Chapter V

The XO-Bar-5 was sort of a rundown place, and Martin Crane seemed to expend little effort in keeping it going. A half-breed woman, Alice Spotted Horse, did the cooking--or what passed for cooking. Alice was very fat, slow of foot and heavy of hand, and expressed every emotion with the same exclamation:

“I be ----!”

“She’s a elocutionist,” declared Slim, after Alice had used up her vocabulary on acknowledging her introduction to Bill Smith.

Alice grinned blandly and repeated herself. Bill praised her cooking and asked her why in ---- she ever put flour in her soda-biscuits. They were as yellow as saffron and fairly sizzled with their soda content. Alice thought Bill was praising her cooking and it pleased her mightily.

“You jiggers let Alice alone,” ordered Crane. “She’s all right.”

“But not for cookin’,” declared Slim. “She’s too danged thoughtful.” And then to Bill:

“About six months ago she seen Crane take a spoonful of soda for indigestion. He was sufferin’ quite a lot and it fixed him up fine. Since then she’s dumped soda into everythin’ she cooked. By golly, I stirred my coffee the other mornin’ and it blew up in my face. She’d loaded it with soda, I reckon.”

Crane laughed and called to Alice:

“Never mind what they say, Alice. Yore cookin’ keeps me in shape.”

“I be ----!” said Alice blankly.

“Aw, she appreciates praise all right,” said Slim laughing. “When yuh goin’ to get married, Alice?”

“Huh!” Alice snorted and turned her back.

“She’s got a sweetheart,” grinned Slim, “Tucson Charley. You don’t know Tucson Charley, Smith. He works for Pablo. Him and Annie are goin’ to get married some day. I dunno what she can see in that cock-eyed breed; but love beats ----, don’t it?”

“It sure does,” said Bill Smith slowly. “I reckon a cock-eyed half-breed can love. He sees things different than me and you, Slim; so we hadn’t ought to laugh at him.”

“Aw, I ain’t laughin’ at him,” protested Slim. “I _sabe_ that he thinks Alice is as cute as a hair-trigger on a cannon. I’ve been in love, and I sure appreciate the feelin’, Smith.”

Slim leaned back in his chair and gazed at the ceiling:

“She was a village maiden, Smith. Her eyes were like jet and her hair was like----”

“Oh, for ----’s sake, don’t tell it!” exploded Crane. “You make me itch for a gun every time yuh start it.”

“Does he tell it often?” queried Bill Smith.

“Every time he finds somebody that’ll listen.”

Slim laughed and fumbled for his cigarette-makings.

“I’ll slip it to yuh sometime when Crane ain’t around, Smith. It sure is a dinger of a recitation. Yuh can make it fit any girl.”

Bill Smith nodded seriously and got up from the table.

“You scare that gray bronc into the hills and help yourself to a decent animal,” said Crane, as they went outside. “There’s a tall roan down there that’s broke to everythin’ except a rope and a gun. Yuh might teach him a few things.

“There’s a good saddle down in the bunkhouse, too. That hull you rode in here is liable to fall apart and leave yuh settin’ down. You might as well go with Slim over to the Paint Pot and see Pablo today. Pablo’s got about a hundred white-faced cows, which Big Jim wants, and I’ve got to try and buy ’em cheap. If Pablo knows that Big Jim wants ’em, he’ll jump the price; _sabe_?”

“All right,” agreed Bill Smith, “but if he don’t talk more than he did yesterday, we’ll never know whether we’ve bought somethin’ or not.”

“He’ll talk to Slim.”

“Yeah, he’ll talk to me,” laughed Slim. “But I’ll betcha we’ll never get a short price on them white-faced cows. Pablo thinks they’re pintos.”

They saddled and rode off across the hills toward the Paint Pot ranch. Bill Smith had taken the tall roan, a half-broken, hammer-headed brute, which wanted to hurdle everything in sight. Slim grinned in appreciation of Bill’s horsemanship.

“That roan made me do a hoolihan,” he confided. “Crane thought he could fork it, and he ate his meals standin’ up for a few days. If he ever starts doin’ his wormfence, you’ll know you’ve been well-mounted; but I reckon you’ve forked ’em before.”

It was about eight miles to the Paint Pot, and by the time they had covered that distance the roan was willing to take its time.

They found Pablo and Mike John sitting against the shady side of the old ranchhouse, hugging their knees. Both of them squinted at the two cowpunchers but did not get up. Mose Dickey came around the corner of the house, halted at sight of Slim and Bill, and leaned heavily against the corner.

Slim squatted on his heels in front of Pablo and rolled a cigarette. He had not spoken; neither had Pablo nor his men. The Indian blood predominated in their actions, and Slim knew them well enough to appreciate this fact. Bill Smith squatted down and offered his tobacco to Pablo, but it was refused.

“Well, what do yuh know, Pablo?” queried Slim, after a long interval of silence.

Pablo spat and rubbed his chin. Then--“Tucson Charley dead.”

“Huh?”

Slim removed his cigaret slowly, wonderingly.

“Deader’n ----!” said Mike John.

“Tucson Charley dead?” grunted Slim.

“---- right!” grunted Pablo nodding violently.

“Pretty ---- dead,” observed Mose Dickey without emotion.

“Sounds like a settled fact,” observed Bill Smith.

“What killed Tucson Charley?” asked Slim.

“Horse kick ’m,” said Pablo.

“Men say horse kill ’m,” corrected Mose Dickey.

“Um-m,” said Pablo.

“’Pears to be a difference of opinion, Slim,” observed Bill.

Pablo got to his feet and motioned for them to follow him. They filed into the house where they viewed the remains of Tucson Charley, laid out on a sagging cot, covered with a gaudy blanket.

“He’s dead,” said Pablo softly.

“Deader’n ----!” said Mike John, with finality.

“Where did it happen, Pablo?” asked Slim, as Bill Smith made a close examination of the dead man’s head.

“Antelope.”

Pablo hooked his thumbs over his belt and nodded slowly: “Charley he go town yesterday. Men say he got ---- drunk. I guess that right, too. Find ’m this morning by hitch-rack.”

“Pretty ---- dead,” added Mose Dickey.

“Got drunk, fell into the bronc and got kicked in the head, eh?” said Slim.

“Men say so,” agreed Pablo.

“His horse?” asked Bill Smith.

“---- right,” nodded Pablo. “Men bring horse, too.”

“Where’s the horse?” asked Bill Smith.

“Jus’ pinto horse,” said Mose Dickey.

“Down by corral.”

He jerked his thumb in that direction.

Slim and Bill walked outside and looked down toward the tumble-down corral, where the pinto horse was still tied to the fence.

“Let’s take a look at it, Slim,” suggested Bill.

Pablo and Mose Dickey followed them down and watched Bill Smith throw his sombrero at the pinto’s heels. The animal jumped ahead, whirled and pulled back, but did not kick. Bill spoke softly to the animal, moved in close and soothed it. After working around it for a while he was able to examine its hoofs.

“That’s a pretty good horse, Pablo,” said Bill after he had finished his examination.

Pablo grinned and nodded quickly. There were four more pinto horses inside the corral and Bill looked them over.

“You like pinto horses?” asked Pablo.

“Yeah, I like ’em--in a circus,” replied Bill seriously.

“I sell you good one--mebbe,” said Pablo.

“Mebbe,” grinned Bill.

They went back to the house and squatted in the shade, but this time Pablo accepted Bill Smith’s tobacco.

“You got plenty white-faced cows, Pablo,” said Slim. “Market bad now. Meat not much good, skin small price. How much you want for white-faced cows?”

Pablo thought this over for quite a while, alternately squinting at Slim and looking down at the ground. Then, his decision: “No trade now. Too sad, you _sabe_? Gotta bury Tucson Charley.”

“Sure,” agreed Slim. “We talk ’nother time, eh?”

“Um-m.”

“Goin’ to have a preacher, ain’t yuh?” asked Bill Smith.

“What for preacher?” queried Pablo blankly.

“They don’t _sabe_ that,” said Slim before Bill had a chance to explain. “Let’s go home before they wish a shovel on to us.”

They got on their horses and rode away, without even saying good-by to the Paint Pot outfit.

“No use talkin’ business to ’em,” stated Slim. “They’re all in mournin’ now, don’tcha know it? I _sabe_ ’em, Smith. They don’t act a danged bit mournful but, I’ll tell yuh right now, they feel bad. Mebbe they’re just a tough bunch of hombres, but they’ve been together a long time and this hits ’em hard. Tucson Charley wasn’t worth the rope it would take to hang him; but right now they all think he was the finest jigger that ever lifted a cow-critter.”

* * * * *

They swung out through a coulée, cutting across a hog-back ridge, when Slim drew up his horse and looked back. A rider was swinging in toward the ranch, coming from the south. The rider was only about five hundred yards away, traveling slowly.

“By golly, I’ll betcha that’s Della Marsh!” exclaimed Slim, and then turned to explain who Della Marsh was.

“That horse belongs to the livery-stable in Antelope,” declared Slim, “and Della Marsh works for the bank down there. Now, what in ---- is she doin’ at the Paint Pot?”

“We better go back there and find out, eh?” suggested Bill Smith. “That’s no place for a girl, Slim.”

“We’ll sure do that little thing--and it ain’t. C’mon.”

They turned and rode back in a hurry. The girl had dismounted and was talking to Pablo. She looked curiously at them, as they rode up and swung off their horses. Their coming had put her in an embarrassing position, and even Pablo grinned sourly at them.

“We seen yuh comin’, Della,” said Slim, “and I wanted yuh to meet my friend Smith.”

They looked at each other for several moments and Della held out her hand to Bill Smith.

“I am glad to meet you,” she said softly, as their hands met.

Bill Smith mumbled something. He hardly knew what he was saying, because it seemed so ridiculous to be introduced to a girl he had known for years. Unconsciously he squeezed her hand and she drew away from him.

“How come you ride away out here, Della?” asked Slim.

“Why--” she brushed a lock of hair away from her eyes and smiled at him--“I don’t know. It just happened, I suppose.”

“She want see Tucson Charley,” offered Pablo blandly. “She know he dead.”

“Yes, I heard he had been killed,” said Della quickly.

“She want look in his pocket,” stated Mose Dickey.

“Huh?” Slim was interested.

Della flushed for a moment, but her cheeks grew pale. She did not want to tell Slim and this stranger what she expected to find in Tucson Charley’s pockets.

“Look in his pocket?” muttered Slim wonderingly. “What for?”

“She no say,” Pablo shook his head.

Slim turned to Della--

“Has Tucson Charley got somethin’ in his pocket that yuh want?”

“I----”

She hesitated for a moment. She could hardly tell it all to Slim Whelan, because Slim was one of the men who had sent Tex to the penitentiary. Still, she had known Slim for years, and liked him.

“I don’t know,” she finished truthfully.

“Well, by golly, we’ll sure find out!” blurted Slim and went into the house.

Pablo acted as if he might object to this, but let it pass. He knew that Slim would not take kindly to objections.

Della made no move to follow Slim; so Bill Smith stayed with her. Pablo went to the doorway and watched inside, while Slim made a search of the corpse.

“You work in the bank, Miss Marsh?” asked Bill.

“Yes,” nervously watching the doorway.

“Bank belongs to Mott, don’t it?”

She nodded shortly. Slim was coming out, rubbing his hands on his hips. The job had not been to his liking.

“Ain’t got a thing in his pockets, Della,” he declared, “I even felt inside his shirt-front, and I’m plumb glad that my folks never raised me to be an undertaker.”

“Nothing in his pockets.”

Della squinted painfully. It meant that some one had that note. She looked at the blank expression on Pablo’s face, wondering whether or not he knew about Tex. She felt that Tucson Charley would hardly know it alone.

“You better set down on the steps, Della,” urged Slim. “You look so dog-gone white around the gills.”

“I’m all right,” she protested, “I--I think I will go now.”

She turned to her horse and Slim helped her mount.

“We’ll ride down the road a ways with yuh, Della,” said Slim. “We’re goin’ in that direction.”

She rode slowly away and they overtook her in a short distance.

“You hadn’t ought to come out here alone, Della,” said Slim. “Pablo and his gang may be all right, but it ain’t no place for a girl to come alone.”

Della nodded, but did not reply. Slim lifted himself in his stirrups and glanced back toward the Paint Pot as he swung his horse in closer to her.

“Listen here, Dell,” he said softly, “you can trust me and Smith. Tell us what Tucson Charley had that you wanted, and we’ll get it just as sure as ---- made little apples.”

“You couldn’t, Slim,” she replied. “Whoever has it will keep it, I think.”

“Not if I know what it is,” declared Slim. “Tell us what to look for, Della.”

Della stared at the bobbing ears of her horse and tried to make up her mind what to say. Some one had that note. It would be no secret now, unless it fell into the hands of some one who was a friend of Tex Rowland. Perhaps, she thought, that note was already on its way to the sheriff. There was a big reward offered for Tex, payable on information that would lead to his recapture.

She knew that Slim had not helped to send Tex to the prison on any personal grievance. They had been friends for a long time, and Slim was only doing what any other cattleman would have done.

“Yuh goin’ to tell us?” queried Slim.

“I think I will, Slim,” she said slowly. “Tucson Charley brought me a note yesterday. I scribbled a line on it and gave it back to him to return to the man who wrote it. I know that Tucson Charley did not return it, and I thought he might still have it in his pockets.”

“I kinda understand,” nodded Slim. “It was a note, eh? Well, who wrote it, Della?”

“Tex Rowland.”

Bill Smith jerked up on his reins so quickly that the half-broke horse reared and whirled off the road. In a moment he had it under control--and himself, too.

“Tex Rowland, eh?” grunted Slim, as Bill swung in beside him again. “Well, I’ll be darned! Tucson brought you a note from him, eh? Tex didn’t say where he was, did he, Della?”

“No, he didn’t say, Slim. But he must be close to Antelope. If the sheriff gets hold of that note he will probably search. Tex said he had been hurt, but was getting along better now. But he is broke and needs money badly.”

“Have yuh any idea who got the note?” asked Bill Smith.

“No. I don’t know who found Tucson Charley this morning. Somebody brought him out here to the Paint Pot. He must have had the note in his pocket when he was killed, because he did not leave town after he came to see me.”

“We’ll see if we can find out a few things in town,” said Slim. “If I can find out who got that note, I’ll sure ride ’em ragged until they give me that note.”

“Let me do some of the ridin’, Slim,” said Bill Smith. “I’m kinda interested in it, too.”

Della shot a glance of gratitude to the stranger, who was willing to assist her, but he was looking straight ahead and did not see it. He was trying to puzzle out a reason for any one writing a note to her and signing his name.

Della went straight to the livery-stable, while Slim and Bill tied their horses at the Fashion hitch-rack and went into the saloon. Big Jim Mott was standing in front of a restaurant across the street and watched them ride into town. After Slim and Bill had gone into the saloon, Big Jim crossed the street and came in behind them.

It did not take Slim long to find out that Tucson Charley had been found at daylight by Pete Sutherland, the blacksmith, and old Ase Bradley. They had notified others, including the doctor, and Pete had driven the team that hauled Tucson’s body out to the Paint Pot.

Slim and Bill had a drink and then went to the blacksmith shop, where they found Pete repairing a broken wagon-spring.

“---- road was rough,” explained Pete wearily. “Broke a spring.”

“Kinda bumpy ridin’ for the corpse, wasn’t it?” grinned Slim.

“Well, he didn’t complain any,” laughed Pete, wiping the perspiration off his brow and sitting on his anvil.

“You found him, didn’t yuh?” queried Slim.

“Yeah--me and old Ase. He was almost under that pinto, and it’s a wonder that the pinto didn’t walk him into the ground.”

“Yeah, it is, at that,” agreed Slim. “But he wasn’t cut up any. What do yuh do, when yuh find a dead man, Pete? Go through his pockets and all that?”

“Well, we didn’t,” grinned Pete. “Yuh see, we knowed Tucson so well that we didn’t have to investigate him thataway.”

“I suppose the doctor investigated,” said Bill.

“Nothin’ except to look him over and tell us what we already knew. If Tucson carried any cree-den-shuls in his pockets, they’re still in ’em--unless Pablo or his gang cleaned him out.”

“They look like they might,” laughed Bill.

They went back to their horses, no wiser than when they came to town. It was evident that no one had searched Tucson Charley, unless, as Pete had said, Pablo or his gang might have done it.

“Which they didn’t,” declared Slim. “Them three breeds ain’t goin’ to do a thing like that. They wouldn’t touch him on a bet. If Tucson had a hundred dollars in his pants pocket, and Pablo knew it was there, it would be buried with the corpse.”

They rode back to the XO-Bar-5, arriving there in time for supper. Crane was already eating his meal, while the half-breed, Alice Spotted Horse, shuffled back and forth from table to stove, attending to his wants.

“How’d the pow-wow come out?” asked Crane, as they sat down.

Alice had stopped and was looking at them. It was then that Slim realized what the news would mean to her. He looked at Bill Smith, who had also realized the same thing. Crane felt that something was not exactly right and waited for Slim to explain.

“This is goin’ to be just too ---- bad,” said Slim softly. And then he spoke directly to Alice----

“Alice, I’ve got some bad news for yuh.”

She blinked and stared at him. Perhaps she did not understand what he meant. He was always joking with her.

“Tucson Charley got killed last night, Alice.”

She frowned slightly. Crane also scowled at Slim. He thought that Slim was joking, too; and it wasn’t a good joke at all.

“Got kicked to death by a horse last night, Crane,” said Bill Smith softly.

Alice lifted a hand and brushed a stringer of black hair out of her eyes. She was beginning to realize what Slim had said.

“Tucson Charley?” she asked thickly.

“Yeah, Alice. Horse kicked him last night. Too bad.”

“Last night?” She was not looking at them now. Her eyes had closed tightly for a second, but now she was staring over their heads.

“Yeah, last night,” said Slim.

“Horse kick Tucson Charley? He dead now?”

“Yeah, Alice,” softly.

“I be ----!”

She barely breathed it. Her right hand came up to brush away the stringer of hair again, but stopped and fell back at her side.

“I be ----!”

Then she turned around to the stove and picked up a skillet. The three men looked at each other and then looked away. Alice turned and looked at Bill Smith. In one hand she held the skillet and in the other an egg. She indicated the skillet and made a motion toward it with the egg. She wanted to know if he would like to have eggs for supper. Indians are not the stoics that some would like to believe; and anyway, Alice was half-breed. As Bill Smith watched her pantomime, a tear rolled down her cheek.

Quickly she turned away, but not before they had all seen the tears. Bill got to his feet and stepped away from the table.

“Aw, ----! I don’t want any supper,” he grunted.

“Me neither,” said Slim softly.

Crane got up and the three of them filed outside. Bill glanced back into the kitchen. Alice Spotted Horse was standing at the stove, skillet and egg in her hands, staring into space.

“She didn’t see us go out,” said Bill Smith softly.

“No-o-o, I don’t reckon she did,” agreed Slim. “I seen that squashed aig runnin’ out between her fingers, Bill. Death sure does raise ---- with love thataway.”

“And it’s like a ---- rattler; it don’t care who it bites,” said Crane sadly. “She’ll go out into the hills pretty soon. The Injun blood is stronger than the white thataway. She’ll wail all night, I betcha; but she’ll go where we can’t hear her.”

“And about that time we’ll swipe the coffee-pot and make us a feed in the bunkhouse,” opined Slim. “The Lord must ’a’ handed me a soft spot for other folks’ grief; but he also handed me a man-sized stummick. How about you, Smith?”

“Well, I don’t want any eggs,” replied Bill. “They’ll always remind me of that Injun girl, tryin’ to keep from cryin’. It took her quite a while to get it; but when she did, she sure got it all in a bunch.”

“She’s goin’ out,” whispered Crane. “I said she would, didn’t I?”

* * * * *

Alice Spotted Horse came out the front door of the house, turned to the right and started off up a trail which led into the hills.

She had thrown a colored blanket around her shoulders and over her head, making her a blotch of color against the gray of the hill. Straight up the trail she went, never looking back. They watched her until the color of the blanket blended into the dim distance of the hills.

“It’s just too danged bad, that’s all,” said Slim, as they turned away. Neither of the others commented on it in any way.

“We saw Della Marsh today, Crane,” continued Slim. “By ----, I feel like a dirty pup every time I see her. We didn’t do anything wrong when we sent Tex Rowland to the pen; but right now I wish to gosh we hadn’t ’a’ done it.”

“Yeah, I suppose we might ’a’ done different,” agreed Crane. “But there was so danged much stealin’ goin’ on.”

“Has it quit since he was sent up?” asked Bill Smith.

“Yeah, I think it has. Still, I dunno. I signed that petition to have Tex pardoned.”

“I sure did,” added Slim quickly.

“Was there a petition to have him pardoned?” queried Bill.

“Sure,” nodded Crane. “Everybody in the country signed it. This Marsh girl rode all over the county gettin’ signers. Every man on his jury signed it. By golly, a woman sure can work on the sympathy of a cowpuncher.”

Bill Smith squinted painfully and busied himself with making a cigaret.

“I don’t _sabe_ why Tex made a getaway like he did,” commented Slim. “It was almost a cinch he’d get out on parole, even if he didn’t get pardoned. Della must a wrote him about it. If she didn’t, I’ll betcha old Rory McPherson did.”

“Mebbe Tex didn’t have no faith left,” offered Crane. “It was a queer move for him to make, anyway, considerin’ what his friends were doin’ for him. If they catch him now, they sure won’t pardon him very quick.”

“Well, let’s not dwell on any more grief tonight,” said Slim, “I’ll get that coffee-pot right now.”

Slim and Crane went into the house, while Bill Smith went slowly down to the bunk-house. He knew now what Old Hump Sherrill had meant when he spoke about a pardon. The old man had known that a movement was under way, but had had no chance to tell him.

And for some reason McHague, the warden, had stolen Tex Rowland’s letters; letters from Della and possibly from Rory McPherson, telling him of what they were doing for him. And now some one was using his name in writing notes to Della Marsh.

“Kinda makes me wonder if I am Tex Rowland,” he declared to himself. “I don’t look a bit like him, that’s a cinch. And I’ll never be able to prove who I am. But I sure hope that I run across this jigger who signs Tex’s name to letters. If he’s Tex Rowland, I’ll sure recognize him. And if he is, who in ---- am I?”

He turned and stared off across the dim hills. Somewhere out there a half-breed woman was wailing out her grief over a lost sweetheart, and his sympathy went out to her.

“We’re almost in the same fix, Alice,” he said softly. “You’ve got a chance to wail yours out all to once; but I’ve got to stick around, like a danged ghost, and just look on, that’s all.”

Slim was coming down from the kitchen, carrying a coffee-pot and some tin dishes that jangled softly. Bill Smith broke off his musings and went to meet him.