CHAPTER VIII
A REGULAR JOB
IT WAS supper time at the AK ranch when Jimmy Legg rode in. The boys had discovered his horse when they returned, and had decided that Jimmy had been thrown. They were going to wait until after supper before starting a search.
He told them of the incident and of the long walk to the Double Bar 8 ranch.
“Didja leave that girl alone there?” asked Eskimo.
“She went back to town,” explained Jimmy. “I guess she wanted to be there when the railroad men tried to identify that dog, and she said she’d stay in Blue Wells all night.”
“I’d kinda like to be there too,” said Johnny Grant. “I’ve been at the Taylor ranch quite a lot, but I don’t remember any dog of that description.”
“Let’s all go in after supper,” suggested Oyster. “I’ve got a few dollars that’s restless.”
Old George Bonnette called Jimmy aside after supper.
“What do yuh aim to do?” asked the old man.
Jimmy smiled foolishly.
“I kinda wanted to be a cowpuncher,” he confessed, lapsing into the dialect easily.
“Yuh do, eh?” Bonnette smiled. “That’s quite an ambition, don’tcha think? Forty a month, and feed. Yo’re educated, Legg. I don’t sabe why yuh want to be a puncher.”
“I’ve got a reason, Mr. Bonnette.”
“Some girl dare yuh to be a cowboy?”
“There’s a woman in the case,” confessed Jimmy.
Bonnette grunted softly and helped himself to a liberal chew of tobacco.
“I thought as much,” he grinned. “Well, you ain’t—yet. I’m full-up on hired hands right now, Legg. It’ll soon be round-up time, and yuh might come in handy.
“It’ll mean a of a lot of hard work. I can’t pay yuh a cowpuncher’s wages, because yuh don’t sabe the work well enough to earn it; but I’ll pay yuh half-salary. It’ll sure as be an education to you, if yuh want to be a puncher. But I’m if I know why yuh want to.”
“Thanks,” smiled Jimmy. “Johnny Grant asked you to do this, didn’t he?”
“Well, he said yuh was jist brainless enough to make a good puncher, if that’s what yuh mean.”
“Don’t cowpunchers have any brains, Mr. Bonnette?”
“Huh!” The old man spat explosively. “Evidence is all agin’ ’em! If they had any brains, they wouldn’t punch cows.”
Jimmy thanked him for the half-pay job, and rode away with the three cowpunchers, after Bonnette had warned them not to antagonize the sheriff again.
“Yo’re gettin’ a bad reputation,” declared Bonnette. “Next thing I know I’ll have some cripples hobblin’ around here.”
“We’re plumb antiseptic now,” assured Johnny Grant. “There ain’t money enough in the crowd to start anythin’.”
They headed for town, talking about the robbery. None of them had told Jimmy about their battle with the engineer and fireman. The AK boys were tight-mouthed over it, because they didn’t want to be hauled in on the case, and they were just a little suspicious about Jimmy Legg.
Near where the AK road paralleled the railroad, it intersected with the road from Encinas, and as they neared the intersection they saw two riders coming from the east, jogging along through the dust, as if time was of no importance.
The four riders from the AK drew rein and waited for the two cowboys, thinking them to be two of the Blue Wells riders. But in this they were mistaken, as the two riders were strangers to the country.
One of them was a lean, rangy sort of individual, with a long face, prominent nose, wide mouth, and widely spaced blue eyes, set in a mass of tiny wrinkles. The other rider was of medium height, rather blocky of countenance, wide-mouthed, and with deep grin-wrinkles, which seemed to end beneath a firm jaw. His eyes were wide, blue and innocent.
Both men were dressed in range costume, well-worn, weathered. Their riding rigs were polished from much usage, and the boys from the AK noted that their belts and holsters were hand-made by men who knew the sag of human anatomy. The tall man removed his battered sombrero, disclosing a crop of roan-colored hair, and the wide grin, which suffused his whole face, showed a set of strong, white teeth.
“Howdy,” smiled the tall man. “Is this the road to Blue Wells?”
“It sure is,” grinned Johnny. He instinctively liked this tall man, whose grin was contagious.
“Well, that’s good,” nodded the shorter man.
Johnny Grant’s eyes had strayed to their two horses, which were branded on the left shoulder with a Circle X, the iron of a ranch about twelve miles east of Encinas.
“We’re goin’ to Blue Wells,” said Eskimo, “and we’ll see that yuh don’t stray.”
“That’s sure kind of yuh,” said the innocent-eyed one. “You don’t know what a load that takes off my mind.”
Eskimo squinted closely at him, but could not determine whether the man was joking or not. Johnny Grant moved his horse in closer.
“My name’s Grant,” he told them.
He turned in his saddle and introduced the others, concluding with Jimmy Legg, of whom he said:
“This is Jimmy Legg. He wants to be a cowpuncher so badly that he don’t know what to do—and we’re teachin’ him.”
“I’m sure he’ll make a good one,” said the innocent-eyed stranger, sizing up the uncomfortable Jimmy. “Yuh can’t hardly tell him from one now. If yuh hadn’t told us about him, we’d never know but what he was a top-hand. My name is Stevens. My pardner answers to the name of Hartley, and we’re proud to know you gents.”
“Proud to know you,” nodded the boys of the AK.
“We might as well mosey along,” said Johnny. “You aimin’ to stay in Blue Wells a while, gents?”
“All depends,” said “Hashknife” Hartley. “We hear that the Fall round-up is about to start, and thought we might hook on with some cow-outfit. We ain’t never been in here, yuh see.”
“Well, yuh might,” admitted Johnny. “I dunno how the rest of the ranches are fixed for help.”
“Does anythin’ ever happen around here?” asked “Sleepy” Stevens. “You know what I mean—any excitement?”
“Everythin’ happens,” said Eskimo, and they proceeded to regale them with a story of the robbery.
Johnny Grant went into details regarding the dog, which figured in the evidence, and by the time they got to Blue Wells, Hashknife and Sleepy knew practically all the details, as far as was known.
“We’ll know more about it when the train gets in,” said Oyster. “Them trainmen say they can identify the dog, if it’s the same one.”
They rode in to Blue Wells, and tied their horses at the Oasis hitch-rack. Hashknife and Sleepy went to the Oasis hotel, where they secured a room, after which they took their horses to the livery-stable.
Quite a crowd of people had gathered in Blue Wells, waiting for the train to come in. There was much speculation as to whether or not the trainmen could identify the dog as being the one on the express car. Tex Alden was in town, as was Le Moyne. Johnny Grant pointed out Le Moyne, and introduced Hashknife to Tex.
Hashknife did not strike Tex for a job, but merely exchanged a few words with him. They met the sheriff in the Oasis, and Johnny introduced him to Hashknife. But the sheriff was not friendly, and Johnny explained the reasons why. They found Al Porter and Wade, the railroad detective, but Porter gave Johnny a wide berth. He could see that Johnny had imbibed a few drinks, and Mr. Porter did not want his dignity disturbed.
The train arrived on time, and the crowd repaired to the hall over Abe Moon’s store, which was used as a court-room. Jimmy Legg had imbibed a large drink of liquor, which had caused him to forget certain things, and as a result he found himself in the hall, almost rubbing shoulders with the express messenger.
The sheriff ordered every one to sit down and not to interfere with the proceedings. He brought Apostle Paul Taylor, Buck Taylor and Peeler into the room and seated them against the wall. The half-breed was frightened, but the Taylor family were cool. Marion was there, and joined her father. Hashknife and Sleepy remained in the background, watching the proceedings.
Al Porter, the deputy, brought the dog into the room, a short piece of rope tied to its collar. It was Geronimo! Jimmy Legg gasped, drew his hat farther over his face and acted indifferent.
Geronimo apparently thought that the gathering was for his special benefit, for he cavorted on the end of the rope, barking, whining, sniffing. Suddenly he whirled around, headed toward Jimmy Legg, head up, sniffing. The scent of the man who had befriended him!
His sudden lunge almost yanked the rope out of Porter’s hands, and his paws scraped across Jimmy Legg’s knees, when the angry deputy jerked the dog back to him. Jimmy gasped with relief, looked up from under the low-pulled brim of his hat, and found the railroad detective looking at him.
The engineer and fireman positively identified the dog. The express messenger was not so positive, but said that it surely looked like the same dog. Johnny Grant, with a few drinks of liquor under his belt, walked out and took a close look at the dog.
“I’ve been at the Double Bar 8 a lot of times,” he told the sheriff, “but I never seen that dog before. I like dogs, Scotty. I never miss a chance to play with a dog, and if that dog was a reg’lar at the Double Bar 8, I’d shore know it.”
“Buck swears he raised it from a pup,” replied the sheriff.
“Buck wasn’t telling the truth,” said Marion. “He was mad at you for kicking it, and questioning the ownership.”
“When did you see it the first time, Miss Taylor?” asked the sheriff.
“When it came home with dad, Buck and Peeler.”
“The day after the hold-up, eh?”
“Yes.”
The railroad detective sauntered up.
“Where did they say they got the dog, Miss Taylor?” he asked.
“Why, they said it picked up with them, when they were on their way home from Yellow Horn Mesa.”
The sheriff smiled and told Porter to take the dog back to the office.
“I reckon we’ll hang on to the dog until we find out who owns it,” he said.
“But you can’t hold us any longer,” protested Apostle Paul.
“Can’t I?”
“It’s a bailable offense,” said the detective. “I suppose you’ll have a hearing tomorrow, and have your bail set.”
“And have to stay in jail tonight, eh?”
“Yes; unless the judge wants to hold a night session.”
“Which he won’t,” declared Porter. “Old Judge Parkridge will take his own sweet time—and it won’t be at night.”
The sheriff removed his prisoners and the crowd filed down the stairs. Jimmy Legg moved in beside Marion and went down to the street with her. Most of the crowd headed for the Oasis, and Tex Alden was with them. He stopped long enough to see that Jimmy Legg was with Marion, but went on.
“Gee, that’s a dirty shame, Miss Taylor,” said Jimmy. “They haven’t anything on your father, nor any of the rest.”
“Oh, I know it, Mr. Legg; but what can we do?”
“You might start in by calling me Jimmy. I hate the rest of my name. It’s James Eaton Legg. Sounds like a cannibal, doesn’t it. Parents never stop to think, when they’re naming innocent children.”
“All right, Jimmy—if you’ll call me Marion. Every one does. We are not formal out here in the wilderness.”
“I’m glad you’re not. My feet feel fine in those socks. I’ll buy me some tonight and give Buck a new pair.”
“Don’t bother about that, Jimmy.”
“No bother at all. Say, that Tex Alden don’t like me, does he?”
“Possibly not.”
“Does he—” Jimmy hesitated.
“Does he what, Jimmy?”
“Oh, that’s a little too personal, Marion.”
“I suppose so. You meant to ask me if Tex thought he had the right to say who I shall speak to, didn’t you?”
“Well, has he?”
“Only in his own mind.”
Jimmy laughed softly.
“Some folks are blessed with wonderful imaginations. Are you going to stay at the hotel tonight?”
“Yes, I’ll stay there tonight, anyway.”
They walked up the street and met Chet Le Moyne in front of Abe Moon’s store. He shook hands with Marion, who introduced him to Jimmy.
“You are paymaster of the Santa Rita mine, aren’t you?” asked Jimmy. “I thought that’s what Johnny Grant said.”
“Yes,” said Le Moyne patronizingly. “And you are the new cowboy at the AK ranch.”
“Yea-a-ah,” drawled Jimmy. “That’s me.”
Marion laughed.
“He’s going to be a good one, too.”
“As good as any,” laughed Jimmy.
“You’ve had a good start, I hear,” chuckled Le Moyne. “They tell me that you almost killed Scotty Olson and Lee Barnhardt the day you came here.”
“And never got arrested,” laughed Jimmy. “This is a wonderful country.”
Hashknife Hartley and Sleepy Stevens came out of the store, halted on the edge of the sidewalk to light their cigarets, and went on across the street.
“Who are those men?” asked Marion. “I noticed the tall one looking at me in the court room.”
“One—the tall one—is named Hartley,” said Jimmy. “The other is Stevens. They met us at the forks of the road this evening, and rode in with us. They’re strangers here, it seems.”
Marion and Jimmy strolled on toward the hotel and Le Moyne went to the store. Hashknife and Sleepy mingled with the crowd in the Oasis, and finally took seats at a table near the rear of the place. Business was good, all the games filled, and the bar was doing a big business.
The engineer, fireman and the express messenger came over to the saloon and joined the crowd at the bar.
“Plenty of excitement,” observed Hashknife. “This hold-up seems to have kinda stirred up Blue Wells, Sleepy.”
“Yeah,” Sleepy did not seem to be very enthusiastic.
“Aw, shake yore hide,” grinned Hashknife. “You act like a mourner at a funeral, cowboy.”
“I’m all right,” muttered Sleepy. “But it makes me tired. Every time we go anywhere, somethin’ happens. There’s no peace anywhere. When them fellers was tellin’ about that hold-up, yore nose was twitchin’ like the nose of a pointer dog. Dang it, me and you didn’t come here to hunt bandits.”
Hashknife chuckled softly.
“And I’m not huntin’ ’em, Sleepy. What do yuh think of that? I ain’t lost no bandits. It’s nothin’ to me how many pay-rolls they steal.”
“Then don’t say nothin’ more about that girl, Hashknife. Ever since you got a look at her, you’ve spoke about her several times.”
“Pshaw! I didn’t realize it, Sleepy. Mebbe I just remarked about her folks all bein’ in jail.”
“Let ’em stay in jail,” grunted Sleepy heartlessly. “They prob’ly robbed that train. We didn’t come here to—”
“I know that sentence by heart, Sleepy. And you ought to know my reply. But that don’t alter the fact that she’s one pretty girl.”
“There yuh go!” gloomily.
Johnny Grant had spotted them and was coming their way, slightly unsteady on his legs, but grinning widely.
“C’mon and have a drink,” he urged. “I jist runs four-bits into a ten-spot in the black-jack game. If yuh don’t drink yuh can have a see-gar. But I warns yuh, their see-gars are a lot older than the liquor they sell. C’mon up to the bar and meet some of the folks.”
Neither of them wanted a drink, but they did want to be friendly with Johnny Grant and his crowd; so they elbowed their way to the bar. Ed Gast and Bill Bailey, of the X Bar 6, were at the bar, and Johnny introduced them, after which he deposited his money on the bar, and demanded action.
“Beatin’ that game is as easy as holdin’ up a train,” he declared, chuckling. “Runs four-bits up to ten dollars, and sticks my thumb at m’ nose at the dealer.”
Hashknife noticed that the sheriff was at the bar, and that Johnny’s remark interested him.
“Except that yuh can’t very well lose at holdin’ up a train,” added Eskimo Swenson, who had caught the sheriff’s reflection in the mirror. “If yuh ever get the money in yore hands, yo’re as safe as a church. Political affluence shore as don’t make a sheriff a man-catcher.”
Realizing that this conversation was for his benefit, the sheriff moved away from the bar, while the AK boys chuckled over their drinks. Even Sleepy Stevens shed his pessimistic attitude and grinned.
“These are home folks,” he said to Hashknife. “It appears that the sheriff ain’t standin’ very well with the AK.”
“Aw, he’s all right,” said Oyster. “Scotty’s as good as the average sheriff, except that he’s too serious. He’d give his right eye for a chance to prove first degree murder agin’ the whole AK outfit, because we devil him. He’s—”
The men at the bar jerked around when from out in the street came the unmistakable sound of a revolver shot.
“Somebody celebratin’,” decided Johnny Grant, as the sheriff and several men moved to the doorway and went outside.
They gulped their drinks, and went out into the street, where the only lights were those from the saloon and store windows.
“Somebody tryin’ to be funny,” grumbled the sheriff.
He went back into the Oasis. Some men had come from Moon’s store across the street, evidently wondering who had fired the shot. Two men with a lantern were fussing around a wagon in front of the blacksmith shop. One of the men came across from the store and went into the Oasis. It was Chet Le Moyne.
“Well, I reckon it was some puncher wishful of makin’ a noise,” decided Johnny Grant.
They turned and were going back into the saloon, when some one called from the hotel, which was across the street, and about a block north of the Oasis.
“C’mere!” yelled the man. He was evidently calling to some one in the hotel. “Come out and help me with this feller!”
“That sounds like somethin’ wrong,” said Hashknife. “Let’s go and see what it is.”
They hurried up the street and crossed to the hotel, where several men had gathered around a man who was lying flat on the ground.
“He’s been shot,” they heard one of them say. “Better pack him into the hotel and send for a doctor.”
A man scratched a match, but it flickered out. Hashknife shoved him aside, dropped on his knees beside the man, and ignited a match, with a snap of his thumb-nail. The illumination showed a gory face, gray as ashes, where the blood had not stained.
“My !” blurted Johnny. “It’s Jimmy Legg!”
He dropped on his knees beside Hashknife, grasping Jimmy’s shoulders.
“Hey! Jimmy!” he exclaimed.
“Don’t shake him!” roared Eskimo. “You big idiot!”
“Somebody go and find a doctor,” ordered Hashknife. “We’ll take him in the hotel.”
They carried him into the little hotel office, where there was light enough for them to discover that Jimmy Legg had missed death by a very scant margin. The bullet had struck him just above his left ear, slanted along his skull, and had furrowed deeply for about three inches.
Some one had gone after a doctor, and in the meantime Hashknife secured a basin of water and a towel, with which he mopped some of the blood away.
“I heard that shot,” said the proprietor of the hotel. “I thought it was somebody just makin’ a noise. Say, I seen that young feller talkin’ to Miss Taylor not five minutes ago. They was just outside the door there.”
“To Miss Taylor, eh?” Johnny blinked at the lamp. “Is she here now?”
The commotion in the office attracted Marion’s attention, and she was standing in the hallway door when Johnny spoke.
“I’m here,” she said. “What do you want of me?”
The cowboys removed their hats, as Johnny went toward her.
“You was talkin’ with Jimmy Legg a few minutes ago?” he asked.
“Why yes.” She was unable to see the man on the floor.
“Well, he got shot,” said Johnny bluntly.
“Shot?” Marion jerked forward. “Did somebody—not dead?”
“He ain’t badly hurt, ma’am,” said Hashknife. “The doctor will fix him up in no time.”
Marion came forward to where she could see. Her face was white and her two hands were clenched tightly, as she looked at Jimmy Legg, stretched on the floor.
“Why, I just left him a minute or so ago,” she whispered. “Where did it happen?”
“Jist out in the street,” replied Johnny. “By , I want to find the jasper that shot the poor devil!”
“If yuh do, don’t keep it to yourself,” growled Eskimo.
Marion stopped at the desk, bracing herself with one hand.
“Who would shoot him?” wondered Eskimo. “He wouldn’t hurt anybody. If it had been one of us—”
“That would be justified,” finished Johnny Grant.
Jimmy Legg lifted his head and stared around, blinking his eyes.
“What was it?” he whispered.
“Somebody took a shot at yuh,” said Johnny quickly.
Jimmy Legg felt of his head.
“Hit me, didn’t they?”
At this moment the doctor arrived, ordered them to carry Jimmy to a room, and proceeded to fix up the wound. Marion insisted on helping him, and Jimmy blinked his gratitude.
“Did you see the man who shot at you?” asked Marion.
“I never knew I was shot, until I woke up, Marion. You had just gone into the hotel, and I started to cross the street, when I saw a big flash, like an explosion. But I never heard the noise.”
The doctor washed and sewed up the wound. It was a painful proceeding, but Jimmy gritted his teeth and did not make a sound.
“You better get a room here at the hotel and go to bed,” advised the doctor. But Jimmy refused.
“I’m all right,” he insisted. “It aches a little, but not enough to put me in bed. Gee, it sure knocked me out!”
“And you’re lucky to be alive,” said the doctor, packing his kit-bag. “An inch further to the right, and you’d have no top on your head right now.”
The crowd was just outside the door, waiting for the doctor to finish, and they crowded in, hardly giving the doctor a chance to wiggle his way out into the hall. Jimmy held out his hand to Marion, disregarding the clamoring cowboys.
“Thank you,” he said. “It was nice of you to stay with me.”
Marion colored slightly, and her reply was drowned in Johnny Grant’s greeting.
“Hyah, Topknot! Howsa head, Jimmy?”
“Don’t jiggle me!” laughed Jimmy. “My face is so tight I can hardly laugh.”
“Don’t laugh,” advised Eskimo. “Now who do yuh know that might hate yuh enough to shoot yuh, Jimmy?”
Jimmy frowned painfully at the floor, and when he looked up he caught Marion’s eye. Tex Alden’s threat came back to him—
“The Blue Wells country is sure damp for your kind.”
Jimmy tried to smile, but it was only a grimace.
“I dunno,” he said slowly. “I haven’t had any trouble with any one here, except that day I accidently shot at the sheriff and the lawyer.”
“But that was an accident,” said Johnny. “Nobody blames yuh for that. Somebody wanted to kill yuh, kid.”
“Maybe,” faltered Jimmy, “they mistook me for somebody else.”
As Jimmy spoke he was looking at Marion, and he switched his eyes to Hashknife, who was watching him closely. The eyes of the tall cowboy seemed to bore into him, and Jimmy turned away.
“You was talkin’ with Miss Taylor just a minute or so before yuh got shot, eh?” Oyster Shell had an idea.
“Yes.”
“Uh-hah!”
“What’s that got to do with it?” demanded Johnny.
“Aw, let’s go and get a drink,” suggested Oyster. “Jimmy is all right. How about yuh, Jimmy?”
“I’m fine,” replied Jimmy. “Except that my feet don’t track and there’s a ton of rocks on my head—I’m as good as ever.”
They moved out of the hotel and headed for the Oasis, where Jimmy was the center of attraction. Le Moyne and Dug Haley were there. Johnny introduced them to Hashknife and Sleepy, and they all drank to the poor aim of some bushwhacker.
After a few more drinks the AK boys decided to go home. Jimmy’s head was bothering him, and Johnny Grant decided that a bunk was the best place for Jimmy Legg. Before they left, the sheriff and deputy bustled in, having just heard of the shooting, and wanted a detailed account of it.
“Aw, whatsa use?” wailed Eskimo. “Somebody popped Jimmy on the head with a bullet, and that’s all there is to it. Unless petrification sets in, he’ll be able to fall off a horse agin’ tomorrow—as usual. C’mon.”
And the sheriff was obliged to get his information from those who knew as much about it as the AK boys did. He went back to his office with Al Porter, and they sat down to discuss it.
“Well, who do yuh think tried to kill the tenderfoot?” queried Porter.
“If we didn’t have three men in jail, facin’ a charge of holdin’ up a train, I’d say that this here Legg person was the fourth one of the gang, and that some of ’em tried to bump him off for somethin’.”
“Well, I’ll be !” snorted Porter. “If we can’t hang it on to the Taylor gang, that might be worth workin’ on, Scotty. But who are these two strange cowpunchers who rode in with the AK gang tonight? Johnny Grant acts kinda friendly with ’em.”
“I don’t know, Al. I reckon I’ll hit the hay. Tomorrow we hold a hearin’ for the Taylor gang, and we’ll see what we’ll see. You better feed that dog before yuh go to bed, or he might mistake old Judge Parkridge for a strip of jerky. knows, he looks like one.”