White Wolf's Law

“I betcha yuh have fights aplenty with rustlers,” Allen said and then added eagerly: “I’m goin’ to get me a gun so I can help fight them.”

“Son, don’t yuh do no such thing. Yuh’re a whole lot safer naked than if yuh packed a gun,” the old-timer warned.

“But suppose I met a rustler?” the boy insisted.

“I ain’t talkin’ about rustlers, but some of the gents what has come to work on this outfit since the or man died,” Bill McAllister said gruffly.

Allen allowed the subject to drop. He had learned enough for the present. The horse herd was pastured to the south of the ranch in a large meadow which was partly fenced in by dense thickets and partly by wire. Here he met “Maverick Ed” Stone, the other day herder.

Maverick was a lantern-jawed, stoop-shouldered, lanky man of forty, and Allen found him almost as taciturn as his boss. The herder’s job was an easy one. It consisted in riding along the boundaries of the meadow and watching to see that none of the horses escaped through the brush.

That night at chow, Allen glanced along the long table in the cookhouse at the score of punchers present. The riders were of all ages. The seven men who sat at the far end of the table were as different from the others as sheep from goats. They were quiet-spoken men and all wore their holsters tied down. The others were cow-punchers pure and simple, who, while they would all fight at the drop of a hat, were not professional fighters. To Allen these gunmen were one more point against Spur Treadwell. He knew they could be explained satisfactorily to others by the fact that the ranch was close to the Nations and that several raids had been made on the Double R stock. Every ranch in such a situation would keep a gang of fighters on its payrolls.

By keeping his ears open and asking a few judicious questions that night in the bunk house, Allen learned that the gunmen worked the northern end of the ranges, as this was considered the danger point. It was near the Hard Pan country which led to the Nations.

“That’s plumb natural, but if a gent was lootin’ the ranch, it would make it plumb easy,” he told himself.

Yet he was convinced that Spur Treadwell had a deeper game than the looting of the ranch. Sooner or later, Treadwell would be sure to be discovered if he tried that – yet it was hard for Allen to decide what his game was. It would take time to burrow deep enough to uncover the mystery and it might necessitate several trips into the Hard Pan country.

The little outlaw was talking, laughing, and adroitly questioning a short squat puncher named “Shorty” when two men entered the bunk house. Allen’s eyes flicked yellow for a moment as they rested on the newcomers, then he turned so that his back was against the light. He knew them, but would they remember him? If they did – He worked the gun he wore in a shoulder holster a little more forward.

The bunk house was lined on either side with a double row of bunks, with wooden pegs on either side for the occupants’ clothing. The place was lighted by two big lamps, one at each end of the long room. Here, as in the cookhouse, there was the same sharply drawn demarcation between the gunmen and the cow-punchers.

The newcomers stalked down the room and took their places at the table at the farther end among their own kind.

Both were gunmen – killers. They were twins, “Sandy” and “Mac” McGill. There was Indian mixed with their Scotch blood. From the first they had inherited their killing propensity, from the second a cool, deadly nerve.

Mac had a scar on his left cheek, and it was only from this mark that one of the twins could be distinguished from the other. Both were of medium height, rather slender and wiry of build. Their eyes were like blue marbles, their hair sandy in color. Their faces were rather long, and their jaws heavy, which contrasted strangely with their thin and cruel mouths.

Covertly, from beneath the brim of his hat, Allen watched them while pretending to listen to a long-winded story by Shorty. If they recognized him, it would be the end, for no matter whether he won the gun fight or not, it would mean his quitting the ranch. Perhaps he could keep out of their way for a few days, but sooner or later, he would come face to face with them. As long as the crisis had to come, it might as well come that night. He would play his part – and the ragged boy from Fort Worth should not be found packing a gun in a shoulder holster. That was a risk he would have to take, for if he took off his gun and they recognized him, they would shoot him down like a dog.

A little later, he slipped out of the bunk house, unfastened his shoulder holster and gun, hid them beneath the bunk house, and then returned to the long room.

“Yuh was tellin’ me about this here Hard Pan country,” he said to Shorty, when he returned.

“Yeh, I was tellin’ yuh to stay clear of it ’cause it ain’t nothin’ but a lot of buttes with hard pan between them. Yuh can get lost there easy. Yuh could drive a hundred cows over this here hard pan and never leave no trail a-tall ’cause it’s just like stone. An’ there’s a thousan’ trails windin’ about in there. Some of ’em is blind ones an’ they twist about scandalously. Then, besides, ‘Boston Jack’ don’t like folks wanderin’ about the buttes.”

From the corner of his eye, Allen saw that both the McGills were watching him and whispering to each other. He saw them slowly arise to their feet and move toward him. Mac came directly toward him and Sandy circled the table to take him in the rear. It was coming.

“Who’s this here Boston Jack?” he asked, and there was no quiver in his voice – nothing to show that he knew he might be dead in sixty seconds. His voice was eager, curious.

“He’s the gent what bought the ol’ Double B Ranch after the bank foreclosed. It’s about twenty mile from here, tother side of the Hard Pan. He’s runnin’ hosses, but folks figger he’s runnin’ cows on the side – other folks’ cows – but they never can catch him.” The garrulous Shorty paused to yank off a chew from a piece of black plug.

“Stay put!” Mac snapped.

Shorty looked up, saw Mac with his gun out, and then promptly fell over sideways to be out of the way. At the same time Mac spoke, Allen’s arms were seized by Sandy from behind.

“I ain’t done nothin’,” Allen cried.

He struggled to his feet and tried to free himself from Sandy’s iron grip. As he struggled, he ducked his head to shield his face with his hat brim and blinked his eyes. He knew that they were what would be most likely to give him completely away.

“Dang yuh, I ain’t done nothin’, let me be!” he again cried in a perfect imitation of an angry boy.

“Stay still. What’s your name an’ where do yuh come from?” Mac asked coolly.

Allen felt Sandy’s hands exploring beneath his arms and every other place where it would be possible to conceal a gun.

“My name’s Ashton, from down Fort Worth way. Mr. McCann brought me out here,” he replied.

“Yuh know One-wing?” Mac asked sharply.

“Sure, I see them arrive together, an’ One-wing tol’ Spur he knew him,” one of the other gunmen volunteered.

“An’ he ain’t heeled,” Sandy announced.

“Guess we made a mistake – no wolf would travel without his teeth,” Mac smiled thinly.

Sandy released him, and Allen pretended to trip and fall to the floor. The shadows were deeper there.

“Who’d yuh think he was?” a gunman asked, as the two returned to their table.

“One of them Allen twins,” Mac replied shortly.

“Ha-ha-ha!” Shortly laughed. “That’s a hell of a joke on them – they took yuh for the Killer Wolf.”

“Dang fools,” Allen grumbled, as he arose to his feet and ruefully rubbed his arms where they had been seized by Sandy’s steellike fingers.

He grinned to himself. He had carried it off and besides he had learned one important thing. Every cow-puncher in the bunk house had cowered away from the killers except Maverick Ed Stone and two punchers by the names of “Flat-foot” and “Snoots” Stevens. At least he had learned that these three had nerve and were not friends of the McGills’. He was glad of this, for he felt that before many days passed, he would have need of men with nerve to help him.

Spur Treadwell looked through the bunk-house door and said shortly: “Time for yuh boys who is ridin’ to-night to get started.”

Several riders, among whom was Shorty, arose grumblingly to their feet and, taking coats and hats from pegs, went outside. Allen drifted out after them. He saw that four of the gunmen were also assigned to night herding.

“Where yuh goin’” he asked, as he watched Shorty and three other riders as they saddled their horses.

“The Double R cows is shrinkin’ like snowballs in hell – so a dozen of the boys is put ridin’ the range to keep the herd from shrinkin’ complete,” Shorty explained.

“Spur is sure gettin’ ready to go on the prod,” another rider said with a laugh.

“Yuh let me go with yuh?” Allen asked.

After a moment’s protest, Shorty agreed to allow the boy to accompany him. After Allen had retrieved his gun and shoulder holster, he saddled his gray and he and Shorty rode south from the ranch.

There was a quarter moon, and the whole plain was covered with a deceptive light.

“Why for don’t Spur go an’ talk personal with this Boston Jack?” Allen asked.

“He done it just after ol’ man Reed was downed, but didn’t find nothin’ a-tall. Boston just laughed at him – but one of his riders gets hot under the collar an’ talks war to Sandy McGill, who drops him pronto. Just the same, I’m plumb curious an’ I figger on amblin’ some night into the Hard Pan an’ havin’ a look. Spur puts them gunmen of hisn over that way – but I don’t trust them gents none a-tall!”

“Spur gets ’em after the old man is downed?” Allen asked.

“Naw, the old man gets ’em up from the border a couple of weeks afore he stops lead. Funny how he was wanderin’ about by hisself when he runs into them rustlers what downed him. Yep, it’s sure funny, ’cause I hears he hires them McGills as personal bodyguards. It would ’a’ been positively ludicrous if Spur hadn’t been there,” Shorty said reflectively.

“What yuh mean – Spur bein’ there?” Allen encouraged.

“’Cause I don’t trust them McGills a-tall. But Spur is white an’ ain’t the sort to have no truck with rustlers. Then, besides, he’s got money. An’ ain’t he goin’ to marry Dot Reed? So he ain’t goin’ to steal what will be hisn some day,” Shorty explained, as he deftly rolled a cigarette.

Their horses slid into a deep wash floored with boulders. After they had picked their way across and climbed the opposite bank, Allen started to ply Shorty with questions again.

“I hears Dot was goin’ to marry this Slivers person?” he said.

“Yeh, mebbe she was, but Slivers is wanted bad for two murders, among which is her old man, so I reckon she forgot him.”

“Mebbe she don’t believe he’s guilty,” Allen volunteered.

“Mebbe so. I sorta liked Slivers myself an’ never figgered him the sort of gent what would dry-gulch a man. Yeh, there’s somethin’ sorta funny about that too an’ I’m a-gettin’ plumb curious.”

Allen decided that Shorty was altogether too talkative for a man who had such a broad, curious streak. Under the present circumstances to have either was dangerous, but to have both was suicidal.

CHAPTER XXI

CONFERENCE WITH SLIVERS

He rode with Shorty a short distance farther and then announced that his gray had gone lame and that he intended to return to the ranch. Shorty gave a few brief directions as to the trail back to the ranch and then rode on alone. Allen waited until the glow of Shorty’s cigarette had faded in the faint light from the moon and then swung Princess about and headed across the plain almost due north to where he had left Slivers earlier that day. He put his horse into a long, space-devouring lope and headed straight toward the tall, wooded mountain that stood out against the starlit sky.

As he rode on and on, he tried to piece together the bits of information he had gathered. From Shorty’s talk he knew that if Spur were guilty, it was going to be hard to trap him, for Spur had covered his tracks well.

The stars told him it was past midnight when he started to climb the knoll on which Slivers had his camp. He dismounted and cautiously made his way upward on foot. Once, twice, three times he gave the wolf call. This was the agreed signal. A few seconds later, he heard Slivers answer.

“’Lo, kid,” Allen said, when he at last stood beside his friend. “How about some java?”

“How are things? What did yuh find out? Did yuh see her?” Slivers eagerly fired out his questions as he made a small fire and put the coffeepot on to boil.

“I’ll give yuh the best first. The girl is fine an’ still thinkin’ of yuh plenty. But the rest is plumb rotten bad. John Reed is dead an – ”

“John Reed dead?” Slivers cried in dismay.

“Yeh. Now, yuh hold tight while I tell yuh about it. He was downed by a couple rustlers that he caught blottin’ brands. Spur Treadwell an’ the McGill twins downed the rustlers. Afore ol’ man Reed cashed, he made Spur Dot’s guardian – ”

“I don’t believe it,” Slivers interrupted positively.

“Me, neither – but just the same Spur’s got a paper, an’ folks figger said paper is genuine.” Allen grinned sardonically.

Slivers considered this news. Then an idea flashed into his head.

“Them rustlers – they was blottin’ the Double R brand to the Double B?” he demanded.

“Yep, yuh can go up to the head of the class. Now then, kid, keep cool!” Allen paused for a moment and then grinned cheerfully at Slivers. “Spur says one rustler got away an’ that feller was yuh!”

“The dirty coyote!” Slivers’ face whitened, then flushed to an angry red, as he leaped to his feet. “I’ll kill him!”

“Keep cool, kid. Spur sure made a mistake when he tried to fasten that killin’ on yuh, ’cause yuh can easy prove yuh warn’t within five hundred mile of the Little Deadman’s when the killin’ was done. An’ let me tell yuh now, your gal don’t believe it a-tall!”

“Damn it, yuh can grin, but it – I – ”

“Shucks, there ain’t no use gettin’ her up,” Allen interrupted. “Didn’t I just tell yuh Spur overplayed his hand when he tried to fasten that second killin’ on yuh?”

Slivers regained his composure with an effort and once more sat down by the fire.

“Now, what’s to be done?” he asked.

“Yuh can’t do nothin’ in a hurry – we got to sorta wait for Spur to bungle another play. What I want of yuh is this – first, the names of the gents yuh figger yuh can trust, then I wants yuh to tell me all over again just what happened the night Iky Small got gunned,” Allen replied, as he poured out a cup of steaming black coffee.

“There’s Bill McAllister, the foreman – ” Slivers commenced.

“Ex-foreman,” Allen corrected.

Slivers Hart mentioned name after name, but the only ones who were still at the ranch were Maverick Ed Stone, Flat-foot, Shorty, Snoots Stevens, and Arizona, the cook. The rest had been replaced since Slivers left the country.

“Spur is stackin’ the deck with his own men,” Slivers commented.

“Sure. What do yuh suppose he’d do?” Allen said cheerfully. “Now, tell me about that killin’.”

“Iky Small worked for me, an’ he was so blamed lazy I kicked him off the place. I had supper with Dot Reed an’ her pa. I was goin’ to Malboro the next day to try an’ wrangle some money out of ol’ ‘Miser’ Jimpson, so I decides to cut for town an’ stay there for the night. It’s close to thirty mile from the Double R to town an’ it’s near midnight when I gets to the crossroads, where the trail branches off to my outfit, the Double B. I meets ‘Squint’ Lane, an’ he tells me ‘Doc’ Hollis has hotfooted it out to see my ma, who is plumb sick. His cayuse is fresh an’ mine is tuckered, so he offers to swap. We changes saddles, an’ I hotfoot it to my place – it’s about twenty-five mile from there.

“When I gets there, I find my ma sleepin’ peaceful an’ not sick a-tall. I gets hot under the collar at that, for I figger Squint done it as a joke. Makin’ a hombre ride fifty mile ain’t no joke, an’ so I gets mad. I throws Squint’s hoss in the corral, forks another, an’ hits for town to give Squint a drubbin’. It was close to ten in the morning when I gets near town. I meets Snoots Stevens, an’ he tells me that Iky Small was gunned, shot through the back of the head, an’ that a bunch of stranglers is lookin’ for me.

“So I hits out for the Double R, ’cause ol’ John Reed is a friend of mine, an’ I figgers he’ll tell me what to do. When I gets to the Double R, I finds Spur Treadwell an’ Dot settin’ on the front porch, an’ they tells me ol’ John ain’t home. Dot sees I’m plumb worried, so she sorta hints to Spur he ain’t wanted. Spur gets up an’ grins at me an’ says: ‘Every dog has his day.’”

“An’ because he said that yuh figger he knows what’s comin’?” Allen interrupted.

“Yep, that an’ one other thing. Every puncher was away from the ranch that day, an’ Spur turned all the hosses out of the corral, so when I see the stranglers comin’, I has to light out on a tired horse, an’ they damn near catch me.” Slivers ended his story and rolled a cigarette.

“So on the night of the killin’ yuh ain’t got no alibi whatsoever, ’cause yuh was ridin’ about the range all by your lonesome all night?”

“An’ the next day, when John Reed looks for Squint, they tells him Squint left town a week afore, an’ One-wing McCann says he got a letter from Squint postmarked up in Utah, so everybody figgers I never seen Squint an’ am lyin’. An’ that darn hoss Squint trades to me was the one Iky Small was ridin’ that night, an’ they finds it in my corral. An’ my hoss is found lame on the range, so they figgers after I kills Iky I trades hosses. If yuh can see a way out of that mess for me, I’ll say yuh ain’t only a wolf, but a whole pack of ’em.” Slivers spoke gloomily.

“An’ they say yuh first fired him an’ then killed him to close his mouth.”

“Of course, Spur would spread that aroun’ – he’s so darn complete,” Slivers answered.

“Yeh, it’s so darn complete that there’s sure a hole in it somewhere,” Allen said paradoxically. “Yuh got a real good friend in town?”

“Yeh, Doc Hollis – he’d swear I was innocent if I was guilty as hell. He’s courtin’ my ma,” Slivers ended with a faint smile.

“Well, I’m goin’. Yuh sit tight an’ don’t go off half cocked,” Allen warned.

He saddled Honeyboy and left Princess behind. He knew there was a risk in changing mounts, but this had to be taken, as Princess had been ridden far that day, and it would be necessary to ride fast if he wished to return to the ranch before daylight.

He had just finished rubbing the sweat marks off Honeyboy on his return to the ranch, and had just slipped into the bunk house, when the ranch began to waken.

As Allen stepped out of the cookhouse after breakfast that morning, his face was swathed in a flannel bandage. He saw that both the twins were watching him. He slipped through the bar of the corral and headed toward Bill McAllister, who was preparing to rope his mount for that day.

“Say, mister, can I have another cayuse to ride to-day?” Allen asked. He did not want the twins to see him mounted on a gray horse.

“Yeh, fork that roan mare,” McAllister said shortly, as he glanced shrewdly from beneath his shaggy eyebrows at the boy.

“I got me a terrible toothache,” Allen volunteered to several punchers, as he was saddling the roan. They glanced at his bandaged face and offered various sure cures.

“Shucks! I think I’ll go to town an’ have the darn thing yanked out,” the little outlaw told them.

Bill McAllister and Allen skillfully cut some twenty horses from the milling crowd in the corral, drove them through the gate, and started them toward the cavvy. Among them was the gray.

As Allen swept by the twins and Spur Treadwell, Mac McGill watched him and then shook his head.

“He sure rides like him,” he said thoughtfully.

“He sure does,” Sandy agreed.

“Who’s that?” Spur Treadwell asked.

“Last night, in the bunk house, I was certain that kid was Jim Allen, but we jumped him an’ finds him naked like a baby,” Sandy explained.

“Yuh thought he was the Wolf?” Spur Treadwell asked. His eyes followed Allen.

“Yeh, but I reckon we was wrong,” Mac said indifferently.

“Mebbe so, but I aims to talk turkey to that kid when I next sees him an’ make plumb certain,” Sandy said flatly.

“One-wing knows him,” Spur Treadwell announced.

His mind was occupied with other things. He frowned and then rolled a cigarette.

“Why don’t yuh marry the gal an’ save all this bother?” Mac asked maliciously.

The cords tightened in Spur’s neck at this taunt, but his eyes showed no resentment when they met Mack’s. Though he had sufficient courage, he was not foolish enough to quarrel with either of the twins. They were too deadly with a gun. He knew their type – knew their blood lust – knew that if he pressed them, they would drop him as quickly as they would some hobo puncher. No, he would never place himself in a position where he would be forced to draw against them. Later, after they had outgrown their usefulness – that was different. They would pay then for any taunts they threw at him now.

“Mebbe I will marry the gal – but I don’t hanker none to have no rich wife – they get bossy,” he said coldly.

The twins grinned at each other, then the three strolled slowly toward the house.

About a mile from the ranch house, Bill McAllister pulled his horse over close to Allen, and the two rode on side by side in silence. The bunch of horses trotted on ahead.

“Kid, I hears about the ruction yuh had in the bunk house last night with the twins. I’m askin’ yuh, who are yuh?” the old horse wrangler said keenly.

“What yuh mean?” Allen said innocently.

“Yuh was out ridin’ last night – I see the saddle marks on that gray of yourn – an’ what’s more, it ain’t the same one yuh was ridin’ yesterday. That was a mare. Figgered mebbe yuh didn’t want folks to notice, so I brung him along,” McAllister said bluntly.

Allen cast one quick glance at the honest, rugged face of the old-timer and made up his mind to trust him.

“All right – I’m Jim-twin Allen,” he said soberly.

Bill McAllister’s jaws worked rhythmically for a minute as he studied Allen. He touched his pony with his spurs and dashed forward to head off several horses that were breaking away from the bunch. When the horses were again bunched, he dropped back to the outlaw’s side. He skillfully hit a distant stone with tobacco juice and then took up the conversation where he had left it.

“I’ve heard tell of yuh. What’s your game?”

Allen briefly told him how he had met Slivers and of his belief that the boy had been framed by Spur Treadwell. Bill McAllister listened in silence.

“Always thought there was something funny about that killin’. So Slivers figgers Spur framed him. I ain’t sayin’ Slivers wasn’t jobbed, but yuh an’ he is plumb mistook if yuh figgers Spur done it. He ain’t that kind of a feller – he ain’t enough of a fool to do anythin’ raw.”

“I ain’t sayin’ he’s a fool an’ I don’t figger he done anythin’ raw, ’cause the job was planned by a gent with a head on him,” Allen grinned.

Bill McAllister chewed reflectively for a moment and then nodded his head.

“An’ don’t be forgettin’ that Spur turned the hosses out of the corral when he sees the posse comin’, an’ Slivers says he acted like he expected ’em,” Allen argued.

“Mebbe so. But, son, yuh’re runnin’ agin’ somethin’ that’s big an’ hard when yuh tackle Spur,” Bill warned.

“Sure – but a wolf can drag down a bull moose,” Allen replied and smiled. After they had turned the horses into the big pasture, he added: “This bein’ Saturday, the bunch will be headin’ for town. I’m goin’ to have Doc pull a tooth for me. Yuh want to meet me there?”

“So that’s why yuh got a toothache so suddenlike?” the old-timer asked.

“Them twins is darn suspicious, so I figgered it would cover my face likewise.”

“Yuh watch them twins. Arizona says yuh is quick like a snake, but there is two of ’em,” the old man warned.

“Arizona – he knows me?”

“Not him, but his brother down in Cannondale knows yuh plenty. He wrote how yuh had yourself tossed through the window and cleaned out a bunch of woman stealers across the border. If half what he wrote’s the truth, I’m sayin’ yuh’ve got nerve aplenty,” Bill McAllister said admiringly.

“Shucks! Yuh’re too ol’ to talk such loose language,” Allen answered irritably.