White Wolf's Law

She shook her head in denial, but the fear that had leaped to her eyes told him the truth.

“All right, Dot – I hope – an’ yuh know I mean it – that this friend is successful,” he said calmly, but it was only with a great effort that he was able to keep his voice steady and not betray the seething hate that was biting at his vitals.

He would smash her, find this Slivers, and hang him. To be spurned by a chit of a girl! He, Spur Treadwell, to be spurned for a homeless cowboy! Instinctively he knew who Slivers’ friend was – that boy, for he was the only new arrival on the ranch. His mind leaped back to that scene in the bunk house. They had been blind – both he and the twins. Well, it was not too late to mend that. The twins were in town; he would go there, start the wheels working that would pauperize Dot; and to-morrow the twins could attend to the boy.

With a savage haste, he saddled his horse and rode furiously toward town. Dot Reed watched him go, and a growing terror seized her. That night she tossed in her bed until long after midnight, trying to decide what was best to do. She remembered that one little slip Allen had made on that first day when she fed him, and she resolved to speak to him the first thing in the morning.

At dawn she was up and waiting impatiently for Allen to return from the cavvy. The sun had been up for an hour before she saw him riding toward the corral. She tried to walk slowly, but her feet would run. He was unsaddling when she reached him, and he turned and greeted her with a broad smile.

“Howdy, miss.”

“Do yuh know Slivers Hart? Are yuh his friend?” she blurted out without any preliminary.

“Yep, I answers. Yes, twice. My name is Jim Allen,” he answered simply, and then waited for her to go on.

She told him of what she had said to Spur the evening before and of her fears.

“Don’t worry none, miss – mebbe I can fool ’em still,” he said, grinning at her cheerfully.

“But yuh must go at once. He will bring those terrible twins back with him – they’ll kill yuh!”

“Not any. I’m so darn small I’m plumb hard to hit,” he said cheerfully. “If I has to run – yuh tell Bill McAllister to keep watch on Hog Butte, an’ if he sees smoke rings, first one, then three, to get what men he can trust an’ meet me where the trail rounds Hard Pan toward Boston Jack’s. Now, don’t yuh worry none,” he told her, and then walked toward the cookhouse.

“Where yuh goin’?”

“Me? I’m plumb starved an’ I’m aimin’ to get cookie to rustle me some grub,” he replied.

She watched him walk nonchalantly toward the cookhouse. She noted he was wearing a gun in the holster by his side. This added to her fears, for it would give the twins an excuse to kill without any fear of punishment.

When Lefty Simms returned to the ranch, he had decided not to hurry things. He also noticed Allen was wearing a gun. He intended to wait until he caught Allen at a disadvantage and then, even while he called Allen’s name, he would fire. Thus the whole reward would be his, and his name would sweep along the border like wildfire as the one who had killed the Wolf. He would be the most famous gunman of all time.

He lolled near the bunk house. Half an hour later, he saw Allen step from the cookhouse, glance about and then roll a cigarette. Allen sauntered toward the bunk house, where he started to joke with several riders, who were loitering there waiting for Spur to return from town, when they would take up that day’s work of checking the cattle on the northeastern part of the range.

A minute later, Lefty Simms grinned evilly. Allen had squatted on his heels against the bunk-house wall. It was practically impossible for him to draw with any speed while in that position. Lefty loosened his gun in his low-hung holster and walked slowly toward the outlaw. He stopped before him and looked down at the small, tattered figure, then grinned, for the thing was now sure. Allen was in the act of rolling a cigarette and had both hands raised before him.

“So yuh’re the Wolf!” Lefty said thinly.

The grin left Allen’s face. To the left of Simms, he saw three horsemen pounding toward the ranch from the direction of town. He knew the riders were Spur Treadwell and the twins, and something told him that their haste was due to him. He made no attempt to deny Lefty’s accusation, for he was going to have to flee, anyway.

“I ain’t denyin’ it,” he replied flatly.

The riders scrambled away and watched the two. From somewhere in the front of the house, Dot screamed. She also divined Lefty’s purpose. From the direction of the corral, Bill McAllister pounded toward the two. His gun was in his hand. He realized that the little outlaw had been caught in a fatal position.

“Yuh lost any trouble?” Allen asked, looking up at Lefty.

Not a muscle in his body moved; he still held the cigarette paper and tobacco in his hands. Lefty crouched, his hand hovering like a claw above his gun.

“I always swore to kill the Wolf on sight,” he snarled.

There came a spurt of orange flame, a whirl of smoke, a thunderous report, and Lefty sagged at the knees and sank to the ground. Even before the cigarette paper that Allen had held in his hand fluttered to the ground, he had sprung to his feet and was running toward his saddled horse.

The spectators were still staring in stupefied amazement at Lefty’s huddled body, when there came a thunder of hoofs and Allen flashed along the corral fence and vanished behind some outbuildings.

“Gosh, he fooled Lefty clean – got a gun out with his left hand from a shoulder holster!” a rider cried in awe.

“Fooled him, hell! He outspeeded him. Lefty was standing all set, and look – he didn’t even get his gun out of the holster!”

“Who is the little runt?” still another asked.

Spur Treadwell and the twins swung into the lane and brought their horses to a sliding stop at the group by the bunk house. A babble of explanations greeted them.

“That’s the Wolf, Jim-twin Allen!” Spur roared. “Go get him! There’s ten thousan’ on his head, an’ I’ll clap another five on that to the man who brings me his scalp.”

Men flung themselves on horses and streamed away in pursuit, but all save Spur’s gunmen soon gave up the chase.

The grim-faced killers, however, heavily armed, followed that trail until far into the night.

Days passed, and Bill McAllister’s eyes were glued on the Hog Butte, but there came no signal from Allen. The bank representative completed his tally and returned to town. Dot knew that his report would be unfavorable.

At last, the grim-faced killers gave up the chase, and came back to the ranch. They reported that they had followed the outlaw’s trail as far as the Nations.

Then, just as both Dot and McAllister had decided that Allen had given up in despair, they saw smoke rings slowly travel upward in the heavy, overcast sky high above Hog Butte. It had rained all day, and the old horse wrangler was wet and tired, but when he saw those signs he raised his voice in a joyful whoop and then broke into song.

Just at dusk that night, Snoots Stevens and Flat-foot led two grays toward the trail to Boston Jack’s that skirted the Hard Pan.

When they reached the place where the trail skirted the Hard Pan country, Bill McAllister and three other Double R punchers joined them.

“Yuh boys use your ears an’ button your tongues, ’cause yuh’re apt to run into a bunch of gents what not only outnumber yuh but can fight a hell of a lot better,” Bill McAllister warned them.

Just as night fell, it started to rain, a soft, steady drizzle. The men swore philsophically, turned up their coat collars, and rode steadily through the night. A little later, they were joined by three other men who were strangers to them all, except Bill McAllister. The old wrangler had a short whispered conversation with one of the three, a heavily bearded man, and the little troop plodded on again through the night.

They rode silently, with no sound save the creaking of the leather and the occasional clank of a shod hoof against the flint rock. They traveled in single file, and the blackness of the night was so deep that each one could see only the blurred figure of the rider who preceded him. Somewhere a cougar called, and a little later a heavy crashing in the brush and the nervousness of the horses told them of the passing of a bear.

“We’re gettin’ close. My ol’ place is about a mile an’ a half to the left,” a whisper came from one of the men riding in the lead.

“Gosh, that’s Slivers Hart!” Flat-foot cried.

“I’m sure gettin’ curious about this party,” Snoots whispered back.

A short distance farther on, Jim Allen loomed out of the darkness and called to his brother, Jack. The two whispered together, and then all rode on again. When they were within three hundred yards of Boston Jack’s place, they pulled up.

“Yuh gents stay put, an’ if yuh hear shootin’ come a-runnin’,” Jim Allen ordered them briefly. Then he and Jack, Toothpick, and Slivers dismounted and vanished in the darkness toward the ranch houses.

Breathless, the men waited behind. Minutes slipped by, and they began to handle their guns nervously. Then a voice came through the darkness.

“All right. Come on!”

The horses were unsaddled and then turned into the corral. A guard was set, and the rest trooped into the ranch house. The main room in the house was large and square. At one side, there was a big, blazing fire, and the place was lighted by a stable lantern swung from the ceiling. It showed the untidy, dirty traces of several men.

Those who knew Slivers swarmed about him and greeted him.

“Darn my ol’ bones, I’m sure glad to see yuh!” Flat-foot cried, as he wrung the boy’s hand.

“Say, spill what this here is about,” Snoots begged.

“I ain’t kiddin’ yuh – I don’t know. The twins is runnin’ this show,” Slivers replied.

Slivers briefly told them how he had been framed and that, while they did not have sufficient evidence to prove it legally, they were positive that Spur Treadwell was the instigator of the plot.

“Sure he was – ’cause of Dot. Where we goin’ now?”

“I dunno. Yuh got to ast the twins; they’re runnin’ this show,” Slivers said, grinning at them.

“Them McGills!”

“Not any! Jim an’ Jack Allen.”

The two swung about and stared at the famous sheriff and the even more famous outlaw. Then, moved by a common impulse, they drifted toward the fire to have a closer look.

“I ain’t sayin’ Spur an’ Boston didn’t rustle Double R cows, but how did they get ’em out?” Bill McAllister asked. “Disposin’ of several thousan’ cows is a darned hard job.”

Allen took a large piece of rawhide from a package and laid it out where the light from the fire would play on it. They all leaned forward and stared. It had been taken from a Crossbar Double A cow. They frowned and looked questioningly at Allen, who only grinned at them.

“Shucks, that’s a blotted brand. Darned if it ain’t an ol’ Double R!” cried Snoots excitedly.

“Sure is – plain as the nose on your face!” Bill McAllister exclaimed.

“Sure it is – now yuh look at it!”

“If them Crossbar Double A cows was supposed to have come from a ranch near here, every one of yuh boys would have spotted them blotted brands pronto,” Jim Allen explained. “But seein’ they was supposed to have come from an outfit close to three hundred miles to the east of us, an’ the cows bein’ vented proper, yuh never thinks nothin’ about it. An’ if your eye did catch anythin’ funny, yuh wouldn’t have bothered to look close, ’cause yuh was sartin they couldn’t be blotted Double R cows.”

“The skunks!” cried Snoots. “They steal Double R cows, blot the brands, then sell ’em back to the Double R. Pretty slick, I calls it.”

“That’s why we couldn’t get track of any big herds bein’ sold that was suspicious,” Bill McAllister said in disgust. He frowned for a moment and then asked a question: “But we buys only twelve hundred head, an’ four times that many was stolen. How does that figger out?”

“I’m aimin’ to show yuh the rest to-morrow,” Jim Allen said.

“Ain’t yuh afraid Boston will be comin’ a-tearin’ back here?” some one asked.

“Not any. He an’ his whole gang left here just afore yuh gents arrived, an’ where they was a-goin’ is a good fifteen mile from here, so I don’t figger they’ll be back to-night,” Allen explained. “I figgered it was worth the chance for yuh to sleep dry to-night, ’cause yuh sure are goin’ to do a lot of scrappin’ to-morrow.”

For some time further, the punchers discussed the various phases of the rustling, and then they followed Allen’s example and curled up by the fire.

Before dawn the following morning, Allen aroused them, and they saddled their horses and, after eating a hasty breakfast, took the trail. They traveled almost due east. On their left was the Hard Pan country, and on the right the barren stretches that led to the Nations. Just as the first light touched the distant hills, Allen stopped and pointed to the sheer bluffs that marked the boundaries of the Hard Pan country.

“Yuh know, I bet I traveled a thousan’ mile tryin’ to find a trail through the darn Hard Pan. But I didn’t have no luck, ’cause there ain’t none. So I circles aroun’ here an’ tries the back door, an’ fin’s how they get in. Yuh see them trees along the base of that bluff? That’s where they goes through,” he explained.

The men stared at the trees and shook their heads. It seemed as if the bluff continued on in an unbroken line behind the trees. But one among them exclaimed in wonder, for the bluff was cut by a smooth slide that reached clear to the top.

“Shucks, a million cows has come by here,” Snoots cried out, and pointed to the chips that carpeted the ground.

Acting as an advance guard, the Allen twins pushed on up the slide; the others followed a hundred yards behind. At the crest, the trail again dipped sharply and wound its way between the familiar buttes, which slowly flattened out. Presently, the twins dismounted and waited for the others to arrive.

“Jack, suppose yuh take Toothpick an’ sorta circle to the left, an’ I’ll wander to the right an’ see if they has a guard set. Snoots, yuh come with me.”

Snoots hastily swung from his horse and, after thumbing his nose at those who were to be left behind, followed Allen through the brush along the slope to the right. Then, suddenly, Snoots drew his breath and swore softly to himself, for there before them lay a long, wide valley in the very center of the Hard Pan, and there were hundreds of cows in sight, contentedly munching on the heavy grass.

“If that ain’t a rustler’s paradise, I hope I never see one,” he whispered.

Allen silenced him with a gesture and pointed to a man about fifty feet below them to their right.

“A guard,” he breathed.

They watched the man who was squatting in a bit of shade and who was engaged in some occupation that he found highly amusing. He would burst into chuckles and then yank at a piece of cord. They could not see what was attached to the other end, but Snoots swore angrily.

“What’s he doin’ to that rabbit?”

Allen flashed a glance at him and then seemed to busy himself studying the lay of the land immediately surrounding the guard. Momentarily silenced by what he saw in the outlaw’s face, Snoots aroused himself when he saw Allen start to crawl off to the right.

“Let me go; I’m bigger. I can take him silently,” Snoots murmured.

“He ain’t goin’ to be took prisoner!”

Before Snoots could voice a further objection, Allen had crawled silently and as rapidly as a lizard behind a projecting rock and vanished. Snoots stared stupidly at the rock a moment and then covered the man on guard with his rifle.

Twenty minutes later, they rejoined the other men. Making their way to the south of the gully, they rode silently to another break in the valley that led to an obvious cul-de-sac. Concealing their ponies there, they reached points of vantage above the valley and studied the terrain before them. About a half mile to their right, and almost in the center of the valley, were two rough huts, in front of which stood several saddled horses. About the same distance to their left, three other horsemen were driving several hundred cows toward the hut. Midway between these, there was a lone man on a buckskin pony heading for the gully Snoots and Allen had just left.

“He’s goin’ to relieve the guard,” Snoots said.

“He’s goin’ to join the guard,” Allen laughed. Then he added: “Yuh boys stay put an’ let ’em all get in afore yuh starts shootin’.” Before any one could raise any objection, he vanished, and presently they saw him advance coolly toward the lone rider.

“I dunno, but I’m sayin’ I’m plumb tickled that I ain’t ridin’ a buckskin hoss, ’cause that little runt is sure mad an’ awful homicidal.

“I ain’t sayin’ that guard wasn’t treatin’ that rabbit scandalous, but after Allen knifed him an’ he’s coughin’ blood, Allen don’t pay no attention, but looks broodin’like at that bunny. An’ when he picks it up an’ sees that its leg is broke, he goes white, an’ I’ll swear there is tears in his eyes when he regretfully uses his sticker to end its misery.”

Snoots stopped, took a chew of tobacco, and then added reflectively: “Damn a knife, I say; it sure ain’t no white man’s weapon. Yet, I dunno. Some one had to stop that feller from yappin’, an’ a shot would sure have mussed up our plans. But he ought to have paid more attention to the feller he knifed than to the rabbit.”

“Sure, he ought to have begged his pardon for stickin’ him,” Flat-foot scoffed.

“Aw, shut up!” Slivers growled.

They sank into silence and watched Allen ride directly toward the man on the buckskin, until he was within two hundred yards. The little outlaw made no effort at concealment, but suddenly swung his pony and headed toward the ranch house. The man on the buckskin fired two shots and then started in pursuit. At the sound of the reports, several men ran from the hut, threw themselves on their ponies, and started to cut off Allen, now circling to the left.

Still swinging to the left in a wide circle, the outlaw ended by pointing directly toward the riders with the cattle, who were riding pell-mell to intercept him. Again he swung sharply to the left and, driving forward with the utmost speed, headed toward the gully where the cow-punchers lay hidden. Soon after he passed between the two converging groups of horsemen, they met and scattered up the gully behind him.

“He bunched ’em like I would cows,” Toothpick said admiringly. “Pick your man an’ let’s go.”

Thinking they had Allen in a trap, the rustlers pulled their ponies up and were dismounting, when the cowboys’ devastating volley took them at point-blank range. The rustlers were all desperate men. In spite of the surprise, they stood their ground and attempted to fight back. But their enemies were concealed, and the rustlers were subjected to a deadly cross-fire, so, at last, what was left of them broke and fled.

Jack Allen, mounted on his big black stallion, and Jim Allen, on Honeyboy, dashed, side by side, after the rustlers. Their horses leaped the mound of fallen men and ponies in the entrance. The rest of the cow-punchers streamed out from the cul-de-sac after the twins.

“Goshamighty! see that black horse go!” Flat-foot cried.

“Black, hell! Look at that gray! He runs with his belly touchin’ the groun’!” Snoots screamed.

Side by side, faster and faster, the twins overtook their quarry. Then they commenced to fire, first with their right and then with their left-hand gun. The rustlers started to drop and then scattered. Two jerked their horses to a standstill and held up their hands. The Allens swept by these and rode down the rest like greyhounds after rabbits. One man, and one man alone, reached the huts, and he slumped to his knees, as he dropped from his horse and tried to gain the house.

“Reckon we bagged the lot,” Jack Allen said soberly, and methodically reloaded his gun.

“Yeh, an’ that feller over by the hut that Jim plugged last is Boston Jack himself,” Bill McAllister said.

They gathered up the wounded and dead and laid them in rows in the shade of the huts. There were six dead, three mortally wounded and five others injured. Boston Jack had been shot through a lung, and his wound was fatal. He stared unblinkingly at his captors.

“Yuh aimin’ to nuss these here bimbos back to health or are yuh goin’ to string ’em up pronto?” Toothpick asked jokingly.

“Now – pronto!” Silent Moore said briefly.

“Naw, let’s keep ’em to show Spur,” Slivers jested.

The expression on Boston Jack’s face changed. His fevered eyes caught Allen’s.

“What’s that about Spur?”

“Nothin’ – but we’re aimin’ to keep yuh gents to show Spur afore we string yuh up – to sorta show Spur we – ”

Caught by something in Boston Jack’s eyes, Allen hastily laid a hand on Slivers’ arm.

“Spur – he’s comin’? He sent yuh gents here?” Boston Jack asked.

“Sure did,” Allen replied easily.

Boston Jack was silent for a moment, then his lips opened and a string of curses poured forth.

“The dirty double crosser! He’d double cross his own mother! Damn him, tryin’ to hog it all! I’d cook his goose, only yuh’re his men an’ – ” He stopped suddenly.

“Naw, we ain’t his men. This here is Jack-twin Allen, the Wyoming sheriff,” Jim said, beckoning Jack forward.

Boston Jack stared with fevered eyes, then he nodded.

“Yeh, yuh sure is him. An’ I knows yuh ain’t working for no skunk like Spur. Come closer, an’ I’ll tell yuh somethin’ that will cut that double crosser’s horns,” Boston muttered.

Jack Allen knelt beside the dying outlaw, who whispered to him. His voice grew fainter and fainter, and Jack Allen stooped lower and lower, until his ear was close to the dying man’s lips. Then Boston sighed and straightened out. Jack Allen arose to his feet and looked down on the dead man.

“Did he finish?” Jim asked.

“He told me enough to hang Spur a dozen times,” Jack answered, “an’ I reckon there’ll be others who’ll be willin’ to save their necks by corroborating what he said. Usually, crooks will talk to save their own necks, so guard these wounded men carefully,” Jack said.

Bill McAllister and three men were left as guards, and the rest started on the return trip to the Double R Ranch. It was not until they had reached Boston’s ranch that Jack Allen told them of what the outlaw had confessed. When he had finished, they were all silent for a time, for it was a terrible tale of murder and treachery.

“But even if yuh hang Spur – that won’t save Dot her ranch if she signs them papers this afternoon,” Slivers cried suddenly.

“Sign this afternoon?” Jack Allen exclaimed sharply.

“Yep, Bill McAllister tol’ me she was goin’ to town to-day to see the bank man,” Slivers said.

“But she’s not to sign until to-morrow – that was the plan Boston and Spur agreed on,” Jack countered.

“Hell,” Jim Allen cried, “the kid’s plumb correct. I’m bettin’ that Spur is figgerin’ on doin’ just what we made Boston believe he done an’ he fixed the signin’ a day ahead.”

“Then let’s get goin’ – an’ the first man there tell Dot she’s got thousands of cows in that valley all wearin’ the Double R brand, an’ there ain’t no use of her sellin’ the outfit!” Jack yelled as he ran toward his horse.

Flat-foot, Snoots, and Slivers were off first. They were followed by Jack Allen on his big black, Toothpick on the dun and Jim Allen last on Honeyboy, followed by Princess. For the first two miles, the three leaders made a terrific pace and drew rapidly ahead. Then, step by step, they fell back. The big black passed them easily, one by one; then the dun sent her nose ahead. For several miles, Jack and Toothpick led Jim Allen, but at last the two grays rapidly drew abreast and then ahead. They were running like machines.

“Dang me, look at the little runt change hosses! If he does that, no wonder they can run all day!” Slivers cried as Jim Allen, without stopping the machinelike gallop of his horses, lightly sprang from Honeyboy to Princess.

The black pulled abreast of the grays.

“Dang yuh, Jim, don’t yuh go tearin’ into town by your lonesome,” Jack stormed.

“Get that elephant of yorn goin’ then,” Jim taunted.

Side by side, they raced on for another mile or two, then Jack felt his black commence to falter, and Princess shot ahead with Honeyboy pounding along behind her.

“No, yuh don’t!” Jack cried with a laugh.