Nothin', thanks."

"Hot as hell fer June, ain't it."

"Yes; who you ridin' for?"

"K 2."

"K 2! Mister Kester moved his outfit over to the south slope?"

"Naw. I'm huntin' a couple of old brood mares Mister Kester bought offen the Bar A. They strayed away about a week ago."

"Alone?"

"Might better be," replied the cowboy in tones of disgust. "I've got that damned fool, Joe Ainslee, along—or ruther I had him. Bob Brumley's foreman of the K 2, now, an' he hired the Wind Bag in a moment of mental abortion, as the fellow says, an' he don't dast fire him for fear he'll starve to death. They wouldn't no other outfit have him around. An' I'm thinkin' he'll be damn lucky if he lives long enough to starve to death. Bob sent him along with me—said he'd do less harm than with the round-up, an' would be safer—me bein' amiable enough not to kill him offhand."

"Ain't you found your mares?"

Curt snorted: "Yes. Found 'em couple hours ago. An' now I've lost the Wind Bag. Them mares was grazin' right plumb in plain sight of where I'd sent him circlin', an' doggone if he not only couldn't find 'em, but he's lost hisself. An' if he don't show up pretty damn pronto he kin stay lost—an' the K 2 will win, at that."

The Texan grinned: "Go get your mares, Curt. The short-horn has stampeded. I shouldn't wonder if he's a-foggin' it through the mountains right now to get himself plumb famous for tippin' off the district attorney where to do his minin'."

"You seen him!"

"Yes, we had quite a little pow-wow."

"You sure didn't let him git holt of nothin'!"

"Yes. He's about to bust with the information he gathered. An' say, he might of seen them mares an' passed 'em up. He ain't huntin' no brood mares, he's after twenty head of young saddle stock—forgot to mention there was any one with him. Said it was easy to run three-year-olds off their own range single handed if you savvied horses. Called Mister Kester 'Old Pete' an' told of an orgy they had mutual in the Long Horn."

Curt burst out laughing: "Can you beat it?"

"I suppose they'll have Red Rock Coulee all mussed up," reflected the
Texan, with a grin.

"You wait 'til I tell the boys."

"Don't you. They'd hurt him. He's a-whirlin' a bigger loop than he can throw, the way it is."

Curt fumbled in his slicker and produced a flask which he tendered.

Tex shook his head: "No thanks, I ain't drinkin'."

"You ain't what?"

"No, I'm off of it"; he dismounted and tightened his cinch, and the other followed his example.

"Off of it! You ain't sick, or nothin'?"

"No. Can't a man——?"

"Oh, sure, he could, but he wouldn't, onless—you got your camp near here?"

Tex was aware the other was eyeing him closely.

"Tolerable."

"Let's go camp then. I left my pack horse hobbled way up on Last
Water."

The Texan was thinking rapidly. Curt was a friend of long standing and desired to share his camp, which is the way of the cow country. Yet, manifestly this was impossible. There was only one way out and that was to give offence.

"No. I'm campin' alone these days."

A slow red mounted to the other's face and his voice sounded a trifle hard: "Come on up to mine, then. It ain't so far."

"I said I was campin' alone."

The red was very apparent now, and the other took a step forward, and his words came slowly:

"Peck Maguire told me, an' I shut his dirty mouth for him. But now I know it's true. You're ridin' with the pilgrim's girl."

At the inference the Texan whitened to the eyes. "You're a damned liar!" The words came evenly but with a peculiar venom.

Curt half drew his gun. Then jammed it back in the holster. "Not between friends," he said shortly, "but jest the same you're goin' to eat them words. It ain't a trick I'd think of you—to run off with a man's woman after killin' him. If he was alive it would be different. I'd ort to shoot it out with you, I suppose, but I can't quite forget that time in Zortman when you——"

"Don't let that bother you," broke in the Texan with the same evenness of tone. "You're a damned liar!"

With a bound the man was upon him and Tex saw a blinding flash of light, and the next moment he was scrambling from the ground. After that the fight waxed fast and furious, each man giving and receiving blows that landed with a force that jarred and rocked. Then, the Texan landed heavily upon the point of his opponent's chin and the latter sank limp to the floor of the coulee. For a full minute Tex stood looking down at his victim.

"Curt can scrap like the devil. I'm sure glad he didn't force no gun play, I'd have hated to hurt him." He recovered the flask from the ground where the other had dropped it, and forced some whiskey between his lips. Presently the man opened his eyes.

"Feelin' better?" asked the Texan as Curt blinked up at him.

"Um-hum. My head aches some."

"Mine, too."

"You got a couple of black eyes, an' your lip