THE OUTFIT HUNTS FOR STRAYS
AS the group of and the stage each other Bill saw two out into view a a mile to the northwest, and he Shields and Charley, who were as if to overtake the cowboys, their approach noiseless of the sand. As the came nearer Bill them as being the five men of the Cross Bar-8 outfit, and his to his new friend was no than his for the newcomers. They up at a and stopped near the wheel.
“Who was that?” asked Larry Thompson impatiently, with his hand the direction taken by The Orphan.
“Friend of mine,” Bill, who was pleasant. “Say,” he began, for effect, “you should have up sooner–you 105missed a regular circus! We was by five Apaches, and my friend ’em up right, he did! You should a it. I wouldn’t a missed it for––”
“Cheese it!” Larry, the deluge. “Don’t be all day about it, Windy,” he cried; “who is he?”
“Why, a friend of mine, Tom Davis,” Bill. “He just out a of Apaches, like I was telling you. They was a-chasing me some and was when he in and took a hand from behind. And he ’em up brown, he did! Say, I’ll you, money, that he can the sheriff, or The Orphant! He’s a terror on wheels, that’s what he is! Talk about on the shoot–and he can twice in the same place, too, if he wants to, though there ain’t no use of it when he there once. The way he can lead is to make––”
“Choke it, Bill, it!” ordered Curley Smith, was unsavory. “Tell us why in h–l he th’ so all-fired hard. Is friend some bashful?” he ironically.
106“Well,” Bill, exasperatingly, “it all on how you looks at it. Women say he is, men he ain’t; you can take your choice. But they do say he ain’t no ladies’ man,” he maliciously, well that Curley himself on being a “lady-killer.”
“Th’ h–l he ain’t!” Curley, with a of anger, preparing to argue, which would take time; and Bill was trying to give the a good start of them. “Th’ h–l he ain’t!” he repeated, forward. “Yu keep opinions close to home, yu big-mouthed coyote!”
“Well, you asked me, didn’t you?” Bill. “And I told you, didn’t I? He’s a good man all around, and say, you should him sing! He’s a singer from Singersville, he is. Got the voice this of Chicago, that’s what.”
“That’s interesting, and just what we was askin’ yu about,” Larry with sarcasm. “An’ bein’ so, Windy, we’ll give him all the music he wants to sing to dark if we him. Yore ability is highfalutin’. Now, yu tell th’ truth we it yu–who is he?”
107“You ought to know it by this time. Didn’t I say his name is Tom Davis?” he replied, his legs, his a look. “How many names do you think he’s got, anyhow? Ain’t one enough?”
“Look a-here!” Curley, pushing forward. “Was that th’ d––d Orphant? Come on, now, talk straight!”
“Orphant!” Bill in surprise. “Did you say Orphant? Orphant nothing!” he responded. “What in h–l do you think I’d be about him for? Do I look easy? He ain’t no friend of mine! Besides, I wouldn’t know him if I saw him, having that gent. Holy gee! is the Orphant in this country, out here along my route!” he cried, alarm.
“Well, we’ll take a anyhow,” Jack Kelly. “I can tell when a lies. If it is friend Tom Davis we won’t him none.”
“Honest, you won’t him?” asked Bill, broadly. “No, I you won’t, all right,” he added, for the was close at hand now and was up at a walk, and Bill had an in that official. He be a how he talked now. He laughed 108and his thumbs in the of his vest. “Nope, I you won’t him, not a little bit. Not if he you’re going to try it on him. And if it should be Mister Orphant, well, I that he’s on being hunted–don’t like it for a d––n. I also he drinks blood of water and five men every to up an appetite. Oh, no, and you won’t him neither, will you?”
“Yore pert, now ain’t yu?” Curley angrily. “Yore a whole an’ smart, ain’t yu? But if we that he is that Orphant, we’ll pay yu a visit so yu can just why so d––d with him. He to have a whole of friends about this country, he does! Even the won’t him. Even th’ his trail. Must be somethin’ in it for somebody, eh?”
“You’d tell that to somebody else, the sheriff, for instance. He’d like to think it over,” Bill easily. “It’s a good to see a little branding, a la Colt, as the French say. Tell it to him, why don’t you?”
“I’m a-tellin’ it to yu, now, an’ I’ll tell it to Shields when I sees him, yu baby, yu!” 109shouted Curley, his hand to his Colt. “Everybody it! Everybody is a-talkin’ about it! An’ we’ll have a new sheriff, too, long! An’ as for yu, if we wasn’t in such a hurry, we’d give yu a lesson yu’d forget! That d––d Orphant has got a pull, but we’re goin’ to give him a push, an’ into hell! Either a or our is some of him! He’s a sheriff, he is, th’ big baby!”
“Pleasant afternoon, Curley,” came from the group, by a soft laugh. The voice was very and low. Curley and in his like a flash. The was smiling, but there was a in his that gave warning. The smiled, but some men when most dangerous, and as an of and coolness.
“Looking for strays, or is it mavericks?” he asked, a question which left no as to what the indicated, for it was a challenge. Maverick was at that time to rustling, and it was on the range despite the sheriff’s best to stop it.
Curley and something about a missing herd. He had the 110scene at the corral, and it had a most on him. The him closely and then noted the in the coach. The door of the vehicle was closed, the down, and no came from it. The had settled over the tell-tale and them from on that side.
“Oh, it’s a missing this time, is it?” he coolly. “Well, I you won’t it out here. They don’t over this while the Limping Water is running.”
“Well, we’ll take a look south aways; it won’t do no now that we’ve got this far,” Larry. “Come on, boys,” he cried. “We’ve too much time with th’ engineer.”
“Wait!” the shortly. “Your me promises, and I that you are out against orders. I wouldn’t be if Sneed wants you right now.”
Larry laughed uneasily. “Oh, I he ain’t losin’ no sleep about us. We won’t nobody” –whereat Bill grinned. “Come on, fellows.”
“Well, I you what you’re looking for,” the sheriff, Bill and at Charley, who sat and 111scowling the sheriff, for a fight.
Larry the driver a look and, wheeling, south, by his companions. They for the point at which The Orphan had disappeared, Bill his arms and crying: “Sic ’em.” The was on in earnest.
The stage door open with a and the which Bill was about to offer, and in a the was almost by the on him. Laughing and and by the surprise, the peace officer not a word in the rapid-fire and questions which were at him from all sides.
But he be as he himself from the of his sisters.
“Well, well!” he cried, his as he to a good look at them. “You’re a to make a man well! My, Helen, but how you’ve grown! It’s been five years since I saw you–and you were only a in dresses! And Mary hasn’t a older, not a bit,” the of the 112two. Then he to the friend. “You must me, Miss Ritchie,” he said as he hands with her. “But I’ve been looking to this meeting for a long time. And I’m surprised, too, I didn’t you all until the next stage trip. I had meeting you at the train and you safely to Ford’s Station, the Apaches are out. I couldn’t word to you in time for you to your visit, so I was going to take Charley and more of the boys and you home.”
Then he looked about for Charley, and that person in with Bill as the two the bullet-marked stage.
“Come here, Charley!” he cried, his friend to his side. “Ladies, this is Charley Winter, and he is a good boy for a puncher. Charley, Miss Ritchie, my sisters Mary and Helen. I you ladies are well with Bill Howland by this time, but in case you ain’t, I’ll just say that he is the driver of the Southwest, noted for his taciturnity. I you two boys don’t need any introducing,” he laughed.
Then, while the at 113heat, Bill and toward the sheriff.
“The Orphant!” he in alarm, to attention that way.
The and Charley wheeled, in hand, and clear of the women, their quick from point to point in search of the danger.
“Where?” the over his at Bill.
“Down south, ahead of them punchers,” Bill exclaimed. “He’s only got a little start on ’em. And they know he’s there, too. That’s why they’re looking for on a place go.”
Then he related in detail the of the past hours, to the sheriff’s great astonishment, and also to his at the way it had out. Shields of his own personal with the outlaw, and this put him in debt. His opinion as to there being much good in his enemy’s was strengthened, and he at the ability and of the man who had a with him by the big on the Apache Trail.
“Oh, I they don’t catch him!” Helen 114cried anxiously. “Can’t you do something, James?” she implored. “He saved us, and he is wounded, too! Can’t you stop them?”
The looked to the south in the direction taken by the cow-punchers, and a hard light in his eyes.
“No, not now,” he decisively. “They’ve had too much time now. And it’s safe to that they at full speed just as soon as they got out of my sight. They Bill would tell me. They’re miles away by this time. But don’t you worry, Sis–they won’t him. Five that catch a in his own country–and if they do catch him, they will wish they hadn’t. And I almost they win the chase, for they’ll their lives. It will be a lesson to the of the of the Cross Bar-8–and small to the at large, eh, Charley?”
“Yore right, Jim,” Charley, at Miss Ritchie. “Did you tell of the dog that a cartridge?” he asked her. “No? Well, the dog left for parts unknown.”
“That’s good, Charley,” Shields 115with a laugh. “The dog just wouldn’t mind, and he was only a snarling, no-account at that, wasn’t he?” Then he looked at the coach, and his to the man. “I can see it all, now,” he said slowly. “Those must have him out of the Backbone, and he was away when he saw the you were in. By God!” he in of the act. “It wasn’t no one man’s work, five Apaches! One man stopping five of those devils–it was no work for a murderer, not much! It was clean-cut nerve, and if I see him I’ll tell him so, too! I’ll let him know that he’s got some friends in this country. They can say what they please, but there’s more in him to the square than there is in all the people who him down; and who are in a great way for his being an outlaw. I’m to that he a man down; no, sir, he didn’t. And I he had much show, from what I know of him.”
“Helen was to him,” the spinster. “She his and it. Spoiled her very best skirt, too.”
“You’re a good girl, Sis,” Shields said, looking 116fondly at the girl at his side. His arm around her and he her cheek. “I’m proud of you, and we’ll have to see if we can’t another ‘very best skirt,’ too.” Then he laughed: “But I’ll he the who that shot–he’s not used to having girls about him.”
Mary looked at her sister. “Why, Helen! You’ve your gold pin! Where do you it has gone? I’ll look in the stage for it we about it. Dear me, dear me,” she as she entered the vehicle, “this has been a terrible day!”
Bill and toward his team. “I she’ll it some day,” he said in a low as he passed the sheriff. “I’ll just she does. It’ll be in at the of a whole of things, and people, too, you bet,” he added enigmatically.
Shields looked at the driver, his and he at the words. “I it will; punchers, for instance?”
Bill his and one closed in an wink. “Keno,” he replied.
Mary out again, very much agitated. “I 117can’t it. Where do you you it, dear? I’ve looked in the stage.”
“Probably where we stopped before,” Helen quietly. “We were so that we would have noticed it if it down.”
“Well–” Mary.
“No use going for it, Miss Shields,” Bill from his high seat. “We just couldn’t it in all that sand, not if we all week for it with a comb.”
“You’re right, Bill,” the sheriff. “We could.”
As they entered the of the Backbone the what Bill had told him and he stopped and dismounted.
“You keep right on, Bill,” he said. “I’m going up to that puncher. Lord, but it’s a joke! This game is every day–I’m so I of like to have The Orphan around. He’s original, all right.”
“He’s than a marked in a room,” laughed the driver. “He ought to be framed, or something like that.”
“You go with them, Charley,” the said as his friend a move at dismounting. 118“There ain’t no danger, but we won’t take no this time; we’ve got a coachful.”
“All right,” Charley as he toward the stage. “So long, Sheriff.”
The looked the over and then out a easy place and to the top. As he himself over the he a pair of which from under a of débris, and he laughed heartily. At the laugh the to vigorously, so the that he had to stop a minute, for it was the most he had looked upon.
Shields the and pulled, walking backward, and soon an and cow-puncher came into view. Slowly and the rope from the man, he it and it over his shoulder, and then in the gag.
The was too to and his helped him to his and and and and to start the blood in circulation. The had so the of the puncher’s that his mouth would not close without and effort, and his were 119not at all clear for that reason. His word was a curse.
“’Ell!” he as he and his arms. “’Ell! I’m asleep all o’er! ––! ’Ait till I ’im! ––! ’Ait till I ’im!”
“Sort of the little you was taking when he you, eh?” asked Shields, his sides.
“Nap nothing! Nap nothing!” the other in denial. “I wasn’t asleep, I tell yu! I was wide awake! He got th’ on me, and then that rope of his’n was everywhere! Th’ air was full of rope and guns! I didn’t have no show! Not a of a show! Oh, just wait till I him! Why, I my talking as they for me, and there I was not twenty away from them all the time, helpless! They’re lookers, they are! Wait till I sees them, too! I’ll tell ’em a things, all right!”
“Well, I you may see one or two of them, if they’re lucky–and you can’t a for luck,” the sheriff. “They want to be angels; they’re on his now.”
“Hope they him!” the puncher, dancing with rage. “Hope they him at th’ 120stake! Hope they him, an’ him, an’ saw his arms off, an’ his in! Hope they make him eat his and toes! Hope––”
“You’re some to-day,” the sheriff. “If you like them, you they don’t him. That’s hope.”
“Wait till I him!” the repeated, for his Colt, being too to notice its absence. “I’ll him if he can tie a man up an’ him to to death, an’ an’ roast! I’ll him if he can this country like he it, and he wants to!”
“All right, Sonny,” Shields laughed. “I’ll wait till you him, if I live long enough. But for your I you him. He wouldn’t any more if he killed you, and your friends would miss you.”
“Don’t yu let that worry yu!” the man. “I can take of myself in a mix-up, all right! An’ I’m going to after my friends an’ take a hand in th’ game, too, by God! He ain’t going to me high an’ an’ live to about it! But I you yu’ll stop me, hey?”
121Shields hands high in the air in denial. “I wouldn’t think of such a thing, not for the world,” he cried, his big frame. “You can go any place you please, only I’d take a gun if I was going after him,” he added, the empty holster. “You know, you might need it,” he was very in his use of the subjunctive.
The his hand to his and then jumped high into the air: “––! ––!” he shouted. “Stole my gun! Stole my gun!” Then he paused and his cleared. “But I’ve got something better’n a Colt on my cayuse!” he as he toward the of the cañon. “An’ I’ll give him all it holds, too!” he as he and to the bottom. The took more and time in and had just the when he a heart-rending yell, by a of profanity.
“Where’s my cayuse?” the as he the of the cañon on a and hop. “Where’s my cayuse, yu law-coyote?” he shouted, out of his from rage. “Where’s my cayuse!” dancing 122up to the and under the laughter-convulsed face.
When the speak, he against the cañon for support and the news.
“Why, Bill Howland said as how The Orphan was a Cross Bar-8 cayuse–dirty brown, with a white on his near foot. It had a big on its neck, too.”
“Th’ d––d thief!” the puncher, but Shields right on talking.
“There was a Cheyenne saddle,” he said, on his fingers, “a good gun, a pair of and a big of rope on the cayuse. Was they yours?”
“Was they mine! Was they mine!” his screamed. “My new gone, my gun gone and my rope gone! Oh, h–l! How’ll I him now? How’ll I home? How’ll I to th’ ranch?” Words failed him, and he only his arms and yell.
“Well, it wouldn’t be while him on without a gun, that’s shore,” the said, once more. “But you can home all right; that’s easy.”
“How can I?” asked the puncher, the 123sheriff’s and waiting for the to on it.
“Why, walk,” was the reply. “It’s only about twenty miles as the flies–say twenty-five on the trail.”
“Walk! Walk!” his companion, kicking at a which looked out from a in the wall. “I walked five miles all at once in my life!”
“Well, it’ll be a new experience, and you can’t any younger,” Shields as he into his saddle. “It’ll do you good, too–increase your appetite.”
“I’m so now I’m starved,” the other. “But I’ll pay up for all this, you see if I don’t! I’ll square with that d––d outlaw!”
“You don’t know to be you were found,” the sheriff. “And if he hadn’t told Bill where to look for you, you wouldn’t have been, neither. You got off easy, Bucknell, and don’t you it, neither. Men have been killed for less than what you to do.”
The wilted, for twenty-five miles in high-heeled boots, over and sand, and with 124an empty stomach, was terrible to contemplate, and he to the beseechingly.
“Give me a lift, Sheriff,” he implored. “Take me up you–I can’t walk all the way!”
Shields looked at the sun, which was the western horizon, and for a minute. Then he his shoulders.
“Well, I hadn’t ought to help you a step, not a single, step, and you know it. You your best to against me. You to me up there by the corral, and then after I had you not to go out for The Orphan you right ahead. Now you’re me to help you out of your trouble, to make good for your stupidity. But I’ll take you as as the end of the cañon–no, I’ll take you on to the ford, and then you can do the on foot. That’ll you ten or a dozen miles. Get aboard.”
