Guardians of the Sage (11 page)

His perturbation tended to confirm what Montana was thinking. His eyes were inscrutable in the cold light of dawn. Seemingly without purpose he shifted around on his feet so that he could catch Reb's reflection on the big silver concho that adorned the skirt of his saddle. It was like gazing into a convex mirror.

What he saw there made his blood run warm. Reb was not armed! He had stuck him up with nothing more formidable than his finger.

Montana repressed his start of satisfaction and stood with hands raised.

“The crowd you're trailin' with took an awful chance in sending you over here,” Reb went on. “But I reckon men who'll send kids out to do their fightin' will stoop to most any thin'.”

“If that was true, I'd feel as you do about it,” Jim replied. “But I tried to stop those boys last night. So did that lad's father. They wouldn't have it that way. It takes a pretty raw deal to steam boys up so they'll ride out in the night willing to get killed to help their folks.” Jim shook his head sadly as his eyes strayed to Gene's lifeless body. “But only seventeen, Reb—and wiped out like that!”

“Don't get teary about it!” Reb muttered. “I got two men on the way to Wild Horse with slugs in 'em. It's a long, rocky road, and the fact that a bunch of boys did the trick won't make it any easier for them. Now you can take that kid back where you found him. If they want him—let the bunch that came over here last night come and get him. I said stay out—and I meant stay out. Get gain', Montana!”

Jim did not offer to move. Johnny would be back with their rifles in a minute. He was not thinking of him. His eyes were fastened on the butt of a six-gun peeping out of Gene Crockett's holster. He knew he could draw it quickly enough. But what if it were empty?

He felt he had to take that chance. His manner did not betray the thoughts racing through his mind.

“I was taking him back to his folks,” he murmured evenly. “I—I reckon I'm not changing my mind!”

His hand flashed out and closed over Gene's gun as he whirled on them.

“It's still my play,” he droned. “Get over there with Ike—and move fast, Reb!”

Reb knew his man—and he stepped aside. In another minute Montana was in the saddle and riding across the flat, away from the rock. He heard Reb call to Johnny Lefleur. If Johnny had recovered his rifle he could pick him off at that distance.

Strangely enough, Montana crossed the creek, five hundred yards away, without a shot being fired.

Back at the rock, Reb was furious.

“Why didn't you pick him off?” he roared. “You had all the chance in the world!”

Johnny scratched his head reflectively.

“No,” he muttered, “if a gent's got guts enough to ride in here and force a showdown like that on us, I ain't gonna send a slug into him just to ease my feelio's.”

I
T WAS well on toward seven o'clock when Montana sighted the little huddle of buildings that was the Box C. He rode slowly, Gene's lifeless body draped across his saddle bow. It was a beautiful blue and white morning, with the faintest of breezes stirring the sage. In the dazzling bright sunlight and clear, tonic air of early morning it was hard to believe that tragedy rode with him.

They would see him, long before he arrived, and know what to expect. He felt sorry enough for Dan and Brent, but it was of Mother Crockett, rather than them, that he was thinking. Gene was her baby and, in the way of mothers, her dreams and hopes had centered about him. Men break the wilderness and other men raise monuments to them, but it is the pioneer mother who bears the brunt of it. He knew it. His own mother had been no exception. Uncomplaining, she had moved down the Snake and on to Oregon, helping her husband to win a home on the range.

She had broken land with him, ridden after stock, with Jim in her arms, doing the work of a man as well as the drudgery of keeping a home together, applying herself with such ingenuity as a man seldom achieves. Neighbors had been non-existent. When, by chance, they moved in, Sam Montana had invariably felt the urge to drift on to a newer country where the opportunities were greater.

For him it had held an avenue of escape. For his wife it had meant only moving on to even greater hardships. Through it all she had continued to smile, following him without question, but hugging to her heart the resolve that Jim's life should be easier than theirs.

“It isn't going to matter to her whether Gene was right or wrong,” he thought. “He's gone, and she's going to find it hard to go on.”

When they saw him coming, Brent and the boys got into their saddles and rode out to meet him. A glance confirmed the fact that Gene was dead. Although no more than they expected, the truth shook their surly defiance, and their faces were white as they turned their horses to ride back with Montana. Brent tried ineffectually to hide his emotion.

“They'll pay for this,” he muttered. “We ain't done with 'em.”

“Hardly the time for talk of that sort,” Jim remonstrated. “You boys had no call to get mixed up in this—at least not yet. If you had listened to your father Gene would be alive.”

“God a'mighty,” Brent burst out, tears running down his cheeks, “yuh don't aixpect us to take ever'thin' they hand us, do yuh?”

“No, Brent, I don't expect you to like what they're dishing out to you,” Montana answered patiently. “But you ought to be smart enough not to let them force your hand. Don't think you can win this fight by shooting it out. As long as Henry Stall can pay wages he can keep on throwing men against you until you're all wiped out. I don't believe in preaching after the trouble's done, but if you boys insist on getting into the fracas I advise you to follow a cooler head than Clay Quantrell. His fire-eating talk is a great brave-maker. It led you into a jack-pot last night, but Quantrell was damned careful to see that he didn't get a slug in his hide. Steaming up a lot of boys and then ducking out at the last minute don't set very well with me. I reckon he'll have a hard time explaining it to your mother.”

It silenced Brent and his companions. They rode along with only the creaking of leather breaking the silence. Presently Montana caught sight of Dan Crockett, waiting at the barn.

“Better ride ahead and tell him, Brent,” Jim said. “Ask him to get your mother out of the kitchen until we carry Gene inside.”

Brent spurred ahead. Montana flashed a glance at the other boys. They were plainly desirous of leaving.

“Better stick it out,” Montana advised. “It may cool you off a little.”

Dan was waiting for them when they reached the house. He was a pitiful figure. Inside, Jim could hear Mother Crockett sobbing out her grief as Brent tried to console her. He got down and started to lift the boy's body down. Dan stopped him.

“I'll take him in, Jim,” he got out with an effort. He couldn't keep back his tears as his hand touched the boy's face. “Gene—my boy—” he mumbled heartbreakingly.

“I better give you a hand, Dan,” Montana insisted. “He's pretty heavy.”

They carried Gene in and laid him on his bed. Jim pulled off the lad's boots and signalled for the boys to step outside. He wanted to comfort the father but he knew the folly of words at such a time.

“Ruther they'd taken the place—ever'thin' we've got than to have had this happen,” Dan mumbled brokenly. “Comes pritty hard, Jim.”

Montana nodded, afraid to trust his voice for the moment.

“I'll send word to the Gaults and Morrows by the boys,” he said. “Mother will feel better for having some women folks around. You've got to bear up, Dan, for her sake now.”

“I—I reckon you're right,” Crockett replied dully. “Seems like trouble is the only thing that ever comes her way. I don't purtend to understand God's wisdom, but He has tried her sore.” He raised his eyes to heaven and whispered a prayer.

“I'll just step out,” Jim volunteered. “I know Mother would like to be alone with him. If there's anything I can do just call me.”

Montana closed the door after him and spoke to the boys. They left at once and he went down to put his horse in the corral and feed it. For half an hour he busied himself doing Brent's chores. That indefinable air of sorrow and silence which seems to brood over a home to which death has come had settled on the ranch.

Even in the barn he could hear Mother Crockett's sobbing. Every time it reached him his gorge rose against Quantrell.

“There'll be a showdown some day,” he promised himself, “and this is just something else I aim to remember.”

Dan came out later. He seemed to have himself well in hand.

“Mother wants you to come in and get your breakfast, Jim,” he said. “It's all ready.”

“Now why did you let her do that?” Montana protested. “I could have made a little coffee.”

“She wouldn't have it that-a-way. The batter was all made; so she fried some cakes for you. She's lying down now. Mrs. Gault ought to be here directly. She's a capable body to have around.”

“Well, I'll go in if you insist,” Jim offered, “but I'm not hungry.”.

“Mebbe you'd best make a meal of it, Jim,” Crockett said. “I'm going to ask you to drive to Wild Horse. Be almost evenin' before you git there. Wouldn't think of askin' it of you after your bein' up half the night if it didn't seem as though you was one of the family.”

“You don't have to say anything like that,” Montana chided him. “I won't mind going at all.”

“I knew you'd say that. Mother says she'd feel better if we had a minister to help lay Gene away. I think Reverend Gare would come if you can find him. He knows we can't pay much.”

“I'll manage to locate him,” Montana assured him. “I ought to be back here by the middle of the afternoon tomorrow.”

“It'll mean pullin' out of Wild Horse long before daylight, Jim. I would appreciate it if you could git here by then. Brent and me will make the box. Mother wants Gene buried among the trees above the Skull. We'll find a pritty spot where he'll be comfortable.”

Neighbors would dig the grave. Later they would carry the coffin on their shoulders to its final resting place. It was grim, even stark, but their very remoteness from those softening influences of civilization permitted no greater ceremony. It was seldom indeed that an ordained minister of the gospel was present to pray for the departed and solace the bereaved.

Dan sat at the table with Montana. He insisted on a detailed account of how Jim had found the boy. Montana told him, making light of his brush with the Bar S men. Crockett was strangely embittered.

“I don't blame them so much for what happened,” he said. “All these boys know how to handle guns. You can't aixpect a man to stand up and let them throw lead at him without shootin' back. It's one life against another. The mistake was in ever lettin' 'em go. Just one man's responsible for this—and you know who he is as well as I do.”

Montana got up and pushed his chair back.

“You bet I do, Dan,” he said, “and some day I'm going to collect in full for it.”

Together they hitched a team to a light rig. When Jim had filled a canvas water-bag and tied it to the end-gate, he was ready to leave.

“The grays will move right along for you,” Dan informed him. “If you happen to think of it you might buy sunthin' for mother. One of them black shawls would be nice. Just ask Mr. Ruchter to charge it to me.”

Montana followed the old reservation road. It took him south to the Malheur and then east by way of the Furnace Creek ranch. It required patience and a liberal amount of faith to believe that this ever-winding road would ultimately bring one to Wild Horse. In the rolling hills east of Furnace Creek it became a never-ending series of switchbacks. When one hill was ascended another rose before you. Beyond it were a hundred others. From the crests, it was possible to look back and locate the spot where you had been an hour gone. With all that country spread out around you, man suddenly became very unimportant, his worries and trials of no consequence.

True to Crockett's prediction the grays moved along without urging. They seemed to have sensed that their destination was Wild Horse, and they suited their gait and stamina to the length of their journey.

The day was not uncomfortably warm but by noon the dust-devils were dancing in the haze that layover the hills and valleys. It was country with which Montana was thoroughly familiar, but as is uniformly the case with outdoor men, each new vista held something of interest to him. He had the road to himself, and the world, too, for that matter, seeing no one, save for a glimpse of a distant rider in the bad lands beyond Cow Creek Butte.

Only those who are familiar with that big country will easily understand his feeling of complete detachment and the sense of pleasant isolation that descended on him. He was able to review the events of the past few days with startling clearness. He had no cause to regret what he had done. On the other hand, he found little to encourage him. Men could best be judged by their past performances. Knowing Henry Stall as he did, he knew the Bar S would not give an inch. Gene's death would solidify the feeling against him below the North Fork. Undoubtedly it would lead to retaliation in kind. The best he could hope for was that the killing of Gene Crockett might so discredit Quantrell that the man would no longer be an important factor in the struggle.

“He'll be ready with a plausible excuse,” he thought, “but people will get the right of this affair last night, and some of them will be suspicious of him.”

In the late afternoon he caught his first glimpse of Wild Horse while still some miles from town. The road was down-hill now and the horses began to move faster. His coming attracted little attention. He drew up before the sheriff's office and tied the team. He looked inside for Rand and was disappointed to find him out. There seemed to be an unusual amount of excitement around the railroad corrals at the other end of the town. He was about to walk down when Graham Rand came out of the courthouse. Graham hailed him and they repaired to his little office.