Longhorn Empire (8 page)

Some of the fear left the girl’s eyes. “And—and I know you,” she said. “You’re the cowboy who had the fight there. You’re—you’re
Austin Brant!”

“That’s right,” Brant replied. “And you’re Verna Loring, old Nate’s niece. Say, what in blazes is going on hereabouts? What’s
the notion, skalleyhootin’ around over the prairie like you were trying to outrun your shadow, and throwin’ down on folks?
And what was that shooting about over the other side of the sag?”

“If—if you’ll just let me breathe—a little—I’ll try and tell you,” Verna Loring gasped in reply.

Brant suddenly realized he was still holding her much tighter than the occasion now warranted. He colored beneath his tan,
loosening his hold. Swinging down lithely from the saddle, he set her on her feet. She swayed slightly, and he slid his arm
back around her slim waist to steady her. He noted absently that her curly head came barely to his shoulder.

“Feel better?” he asked anxiously. “Aren’t hurt any way, are you?”

“No, I’m not hurt,” she replied. “You just about squeezed the life out of me, that’s all.”

“Had to do something,” Brant grinned. “That
is, if I wanted to keep any hide on my face. You were giving me a right smart going over.”

“I’m sorry,” Verna said contritely, “but I was so terribly frightened. I thought you were another of those men.”

“What men?”

“The men who shot at me.”

“Shot at you! You mean to tell me some sidewinder took a shot at a woman!”

“I don’t think they realized I was a woman,” Verna replied. “My hat was pulled down over my hair, and I wasn’t very close
to them. It fell off when my horse ran away.”

“Uh-huh, you do look sort of like a boy in those overalls—from a distance,” Brant admitted. “Sort of cute, though.”

Verna blushed and hurried on with her story.

“I was taking a ride this morning,” she said. “I rode farther from the ranch
house than I ever did before. Over the other side of that hill I saw two men beside a little fire. There was a calf or a young
cow lying on the ground near them. They were doing something to it.”

“Blotting or altering a brand, the chances are,” Brant interrupted grimly.

“I don’t know,” the girl replied. “But when I rode toward them, one of them waved his hat at me.”

“Uh-huh,” Brant remarked, even more grimly, “wavin’ you ’round! When a cow thief is at a fire, working over a brand or running
a brand and a jigger comes riding along, he waves his hat in a half-circle from left to right, that means ‘stay the heck away
from here if you don’t want to stop hot lead!’ Then what happened?”

“I thought it was a couple of our boys,” Verna said. “I kept on riding toward them, and one of them shot at me. The bullet
struck my horse. He squealed and jumped and nearly threw me. Then he whirled around and ran. I tried to stop him, but couldn’t.
I couldn’t do a thing with him. Then I saw you riding toward me and I was terribly frightened. I had the pistol Uncle Nate
told me to carry so I drew it and fired at you.”

“Uh-huh, so I noticed,” Brant nodded dryly, caressing his sore ribs.

“I’m sorry,” the girl said contritely, “terribly sorry. The bullet didn’t strike you, did it?”

“Nothing to pay any mind to,” Brant returned lightly. “But if it had been a couple of inches to the right, well, I reckon
you would have gone down that cutbank along with your horse.”

“And I haven’t even thanked you for saving my life,” Verna exclaimed remorsefully.

“Was a plumb plea sure,” Brant returned. “I’d like to have the chore of doing it every day.”

“Well, I wouldn’t like to go through the experience, every day,” Verna declared with feeling. “My poor horse. I’m afraid he
is killed.”

“ ’Pears like it,” Brant replied, glancing toward the sprawled brown shape a little ways up the draw. “I’ll take a look. Want
to get your saddle off, anyhow.”

He walked to where the horse lay. A little later he returned, carrying the saddle and bridle.

“Busted his neck,” he said. “It was a good thing, though. Chances are you would have had to shoot him. He was bad hurt. That
slug hit him in the flank.” His eyes were coldly gray as he spoke, his face bleak.

“I’d sure like to line sights with those sidewinders,” he said. “If that slug had been a little higher—” he broke off without
finishing the sentence. But Verna Loring understood what was implied, and shuddered. She glanced up fearfully at the growth
fringed lip of the draw.

“You—you don’t think they might come— looking for us?” she asked.

“Wish they would—I’d like to get a look at them,” Brant replied. “No chance, though. Reckon they hightailed in a hurry as
soon as they slid their ropes off that critter. Well, I’ve a notion this draw peters out up to the north and we can get topside
again. Reckon we might as well be moving.”

He lashed Verna’s rig behind his own saddle. Then he mounted Smoke and held the girl in front of him. Smoke offered no objections
to the double load and Verna appeared content to travel that way. Brant was eminently satisfied with the arrangement and let
Smoke take his time. With the result that it was well along in the afternoon when they at last reached the Bar O ranch house.

Old Nate Loring gave Brant a warm welcome. He swore luridly when acquainted with the day’s happenings.

“I’m beginnin’ to wonder if I was so smart, after all, to come to this section,” he growled. “Oklahoma was gettin’ bad enough,
but this ’pears to be worse and gettin’ no better fast. There was a bad shootin’ over to town the other night. Two jiggers
planted in Boot Hill and another one in a bad way.”

Brant nodded soberly. “I’m afraid this is just the beginning,” he said. “We’re in for more trouble
and soon. The ranges are too crowded down in the skillet. The Panhandle is the natural outlet. They’re headed this way from
the Brazos country, from the Nueces, the Trinity, the Colorado rainsheds. Right now the real big spreads are in central and
south Texas. But soon the Panhandle is going to see such outfits as have never been known in Texas before. Things are going
to boom, but it isn’t going to last. Nesters and small owners and homesteaders and grangers are already beginning to come.
More and more of them will come. The big spreads will be cut up into farms and townships. And everywhere you look there’ll
be wire.”

“You really believe it?” old Nate asked, skeptically.

“Yes,” Brant replied, “I do. The oldtimers don’t. They say the grassland will never change. They’re wrong. The change is taking
place right under their noses, only they can’t see it. But in the end it’ll be a change for the better. There’ll be law and
order, homes, better cows, and better markets. But there’ll be hell a-plenty first.”

Old Nate shook his grizzled head. He glanced at his niece who was listening, wide-eyed.

“Scairt I shouldn’t have brought you inter such a section, younker,” he said.

“I’m glad you did,” the girl returned sturdily. “This is a growing country, and I want to grow with it. I like it here.”

“It’s sure getting to be a nicer and nicer country to be in, all the time,” Brant declared heartily. Old Nate chuckled. For
some reason, Verna blushed.

Included among the comfortable furnishings of the Bar O ranch house was, to Brant’s surprise, a small piano.

“Packed it all the way here by wagon,” old Nate chuckled. “Verna insisted on bringin’ it. Had one dickens of a time keepin’
it from gettin’ wet and spiled crossin’ the rivers, but there she is, all roped and hawgtied. I’m goin’ out to the kitchen
to help the cook stir his stumps. Mebbe Verna’ll play you some music.”

So Verna Loring played for him, while the shadows lengthened, the sky flamed scarlet and gold above the western hills, and
the hush of evening descended on the rangeland.

Brant declined a pressing invitation to spend the night at the Bar O.

“Want to be back at the spread in the morning,” he told his host. “Lot of chores that need looking after.”

He rode home beneath the stars, the rangeland a blue and silver mystery blanketed in silence. As he rode, he whistled gaily,
or sang snatches of love songs in a voice that caused Smoke to flatten his ears and snort in abject dismay.

Brant had plenty to do. Among other things, he made a careful survey of the cows on the spread in order to ascertain the possibility
of another trail herd without delay. In the course of this activity he learned things that caused his black brows to draw
together.

“You’re right, we’re losing critters,” he told his range boss. “More than I’d figured on. Not only calves, but a heap of prime
beef critters. We’ve got to organize regular line riding, night and day. We can’t afford the losses we’re suffering. I sure
wish the Old Man and the rest of the boys would get back pronto.”

A week later, much to Brant’s relief, old John Webb and the outfit roared into camp.

“Everything went hunky-dory,” said Webb after he and Brant had shaken hands. “I got a sight more for the remuda than I’d hoped
for. Shanghai Pierce sure did me a good turn. Incidentally, he sent regards to you. A nice feller, old Shang.”

Brant was counting noses. He missed a familiar face.

“Where’s Cole Dawson?” he asked abruptly.

Webb shrugged his big shoulders. “Damned if I know,” he replied. “He came to me
the morning
you rode out of town and asked for his time. Said he calc’lated to stick around Dodge for a spell. Said he might have a try
at buffalo hunting for a change. Ain’t seen him since. Just as well. He’s been on the prod for quite a while, and he sure
wasn’t better at all after you hauled him out of the Cimarron at the Crossin’, and then saved his hide in Dodge. Feller would
think you’d handed him a dirty deal of some sort, instead of savin’ his wuthless carcass. He’s a queer jigger.”

“But a mighty good cowman,” Brant interjected.

“Uh-huh,” agreed Webb, “but I can get plenty of them without havin’ to put up with Cole’s loco notions. I’m glad he drew his
wages. By the way, speakin’ of pesky critters, I saw that big feller Doran up at the Crossin’, the one they say owns the Deadfall.
He was in a helluva shape. All stove up. Had one arm in a sling and was walkin’ with a cane.”

“Must have fallen down and hurt himself,” Brant commented.

“Uh-huh,” Webb returned dryly, “off a cliff, from the looks of him.”

Another busy week followed. Brant had plenty to do, but he did manage to find time to drop in at the Bar O ranch house a couple
of times. Old Nate was glad to see him, and Verna did not appear particularly displeased. One day Nate Loring rode part of
the way back to the Running W with his young friend. In the course of the ride, Nate discussed something that caused Brant
to do some serious thinking. They were inspecting a bunch of Loring’s longhorns, estimating their weight for possible shipping.

“There’s too much length and bone in those darn critters,” Loring remarked. “You don’t get the meat off their carcasses you
should, and meat is what brings in the money. Reminds me of somethin’ up in Oklahoma. A feller up there from back East owns
a little spread. Bought it when he came west. Raised critters up in New En gland, he said. Well, that feller, Tom Sutton,
sent back East for some bulls like what he used to handle there. He called ’em Herefords. Well, he crossed them Herefords
with Longhorn cows and them crosses showed a weight of three hundred pounds and better more than critters from a scrub bull.
That feller had a notion. Might work down here, if a jigger could just get the bulls. But them Herefords don’t travel well
over rough country—their hoofs won’t take it. Reckon folks hereabouts will hafta wait until the railroads come along before
they try anything like that.”

Brant nodded, his eyes thoughtful. “You happen to know that feller?” he asked.

“Uh-huh,” Loring replied, “know him well. Nice feller.”

“Reckon he has quite a few of those Hereford bulls on hand by now.”

“Uh-huh, reckon he has. He brought them in and some other bulls he called Galloways. Kept his pure stock bunch up that way.”

Brant nodded again, but did not pursue the conversation. He had already learned, in the course of talks with Loring, from
just where in Oklahoma the old man originated.

Another busy week followed. Then, one morning, John Webb received some disquieting news.

“A nester’s moved in down on the southwest
range,” one of his line riders informed Webb. “He’s shoved in a big herd and is buildin’ a ranch house. Got a salty lookin’
bunch of hands with him.”

Webb let out a roar of rage. He summoned Austin Brant and half a dozen of his most trustworthy hands.

“We’ll just see about this,” he raged as they saddled up. “No blankety-blank nester is goin’ to squat on my range. I got enough
troubles without that. Come on, you hellions, stir your stumps. We got things to do.”

South by west they rode, at a fast clip. As they drew nearer the location in question, a peculiar sound reached their ears,
coming from beyond a long straggle of thicket they were paralleling. It was a metallic whining and creaking, punctuated by
a rhythmic clicking which Brant soon catalogued as the ring of axes on wood. They rounded the thicket and came upon a scene
of great activity.

Over to the left was a fairly deep and narrow canyon, one of the many off-shoots of the Palo Duro. From its wooded depths
came the clang of axes. On the near lip were clustered a number of men.

“Cutting timber down in the gulch and bringing it to the surface with wire pulleys,” Brant said. “Look, there goes a wagonload
now.”

Rumbling across the prairie some distance ahead was a huge wagon drawn by eight horses. It was loaded with newly cut logs.
Even as the Running W outfit drew near, a ponderous log came dangling up the canyon wall at the end of a long cable drawn by
a windlass on the lip of the gorge.

“No sod huts for that jigger, whoever he is,”
Brant apostrophised the nester. “He’s going in for a regular casa. Means business.”

“I’ll business him!” growled old John, glaring at the workers on the canyon lip, who had paused from their labors and were
silently watching the approaching troop.

Brant said nothing. He had an uneasy premonition that Webb might run into considerable difficulty in the pro cess of “businessing”
the unknown nester.

The Running W bunch did not pause at the scene of operations on the canyon lip.

“They’re just hired hands—no use argifyin’ with them,” Webb said. “I want to do my talkin’ to the jigger responsible for this.”

Following the course taken by the wagon, they rode on. Soon they sighted a low rise whereon grew scattered trees. On the crest
of this rise the walls of a ranch house were already rising. Webb snorted like a steer tangled in a cactus patch. He quickened
the pace of his horse. In a compact body the Running W outfit charged up the hill.

As they drew near, they noted two men sitting their horses a little to one side of some construction and watching their approach.
One was a huge man, massive with the solid massiveness of a granite block. His companion was slender and sat his magnificent
bay horse with the natural grace accentuated by a lifetime in the saddle. Brant suddenly uttered an exclamation. Old John
swore under his mustache as they pulled up within a dozen paces of the motionless pair.

“Cole Dawson!” Webb bellowed. “Where in blazes did you come from? And what are you doin’ here,Kane?”

It was Norman Kane who replied, an amused note in his musical voice. “Gettin’ my spread in shape,” he replied.

“Gettin’
your
spread in shape!” bawled Webb. “Are you the hellion nestin’ down here?”

“Reckon I’m the hellion you’re talkin’ about,” Kane returned imperturbably, “but I don’t get the nester part of it. What do
you mean?”

“What do I mean!” roared the irate Running W owner. “This is my range you’re on.”

“Don’t think so,” Kane returned. “I got a notion it’s mine.”

Old John turned purple and breathed with apparent difficulty. Norman Kane appeared to take no notice of these alarming symptoms.
He nodded cordially to Brant.

“How are you, fellow?” Kane inquired. “Glad to see you made it back all right.”

Old John broke in. “Kane,” he stormed, “I’m tellin’ you to get your truck and your cows off my land.”

“Webb, it is not your land,” Norman Kane replied evenly. “It never was your land. It has always been federal land—open range.
I have leased this section, and I expect to get complete title before long. Want to see the papers?”

“Damn you,” sputtered Webb, “I’ve run my cows on this range for thirty years, and my Dad run his on it before me!”

“And neither of you took the trouble to get title to it,” Kane replied imperturbably. “By the way, have you got title to the
rest of your holdin’s, other than your north range, where your ranch-house is? If you haven’t, take a little friendly advice
and hustle to do it. There’ll be other folks
headed this way before you know it. Don’t get caught settin’ again, Webb.”

Webb was about to make a hot reply, but Austin Brant laid a restraining hand on his angry Boss’s arm.

“Hold it, John,” he cautioned. “If he’s telling us straight, and I figure he is, there’s not a thing you can do. No sense in
rarin’ and chargin’. We’re outsmarted, and that’s all there is to it.”

Webb set his mouth hard, mastering himself by an effort. “The round-up ain’t over till the last brand’s run,” he growled.

Brant was eying Cole Dawson with a speculative gaze. “I see now,” he remarked, “why you two jiggers had your heads together
there in the Deadfall. So Cole lined you up on conditions down here, Kane?”

“Damn double-crosser!” exploded Webb.

“I got the first double-cross,” Dawson returned truculently. “Why didn’t you give me the foreman’s job like I had it comin’,
‘stead of handin’ it to that sprout? I can hand back what’s handed to me, anytime. I’m on my own now, Webb, and workin’ for
a man who appreciates me.”

Norman Kane’s perfectly formed lips quirked slightly at the corners, but he made no remark. Old John snorted, glared at Dawson,
and abruptly whirled his horse.

“C’mon, let’s get out of here, before I bust a cinch,” he told his men.

Brant lingered a moment as the others rode away. Kane nodded to him again in friendly fashion.

“Hope there’s no hard feelin’s, Brant,” he said.

“Not over this deal,” Brant replied. “It’s just a
matter of business. Webb got caught setting, that’s all.” He started to ride after the others when a thought suddenly struck
him.

“By the way,” he remarked, “did you stop at the Deadfall on your way back to Oklahoma?”

Kane’s eyes narrowed slightly. The steely glitter in their black depths seemed to suddenly intensify.

“Why, yes,” he replied. “Why?”

“Oh, nothing,” Brant returned easily. “I was just wondering if Phil Doran was enjoying good health when you left.”

Without waiting for an answer, he whirled Smoke and cantered after Webb and the hands. Norman Kane set perfectly motionless
in his saddle, staring after Brant. Cole Dawson had to speak twice before he attracted his attention.

Old John had cooled considerably by the time they got back to the ranch house, but he was still far from a good temper.

“I’ll even up with that hellion if it’s the last thing I do,” he declared. “And that blankety-blank Cole Dawson! I wish you
had let the horned toad drown, or get hung!”

“Cole’s just a dumb shorthorn,” Brant returned. “I don’t figure there’s any real bad in him. He went on the prod because he
figured he got a raw deal. He’s like a little boy who busts his toy wagon because it turns over. But let’s forget all that
for the time being. What you want to do is get busy and make sure of your title to the outlying lands you’ve been using all
this time. What happened today is just the beginning. I’ve been telling you a long time that things are going to change. You
laughed at me, but right now you’ve had an example of what’s in store for the Panhandle
open range. Get busy, Uncle John, you can’t afford to take chances.”

“Reckon you’re right,” Webb conceded. “I don’t know what the world’s comin’ to. Gettin’ so an honest man can’t figger to make
an honest livin’. Why can’t them hellions of nesters and two-cowand-a-bull owners stay where they belong!”

“Perhaps there ain’t any place for them to stay,” Brant replied gently. “After all, they’re just looking for a chance to live
and enjoy life a mite. Reckon it isn’t just right to refuse them the chance, Uncle John. When everything is considered, folks
like you and I have had it pretty soft. Having it soft sometimes makes folks get hard. They shut their own front door and
say the whole world’s warm. It isn’t, Uncle John. It’s mighty cold outside for some folks. Maybe it won’t be a bad notion
to open the door a mite and let some other folks in where it’s warm.”

Old John stared at his young foreman. He tugged his mustache, rumbling in his throat. John Webb was far from being a bad man,
but he was set in his ways. He had been brought up to look upon the conditions he knew as proper conditions. He lived within
his own narrow sphere of influence, and lived largely in the past. Austin Brant, on the contrary, had the vision of youth,
the broader understanding that came from travel, better education, and closer contact with his fellow-men. To him the Panhandle,
Oklahoma, Kansas were all pieces of his native land and its people were all his fellow Americans.

Old John sensed this dimly, and there was a grudging admiration in the glance he bent upon Brant, though he still strove to
look combative.

“We’ll see about it. We’ll see about it!” he growled.

Brant permitted himself an inward smile. He understood his Boss, and knew that this truculent growl was really a concession
on Webb’s part, an admission that there might be two sides to the question, and that both might be worthy of consideration.
Webb’s next remark confirmed the opinion.

“I’ll do as you say,” he grunted. “I’ll get in touch with the land office right away and protect myself. As for Kane, I hope
he sets down on a tarantuler. To hell with him!”

But subsequent developments caused Webb to say some sulphurous things about the Flying V owner.

“The hellion’s fencin’ his land,” a line riding puncher told. Webb not long after his conversation with Brant. “They’re cuttin’
posts down in that canyon, haulin ’em up and settin’ ’em, and stringin’ bob wire on ’em.”