The round-up; a story of ranchmen, cowboys, rustlers, and bad-men happening in the days when the great Southwest was being won for civilization

Front matter

flass

Book.

*o

Contents

CHAPTER PAGE

Prologue. I

I Card Practice. 9

Chapter I

R AIN! Not a sudden shower of light, gentle mist; not a lazy sprinkle of great silver drops; not a tempestuous downpour of sullen roaring water, but a steady soggy dripping that told of hours of rain yet to come. It was one of those spirit-sapping all-day rains that some¬ times deluge the great Southwest in the fall.

The main and, in fact, the only real street of Lebanon was a slough of sticky and deceptive mud. From Dallas Corner to the river landing, a distance of twelve struggling and straggling blocks, one could easily have become mired down to the hips in many treacherous spots in the cling¬ ing, gummy mud and clay if one left the sanctity of the stone-slab sidewalks. In truth, the street was so bad in wet weather that the mountaineers from the Ozarks, in coming down from their high¬ lands, hitched their extra team of oxen behind their wagons of produce to save the beasts for that terrible pull down the main street of this Indian Territory town. Two teams of oxen could scarcely drag a single wagon to the freight land¬ ing at the river’s edge. The wagon would mire 9

IO down below the axles, the oxen would flounder almost helplessly up to their bellies.

Just why the little town had wiggled out of the sticky, slippery red clay beneath its feet and spread itself over the gummy father of aluminum and why it continued to exist could be attributed to but one cause — whiskey.

Waiving its somewhat strenuous and lurid past, Lebanon still survived as a vicious outpost of lawlessness in the year 1892, even while civiliza¬ tion, law, and order overtook and passed it, con¬ tinuing on their inexorable way westward. Yet, that the wild days of the seventies and eighties were gone forever was obvious in the gradual passing of the bad Indian, the outlaw and the reckless gunman. It lacked but a scant four years until the United States Criminal Court at Fort Smith, Arkansas, on the border was to be ad¬ journed, having cleaned up the dangerous gangs of western Arkansas and the Indian Territory.

Probably at the close of the nineteenth century, the Texas Hotel in Lebanon was the last real stronghold of the brothers of the cards, the run¬ ning iron, and the gun. It was really a pretentious place, one of the five three-storied buildings in Lebanon, built of brick, and offering fairly clean rooms and good food. Perhaps the irresistible attraction of food was greatly instrumental in keeping the hotel from being closed by the hardy ranchers and citizens. For, in those days, good food was a rarity. A chef was unknown.

ii

But that civilization still had much work to do was apparent in the fact that Lebanon boasted of fifty-four saloons in a territory where it was a government offense to introduce or sell liquor.

Two men stood in the doorway of the hotel looking out on the plasticity of the street, watch¬ ing the rain render it yet more impassable.

“ What a rotten excuse for a street,” said one disgustedly. “Why didn’t you tell me, Carter, that you had no streets in this forsaken slough? I’d have brought my waders. This weather will ruin the cattlemen’s convention.”

“ My dear Jackson, we cannot control the weather here any more than you can in Chicago,” drawled Carter. “This matter of streets and rain cannot be helped. But the cattlemen are used to it, though. You ought to know what they have to face in a storm out on the prairie.”

“ But, damn it, man, you don’t expect to get a gambling crowd together, do you? I doubt if we can make a table for poker. Surely none of the wheels will be in use. Why—why, they won’t even get drunk! ”

“You don’t know this country or the men in this country,” returned Carter, and his tone was amply expressive. “They——”

The bellow of a discharged shotgun, followed by an answering spatter of six-shooter shots, in¬ terrupted Carter’s remark. Almost like a startled rattlesnake he jerked back from the doorway and glided to the edge of a window. Coolly he peered out and gazed up and down the street. His cold features broke into a grin.

“ Come here, Jackson,” he called.

The cause of the disturbance was coming into view as Jackson took his place beside the window. Twelve teams of oxen were floundering up the street, tugging and straining at a great flat-bot¬ tomed scow in which were eight or ten men. The two foremost men were driving the teams. Four or five men were seated at oarlocks and bent their backs over imaginary oars in mock propul¬ sion of the boat. Two men were firing shotguns at several strings of decoy ducks that trailed be¬ hind in the mud. All of the men seemed very drunk and they all seemed unmindful of the pour¬ ing rain.

As the scow disappeared in the direction of Dallas Corner, Carter turned back to the man from Chicago:

“You were saying something about rain, Jackson?”

Jackson laughed.

“I retract my statement,” he said. “There went a load of easy pickings.”

“ Men that are drunk and in that happy state of mind like to lose money in gambling,” com¬ mented Carter sagely.

“Just what was the idea? Cowpuncher horse¬ play?” Jackson was somewhat puzzled.

“Partly. It looked like a satirizing of the street to me. They’re always pulling some kind of funny stuff over this mud and water. Tiiey’ll probably drive on up the street, be arrested for breach of peace, fined, maybe the fine’ll be re¬ mitted, and they’ll be wandering free tonight with money to spend. We’ll get our share.”

“ I’m not so sure,” murmured a third voice just behind them and the two gamblers turned swiftly to see a lean, lanky, hard-faced man removing his dripping slicker and eyeing them sardonically.

Jackson, a well built, dapper-appearing man with cold hard sneering blue eyes, looked mildly interested. Carter, the thin man of snake-like grace, seemed slightly puzzled.

“ I’m not so sure that we will get anything off of that bunch,” repeated the newcomer. “And that is the richest, fastest bunch in town this week.”

“Why not?” shot out Jackson crisply. “ What’s wrong? That is, if they like to gamble.”

“Carter should know,” responded the other. “ Didn’t you see who those two men were, driving those oxen?”

“Who?” demanded Carter. “Who? You speak in riddles, Tilby.”

“ The Montagues! That was the DZX bunch. And you know Bill Montague,” announced Tilby tersely.

“I am very much afraid that I do not have that honor,” drawled Jackson puzzledly. “Who is Bill Montague and what about him?”

“ C’mon up to my room and I’ll tell you,”

replied Tilby.

Jackson nodded briefly. Carter smiled a trifle sickly. The three men filed up the stairs.

Over a bottle and three little glasses Tilby became very communicative and, with an occa¬ sional emphatic comment from Carter, enlightened the gambler from Chicago.

“Bill Montague,” explained Tilby, “is an old settler in this country. He first came here as a plain gambler. That was before my time, but they said that he played a hard square game. More than one crooked gambler either left town just ahead of flying lead or was carried out in a pine box after playing with Montague. I don’t know about that. But I do know that Bill Mon¬ tague quit the cards years ago and turned to cattle raising. He is now one of the wealthiest men of the Southwest.

“His ranch is south of here. He comes to town occasionally with his men, or part of them, and plays with them. They worship him. He drinks a bit, talks politics and civic improvements and maybe plays a little poker if he has time. And he has a son who is growing up just like him.”

“Such a man is a fatted one for the killing,” Jackson approved.

“But there never is a killing,” objected Tilby. “ He is too smooth for crooked gamblers. He plays a square game until he finds out that the other fellow is trying to crook him. Then he crooks the gambler without mercy.”

‘‘That comes from the heart,” added Carter, explaining joyously to the intent Jackson. “He trimmed Tilby once. Tilby rung in a cold deck on him. On the second deal Montague sat up straight in his chair. In ten more hands Tilby was busted.”

Jackson flashed a look at the disgruntled Tilby. “You say that this Montague is an old-time gambler?” he asked slowly.

Tilby nodded.

“ He is wealthy now and only plays for amuse¬ ment? He retains his various abilities but al¬ ways plays a straight game,” pondered Jackson. “Well?”

“Well,” snapped Tilby, “if he sits in a game with you, you’ll have to play straight poker.”

“Zat so?” Jackson’s eyebrows raised a trifle and his eyes hardened. “Well, Tilby, suppose I do play a straight game — what about it?”

“You won’t win any money,” said Tilby blunt¬ ly. “ Montague will win and he won’t let any¬ body lose too much.”

The handsome gambler threw back his head and laughed. It was a thin wolfish laugh that was not good to hear. Even Carter joined in, his head moving snakily from side to side as he grinned. Tilby scowled disgustedly at the two.

“You fools,” he snarled angrily. “You’ve never seen him work. I have. I know better than to try to beat him by crooked poker.”

i6

Jackson stopped laughing long enough to pour himself another drink and to eye Tilby.

“So friend Montague is such a good poker player that you can’t beat him on the straight,” he mocked. “And when you try to cheat him, he cheats naughty little gamblers himself. Is that really the truth?”

“Absolute.”

“How does he work his magic?”

“With the other fellow’s cards and with his own sleight-of-hand work.”

“What sort of sleight-of-hand work?” pur¬ sued Jackson seriously, a grim smile making his lean, handsome face grow formidable.

“ I guess he knows all of the tricks of the trade,” shrugged Tilby. “And he is simply mar¬ velous in card palming.”

“Card palming? Small town stuff. We had to cut that in Chicago years ago.”

“You haven’t seen Montague work,” said Tilby significantly.

“Bah!” Jackson shrugged his shoulders in disgust. “Are you sure, though, that he will turn crooked if he finds you dealing a crooked game? To what lengths will he go?”

“ To any lengths.”

“Are you absolutely certain?”

“ Of course I am,” snorted Tilby angrily. “What are you driving at?”

“ Doesn’t he fear some of the other players might catch him in crooked work and brand him forever as a cheat?”

It was Tilby’s turn to laugh. “ If a profes¬ sional gambler can’t catch him, how do you ex¬ pect any other player to do so? Besides, he pro¬ tects the other players.”

“So he preys on gamblers, eh?” sneered Jackson. “A modern Robin Hood! ”

“Only when they deal a crooked game,” ex¬ plained Tilby patiently.

“Well, what about it?” shot out Jackson. “ Do you want to frame him and get away with it? Would you like to get him and his money at the same time?”

“Does an Indian drink?” said Tilby bitterly.

Without a word Jackson produced a new deck of cards and broke the seal. He waved at Carter to clear the little table and riffled the cards beau¬ tifully. The two gamblers watched him with interest.

“First of all,” said Jackson in a smooth, hypnotic voice, “let me inform you that this is an absolutely new, straight and unmarked deck — although that makes no difference in what I am going to show you. Now, I have yet to see the man who can beat me in handling a deck and keep me from knowing what he is doing . I have seen one or two better than I, but they couldn’t keep me from following their work. Now then, gentlemen, I am going to deal a hand to each of us. Watch me closely, as closely as though you had a thousand Jewish doughnuts i8 in the pot and I were Hermann the Great. Are you ready?”

He paused and the two men nodded. Jackson smiled lightly and flipped the cards about the table. The little pasteboards rustled down like a shower of cards, so rapidly did Jackson flip them out. He laid the deck down carefully in the center of the table and smiled blithely at his companions.

“Now, Mr. Tilby, how many cards lay be¬ fore you?” he asked.

“ Five,” responded the gambler promptly.

“Count ’em,” suggested Jackson.

Carelessly Tilby spread the cards with a deft motion of his hand. At a glance he counted six cards. He looked up mildly surprised. Jackson turned to Carter.

“How many cards did I deal you?” he asked.

“Five.”

“ Count ’em.”

Carter investigated the neat pile of little paste¬ boards and found the same number as had Tilby.

“ Rather neat,” he murmured in approbation. “ But then you dealt so fast, you probably went around six times and we were too careless to follow you.”

For answer Jackson spread his own hand with a swift motion of his fingers. There were but five cards there.

“Rather neat?” he sneered. “That is the best deal of its kind in the world. It can’t be beat. Now that you know what I am going to do, suppose you watch me shuffle the cards and tell me who holds six cards at the end of the deal.”

Rapidly he cut and riffled the cards. The paste¬ boards leaped like things of life under his in¬ credibly swift fingers. It was like the hurried movement of some intricate machinery. Carter and Tilby were almost hypnotized by the action. They tore their eyes from his hands as he paused and looked into his smiling, cold blue eyes.

Then Jackson began to deal. This time his every move underwent a close, analyzing scrutiny. When he paused at the end of the deal he smiled derisively.

u How many cards have you, Mr. Carter?” he asked of the first man.

“ Five,” responded Carter promptly.

“Right. How many has Tilby?”

“He has five this time also.”

“How many do you think you have?” Jackson asked the second man mockingly.

“ I know I have five,” answered Tilby de¬ cisively.

“ Count ’em.”

Tilby did so confidently. His eyes widened with wonder as he again found a sixth card in his hands. He looked across at Carter, deep speculation in his eyes.

“Flow many cards have you got?” demanded Carter suddenly.

“Five,” returned Jackson. “The same number you have. I can deal a sixth card anywhere about the circle.”

Carter looked thoughtful.

“Just a minute,” said Jackson. “Suppose you had a pat hand spoiled by that sixth card? Sup¬ pose your name was Montague and suppose that you already knew the game to be crooked? What would you do?”

“ Montague would play the hand,” announced Tilby promptly.

“I believe he would — from what I know of him,” endorsed Carter.

“That’s what I want to hear. You don’t need to add that he would get away with it, Tilby. I can see that that is your opinion. Listen to me for just a second. Suppose that you were playing against Montague and you knew that he had that sixth card when he played the hand?”

The eyes of Tilby and Carter met. A thin hard smile showed a glimpse of Jackson’s even teeth as he watched them.

Chapter II

W ILLIAM MONTAGUE stood at the up¬ per end of the bar in the saloon which operated under the name of “ Owens’ Bright Star.” He drummed lightly on the counter with his lean, tanned fingers, his eyes fixed dreamily on the line of noisy, thirsty cowpunchers at the bar.

He was a man in his early fifties, broad of shoulder and broad of vision. His steady eyes never wavered. They could look into or through many things, shining with a friendly blue or dark¬ ening with an angry violet. His chin was neither receding nor viciously prominent. It was firm, it was hard. His nose was straight and long. His lips were wide but firm. The ensemble of his features expressed resoluteness rather than ruth¬ lessness.

He was clean-shaven and his hair was rapidly graying. There were lines about his eyes and down each side of his long upper lip. Montague looked like a man who possessed poise and re¬ serve power and who was fully alive to his own freedom and limitations. He had lived, he had learned, he had suffered, and life was still sweet to him.

Beside him stood a young man in his early twenties, an almost exact replica of the older man. Jack Montague had the build of his father without the latter’s height. His eyes were the same, his features cast in the same resolute mold, but there was an indefinable softening touch which could not be wholely accounted for by his youth. It was the softening touch, the artistic tinting of a rugged character, as a painter would retouch the outlines of a mountain, the heritage left him by his mother. It was the refining touch of a delicate soul. Where the father could suffer and could act, the son could also act but could suffer the keener agony.

The elder Montague carried the weight of his fifty-odd years with a lightness comparable to his son. He was still one of the hardest working men of his outfit even though he no longer spent all of his time in the saddle.

Slightly behind the two Montagues stood a thin man, with almost inconceivably long legs. He was a man fully the age of the senior Mon¬ tague. His hair was grizzled and his face and neck were a mass of wrinkles. He was tanned to the color of mahogany. He was grimly silent and taciturn but his kindly gray eyes and wide mouth proclaimed the gentle humor and love for a joke that was his birthright. Jim Harrison was of Irish descent despite his name. He had been with Montague ever since the rancher had given up the cards and the old life for the sake of the woman he loved and married.

“All right, boys,” said Montague. “You have a fairly good start. Don’t wind up in jail. And don’t stay up all night. Tomorrow is another day.”

The punchers shouted conglomerate remarks which could not have been understood and the three men turned and walked out of the saloon.

It was still raining. Night had fallen and lamp and gas lights twinkled behind streaming window panes. Young Montague bared his head to the driving drops of water, his face upturned to the black, weeping heavens. Weather such as this filled him with a vague discontent, an urging to wander free, roaming and ranging up and down the earth. He felt the call of the dark, dripping jungles of the tropics, of the cold, clean rain of the mountain tops, of the stinging spray and rain whipped over the rail of some adventurous sailing vessel, of the piercing rain and sleet of the icebound northlands.

His eyes sparkled brilliantly and his wavy hair curled a bit more tightly under the effect of the moisture. His cheeks glowed with health and color and he far outstepped his two companions. He stepped into the lobby of the Texa$ Hotel, hat crushed in one hand, the other wiping the water from his face, a vivid picture of young manhood.

He nearly bumped into a girl who had been approaching the door to gaze out into the rainy street. She stepped back with a little exclama¬ tion and looked at the apparition before her in wonder. The pearl-gray shirt which clung to the muscular shoulders, the wide cartridge belt and holster, the plain chaps and serviceable high boots proclaimed this handsome newcomer a rider of the open range.

“ Oh! ” she gasped slightly.

‘‘Good evening,” returned Jack, bowing low and sprinkling the girl with raindrops. “A little damp this evening — pleasantly so.”

“Do you like the rain? I thought cowmen didn’t like it personally because of its uncomfort¬ ableness,” said the girl.

“ The rain is my weather.”

“I believe it,” she responded, admiring his curling hair and sparkling eyes. “ I like the rain, too.”

Jack looked at her in approval. Her features were just irregular enough to enhance her beauty. Her hair was a coppery brown that shimmered under the lights in the lobby. Her eyes were hazel and shone with a spirit which matched his own. Her mouth was made for kissing—or biting, depending on her mood.

“Let’s go for a walk, then,” suggested Jack instantly.

She flashed him a swift glance and read noth¬ ing but friendly companionableness in his frank and admiring gaze.

“ Isn’t it proper to introduce oneself before suggesting a promenade?” she countered quickly.

“Jack Montague, at your service, m’lady. A kind-hearted cowboy of the open prairie, mam. And you — you’re not the new singer that Owens -” he hesitated.

She drew herself up imperiously. “ I am not,” she flashed. “ I am here with my father.”

“ I am afraid you don’t understand,” said he. “There was an opera singer engaged to appear here at the Grand Theater next week. I just wondered if-——”

“ Forgive me,” she melted instantly. “ My name is Patricia Blaine. Father and I are from Mississippi.”

He smiled. “Not that I think the singer will have much luck here singing to the irresponsive cowpunchers and bartenders, but it was a perfect¬ ly natural mistake. Where is your father, Miss Blaine?”

“I don’t know,” she pouted. “He is consider¬ ing locating here, but he can hardly see anybody or do anything in this rain. I have been wonder¬ ing where he went.”

“How long have you been here?” he inquired.

“We just came in this morning. This seemed to be the best hotel, and so we came here.”

Jack nodded, pursing his lips thoughtfully. He looked swiftly about the lobby. As he suspected, there was more than one leering glance bestowed upon the girl.

“Uuummm — this is a nice building,” he murmured, “ but I can’t say so much for its patronage. May I-”

“Including yourself?” she laughed.

“I guess so,” he smiled slightly. “I am here to gamble. There are gambling rooms up on the third floor. May I suggest that you return to your room and I will be glad to hunt for your father.”

“What! You a gambler?” she cried.

“Not professionally. We come to town oc¬ casionally to have a light fling with Fortune. She generally wins the falls, however.”

“ Daddy likes to play cards. He might be up there,” she mused.

“ If he is, shall I tell him you w’ant him?”

“No, no. Let him alone if he’s having any fun. He hasn’t had much pleasure since — since Mother died.”

Jack’s eyes widened a trifle. Anything he might have said was prevented by the approach of a cadaverous-faced, thin-lipped man whose only approach to western costume was a pair of boots into which his trousers had been ruthlessly stuffed.

“ Introduce me, young man,” he clipped out, smiling a thin smile and boring into the girl’s gaze with his slate-gray eyes.

“ Miss Blaine, this is Mr. Owens, real estate, railroad, and Indian agent of Lebanon,” complied Jack reluctantly.

The realtor stepped between the two young peo¬ ple, turning his back squarely on young Montague.

Jack’s eyes clouded and his fingers curved as his gaze traveled up and down the figure of Owens. But Owens’ monopoly of the girl’s attention was short lived.

Montague, senior, and Harrison entered the hotel. At sight of the realtor Montague spoke.

“Owens!” he said. “I was looking for you this afternoon. How about those cars you prom¬ ised me?”

As Owens turned toward the speaker Jack stepped around him and took Patty Blaine’s arm.

“Thanks, Dad,” he called. “Anything to save physical exertion.” To the girl he said: “ Please pardon Mr. Owens. He doesn’t know any better.”

Owens flashed him a vicious look and went to meet the elder Montague.

“The men here say and do pretty much what they please,” pursued Jack in a serious tone. “A gentlewoman is really out of place. Won’t you take my advice and withdraw from the notice of these men?”

“Do you really think I should?” she asked curiously.

“After you’ve been here several days you’ll know that you should,” he returned grimly.

“But surely there are women in this town?”

“Yes, but they are either married or well pro¬ tected. Your father doesn’t understand the roughness of the West, or I am sure he wouldn’t have left you alone.”

She turned to gaze about the great room. For the first time she became aware of the hard gazes and harder visages. For the first time she real¬ ized the real helplessness of her position. Pretty women always caused dissension along the border countries. She suddenly felt very small and far away from home. Involuntarily she shrank to¬ ward the man at her side.

Instantly Jack Montague smiled sympathetically.

“Buck up, little girl. You’ll get used to the hard life about you if you stay here. The glories of the country compensate for the irregularities of the humans in it. There are lots of fine peo¬ ple here, but they are not at the Texas Hotel.”

“You don’t speak like a cowpuncher,” she ven¬ tured, as they strolled toward the stairs. “How long have you been here?”

“I was born and reared in this country,” he responded.

“And that fine looking man who just came in is really your father?” asked the girl. “Who is the long-legged man with him?”

“That gentleman,” said Jack, smiling, “is Jim Harrison, our foreman.”

They paused before the door of her room and chatted for a moment. Then, as the trio behind them came forward, Jack bowed to her and turned to go up to the third floor with the others. Owens glanced at the young couple with an inscrutable expression as he stepped ahead with Montague. Jack fell in beside Harrison who grinned slightly at the back of the discomfited realtor.

There proved to be two poker games in prog¬ ress when the four men entered the gambling rooms. One, a full handed game of seven players who played for small stakes, drifted along des¬ ultorily. It was really but a pretense of a game to allow the cattlemen to drink and talk. The other game was at one of the center tables. There were four men playing. Montague recognized two of them as Carter and Tilby, two gamblers of indifferent reputation. The other two men were strangers.

Owens disappeared and the three DZX men drifted about the great room, viewing the va¬ rious card lay-outs, playing a coin on the differ¬ ent wheels — feeling out the atmosphere of the place, as it were. At length the central table drew them like a magnet and they shortly stood entranced as men will when they gaze on a game that is played silently for high stakes.

A house-man came up to them.

“You men care to play?” he asked.

Carter looked up quickly. “We are playing for big stakes,” he said shortly. “Still, if they want to play, I guess it’ll be all right.”

“Never mind,” smiled Montague. “Don’t bother the gentlemen.”

One of the strangers looked up and smiled pleasantly.

“Sit right down, sir,” he invited. “Bring us some chairs, Jeff.”

“Do you wish to play, son?” said Montague turning to Jack.

“No, thanks,” declined the younger man. “You and Jim play. I’ll watch a bit and then maybe hit up the wheel.”

“Thousand dollars change-in,” announced Car¬ ter. “Tilby banking. This is Mr. Blaine and Mr. Jackson, Mr. Montague and Mr. Harrison.”

The rancher and his foreman promptly pro¬ duced rolls of greenbacks that made Jackson’s eyes glisten. They calmly bought in, and the game proceeded. All six of the men played careful poker and the game dragged a bit before they got into a new stride.

At the introductions Jack looked quickly at the man called Blaine. He saw a powerful, darkcomplexioned man whose eyes burned with a con¬ suming fever as he watched the cards. He had no difficulty in finding a resemblance to the girl he had just left downstairs. He studied the stern face which may have been masterful in repose but which shone in complete fascination at the spell of the cards and he pitied the man who could thus be held by the charm of the paste¬ boards.

Blaine sat at Jackson’s left, then came Mon¬ tague, Carter, Harrison and Tilby. Young Montague watched the game for several hands an3 then turned away for a more lively amuse¬ ment.

From small talk as the game progressed, Mon¬ tague gathered that Blaine was a farmer from

Mississippi who had several thousand dollars and was looking for a likely location to settle upon. Jackson mentioned that he was a cattle buyer from Chicago. The rancher diagnosed the Mississippian beside him, as had his son. Jackson he didn’t like. His disapproval of the cold, pol¬ ished Chicagoan was not lessened when he watched Jackson deal. “Gambler,” he said instantly to himself as he watched those slender white fingers all but mold the cards together.

He settled down in his chair to reason the matter out, tossing a white chip into the pot for luck. Harrison looked up, eyed the dealer for an instant, grunted and looked down at the cards falling before him. He had received a tip.