Chapter IV

Clint Haverty had told Mary one day that she did not need to worry about her future and he had not even mentioned her in his will. She had nothing now, but she did not complain. Clint Haverty had been more than generous with her, and she was very grateful. The crew of the Lazy H had finished up their first day of the spring count, and the new man, Skeeter Smith, had proved himself a good worker with cattle.

Late in the evening, after the men had eaten, Skeeter drifted around to the front porch, smoking a cigaret, and found Mary sitting there alone.

“Hello,” she said.

Skeeter sat down on one of the steps.

“It’s shore nice around here, Ma’am,” he said.

“I love it,” she said quietly. “It has been my home for eight years. I love the sunsets, the sunrise and the moonlight.”

“They’re pretty,” he admitted. “The boys was tellin’ me about the readin’ of that will, and I’d like to say that I’m sorry.”

“Thank you, Mr. Smith,” she said simply.

“Folks don’t call me mister--I’m Skeet.”

“They don’t call me ma’am either.”

“I reckon we’re even.”

“Is your home in Arizona?” she asked.

“Home? No, I haven’t any home--Mary. Wherever I hang my hat. I’m sort of a pilgrim I reckon.”

“I’ll have to be a pilgrim now, I suppose,” said Mary. “I can’t make this my home much longer. As soon as the will is probated the new owner will take over the Lazy H.”

“Yeah, I reckon that’s how they do it. Life’s a funny thing. Yuh never know what you’ve got--not for sure. Where will yuh go?”

“Oh, I suppose I can find a job--maybe.”

“Yeah, I reckon so. Still, a woman can always marry somebody, and not have to work.”

“I haven’t given much thought to marriage,” she said.

“I didn’t dare to,” grinned Skeeter. “Have you ever seen the feller they’re givin’ the Lazy H to?”

“I came in from Northport on the stage with him.”

“Yeah? What sort of a feller is he, Mary?”

“Oh, just--well, I’d say he was average--as far as I could see. I didn’t know he was the heir to the Lazy H at that time.”

“City feller, I suppose.”

“Oh, yes. He said he had always lived in a city.”

Dell Howard, one of the cowboys, came around the corner.

“Skeet, do yuh want to ride to town with me and Dan?” he asked. Skeeter got to his feet.

“I’ll be with yuh, Dell,” he replied, and to Mary he said:

“Keep yore chin up, Mary. Speakin’ as a drifter, the things yuh worry most about never happen. A feller died once and willed me his socks, but I never got ’em.”

“What happened to them?” asked Mary.

“Oh, nothin’ much. They buried him with ’em on before they read his will. See yuh later.”

Going up the street in Pinnacle City that evening, Skeeter Smith and Dell Howard found Cactus Spears and Jim Bailey talking in front of the hotel. Dell introduced Skeeter to Cactus, who in turn introduced Jim to them.

“Meade, eh? So yo’re the heir to the Lazy H?” Dell asked.

“That’s what they say,” replied Jim. No one had any comments, nor anything else, it seemed to Jim. Dell said:

“I’ll go to the postoffice, before it closes, Skeet,” and went on.

“Glad to have met yuh, Smith,” Cactus said. “I’ve got to go to the office.”

That left Jim Bailey and Skeeter Smith together.

“This happens all the time,” Jim said. “As soon as they find out who I am they leave me alone. They resent me.”

“Don’t feel too bad about it,” advised the tall cowpoke. “If you can prove that yo’re entitled to the property, I don’t see what they can do about it.”

“Something happened last night,” said Jim soberly.

“Yeah, I heard about that at supper tonight. Tellurium was tellin’ us how Archibald got his black eye.”

“It wasn’t funny--not to me.”

“You was prejudiced,” grinned Skeeter.

“One man threatened me with a gun.”

“Yeah, I reckon he did. But that’s nothin’, he didn’t shoot. They resent you takin’ over the Lazy H of course. But if you are entitled to it, why worry? They’ll make yuh prove it.”

“But suppose the court won’t accept my proof?” asked Jim.

“That,” replied Skeeter seriously, “would be too bad. Folks in this kind of country believe the court is right.”

“What do you mean?”

“If the court says yo’re a fraud--they’ll hang yuh.”

“They wouldn’t do that!” exclaimed Jim.

“My friend,” said Skeeter earnestly, “there’s boot-hills made up of tombstones of men who made that same remark and believed they were right. This is no country to doublecross the people. I’ll see yuh later, Mister Meade.”

* * * * *

Jim went back into the hotel and sat down. That was the second warning he had received on a double-cross. If he double-crossed Ed McLean he’d suffer, and if he double-crossed the people, they’d hang him.

“Fifty percent is entirely too little for my job,” he told himself. “I should get it all--and a bonus.”

Still, he mused, fifty percent of a hundred thousand dollars was an awful lot of money. And then the thought struck him that Ed McLean had been all too quick to agree to a fifty-fifty split. It wasn’t what a lawyer would do. Offer ten percent, and then agree to a fifty percent. There was something fishy about the whole thing. Of course, he could understand why McLean did not want any written agreements.

Jim was very careful to lock his room that night, but no one came to mar his slumber.

It was after ten the next morning when Jim Bailey came down from his room. It was very hot in Pinnacle City, and the little hotel lobby was deserted. Jim flung his key on the desk and had turned toward the door when he heard a sound that was very much like a partly muffled shot.

Through the open doorway he could see several men over in front of the Antelope Saloon, looking across the street. Two of them started to cross the street, traveling at a fast pace. At that moment Hank Voigt, the hotelkeeper, skidded around to the entrance of the hotel, and fairly fell into the place.

“Bank robbery!” he exclaimed. “Bank robbery!”

He caught his balance and looked at Jim Bailey.

“Well, do somethin’!” he barked at Jim.

“Do what?” asked Jim, watching more men run from across the street. Hank flopped his arms helplessly.

“Shot at me,” he said in amazement. “Imagine that, will yuh?”

“I shall try, Mr. Voigt.”

“Well--good! You’ll-- There goes the sheriff!”

Jim Bailey walked out and went up to the bank, where a goodly crowd had gathered.

Cactus Spears was trying to keep them out of the bank.

“Thomas Estabrook is prob’ly dead,” he reported. “We’ve sent for the coroner. Now, dang yuh, keep out and give us room!”

No one seemed to know any of the details. Thomas Estabrook was dead, sprawled behind the counter, a gun on the floor beside him. He had apparently tried to defend himself. The robber, or robbers, had left via the rear doorway. No money had been touched, the bandits frightened away after having shot the banker.

Old Hank Voigt said he didn’t see how many men were in there. He had gone to make a deposit, and as he came into the doorway he heard a shot fired. A moment later a bullet blew splinters from a side of the doorway near his head, and he didn’t stop running until he skidded into his own hotel.

Estabrook was alone in the bank at that time, the bookkeeper having gone to Northport to have a tooth repaired. He was expected to be back later in the day. The sheriff closed the bank for the day.

Jim Bailey saw Ed McLean at the bank, but did not get a chance to talk with him. Jim went back to the hotel and sat down on the shaded porch. The town buzzed over the killing of their banker, who was a much respected citizen. McLean sauntered over to the hotel porch and sat down with Jim.

“Well,” he remarked quietly, “there is another coincidence. The one man we feared has been removed.”

“I hadn’t thought about that,” said Jim. “It was a terrible thing.”

“I have some news for you,” said the lawyer. “I had a talk with the judge a while ago. He won’t be back on the bench for another two weeks. We discussed the will, and I suggested that you be allowed to live at the Lazy H, at least, until the will has been probated. The judge said that if I was satisfied that you are the legal heir to the Lazy H, it will be all right for you to take up your residence out there. I said I was satisfied.”

* * * * *

Bailey thought it over for a while.

“Meaning,” he remarked, “that I must be out there with Mary Deal, who--”

“Hang it!” snapped the lawyer. “Can’t you understand that she wasn’t even mentioned in the will? She has no more claim than I have!”

“Pinnacle City seems to think she has, McLean.”

“Hang Pinnacle City!”

“With pleasure, McLean--and Pinnacle City feels the same way about me. I have a feeling that the men at the Lazy H hate me, and if I am out there--I have heard that a broken neck is quite a nuisance.”

“They won’t harm you.”

“Perhaps not. And you would benefit thereby, not having to pay my hotel expenses. Well, after all, why not?”

“Sure,” nodded the lawyer. “If they wanted to hang you they could do it here as well as at the ranch. I’ll take you out there this afternoon. Pack up your stuff.”

Jim Bailey grinned. Pack up his stuff! He could just about carry it all in a folded handkerchief. McLean got to his feet, sighed with relief and promised to be after Jim in a little while.

Old Hank Voigt listened to Jim’s explanation for leaving the hotel. He shook his head sadly.

“I’d like to wish you luck, young man,” he said, “but it’ll take more’n that to help yuh. There’s so many different ways of causin’ a demise around a ranch. Accidental shot, bad broncs, some knot-headed ol’ cow, which recognizes you as the one who took her calf to market--oh, a lot of legitimate ways of openin’ your earthly envelope. But, as I say,--or didn’t I?”

“You said quite a lot, Mr. Voigt.”

“Yeah, I reckon I covered the subject pretty well. Well, if I don’t see yuh again, it’s nice to have knowed yuh, my boy.”

Jim Bailey winced over the handshake--not the physical hurt, but the implied fact that he was rushing in where angels fear to tread.

He tried to grin, as he said, “I shall do my best.”

“I’d advise that yuh get some overalls, boots and a gun, and don’t be too slick-jawed. When yore face starts to itch, that’s time enough to shave.”

“I have never fired a gun, Mr. Voigt,” said Jim. “Why, I might shoot myself--or somebody else.”

“That’s what they’re made for, my boy--somebody else.”

“I would hate to take that chance.”

“You’d hate to take _that_ chance?” Hank Voigt looked at him in amazement. “You--uh--yo’re claimin’ the Lazy H, ain’t yuh?”

“Yeah, I am.”

“Huh! Gaggin’ on a fox-tail and tryin’ to swaller a stack of hay!”

“I don’t believe I understand, Mr. Voigt.”

“You run along and keep claimin’, my boy, and maybe it’ll dawn on yuh some day.”

“Well, thanks, anyway; you’ve been nice to me.”

“You paid and I ain’t cravin’ no cowranch.”