Guardians of the Sage (2 page)

“He's dead!” Letty gasped, unable to look away.

“No danger of that,” her father said sourly. “It's the horse that's dead. They're cheap enough, but it's a waste of good money to ride them until they drop.”

Before Tracey could climb through the window, the man sat up. He shook his head as though to clear it and then got to his feet. He was tall, and thin, almost to emaciation.

Old Henry bit at the ends of his stubby mustache. “Hunh,” he muttered with genuine surprise. “That's Mr. Case of the South Fork ranch, isn't it?”

He always addressed his foreman as Mister. It was equivalent to knighthood with Bar S men.

“It's Judd as sure as shooting!” Tracey exclaimed. He turned to the old man, and his eyes were suddenly grave. “What's he doin' way over here?”

The owner of the Bar S dropped his ever-handy note-books into his pocket. Judd Case had been working for him for years. The man was altogether too level-headed to have ridden fifty miles over nothing at all.

“I daresay it won't be anything pleasant,” he muttered glumly. “Good news doesn't travel fast like that.”

From the conversation without, they knew Judd was not seriously hurt. The Willow Vista men started back to their quarters. A moment later, the foreman of the South Fork ranch limped into the dining-room.

Old Slick-ear looked him over as though he hoped to discover the reason for his presence there even before Case could speak. Failing in that, he put his question into words. “What is it, Mr. Case?” he asked abruptly.

“Certainly glad to find ya here,” Case replied. “Mind if I sit down? Got shook up a little.” Now that he had arrived he seemed strangely unexcited. He nodded to Tracey. “Hi, Joe? And you, Miss Letty?” Unhurried, he turned to Stall once more. “I was afraid you and Miss Letty might have gone back to the Quinn River ranch, on your way south.” He paused momentarily, hunting for words. “I came a right smart ways to-day, Mr. Stall. I was in Wild Horse this morning.”

“Wild Horse?” the old man grunted incredulously. The others did not try to conceal their surprise. Wild Horse was a shipping point on the Oregon Short Line, and well across into Idaho. Ordinarily, it was considered a hard two-day trip.

But most of the Bar S beef was driven south to the Southern Pacific at Winnemucca. So, although Wild Horse was a county seat, being in Idaho, Stall and Matlack had little or no business there. That little was confined to the Government Land Office where the deputy commissioner for the Oywhee-Malheur district held forth.

“My blacksmith quit last week,” Judd explained. “I went over to Wild Horse to see if I couldn't hire a new man. I got that attended to last night. I was waitin' around the hotel for breakfast this morning when I run into Clay Quantrell. I guess you know him. He's been freightin' out of Wild Horse and doin' a little ranchin' on the side for two or three years.”

“Yes, I know him,” the old man muttered, and his tone said the memory was not a pleasant one. “What about him?”

“He wanted to know if I'd been over to the land office. Well, I didn't like the way he said it,” Judd went on. “I always figured he was on the other side of the fence where we were concerned. So I waited around until eight o'clock and went up to the commissioner's office. I sure got the news.”

“Come, come, Mr. Case, let's have it!” old Henry exploded, impatiently. He had been making his own deductions the past few moments. “Has it anything to do with Squaw Valley?”

“You guessed it, Mr. Stall! The Government is movin' the Piutes over to Fort Hall next month. The Squaw Valley Reservation is going to be thrown open for sale.”

“Well, well, no fault to find with that!” Letty saw her father rub his hands together like a money-lender. “Finest blue joint grass in Oregon!” he exclaimed. “You know I've had my heart set on it for a long while. This is the best news I've heard in months!” He actually beamed at his men as he pushed back his chair and got to his feet. “Jim Montana is still the deputy commissioner, eh?”

“Yeah,” Judd answered tonelessly.

“When is he going to hold his sale?”

“To-morrow noon on the steps of the court-house in Wild Horse!”

“What . . . To-morrow moon?”

In the silence that followed, the ticking of the clock on the wall sounded loud and oppressive. Letty closed the window. Her father's face was purple with rage.

“Well, I do be damned!” Joe Tracey whipped out as he brought his chair down on all fours with a bang. It so perfectly expressed old Slick-ear's feelings that he offered no reproof, though, as a rule, he objected to profanity. “You sure you got this straight, Judd?”

“Sure I got it straight, Joe. The sale is going to be held to-morrow.”

“But Montana promised to keep me informed,” old Henry stormed. “He was to let me know if anything like this carne up.”

“Well, maybe this is his way of lettin' you know, Mr. Stall,” Judd declared pointedly. “There's no use beatin' about the bush. I know Jim Montana used to work for you here. Don't let that fool you. He don't want the Bar S in Squaw Valley. If he can fix it so that the Crocketts and the Gaults and those other outfits above the reservation can grab that range and split it up between them, he's goin' to do it.”

“But he can't sell an acre of that land without advertising it! The law compels him to do that!”

Judd shook his head wearily. “It's been advertised—and mighty good care has been taken that only the right people saw it.”

Letty's head went up stiffly and her brown eyes glowed with indignation as she faced the foreman of the South Fork.

“Mr Case—you're not accusing Jim Montana of anything underhanded, are you?”

Her father answered for Judd. “Underhanded?” he echoed. “What else can you call it? I've had my eyes on that reservation for ten years, because I can claim water rights in that valley! I always figured some day I'd get it. With my water and that land I'd have a cowman's paradise. Montana knew how anxious I was about it.”

“Maybe he had a reason for changing his mind,” Letty argued.

“What? Are you taking sides against me?” Old Henry's white mustache fairly bristled.

“Of course not, Father.” She did not flinch as she had often seen men do who had thought to cross him.

“Well, you're making excuses for him. What reason do you think he had for changing his mind?”

“Maybe he feels as others do—that you've got range enough in this country. Just being opposed to you doesn't necessarily mean that he's been underhanded about anything. When he worked for you he proved himself a good man. You said so yourself.”

“Pah!” he stormed. “You heard what Mr. Case said, didn't you? I know when I've been tricked. You need not try to defend the man.”

“I'm not,” Letty insisted. “But there's trouble enough here now—and more coming, if I know anything about it. If Jim Montana is trying to keep you out of Squaw Valley it's only because he thinks it's the best thing for all concerned.”

The head of the Bar S had to laugh, and he was not given to mirth as a rule.

“Best for himself, you mean,” he said. “Well, he's had his trouble for nothing.” His manner was serious enough. “I've always had to fight for what I got, and I'm going to fight now.” He turned to Joe Tracey. “You have my grays hitched, Mr. Tracey. I'll be ready by the time you drive up.”

Letty stared at him with fresh concern. “Father, what are you going to do?”

“I'm going to Wild Horse! I'll be there by noon to-morrow!”

“Oh, no,” Letty pleaded. “Father, you're too old to make a hard trip like that——”

“Old?” he thundered. “Hunh! I'm not so old that I'll let Montana put anything over like this on me. Just hurry along, Mr. Tracey.”

Judd started to follow Joe. Old Henry called him back.

“You better get your saddle and bridle, Mr. Case. You can throw them in my rig and ride back with me. That'll save sending a man back with a horse later on.”

Old Slick-ear always knew how to save a day's wages. But he paid the top price, and he expected his men to earn it. His preparations for the long trip were simple. His field equipment in traveling over his ranches consisted of a nightshirt, a toothbrush and his note-books. When he returned to the dining-room, he found Letty waiting for him. Her hat lay on the table beside her.

“Father, you know you can't drive to Wild Horse by noon to-morrow.”

“I don't intend to drive all the way. I'll use the grays as far as the South Fork. I'll get a fresh team there and go on to Mud Springs. I ought to make the Springs by daylight. I'll get a saddle horse from Ed Ducker and go into Wild Horse with time to spare.” Letty was drawing on her gloves. The old man's eyes clouded as he watched her. “Where are you going?”

“With you,” she answered without hesitation.

“Hunh?” he grunted, his jaws working nervously. “Say, look here, Letty, this isn't any lark: I don't mind your defying me around here; but I'm not taking you into Wild Horse. It's a hard trip—hard even for a man.”

“If you can stand it I can,” she assured him.

“But you don't belong in business of this sort. There'll be a crowd there—maybe trouble!”

“That's just why I'm going. You know what the feeling is against you. Do you think I'd let you go alone?”

“I don't intend to go in alone,” she was surprised to hear him say. “I'm going to have Mr. Tracey send word to Furnace Creek. I'll have them and the South Fork men to back me up. Squaw Valley is going to the highest bidder—and I don't intend to be cheated out of it!”

Letty's face paled. If she had needed anything to confirm her fears, she had it now.

“There you are!” she exclaimed. “You've given yourself away! You wouldn't be drawing men in if you didn't expect trouble. I tell you, I'm going with you, Father!”

They were still arguing the matter when Judd and Tracey drove up in the rig.

“All right,” he grumbled. “If you must go, get a heavy coat. It'll be right cold before sun-up.”

A
LITTLE knot of men stood grouped about the big map on the court-house steps. The land that was to be auctioned off was divided into quarter sections of one hundred and sixty acres. They spoke among themselves, a conscious restraint in their manner. Under the cottonwoods on the court-house lawn, other men waited, tall, lanky, their faces seamed and tanned in the way of desert men. There was a twang to their speech not unlike what one hears in the mountains of Kentucky. It was natural, for these men, or their fathers before them, had come from Kentucky and Tennessee, a hard-fighting race of pioneers who had been breaking the wilderness for generations.

There was a holiday air about their plain clothes; the occasion was important enough to warrant that. From time to time, one or the other would glance at his watch.

Jim Montana, seated at his desk in his office on the second floor, turned from watching them to glance at the clock on the wall. It was only eleven-thirty; half an hour yet before the sale would begin.

The tension that so obviously rested on the men below found an echo in him. There was a set look about his strong mouth, the little laugh lines in the corners straight and uncompromising. His lean jaw, determined enough at any time, jutted out severely.

“No sign of trouble yet,” he mused. “Maybe I'm going to get away with this after all . . . It won't take long.”

Wild Horse was a one-street town. The court-house stood at one end of it. From where he sat, Montana commanded a view of it. There were very few vacant places at the hitchracks in front of the stores and saloons. Saddled horses and rigs of one sort or another lined both sides of the streets. It was Saturday. That always brought people to town. But this was like the Fourth of July. Some men had brought their families with them—women and children to whom even such a place as Wild Horse held excitement and diversion.

Montana had grown up on a ranch; he could appreciate the interest with which three sun-browned boys were regarding the articles on display in the window of Charlie Brown's hardware store.

“This thing to-day is going to mean a lot to them later on—school and better clothes,” he thought.

Across the street an Indian stalked out of the tiny frame shack that served Clay Quantrell as an office for his freight and express business. Montana recognized him. It was young Plenty Eagles. He was not a reservation Indian. Since the snow had gone off that spring, he had been teaming for Quantrell between Wild Horse and the Jordan River Country.

Quantrell came to the door a moment later and called to the Indian, but Plenty Eagles only walked faster. He was making directly for the entrance to the court-house, and it was easy to see that he was enraged over something.

“Looks like a bad day all around for our red brothers,” Jim thought aloud. He shook his head sadly. His sympathy was all with them. He toyed with the freshly stamped letter that lay on his desk. It contained his resignation. He knew forces would be brought to bear against him for what he was doing to-day that would make his dismissal certain. The resignation was just his way of beating those forces to the draw.

He did not regret the stand he was taking. It would make him enemies as well as friends. That seemed rather unimportant just now. “A man's got to play his cards according to the way they're dealt to him,” he thought.

Someone was clumping up the stairs. The door of his office stood open. A moment later, Plenty Eagles stamped in. Clay Quantrell was only a step behind him.

Plenty Eagles was tall for a Piute. He brought a great excitement into the room with him, his piercing black eyes smoking with rage.