Rider o' the stars; a western story

Contents

CHAPTER PAGE

I. Check .n

II. A New Hand.18

Chapter I Check

OPRING had wrought her miracle in the open ^ country. The far-flung prairies were a sea of living green. In the west the outlines of a tower¬ ing mountain range were limned in purple against a sky of clearest blue. To southward a fringe of stately cottonwoods marked the course of a river. Northward and eastward the limits of the plain were lost in the haze on the horizon’s rim.

A rider broke through the timber screen of the brakes along the river, cantered up a long, gentle rise to the bench land above the bottoms, and turned westward. His bay gelding negotiated the pathless, open range at a tireless lope, while his master whistled or hummed simple melodies and ditties of the cow camps, with occasional snatches of popular airs.

Evidently horse and rider were keenly enjoying the crisp morning air and the mounting warmth.

The man lounged in the saddle with an awkward grace and rode with the deceiving abandon of an expert horseman. He was lean and rather tall, with clean-cut features and a skin which, though tanned almost to the color of horsehide, was smooth and clear. His gray eyes, filled with the sparkle and luster and keen alertness of youth, were half closed, as he gazed at the vast panorama of mountain plain, and sky about him.

His leather chaps, leather cuffs, the narrow leather band about his broad-brimmed hat, even the black holster strapped to his right thigh, were embellished with dull-silver ornaments. This penchant for sim¬ ple decoration also found expression in his bridle and saddle, and the spurs on his polished, high-heeled riding boots were of silver, too. An ex¬ pensive, but not obtrusive, outfit, which any man in the cow country would have conceded—and ad¬ mired.

As he sped westward with the sun at his back, the rider’s attention became focused on the river bottoms. Four men were working on a bunch of cat¬ tle which appeared to be beef steers. Two of the men were riding on the sides near the rear of the herd, which was grazing eastward, and two others were riding “on point” on either side of the cattle up ahead.

Urged by the riders behind, the herd gradually began to move faster; and with the increased impetus they began to converge and string out until the cattle ceased grazing altogether and moved forward, four or five abreast. The rider on the bench reined in his mount and watched the operation with indubitable interest. The two men riding point, almost directly below him now, were gesticulating to the other pair driving the cattle.

“Coming too fast for ’em,” the lone rider grinned to himself. “Gettin’ away from ’em, too.”

As the long line of steers plunged between the

CHECK two men riding below him, he now and then tied a loose knot in one of his reins. He could hear the men shouting loudly, saw the two who were driving the herd cease their efforts and try to slow up the cattle, which now were running.

Once more his gaze flashed to a point between the two riders below, and, as he picked out a big shorthorn, he tied another knot in his bridle rein. The cattle now had closed up and were moving between the pair below, almost in a solid mass. The two riders tried in vain to slow them and gave it up, as the last of the herd thundered on eastward.

“And thirteen,” said the rider on the bench, aloud, as the space between the two men below became clear. Then he slowly untied the five knots in his bridle rein. He looked rapidly about and saw a steep trail lead¬ ing to the bottoms, from a point on the bench some distance behind him. He whirled his horse and, riding back, turned into the trail and in a short time gained the bottom land.

He came out on the smooth, grassy surface flank¬ ing the river brakes at a point where the cattle were milling after their run. A big, wild-eyed steer, which he suspected should have been shipped two seasons before, broke from the bunch and came plunging toward him.

Spurring his horse ahead, he secured the rope which hung on the right of his saddle horn. The maddened steer came on, and the rider, swerving his horse to the left, sent the rope with its wide loop shooting over his left shoulder and tripped the steer with the difficult back throw. He jerked the rope free and rode on, as the steer scrambled to its feet and stood looking after him uncertainly, before turning and trotting back to the herd.

As the lone rider approached the quartet which had been working with the cattle, he saw they were watching him.

“Had an audience that time, ‘Saturn,’ ” he said aloud to the horse. The animal pricked up his ears at the sound of the voice. It was as if he under¬ stood the words were being addressed to him, and he quickened his gait at the sound of his name. The rider noted that one of the four men, a large man who sat his horse heavily, evidently was in charge. Two of the others were plainly cow-punchers, and the fourth was a young fellow, barely more than a boy.

“Nice bit of ropin’,” the big man commented, as he rode up.

“Have to keep in practice,” replied the newcomer jauntily. “How’d you tally?”

The big man frowned and surveyed him sharply from under black, bushy brows.

“I got five hun’erd an’ thirteen,” continued the new arrival. “An’ I’ll bet my saddle that count’ll stand straight up for the bunch.”

“Where’d you count ’em ?” demanded the big man, surprised.

“From the bench,” replied the other. “They came pretty fast, an’ I lost ’em once, but I picked ’em back up, when that locoed steer came after me.”

“Spying,” said the youth, who was eying him with apparent suspicion.

“Why so?” asked the stranger quickly. “Just

CHECK ridin’ along, saw you was goin’ to count the herd, rode down to see if you had ’em right.”

“You’re about seventeen off,” said the youth scorn¬ fully.

“No, he’s not,” declared the big man in a booming voice. “That’s what I counted last night.”

“Check!” sang the man of the silver ornaments. “I’ll gamble we’ve got the figures on that herd.”

The big man again was subjecting him to a search¬ ing scrutiny. “Cow hand?” he inquired.

“Occasionally, when I’m working,” was the merry rejoinder.

“Then I take it you’re not working,” said the big man, scowling. “It’s gettin’ pretty late in the season for a man to be ridin’ the line.”

“Maybe he’s lookin’ for strays,” the youth inter¬ jected.

The stranger laughed. “You got some queer ideas, son,” he observed, sobering.

The youth’s face flamed at the patronizing tone. “I didn’t say what kind of strays,” he retorted hotly.

“Fred, keep still,” said the big man. “What’s your name?” he demanded, turning to the man in the saddle before him.

“My name’s Dane,” was the smiling reply.

“Never heard of any punchers by that name around here,” said the big man, frowning. “Where from?”

Dane waved a hand in a gesture which included the whole southeastern horizon, and the rays of the morning sun gleaming on the silver ornamentations of his gauntlet were no brighter than the flash of his smile.

i6

“From down yonder/’ he answered, a bit grimly. And the look he directed at his interrogator caused the latter to hesitate before he put his next question.

“Are you as handy with your gun as you are at ropin’ cattle,” he asked finally.

“I don’t reckon that’s what you wanted to ask me,” said Dane cheerfully, as he built a brown-paper cigarette. “I figure you was wantin’ to ask me if I was packin’ a copper iron. I’ll stand a frisk.” Again the smile, and then:

“I invented ropes,” he grinned; “an’ I perfected guns!”

A glimmer of a smile in the big man’s eyes was quickly overshadowed by a troubled look.

“Maybe you’ve got a spare match, mister-”

Dane put the question with his eyes.

“My name’s Hughes,” said the big man, nettled, as he handed over a match. “You’re on my ranch, the Diamond H. An’ I’d kind of like to know just what you’re doin’ here.”

“Helpin’ to count the cattle,” retorted Dane readily. “An’ I didn’t know I was on your ranch, although it seems to me I’ve heard of your brand somewhere.”

“Where’d you say you’d worked?” asked Hughes.

Dane lifted his brows. “I don’t recollect mention¬ ing that,” he drawled. “But I ain’t worked north of the river, nor very close to it, if that’s what you’re drivin’ at.”

The rancher scowled, frankly puzzled.

“He means he ain’t had no regular address,” the youth, Fred, put in.

CHECK

1 7

“Lookin' for work?" queried the ranch owner, paying no attention to the young man’s remark.

“That depends," was the laconic reply. “There’s jobs I wouldn’t touch at a hun’erd a month, an’ there’s others I’d take for nothin’. If you’re askin’ if I’m lookin’ for a chance to herd cows, I’ll say I ain’t right particular."

Hughes grunted in disgust. Then he glanced quickly at the lithe form of the newcomer, his ex¬ cellent horse, the worn leather chaps with their silver, the black holster, and the black butt of the gun pro¬ truding from it, and last at the cool, gray eyes of the man himself.

“I take it you’re observing," he remarked casually.

“I reckon I am," replied Dane, as he snapped the match into flame with a thumb nail.

Hughes turned to the two cow-punchers. “Ease the herd east away from the line. An’ stay with ’em."

“We’re goin’ in to the ranch," he said to Dane, as the two punchers rode away. “This is my son, Fred. You’d better come along in with us."

“Sure," agreed Dane, as he touched the bay with his steel. “An’ I’m wonderin’ if you noticed there was a couple of riders out west there by a big cottonwood, watchin’ your operations this mornin’.’’

“I saw ’em," said Hughes, his face darkening.

Dane whistled softly, as they rode eastward in the bottoms; he passed the place where he had emerged from the brakes at dawn and headed for a patch of brighter green, some miles distant, where a windbreak of tall cottonwoods protected the fields and buildings of the Diamond H.

Chapter II

A S they rode in silence, Dane had an opportunity to observe Fred Hughes. He doubted if the youth had attained his majority, and he fixed his age at about twenty. He was very light, having one of those skins which burn rather than tan. His blue eyes were clear enough, but Dane imagined he detected a depth to them which might indicate that the young man had a habit of serious thinking; that, or he had something on his mind. Plainly he was suspicious of Dane.

The elder Hughes was dark, with a swarthy com¬ plexion which was almost coarse. He had the large build, the open manner, and all the characteristics which ordinarily are associated with the successful stockman. Dane knew instinctively that this man knew his business.

All during the ride toward the ranch Hughes failed to speak. He glanced at Dane now and then appraisingly, Dane thought, but for the most part he stared moodily ahead. They left the bottom for the bench land to take a short cut where there was a big bend in the river. Dane drew a sharp breath, as they skirted the edge of the bench where the river once more turned north to straighten out again on its eastern course. Below them lay the ranch proper. There was a line of cottonwoods from the bluff, where the bench was cut off to the river. East of these trees was a fifty-acre hay field, and beyond were more trees, and then the ranch build¬ ings, clustered in the shelter of the high bench.

The ranch house was a large, rambling affair to which numerous additions evidently had been built. There were two large barns, a huge hay shed, and a network of corrals. There was a large bunk house and cook shack, a blacksmith shop, and many smaller outbuildings. Altogether it was mute evi¬ dence of the fact that the Diamond H was an im¬ portant property, where stock raising was carried on on a big scale. They rode down a wide trail past the corrals and sheds to one of the barns. Here they dismounted.

“You can put your horse up in a stall,” said Hughes to Dane.

As he was unsaddling, Dane noticed that Hughes looked the big bay over for brands. But the horse bore no iron.

“You’ll probably want to drop in at the bunk house an’ slick up a bit,” Hughes told him, when the horses had been attended to. “Come over to the house to dinner when you hear the bell. I’ll be on the front porch.”

“Bunk house’ll suit me all right for grub,” Dane demurred, “if it’s all right with you.”

“I’d rather you’d eat at the house to-day,” said Hughes gruffly. “I’ve got my reasons.”

Dane nodded.

On the way to the bunk house he smiled to himself. He found the wash bench and soon was removing the coating of dust from his face and hands. Then, after a survey in the cracked mirror, which hung over the bench, he returned to the barn and secured his shaving outfit in the slicker pack on the back of his saddle. He went back to the wash bench and shaved. He combed his hair carefully until it shone with a dull luster of bronze.

“Goin’ to a party?”

Dane swung on his heel at the words and beheld an old man who evidently had been watching him from the doorway of the bunk house.

Dane scowled for reply, and the old man’s face wrinkled into a grin. He shuffled toward Dane.

“My name’s Marty,” he volunteered with a welcom¬ ing light in his faded blue eyes. “They call me Old Marty, but I ain’t as old as a lot of ’em think.”

He held out a hand, and Dane grasped it. No sooner had he done so than he looked quickly down at it. Instinctively he glanced at the old man’s other hand. Both hands were mere pads, with the thumbs and fingers missing.

“Frozen off ten years ago when I was drivin’ Esther into town, time she was sick,” said the old man rather proudly. “Ain’t hardly done a tap of work since, but I’ll allers have a home with Gordon Hughes. You goin’ up to the house to dinner?”

Dane nodded, retaining his grip on Old Marty’s stump of a hand.

“I ’spected so the way you was fixin’ up,” grinned Marty. “I reckon you’re goin’ to work here, eh?”

“Nothin’ been said about it yet,” Dane replied.

“Well, I reckon you will,” declared the old man, bobbing his head energetically. 4 ‘Gordon needs good men right now.”

Dane passed over the implied compliment, although there was nothing in Old Marty’s tone to indicate he meant it as such.

“Why does he need good men?” he asked.

“Ain’t for me to say. He’ll tell you, if he ain’t told you already. Want to put them there shavin’ things away? I’ll show you where to put ’em in the bunk house. I kind of look after the bunk house an’ keep things straight. Anything you leave in the bunk house is safe, with me lookin’ after it. Come along.”

Dane picked up his belongings and followed Old Marty into the bunk house, where the old man placed the shaving outfit on a shelf in a box nailed to the wall.

“They’ll be there when you want ’em,” he de¬ clared with a convincing bob of his white head. “You a stranger round here?”

“I reckon I am,” Dane confessed, somewhat amused at Marty’s fussiness and eager interest.

“Best range west of the Rockies an’ north of the Missouri,” said Marty, who couldn’t keep his eyes off the newcomer. “Man, you shore look like you could ride. I used to be one of the best riders in this country. An’ I bet you can shoot, too. An’ you ain’t very old—you’re young. I wish I was young.” There was a wistful look in the eyes of washed-out blue. “I used to shoot, too. Once I-”

He was interrupted by the dinner bell.

“There ye be; hurry up now! An’, boy”—he regarded Dane with fatherly regard—“you’ll see a girl up at the house. That’s all right—wrinkle yore nose. You’ll come out scratching yore haid!”

Dane hastened toward the front porch of the big house, where he found Gordon Hughes awaiting him. The rancher led the way into the long, cool dining room. Dane first was introduced to Mrs. Hughes, a small woman whose hair, though plentiful and wavy, was nearly snow white. Her face re¬ tained signs of a wonderful beauty which had been hers in youth. Another elderly lady, a Mrs. Dawes, was introduced as Mrs. Hughes’ sister. Fred Hughes entered, accompanied by a girl, and Dane’s eyes flickered, as he looked at her.

“Dane, this is my daughter, Esther,” Gordon Hughes was saying.

Dane bowed, and because he looked quickly away he failed to see that she had stepped forward to hold out her hand.

The six of them sat down at table, as a China¬ man entered with several dishes.

“What’s this, mutton to-day, Lee?” said Gordon Hughes in a booming tone, pretending to glare fiercely at the Chinaman. “We’re runnin’ a cattle ranch, Lee.”

“Sam’s name isn’t Lee any more than mine is,” smiled Mrs. Hughes in an aside to Dane. “Gordon thinks every Chinaman should be called Lee.”

“Good enough name for ’em,” Hughes asserted.

Esther Hughes smiled at Dane. Evidently she felt a certain tolerance toward her father’s views.

Dane observed her by means of surreptitious glances. She was almost directly an opposite to her brother, who plainly took after his mother. The girl was dark, with dark eyes and hair, and her features were sufficiently irregular to be most at¬ tractive. Indeed, Dane searched his memory for a recollection of any other girl he had ever seen who looked more attractive. It wasn’t that Esther Hughes

was beautiful, it was- Dane gave it up. Perhaps

it was her eyes; or it might be something in her personality. But there was an unmistakable appeal and charm about her.

“Are you going to stay with us long, Mr. Dane?” she asked when they had been served.

“Dane’s a new hand,” Gordon Hughes put in.

“Oh, I didn’t know,” she said quickly, as her brother shot a frowning glance at his father.

“Maybe you’re to be the new foreman,” she speculated with a smile.

She couldn’t understand his presence in the ranchhouse dining room unless he was to have a position of importance. It was not customary for ordinary hired hands to eat in the house.

“I didn’t know I’d been taken on till just now,” Dane returned with a side glance at Hughes, ignoring her reference to the possibility of his being made foreman.

So Gordon Hughes didn’t have a foreman. He directed a questioning look at the rancher, who read his thoughts.

“Eve been runnin’ things myself,” said Hughes. “An’ about time,” he added with a scowl.

“Did you find the cattle all right, Gordon?” his wife asked.

“Found five hundred an’ thirteen of the short¬ horns all right,” growled the rancher. “I don’t know how the seventy-odd others of the bunch are, for I don’t know where they’re at.”

“And we probably never will know till we clean up Bunker an’ his gang,” said Fred.

His father looked at him sharply.

“Fred, you mustn’t jump to conclusions,” his mother reproved.

“Maybe the boy’s right,” said Gordon Hughes. “I’m beginning to think something besides the boundary is wrong on the west side.”

His tone caused his wife to look at him ap¬ prehensively.

“We don’t want any more trouble with them than we can help,” she said.

“An’ if we can’t help ourselves, what then?” de¬ manded the rancher. “Tod Wendell was shot at this morning.”

His wife looked troubled. “You can’t always tell who is to blame when a thing like that happens,” she said.

“But we can tell who’s to blame when they order our men out of Black Butte at the point of a gun,” stormed Hughes. “I’ve tried to be peaceful enough, but, by thunder, if Williams is goin’ to use guns, I’m goin’ to start usin’ guns, too!” He brought his fist down on the table.

Dane saw Esther Hughes looking at him, and he glanced at her again, as he detected a new light in her eyes. She was staring at him; and it seemed to him that there was disappointment in her look as well as awakened curiosity. Yes, she was staring at him curiously, possibly in disapproval.

“Do you believe in guns, Mr. Dane?” she asked suddenly.

The question startled him. He laid down his knife hastily and reached for his coffee cup.

“All men of the range believe in guns at times,” said Gordon Hughes sternly.

“Gordon, what are you thinking of?” Mrs. Hughes asked in an anxious voice.

“I’m thinking that I’ve built this ranch an’ am responsible for it,” replied the rancher grimly. “An’ I don’t intend to let any outfit take it away from me, or stop my runnin’ it, as I see fit. An’ from now on I don’t want any talk at this table about the affairs of the ranch. An’ I don’t want you womenfolks meddling or worrying. You run the house, an’ we’ll run the cattle.”

It was plain from the look on Mrs. Hughes’ face that something which she had feared had come to pass. Dane suspected that when Gordon Hughes put his foot down he meant business. And, whatever was in the wind now, it was plain he was thoroughly in earnest.

There was no further conversation concerning the ranch. Hughes’ declaration had its effect, if he desired the topic dismissed. The rancher spoke casually of stock and feed, but Dane could readily perceive that his mind wasn’t on his subject, and Dane didn’t take the trouble to vouchsafe any com¬ ments. Esther didn’t speak to him again, although he sensed that she was studying him furtively.

Fred was almost morose, and again Dane was inclined to believe that the youth had something on his mind, a secret, perhaps, which was not shared by the rest of the family.

Old Marty had hinted in the bunk house that Gordon Hughes needed good men. Now at the table there was talk of cattle missing and of gun play. Very likely Hughes had forbidden further discussion of it because he didn’t want the women to be worry¬ ing themselves in the matter. It was all too evident that everything was not exactly as it should be on the Diamond H.

After dinner Gordon Hughes led the way to the porch.

“Go down to the bunk house, an’ I’ll slip down there pretty quick for a talk with you,” said the rancher.

Again Dane merely nodded and smiled. He was taking things as they came, and it appeared that they were coming fast.

“Marty,” he said, as he entered the bunk house, “it looks as if I’d been hired.”

“Shore, I knew it,” the old man replied and looked delighted.

Dane walked to the open window and stood look¬ ing out at the weaving branches of the cottonwoods about the house. Try as he would, he could not help but ponder over the queer look he had seen in Esther Hughes’ eyes at the dinner table.

CHAPTER III “some job !”

D ESPITE Gordon Hughes' promise to meet Dane at the bunk house in a short time, it was nearly two hours before he came walking briskly from the direction of the corrals. Old Marty had gone out and left Dane alone. There were few men at the ranch, and those few, the old man had said, would not be in until supper time. Consequently, when Hughes arrived, he and Dane sat down to talk in the bunk house without fear of being interrupted. Gordon Hughes wasted no time in beginning. “Look here, Dane, I don’t know much about you except your name—if it is your name—an’ that you seem to know range work. Maybe I’m takin’ a chance—I’ve took ’em all my life, or I wouldn’t have this ranch—but I’m bankin’ you’re straight; anyways you’re straight enough, I reckon, to stick by any man you’d go to work for.”

He kept his gaze on his listener who was non¬ chalantly building a cigarette.

“I knew you was hep to those two men who was watchin’ us down there in the bottom,” the rancher went on, “an’ something told me you wasn’t in with that gang out west o’ here. I ain’t never seen you aroun’ here, an’ I can usually get a line on a man in short order; been hiring ’em an’ firing ’em all my life, seems.

“SOME JOB r

“That’s why I asked you to dinner. Wanted to watch you. That’s why I sent you in here to see if Old Marty would put his O. K. on you. I sort of bank on what Old Marty says ’bout a man, too; he’s a wise old duck in some ways. I don’t care where you’re from, or what you’ve done or been, or who you are; but I’d like to hire you for a right tough job.”

Dane smiled. “Looks like I didn’t make much of a mistake in cornin’ north,” he observed. “I’m listening.”

“You didn’t make any mistake, if it’s excitement you’re lookin’ for,” said Hughes. “There’s been a feud for years between this ranch an’ the Flying W, just west of here. Old Oscar Williams an’ I’ve fought like cats an’ dogs over the boundary, which was ’bout a quarter of a mile west of where we was countin’ cattle this morning. We never got a fence up because both of us knew that the min¬ ute one or the other of us started to build a fence, war would be on. There’s a strip of land out there both of us claim. Dang it, if it wasn’t for givin’ in to him, I’d let him have it!

“I might have let him have it this spring, any¬ way, if it hadn’t been for the way things has been goin’. He imported a new foreman this spring, feller by the name of Matt Bunker. He’s a gun¬ man an’ a bad one. He started in tryin’ to take men away from me, an’ when he couldn’t do that, he started ridin’ ’em. He an’ his crowd chased five of the boys out of Black Butte a month ago. They wouldn’t have went, but I’ve told ’em to lay off the shooting an’ if they’d stayed they’d have had to unlimber their hardware good an’ plenty.”

The rancher rose and paced back and forth nerv¬ ously.

“My wife hates trouble, an’ I hate trouble for her sake,” he went on. “I’d have give in to Wil¬ liams that strip on her account, if he hadn’t started goin’ too strong. I’ve been missing cattle, too; not many, but enough to show that there’s rustlers workin’. We can’t run rustlers out of the country unless we all stick together, an’ I get it from a roundabout way that Williams ain’t lost any cattle. An’ that looks funny to me, although I don’t think Williams would deliberately start rustlin’ to push along a grudge.

“But in a whole lot of other ways he’s forcing the play. Bunker’s the worst. He an’ his gang claim they’re runnin’ the town of Black Butte, so far’s the cow-punchers are concerned. I can’t even send in a man for supplies but what, if there’s one of the Flying W outfit there, they’ll try to pick a fight with him. An’ some of my boys is gettin’ sore, an’ I ain’t goin’ to be able to hold ’em in, an’ then there’ll be all kinds of trouble.”

He paused and frowned. “An’ I haven’t got what you’d call a gunman in the bunch.”

He looked at Dane thoughtfully. Dane was staring out the window at the flecks of white drift¬ ing down from the shedding cottonwoods. In his eyes was a dreamy look, as though his thoughts were far away.

“You takin’ all this in?” asked Hughes sharply.

“SOME JOB!” 31

“Em listening/ answered Dane without shifting his gaze.

Hughes resumed his pacing. “I can’t have any trouble on the range this year,” he said with bit¬ terness in his tone. “An’ I can't afford to lose any cattle. We've had two bad winters, an’ I’m in to the American Bank at Black Butte pretty strong. Had to buy feed, an’ on top of that I lost quite a bit of stock. An’ hay was as high as fifty dollars a ton at a time when I had to have it.

“Sam Stevens, down at the American, ain’t acted as friendly this spring as he might. He’s got a pretty good hold on me, an’ he knows it. But he’s got good security, even if he don’t think much of the shorthorns I’ve got. I know white faces are better than rustlers, but I’ve always had more hay that I needed till the last two years. Anyway, I can get back on my feet, good an’ stout, with this fall’s shipment, an’ if we have a good winter, I can clear next year.”

“Hasn’t the Flying W had the same trouble the last couple of years?” Dane asked.