Laramie knew Lefever to be quite equal
to the highly particular job he had assigned to him
and that John would give his best to it. Hardly
thirty minutes later, the raiders rode out of the timber
along the creek. Van Horn stopped his pack for
a word of warning:
“Look to your guns,” he
said harshly. “You can guess most o’
you what you’ll be up against, if there’s
trouble at this joint.” Leaving the creek,
the party rode out on a rarely used trail that, Stone
told them, led to Laramie’s cabin. They
followed this for some distance, keeping two men ahead
as they had done in the early morning. These
two men, reaching the bench, which at that point had
been cut sharply away by a flood, halted. The
main party riding up the hill debouched on level ground
at the crest and joined their scouts. Half a
mile to their right stood Laramie’s cabin.
The bench land lying in front of it was as smooth
as a table and covered with mountain blue stem.
Out of the level ground, a hundred yards from the
edge of the bench where Doubleday’s party had
halted, rose a huge and solitary fragment of rock.
Beside this rock stood a large man
facing the intruders; slung over his left forearm
he carried a rifle and his right hand he held well
out toward them with its open palm raised in the air.
The raiders understood the signal; it warned them
to advance no farther.
“What’s that fat buck
doing up in this country?” asked Van Horn, angrily.
“Who is it?” demanded Doubleday.
“John Lefever,” returned
Van Horn, greatly nettled. “What are you
doing here?” he bellowed at the unwelcome sentinel.
John pointed a stubby forefinger at
Van Horn and returned a perfectly intelligible retort:
“That’s not the first question, Harry;
that’s the second question,” he yelled.
“What are you doing here?”
This was not in all respects a question
easy to answer. But Van Horn was resourceful:
“We’re on our way down the creek, John.
Rode up from the bottom to see Jim Laramie a minute.”
“Just a friendly call,”
assented John. “Well, how about sidearms,”
he shouted, “and how many of you are there?”
Van Horn looked around him: “Why,
maybe a dozen, I reckon, John. You know most
everybody here.”
“How many of you are there want
to see Jim a minute, Harry?” asked Lefever,
calm but conveniently close to the rock and quite conscious
of the delicacy of his position should shooting begin.
There was some exchange of talk before
the question was answered: “Look here,
Lefever,” roared Doubleday huskily; “what
the hell’s all this fuss about?”
“Why, it’s like this,
Barb,” returned Lefever, nothing abashed.
“When I seen you crossing down there at the
forks I thought maybe you’d lost your Bibles
in the creek. That’s the way you acted.
But when I seen you and Harry Van Horn and Tom Stone
loading your rifles in the timber, I reckoned you
must be comin’ up to ask Jim to run for sheriff
on the cattle ticket.”
Sarcasm could hardly convey more defiance
and contempt. The riders realized they had been
watched and that deception was useless; Van Horn was
furiously angry. “Look here, Lefever,”
he called out, short and sharp.
“I’m looking right there,
Harry,” yelled Lefever irreverently. “With
a bunch of mugs like that on the horizon I sure wouldn’t
dare look anywhere else!”
“These boys won’t stand
any more fooling,” roared Doubleday.
“I wouldn’t either, Barb,
if you’d got me into this scrape as deep as
you’ve got them,” was the retort.
Nothing less than violent outbursts
of profanity served now. And these proceeding
to a climax of strength and rapidity, gradually subsided
as such outbursts do and the two sides started to
argue all over again.
After much parley and protestations
of peaceful intent, provided they were treated fair,
Doubleday and Van Horn were allowed to ride up to
the rock, but not to dismount. “Now,”
suggested Lefever to the two, “talk just plain
business.”
“Right you have it, John,”
returned Van Horn briskly. “The rustlers
have got to go. We’re looking for Abe Hawk.
Gorman and Dutch Henry are lifting cattle now in
the Happy Hunting Grounds. We’re going
to clean out the rest of ’em. We’ve
tracked Abe here. Without any hard words, we
want him.”
“Then, boys, you want to ride
right on; keep on riding, for he’s not here.
I don’t know anything, but that much I do know,”
asserted the big fellow positively.
“How do you know?” demanded Doubleday
grimly.
“I just walked down here from
the cabin; there’s no one there. I rode
in here this morning from the Reservation, Barb.
A buck looking for horses over on the North Fork
yesterday saw the fight at Gorman’s everybody
knows about it.”
Van Horn showed his teeth: “You’re
a pretty good artist, John, with your buck looking
for horses.”
Lefever deprecated the compliment:
“You must remember, Harry, I worked seven year
for you. Seven year and then didn’t
get all was coming to me.”
“If you had,” returned
Van Horn candidly, “your headstone would be
covered with moss by this time, John. Where’s
Laramie?”
Lefever stood with his left hand eagerly
extended and appeared as if sensitive at Van Horn’s
incredulity:
“All the same, Harry,”
he exclaimed, “I can take you to that buck inside
two hours’ ride and get his story. I’ve
got five twenty-dollar gold pieces in my pocket that
says so. I’ll put ’em up in Barb
Doubleday’s hands right now against your five.”
“A man couldn’t pry you
loose from five twenty-dollar gold pieces if you had
five thousand in your pocket, John. What are
you stalling around for?” demanded Van Horn
suspiciously. “Where’s Laramie?”
Lefever was frankness itself; almost
over-frank in his genuine simplicity. Had it
not been for his big, blunt eyes and round, smooth
face he might have been suspected of duplicity but
not by the two men now talking to him; they knew beyond
a doubt that John was “stringing” them.
Unfortunately they could not prevent it. He
answered Van Horn’s sharp question as innocently
as a child.
“That’s more than I can
say this minute, Harry, where Jim Laramie is; but
he’s not far, I can tell you that, for the coffee
pot was on the stove when I got to the shack a while
ago.”
“Then what are you holding us
up here for?” barked Doubleday with rough words.
“I’m a peace officer,
Barb, a deputy marshal.” The bursting expression
of disgust on his questioners’ faces did not
ruffle John’s candor. “I know what
you fellows are up to. I won’t have any
bloodshed here this morning that’s
flat. Laramie gets hot sometimes and this is
one of the times for folks to go slow. If you
want to talk to Laramie come along up to the shack.
But send them longhorns over there down to the creek,”
he added, as an afterthought and in the bluntly candid
tone of appeal that distinguished his persuasiveness.
“Long hell!” spluttered Doubleday.
“Longhorns,” persisted Lefever.
Barb growled at the proposal to send
the boys down to the creek, and Van Horn objected,
but there was no escape from Lefever’s stubbornness,
except a fight and this was not wanted. Lefever
passed his word that Hawk was not in the cabin, but
he was adamant on sending the men to the bottoms and
his demand was grudgingly acceded to. In point
of fact, John reckoned himself on foot with a rifle
equal to two men on horseback, even if Van Horn were
one. But not being able to take care of a dozen
horsemen he was resolved to have no volleying applause
from other guns, if the unexpected should happen on
the open bench land.
After Doubleday and Van Horn’s
following had at length filed down to the creek bottom,
Lefever walked beside the two horsemen toward the
cabin, and, since he would not walk fast and the two
refused to ride ahead of him, the pace was deliberate
all the way. Nor could Lefever be persuaded
even to walk between the two horsemen; he kept them
both religiously on his left, his rifle lying carelessly
across his forearm as he entertained them with a moderately
timed and unfailing flow of Reservation small talk.
But he could not control Van Horn’s
quick, flashing eyes, and these were busy every moment
and every foot of the way with reconnaissance and
inference. It did not escape either him or Doubleday
that a bunch of horses had been but lately driven
over the ground they were crossing, and every trail
leading to and from the cabin obliterated; this, however,
only assured both that their man was close at hand
and strengthened their determination to get him in
their own way when they were ready. So intent
were they on reading the ground as well as on keeping
a sharp eye on the cabin itself, that they had almost
reached it before Van Horn, halting, fixed his eyes
on the hills to the left that is, down
the creek and exclaimed sharply: “Who’s
that?”
Riding in a leisurely fashion down
and out of the rough country to the South, a mile
away, a man emerging from a rift between two hills
could be seen following one of the cattle trails toward
the creek.
Lefever, after a minute’s study,
answered the question blandly: “I’m
thinkin’ that’s Jim Laramie, right now.”
He waved his hat at the distant horseman,
who, also rode with a rifle slung across his pommel
and carried his lines high in his right hand.
The horseman continued for some moments toward the
creek, then looking, seemingly by accident, toward
the house he saw the signaling, stopped his pony,
paused, and reigning him around, headed at an easy
pace for the group before the cabin. It was,
as Lefever had said, Laramie.
A few minutes later he trotted his
horse across the field and slowed him up in front
of Van Horn and Doubleday. His greeting to his
visitors was dry; their own was somewhat strained,
but Lefever at once took the initiative: “Jim,”
he said, identifying himself in his bluntly honest
way with the interests of the raiders, “we’re
looking for Abe Hawk.”
Laramie’s response was merely
to the point: “He’s not here.”
“Has he been here?” demanded Van Horn.
“Yes,” answered Laramie.
Lefever at intervals looked virtuously from questioner
to questioned.
“How long ago, Jim?” continued Van Horn.
Laramie regarded him steadily: “Several
times in the last few weeks.”
“Was he here yesterday?” asked Van Horn
suddenly.
“I was on the Reservation yesterday.”
“Has he been here this morning?”
“Yes.”
If Lefever jumped inwardly at this
most unexpected admission he suppressed all outward
sign of surprise; his wide open eyes did not blink
and his close-cut mustache preserved its honesty undefiled.
But he wondered what might be coming.
“How long ago?” continued Van Horn.
“Early. What’s all
this questioning about?” Laramie demanded in
turn, looking from Van Horn to Doubleday and to Lefever.
“Who wants Hawk?”
“Jim, we’re cleaning up
the rustlers,” said Van Horn. “Things
have got so bad it had to be done. We want Hawk.
We’ve got Gorman and Henry. Now, if it’s
a fair question, is Abe here?”
“He’s not.”
“Not in your shack?”
“No.”
“Are you willing we should search it?”
“Search hell! What do
you mean?” asked Laramie curtly. “Isn’t
my word good as to who’s in my shack?”
“Jim!” Lefever held up
a peacemaker’s hand. “We thought
maybe he might have come in since you rode away.”
“Well ”
Laramie cooled somewhat, “if it’ll do you
any good, I’ll look inside and see.”
Van Horn sarcastically demurred:
“Don’t take the trouble, don’t take
the trouble, Jim.”
“Still he might be there,”
urged Lefever, “in the way I say he
might’ve walked in since you went into the hills what?
No objection to my looking in there, is there, Jim?”
“No man can search my cabin,”
snapped Laramie. “Have you got a warrant
for Abe Hawk?” He threw the question sharply
at Lefever.
With Lefever’s disclaimer, Doubleday
interposed a savage rejoinder: “A rope’ll
fit Abe’s neck better than a warrant.”
Laramie eyed the old cattleman unmoved:
“And you’re here to get me to help you
slip the noose, are you?”
“We’re here to clean out
these cattle thieves,” stormed Doubleday.
“There are no cattle thieves
here,” retorted Laramie undisturbed. “You’re
wasting the time you’ll need on your job.
Move on!”
Even Van Horn was taken aback by the
rude command; he pulled his horse around: “Look
here, Jim; let me talk to you a minute alone.”
Laramie, guiding his horse with his
heels, followed Van Horn twenty feet away and listened:
“Jim, I’m leading this bunch, and whatever
troubles you’ve had with Barb and his friends,
now’s the time to fix ’em up. They’ll
give you the best of it. If you’ve got
any line on where Hawk is, say so and it puts you
with us; say nothing, and you’re against us.”
Laramie eyed him without a quiver:
“I’m against you, Harry.”
Van Horn did not give up. He
talked again, and talked hard. It was useless.
Doubleday rode over to where Van Horn held Laramie
in deadly earnest conference. Van Horn, ready
to quit, gladly let the older man take over the case.
But Doubleday made no better success. Laramie
could not be moved. If coaxed, he was obstinate;
if threatened, impatient contemptuous.
Doubleday, when Laramie coldly refused even to answer
his questions concerning Hawk, boiled over.
He moved his horse a step and opened
his vials of wrath: “Laramie, you’ve
turned down the last chance decent folks on the range’ll
ever try to hand you the last chance you’ll
ever see to pull away from these Falling Wall thieves.
Now,” he exclaimed, raising his right hand
and arm with a bitter imprecation, “we’ll
show you who’s going to run the Sleepy Cat range.
I’ll drive you out of this country if it takes
every cowboy I can hire and every dollar I’ve
got. This country won’t hold you and me
after today. D’ye hear?” he shouted,
almost bending with his huge frame over Laramie and
beside himself with rage. Then spurring his
horse, he wheeled it around to rejoin Van Horn.
Even then Laramie was too quick for
him. Almost in the very instant, he jumped his
own pony after the angry man and gaining the head of
Doubleday’s horse, caught the bridle and jerked
the beast almost to its haunches.
It was a ticklish instant. Van
Horn, with his hand on his revolver, attempted to
spur to Doubleday’s assistance. Lefever
interposed with a sharp move that put him plumply
in front of Van Horn: “Not till them two
are through, Harry. We stay right here till them
two’s done.”
The very impudence of Laramie’s
move had taken Doubleday by surprise and Laramie was
hurling angry words at him before Lefever had intervened:
“Hold on, Doubleday,” Laramie said bluntly,
“you can’t put your abuse all over me
first and then run away with it. You’ll
hear what I’ve got to say. I rode this
range before you ever saw it; I’ll ride this
range when you’re gone. I was born here,
Doubleday; my father lived here before me. The
air I breathe, this sky over my head, this ground
under my feet, are mine, and I stick here in spite
of you and your cattle crooks. If men run off
your cattle it’s your sheriff’s business you
own him. And it’s your business to run
’em down not mine. You come
here without a warrant, without a definite complaint,
and ask me to turn an old man over to a bunch of lynchers!
Not on your life. Not today or any other day.”
Doubleday interrupted, but he was
forced to listen: “You talk about thieves,”
Laramie spoke fast and remorselessly, “and you
belong to the bunch that’s tried to steal every
foot of land I own in the Falling Wall. After
you and your lawyers and land office tools have stolen
thousands of acres from the government, you talk as
if you were an angel out of heaven about the men that
brand your mavericks. Hell!” The scorn
of the expletive drew from the very depths of furious
contempt. “I’d rather stand by a
thief that calls himself a thief, than a thief that
steals under a lawyer. Send your hired men after
me; give ’em plenty of ammunition. They’ll
find me right here, Barb right here where
I live.”