CHAPTER VI
THE MAKING OP A COWBOY
JIM LEGG awoke to a different world from what he had ever seen. Blue Wells was so typically southwestern, being one long street of one and two story adobe houses, some of them half-adobe, half-frame. There were no sidewalks, no lawns, no shrubbery. The fronts of the buildings were unpainted, and the signs were so scoured from wind and sand that the letters were barely legible.
No one seemed to pay any attention to Jim Legg. The town was full of cattlemen, and the topic of conversation was the train robbery. Jim Legg listened to the different ideas on the subject, no two of which were alike. He realized that if he and the express messenger had not fought and fell out of the car, they would have been in the center of things.
And Jim Legg was glad the messenger had lied about the physical proportions of the man who had attacked him. Jim wondered what had become of Geronimo, but did not ask any one. And then Jim Legg ran into the three men from the AK outfit. Their pockets were lined with a month’s pay, and they were happily inclined toward all humanity.
Oyster Shell, backed against the Oasis bar, was the first to see Jim Legg. His eyes opened wide and he spurred Johnny Grant on the calf of his left leg.
“My , Johnny,” he said softly. “Do m’ eyes deceive me?”
Johnny looked upon Jim Legg with much the same expression that a scientist might exhibit upon finding the fossil egg of a dinosaur.
“Welcome,” said Johnny. “I welcome you to Blue Wells.”
“How do you do?” smiled Jim. “Nice day, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” said Johnny, “We have one like this every thirty days. What grade of poison does yore stummick stand?”
Jim Legg had never drank anything more potent than a small glass of beer, but he knew that he was now in Rome, so he said:
“Oh, anything you gentlemen are drinking.”
“Hooch!” exclaimed Eskimo, and the busy bartender sent the bottle spinning down the bar, followed by four glasses.
“You want a wash?” asked Johnny, meaning a glass of water or soda.
Jim Legg glanced at his hands and looked at himself in the back-bar.
“No,” he said finally. “I don’t think so.”
The three cowpunchers exchanged quick glances. Fate had sent them something to play with. Eskimo poured out a full glass for their new playmate, who almost strangled over it. But he got it down.
“That’s liquor,” declared Johnny, smacking his lips.
“It’s gug-good,” whispered Jim Legg.
He cleared his throat and wondered at the warm glow within him.
“I’m buyin’,” declared Oyster, spinning a dollar on the bar, which got them four clean glasses.
Again Jim Legg managed to swallow the liquor, but this time it did not strangle him. He laughed gleefully at nothing in particular and rested a hand on Johnny Grant’s shoulder.
“My name’s Legg,” he told them. “Jim Legg.”
“That’s quite a name,” agreed Johnny. “My name’s Grant, this one’s name is Shell, and that Jewish friend of ours there is named Swensen. We’re Johnny, Oyster and Eskimo, respectably.”
They all shook hands gravely.
“If the clerk will furnish us with clean glasses, I’ll make a purchase,” said Jim Legg solemnly.
“My !” exclaimed Eskimo explosively.
“Just why?” queried Jim Legg.
“I thought my belt was comin’ off.”
They filled their glasses and drank heartily. By this time Jim Legg seemed to be getting numb, but happily so. The world was bathed in a rosy glow, and he wanted to sing and dance.
“Jist what is yore business, Misser Legg?” asked Oyster.
“I came here,” said Jim, “to be a cowpuncher.”
Johnny Grant’s foot slipped and he sat down heavily on the bar-rail.
“That,” said Eskimo owlishly-wise, “is a ambitious thing for to become. I’ll betcha yuh came to the right place, Jim.”
“I—I—” Jim hesitated because his tongue did not seem to exactly function. “I picked thish place at ra-ra-random.”
“That shounds like a college yell,” said Oyster.
“You can’t be no cowpuncher in them clothes,” explained Eskimo. “Never, nossir. You look like Sunday. But in the proper clothes you’d be a dinger.”
“I intend to dresh the part,” said Jim thickly. “Perhaps I can secure the proper dresh here in Blue Wells.”
“Oh, you can,” said Johnny. “We can take you to a place where you can buy just what yuh need, pervidin’ you’ve got the dinero.”
“Dinero?”
“Money.”
“I’ve got five hundred dollars.”
“My !” Johnny took off his hat. “And you want to be a cowpuncher—with five hundred dollars!”
“Isn’t it enough?”
“Don’ nobody speak for a moment,” begged Oyster. “I want to conchentrate. I’m about to go into a tranch.”
“Sh-h-h-h-h!” warned Johnny. “The man is looking into the future.”
“Is he a medium?” asked Jim Legg, owl-eyed, as he stared at Oyster.
“Medium ! He’s rare,” chucked Eskimo.
“I shee shomethin’ comin’ to a man named Jim Legg,” stated Oyster, his eyes closed tightly.
“Yuh see?” applauded Johnny.
“Yessir,” nodded Jim. “Maybe we better let him alone, while we get me shome clothes.”
“He’s comin’ out of it,” announced Eskimo.
Oyster’s face twitched convulsively and his eyes opened.
“Where is the haberdasher’s?” asked Jim Legg.
The three cowboys stared owlishly at each other.
“Oh, them folks,” Johnny Grant squinted thoughtfully.
“Must ’a’ been that German fambly that nested in down on the forks of Rio Creek,” said Eskimo. “They’re gone. Let’s go buy somethin’ to make a real, regular cowboy out of this here, now, Jimmy Limbs.”
THE sheriff and deputy came back to Blue Wells in bad humor. They stabled their horses and went to the office. Scotty Olson leaned against the doorway and looked across the street at the horses tied at the Oasis hitch-rack. The three at the far end were from the AK; a tall roan, a sorrel and a gray.
Al Porter sagged back in a chair, placed his feet on top of the desk and drew his sombrero down over his eyes.
“If I was you I’d go over to the Oasis and have a talk with them AK scoundrels,” he told Scotty. “By , if I was sheriff of this county I’d shore impress upon ’em that this is a dignified office. I’d make it dignified, y’betcha.”
Scotty turned troubled eyes upon his deputy.
“You would, like ! You’ll sag jist as quick as anybody, when it comes to trouble. All the way back from the AK you’ve told me what you’d do. Talk! Yeah, you can talk, Al. If talkin’ was worth a , you’d be President of the U. S. A.”
“A-a-a-a-aw, !” yawned Porter. “Don’t try to pass the buck to me, feller. It ain’t my trouble. If you want to forgive ’em for lockin’ yuh in a cell—go ahead. It’s none of my business, anyway. But if yuh want to know what I’d do, I’ll—”
“I don’t! it, Al, I don’t care to hear what you’d do—unless yo’re willin’ to tell the truth.”
“All right. We’ll just drop the subject. But if they locked me in a—”
“They didn’t! yuh, Al, I wish they had! I’d throw away the keys and leave yuh there until yuh quit runnin’ off at the mouth. I’m more interested in that train robbery than I am in the AK cowpunchers.”
“Yeah, and you stand a fine chance of catchin’ ’em, Scotty. They’ve had a danged long start of us by this time.”
“I s’pose.”
Scotty leaned back against the door and studied the street. He saw Tex Alden ride in and tie his horse at the rack beside the three AK horses.
“Tex Alden jist rode in,” he said indifferently.
“Thasso?” It did not seem to interest Porter.
“Probably came in to lose some more money.”
“Lost eight thousand to Antelope Neal yesterday,” said Porter. “Wonder where in he got so much money. He don’t own that X Bar 6.”
“Don’t he?”
“He sure as don’t. It belongs to an Eastern outfit.”
“Well, I don’t care a ,” said Scotty.
He had enough worries of his own to think about. He smoothed his buffalo-horn mustache and almost wished he weren’t the sheriff of Blue Wells.
Tex Alden left his horse and started across the street toward a store, when Lee Barnhardt called to him from the door of his office. Tex turned and went over to the door of the lawyer’s office, where Barnhardt was standing.
“I just wondered if you wasn’t coming to see me, Tex,” smiled Barnhardt.
The big cowboy blinked, wondering just why he should make it a point to see Barnhardt that day.
“Why, I dunno,” he faltered. “Hadn’t thought of it, Lee.”
The lawyer motioned Tex into the office and closed the door. He sat down at his desk, filled his pipe carefully, scratched a match on the sole of his shoe, and puffed explosively. Then he sagged back in his chair and looked at Tex with an approving grin.
“I’ll give you credit for a clean job, Tex,” he said, lowering his voice confidentially. “A clean job.”
“Yeah?” Tex scratched his chin. “Just what is it, Lee?”
“What is it?” The lawyer leaned forward, the smoke curling lazily from his nostrils. “Oh, now, Tex! We’re friends, you know.”
“All right,” grinned Tex. “And what am I supposed to say?”
“It isn’t what you say—it’s what you do. My mouth is shut tight, except between us, Tex. And don’t forget that I was the one who told you where to get it.”
The big cowboy studied Lee Barnhardt, a puzzled frown between his brows.
“Go ahead and talk about it, Lee,” he said.
Barnhardt’s shrewd eyes appraised the foreman of the X Bar 6. He knew Tex was not a man you could scare or drive. He would have to go easy, at least until he knew just what Tex meant to do. Then—
“You owe me eight thousand dollars, Tex,” he said.
“And a swell chance you’ve got of collectin’ it.”
“Oh, I dunno, Tex. Anyway, I’ll be satisfied with the eight thousand. It ought to be more, but I can take the eight thousand with a clear conscience, because I’m not supposed to know where it comes from.”
“Would yuh mind repeatin’ that?” asked Tex evenly.
“No need of that, Tex. You know what I mean. There were two or three men with you last night. I realize that they have to get their share, but even at that—well, as I said before, I’ll take the eight thousand and call it square.”
Tex got to his feet and walked back to the door, where he turned and looked at Barnhardt, who had also stood up, leaning across his desk.
“I reckon you’ve gone loco, Lee,” he said softly. “I dunno what yo’re talkin’ about—and I don’t reckon you do either.”
“The , I don’t,” rasped the lawyer. “If you think you can cut me out of that Santa Rita pay-roll, you’re crazy. It was done on my information, and you’ll come clean with me, or you’ll find just how high a fee I can charge.”
Tex blinked at him, a puzzled expression in his eyes. Then he turned on his heel and left the office, while Barnhardt stopped at the window and watched Tex walk slowly across the street to the Oasis, where he stopped and glanced back toward the office, before going into the saloon.
Barnhardt was mad. In fact, he was almost mad enough to go to the sheriff and tell him that Tex Alden knew that the Santa Rita pay-roll was coming in on that train. But he was not quite mad enough to do that. There would be plenty of time for that, in case Tex could not be induced to make a split.
Barnhardt put on his hat, yanked it down on his head, forcing his ears to flare out, and headed for the sheriff’s office, intending to find out what the sheriff had in mind.
He was nearing the Blue Wells General Merchandise Store entrance, when four men came out. Three of them were the boys from the AK, but the fourth one was a stranger. Every article of his apparel shrieked of newness.
His sombrero was the biggest they could find in town, and was surmounted with a silver-studded band. His robin’s-egg-blue shirt was of flimsy silk, his overalls new; and the creaking bat-wing chaps were hand-stamped and silver-ornamented. His thin neck was circled with a scarlet silk muffler, and his feet were encased in the highest-heeled boots in town.
Around his waist was a wide yellow cartridge belt, glistening with its load of cartridges, and the revolver holster was a sample of leather-working art. He carried a heavy Colt .45 in his hand—or rather in both hands. James Eaton Legg was in a fair way to become a cowpuncher.
Barnhardt stopped and looked at him. It did not require an expert eye to detect that all four of them were pie-eyed drunk. Barnhardt noticed that the sheriff was coming up the street from his office. The lawyer had heard about what had happened to the sheriff, and he wondered just what the sheriff would have to say to the boys from the AK.
Eskimo stepped back from Jim Legg, reared back on his heels and looked the young man over with appraising eyes.
“Jimmie,” he said thickly, “yo’re a cowboy. Yessir, if you ain't, I’ve never seen one. My , yuh hurt m’ eyes.”
“Look at ’m slaunch-wise,” advised Johnny Grant. “My , don’t never take a chance of lookin’ at him square. Ain’t he a work of art? Whatcha tryin’ to do with that gun?”
Jim Legg was trying to see how the thing functioned, and it was fully loaded. It was the first time he had ever handled a six-shooter, and it interested him.
“Don’t cock it!” choked Eskimo. “’s delight! Yeah—that thing yuh jist pulled back! Don’t touch that thing underneath it! Keep yore finger off it, I tel! yuh! A-a-a-w, Johnny, take it away from him, can’tcha?”
“Aw, whazzamatter?” grunted Jim Legg. “I’d like to shee shomebody take it away from me.”
“No-o-o-o-o!” wailed Johnny, ducking aside. “Point it in the air, you cross between a monkey and a Christmas tree!”
But Jim Legg reeled around on his high-heels, giggling drunkenly, the big gun in both hands.
“Don’t do that, you fool!” wailed Oyster. “Aw, fer—”
Wham! The big gun spouted smoke between Johnny Grant and Eskimo, who promptly fell sidewise, and the bullet tore into the dirt almost under the feet of the sheriff, who had stopped about fifty feet away.
The recoil of the gun caused Jim Legg to turn half-way around. He staggered back on his heels, possibly more frightened than any of the rest.
“Whee-e-e-e-e!” he yelled, and his next shot missed Lee Barnhardt by a full inch.
“Yee-e-e-e-o-o-ow!” screamed Johnny Grant. “Cowboy blood! Look at the sheriff!”
Scotty Olson was galloping back toward his office, his legs working as fast as possible, his hat clutched tightly in one hand.
“Look at the lawyer!” yelled Eskimo, said they turned to see Lee Barnhardt go head first into his office door, like a frightened gopher, dodging a hawk.
But Oyster Shell was not paying any attention to the departing sheriff and lawyer. He wrenched the gun from Jim’s hands and grasped Jim by the arm.
“C’mon, you fools!” he yelled. “The sheriff don’t know it was an accident, and we don’t want to lose Jimmy!”
Realizing that Oyster was right, the other two helped him rush the bewildered Jim across the street to the hitch-rack.
“Git on!” snorted Oyster, whirling his gray horse around. “Git in the saddle, Jim; I’ll ride behind.”
“I never rode no horsh,” Jim drew back, shaking his head.
“You never shot at no sheriff before either!” snapped Eskimo.
He swung Jim Legg up bodily and fairly threw him into the saddle. Jim managed to grasp the horn in time to prevent himself from going off the other side.
The others were mounting in a whirl of dust. Jim felt Oyster swing up behind him, and then he seemed to lose all sense of direction. The gray flung down its head and went pitching down the street, trying to rid itself of the unaccustomed load, while on either side rode Eskimo and Johnny, yelling at the top of their voices.
“Pull leather, you ornyment!” yelled Johnny. “Anchor yoreself, son! You’ll either be a cowpuncher or a corpse!”
After about ten or twelve lurching bucks, which did not seem to disturb Oyster to any great extent, the gray’s head came up and they went out of Blue Wells, like three racers on the stretch.
Scotty Olson skidded into his office, fell over a chair, and sat there, his mouth wide open, while Al Porter ran to the door in time to see the four men cross the street. He turned back to the sheriff.
“What in happened, Scotty?”
Scotty got to his feet and brushed off his knees. Then he went to the corner behind his desk and picked up a double-barreled shotgun. Breaking it open to see whether it was loaded, he limped back to the doorway in time to see the three horses go pounding out of town in a flurry of dust.
“Goin’ duck huntin’?” asked Porter sarcastically.
Scotty limped back and stood the gun in thecorner.
“By , that makes me mad,” he said seriously. “I seen them AK fellers up by the store; so I goes up there to have a heart-to-heart talk with ’em. But before I get there, one of ’em takes a shot at me and almost knocked a hole in my right boot. And when I turned around they took another shot at me.”
“That don’t sound reasonable,” said Porter.
“I don’t give a how it sounds; I was there, wasn’t I?”
The shots had attracted some attention, and the sudden exit of the AK boys made things look suspicious. Scotty and Porter went up the street, where several men had gathered in front of the store, and were talking with Lee Barnhardt, who was telling them all about it.
“I tell you, it was deliberate,” he said. “I saw that cowboy take aim at me. Why, I heard that bullet sing past my ear, so close that the air from it staggered me.”
“Why did he shoot at you, Lee?” asked the storekeeper, Abe Moon, a tall, serious, tobacco-chewing person.
“I don’t know. Why, I don’t even know the man.”
“I never seen him before either,” declared the merchant. “He came in a while ago with Oyster, Eskimo and Johnny. They were all pretty full, I think. Anyway, they outfitted this young man with everything. Even bought a six-gun, and loaded it for him. He left his other clothes, wrapped up, in the back room.”
The sheriff moved in closer.
“Wasn’t it one of the AK boys that done the shootin’, Lee?”
“No.”
“The stranger,” said one of the men. “Did yuh hear his name, Abe?”
“They introduced him to me. Said his name was Legg.”
“Legg?” queried Barnhardt blankly. He shook his head slowly. “I dunno anybody by that name.”
“I don’t either—and he shot at me,” said the sheriff.
“He’s prob’ly one of them peculiar jiggers that would rather shoot strangers than acquaintances,” said the merchant dryly.
“Well, he’s goin’ to hear from me,” declared the sheriff.
“Write him a letter,” grinned one of the men in the crowd.
“He was pretty drunk,” offered the merchant.
“He wasn’t too drunk to shoot straight,” said Scotty. “I’m promisin’ yuh right now that the next time that AK outfit comes to Blue Wells, I’m packin’ a riot gun. Blue Wells has stood all it’s ever goin’ to from that layout. And,” he added, “I don’t care a who knows it.”
Lee Barnhardt turned on his heel and walked back to his office. Chet Le Moyne and Dug Haley, the man who had come with Le Moyne to guard the Santa Rita pay-roll, rode in and drew up in front of the store. Haley was a heavy-set, stolid looking person, with a wispy mustache and only a faint suggestion of ever having had eyebrows.
Le Moyne smiled and spoke to the men, but Haley merely nodded.
“I wanted to see you, Scotty,” said Le Moyne. “Goin’ back to your office pretty soon?”
“Right away, Le Moyne.”
Le Moyne nodded and rode beside the sheriff down to the office, while Haley tied his horse in front of the store, and went in to make some purchases. Le Moyne tied his horse and went into the office with the sheriff.
“What do you know, Scotty?” asked Le Moyne.
“Not very much. It kinda looks to me as though they had a big start on us, Le Moyne.”
“Have you anythin’ to work on?”
“I said I didn’t have much,” Scotty wasn’t going to tell Le Moyne of his suspicions against the Taylors or the AK.
“Uh-huh,” muttered Le Moyne. “Well, I just wanted to tell you that the express company will have a man on the job, and the Santa Rita company will also have an investigator. They’ll be here tonight, and I want you to help ’em all you can. We’re offering a thousand dollars reward, and the express company will probably offer somethin’. What was all this stuff about you bein’ locked in your own jail?”
The sheriff told Le Moyne of the incident, and the handsome paymaster could not suppress a laugh.
“Go ahead and laugh,” sighed the harassed sheriff. “It sounds funny.”
“But why did they do it, Sheriff?”
“That’s somethin’ I’m goin’ to try and find out.”
“Meanin’ what?”
“Well, it kept me from quick action on that robbery, didn’t it?”
“It rather looks that way,” admitted Le Moyne. “Well, I’ve got to be moving along. I just wanted to tell you about the detectives, and I know you’ll help them all yuh can.”
Le Moyne left the office and went up to the store, where he joined Haley. Tex Alden came in to purchase some tobacco. He nodded to Le Moyne, made his purchases and went out again. There had never been open enmity between them, nor had they ever been friends.
“Tex got hit pretty hard the other day,” offered the storekeeper. “Yuh heard about Antelope Neal takin’ eight thousand away from Tex in a two-handed poker game, didn’t yuh?”
“I heard he did,” nodded Le Moyne. “It sounded fishy.”
“Well, it wasn’t. He lost it all right. What’s new on the pay-roll robbery?”
“Not a thing. The express company has a detective on the case, and we’ve sent for one. They might find out somethin’, but I doubt it. Those men had a good start, and it’s pretty hard to identify gold coin. If they’re ever caught, it won’t be through anything developed around here.”
“What do yuh think about that feller throwin’ the messenger out of the car? That sounds funny to me.”
“It does sound rather queer,” admitted Le Moyne. “But I guess it happened. The messenger sure looked as though he had been through a fight. And he wasn’t there when the robbery took place, it seems. Anyway, the money is gone. We better get the mail, Jud, and head for the mine.”
“How much was in that pay-roll?” asked the merchant.
“Thirty-one thousand and eighty dollars, all in gold. It’ll make somebody happy, Abe.”
“Yes—or unhappy, Chet. I don’t reckon any man ever got a lot of happiness from what he stole. It’s unlucky money.”