Nevada (1995) (21 page)

"Thank you very much, Day," rejoined Ben, most gratefully. "It'
s
sure lucky for me that you came over."

"Wal, mebbe it's lucky fer me, too," said Day. "One more hunc
h
before I go, an' I shore must be rustlin' home. There'll be othe
r
ranchers callin' on you, an' some of them will talk deals. G
o
slow. Don't offend, but don't go in anythin' without consultin'
m
e."

"By George! you needn't caution me about that," returned Ben. "I'
m
too scared. Why, my wife and sister will have a fit when they fin
d
out how Burridge fooled me!"

"Wal, my advice is don't tell your wimmin-folks. What they don'
t
know shore won't hurt them."

"But I should tell you my sister Hettie is in on this deal with me.

She wanted a half interest, but I let her have only one third.

Thank goodness!"

"Thet big-eyed lass! She must have a lot of money."

"Hettie is well off, yes. She's clever, too. I wish I ha
d
listened to her."

"Wal, wal! Thet lass--handsome an' rich! Golly! Some cow-punche
r
is shore goin' to fall into heaven. I wish I was a youngster.

Reckon as it is I'll have to pick out the best fellar heahaboot
s
fer her."

"I'm advising YOU now," laughed Ben. "Don't try that with Hettie
,
if you want her to like you."

"Thanks fer the hunch, Ide. . . . Wal, I said before I must b
e
goin', an' heah I am yet."

"There's one thing--I--nearly forgot," said Ben, with hesitatio
n
and change of tone. "You must know everybody in Arizona?"

"Lord, no, son! Why, Arizona is most as big as the rest of th
e
United States! But I'm pretty well acquainted all through heah."

"Did you ever know or hear of a--a fellow who--who went by the nam
e
of Nevada?" Ben's voice shook a little, and that tremor wa
s
communicated poignantly to Hettie, who sat listening in her tent.

"Nevada?" queried Day, thoughtfully.

"Yes, Nevada. It was a nickname, of course. I never knew his--
t
his fellow's other name."

"Humph! Somebody who did you a bad turn?"

"No indeed. I--reckon it was the other way."

"Wal, I'm sorry. Nevada? No, I never heerd thet handle on
a
fellar in my life. I've a good memory fer names. I've knowed
a
heap of Arizonie's in my time, an' Texas Jacks, an' Colorad
o
somethin's or other. But no Nevada."

Chapter
ten.

Some eighteen or twenty miles from Tom Day's ranch, Judg
e
Franklidge maintained the last outpost of his extensive cattl
e
range south of the railroad toward the Mogollons.

This property, called the Chevelon Ranch, as had many another, ha
d
come into his possession by the failure of a homesteader. At som
e
time or other Franklidge had lent money or staked cattle to ever
y
poor settler in that part of Arizona. His kindness and generosit
y
had for many years made him a mark. But though he had never bee
n
known to drive a hard bargain or force a payment, he had prospere
d
through most all of his transactions. Chevelon Ranch, however, wa
s
a losing proposition so far as actual cattle-raising was concerned.

The hundred and sixty acres which comprised the ranch lay in
a
strip along the rim of Chevelon Canyon, one of the deep wild gorge
s
that constituted part of the brakes of the Mogollons. Here th
e
cedar pi+-on forest was at its thickest, and a little higher an
d
farther south it merged into the belt of pines. Water wa
s
abundant, but it was down in the canyon and had to be pumped up.

When the pump did not operate the water had to be packed up.

Cabins and corrals, built of logs, showed the weathering of year
s
of storm and heat. The main cabin stood on the rim, and the wid
e
porch ran to the edge of the gray rock wall. On this mid-Augus
t
afternoon the porch was a shady and cool place to lounge and rest.

The deep canyon was densely green with oak and cedar; a low roar o
f
running water floated dreamily from the depths; the drowsy summe
r
air was redolent with a sweet dry fragrance.

Judge Franklidge had just arrived on one of his rare visits to thi
s
margin of his vast cattle interests. The long hot dusty ride ou
t
from Winthrop had tired him, and with a great sigh of content h
e
sank into one of the comfortable seats on the porch.

"Jack," he said to the cowboy who had driven him out, "I'm to mee
t
Day here. Put the horses up. I'll stay all night. Then find Da
y
if he's arrived, and come back yourself."

"Yes, sir. An' how aboot Stewart?" replied the cowboy.

"Stewart? Tell him I'll send word when I want him," returned th
e
judge, somewhat impatiently.

"All right, sir," said Jack, and slapping the reins he drove awa
y
toward the barn.

"Humph! I'd forgotten about that foreman," muttered Judg
e
Franklidge. "Damn the cattle business, anyway. . . . I'd like t
o
forget it and enjoy the peace of this place."

This ranch was a favorite with Franklidge, owing to its wild beaut
y
and solitude and the abundance of deer and turkey that ranged th
e
forests. Every fall he came there for a few days of hunting.

"I'll invite young Ide to hunt with me in October," h
e
soliloquized. "Fine chap that. Too bad about the rotten deal h
e
fell into here. It sure doesn't speak well for Arizona. And wha
t
a lovely girl that sister of his! . . . If I were younger now . . ."

The Judge fell into a daydream that amused as well as made hi
m
sigh. Presently a jangle of spurs and thud of footstep
s
interrupted his reverie, and he looked up to see Tom Day and th
e
cowboy approaching. Day had his hand on the younger man's shoulde
r
and was talking earnestly. That reminded the judge of the stron
g
friendship Day had always evinced for this young man the rang
e
called Texas Jack. How good to see two men he could swear by!

"Howdy, Judge! I'm shore glad to see you," said Day, as he heavil
y
mounted the porch with beaming smile and extended hand.

"How are you, Tom? Pull up that bench. We're in for a good lon
g
talk."

"Wal, it's aboot time," returned Day, as he deposited his huge bul
k
on a seat, with back to the porch rail. He threw his sombrero t
o
the floor.

The judge laughed, and then glanced sharply at the cowboy waitin
g
at the step.

"Jack, you've got something on your mind," he said.

"Yes, sir, but it can wait. No hurry, sir," replied the cowboy
,
hastily.

"Wal, Judge, if you'll take a hunch from me you'll not wait to
o
long," interposed Day.

"Come up and sit in with us, Jack," was Franklidge's reply.

The cowboy did as he was bidden, but he made no reply. He sat nea
r
the porch rail and leaned over to gaze down into the green canyon.

The judge's appraising eyes took stock of the lithe figure, th
e
service-worn garb, the lean bearded face that was half hidden unde
r
the wide sombrero.

"Stewart was in town last night, drunk," spoke Franklidge
,
casually. "Is he here to-day?"

"Yes, sir--an' he's all right now," rejoined the cowboy.

"Judge, your foreman MAY be all right, as Texas Jack says, but I'v
e
my doubts," put in Day. "I cain't find anythin' ag'in' him, 'cep
t
the drinkin'. But I've just come to distrust the man. Mebbe I'
m
wrong. It shore is a distrustful time."

"Mr. Franklidge, I hunted up Stewart, an' found him an' Dillon of
f
under a cedar, talkin' deep an' quiet," said Texas Jack.

"Dillon? Who's he? That name's familiar."

"Dillon is young Ben Ide's foreman," replied Day, with interest.

"He's held jobs all over the range the last two years. Fin
e
cowman. Engagin' sort of chap. Everybody likes him. I shore do."

"Which ought to be recommendation enough for Ide or even me, sor
e
old cattleman that I am. . . . Well, Tom, have you considered th
e
offer I made you some time ago?"

"Reckon I have, Judge, an' I'm acceptin' with thanks. I know I'
m
gettin' the best of the deal," returned Day, heartily.

"We're not agreed on that. You're counting only the relative valu
e
of your ranch compared with this one. But I count your friendshi
p
and help. . . . It's a deal, then."

"Heah's my hand, Judge," said Day, reaching out his huge paw.

"We're partners, then," replied Franklidge, as he shook th
e
proffered hand. "We'll throw these ranches and all the stoc
k
together, I'll have papers made out when I get back to town. . . .

Now get what's troubling you off your chest."

"Wal, boss, the situation heah has grown from bad to wuss,"
r
eturned Day, seriously.

"Where do you mean by here?" demanded Franklidge.

"All this range thet haids along the wild brakes of the Mogollons.

Say, fifty miles in a straight line."

"Yes?"

"Reckon it takes in a good many ranches, countin' everybody, an'
m
ebbe two hundred thousand haid of cattle. But Ben Ide's range an'
t
his one of yours an' mine have come in fer the wust of th
e
rustlin' this last month."

"We've always had rustlers to deal with. We always will have.

What's the difference between say a year or five years ago an
d
now?"

"Wal, Judge, fer a big cattleman you're shore poor informed."

"Tom, you know most of my holdings lie along the railroad and nort
h
in the open country. I know next to nothing about what goes on i
n
this backwoods. That's why I wanted you for a partner."

"The difference you asked aboot I'd calkilate offhand to stand yo
u
an' me an' Ben Ide around ten thousand haid."

The Judge's boots came down off the porch rail with a crash.

"What?" he demanded, incredulously.

"Boss, I said ten thousand, an' mebbe thet's conservative. Shor
e
most of this rustled stock belongs to Ide. But we've lost a goo
d
deal, an' stand to lose more or all unless somethin' is done. Yo
u
see, Ide proved an easy mark. He bought out Burridge, who had som
e
stock, nobody knows how much. Wal, young Ide's cow outfit wa
s
green an' raw for Arizona. I gave him two of my best riders. On
e
of them, Sam Tull, was found daid in the woods. Shot! We've neve
r
found out aboot it. The other cowboy, Rang Jones, had a quarre
l
with Dillon an' quit. I cain't see thet Dillon has changed matter
s
fer the better. But I reckon no one man could at this stage of th
e
game."

"So they've hit young Ide hard," muttered Franklidge, indignantly.