Brakes and Oliver’ll cook for you. I’ll run the round-up while you’re gone.”
I size up Mason. A cowpuncher all right, from purty nigh wore-out boots to high-peaked, old, black Stetson. Way he sets his horse; his outfit, plain, serviceable, worn; an’ his little mannerisms all show he knows his stuff. A tall, big-shouldered, long-armed jigger; lean-jawed, smooth shaven, with a queer little scar on his left cheek. Hair almost white; kinda awful, cold gray eyes that look right through yuh.
When he swings off his hoss he moves powerful lame in his left leg, so I inquires if a hoss ever fell on him. He don’t act like he heard me.
“Mason!” I sings out. Still no answer, so I step up close and touch his shoulder. Gosh! He jumps high, pivotin’ like he’d felt a hot iron. His hands drops toward his black-handled gun with its holster tied down.
“Ain’t deaf, are yuh?” inquires I. “No.”
“‘At’s funny. I spoke your name twice.” “I heard yuh,” he sez, and his thin lips part in a grin what shows white, even teeth. I’ve been bossin’ cow outfits long enough to know Mason ain’t been travelin’ long under that name.
We all get busy shapin’ up our day herd of young steers—stock we’d just been gatherin’ on this round-up—to cut that herd to an even thousand afore we bed the critters.
Owens tells me I’m to take for helpers three of our newest hands, Cal Bassett, Roper Dixon and Cash Martin. A kid name of Jinglin’ Jimmy’s to be hoss wrangler. These, with Mason and me and Raw Beef Oliver, is my trail herd outfit. Oliver’s a good cook, ’ceptin’ he always seems to figger a cowboy orter eat his beef raw, and I can depend on him. Some others I ain’t so sure of, but the High Man is cranky as an ol’ range bull, so I don’t beller about the hands he’s picked.
“Mighty important that this herd gets to Dillingham on the twenty-eighth,” says the big boss to me. “The old crank mightn’t take the critters if they’re a day late. We’d be in a heck of a fix with the cattle a hundred and thirty miles from home, all wore out and sore-footed. Get ’em through the Cayuse Brakes, Bill. This Mason strikes me as some cowhand.”
“Speakin’ of that bird,” I begins, “did he bring a written order from Dillingham?”
“Uh-huh. Written order. It’s O. K.… What you s’picious of?”
“Mason hisself,” I blurts.
“He’s O. K. Dillingham said so. This ain’t the first time Cap has bought cattle without seein’ ’em. He knows our 90 Bar dogies; knows I give him a square deal. He’ll give you his check for thirty thousand dollars to bring home, Bill.”
“I’m glad it’s a check and not cash,” I grunts.
Afore daybreak the round-up outfit is up, my boys ropin’ their strings of ponies outa the cavvy. We get a string for Mason by takin’ one pony from this rider, one from another, and so on. He gets some mighty bum nags, but I don’t hear a squawk outa him. Course, he’s got his own long-legged, speedy iron-gray, whose brand is so plum’ blotched nobody can read it.
Cal Bassett, who thinks he’s some bronc-fighter, ropes a roan pony he hates like pizen, and, all unexpected, said roan plants a hind hoof in Bassett’s bread basket, knockin’ him end over end. Bassett gets up, right on the prod. Tyin’ the bronc’s head down to its front legs he starts workin’ on it with his quirt.
Makin’ good time for a lame man, Mason drags that stiff left leg of his cross the ground and sez calm: “You’ve fought that hoss plenty, runt. Fight me awhile.”
“All right, yuh big thus-and-such,” rasps Bassett.
And the two of ’em cuts loose. For all he’s small, Bassett’s one dirty fighter—the kind as pulls a knife when he can’t gouge an eye or kick a man in the groin. In ’bout three minutes he sees he’s met more’n his match in this cool, steady, hard-hittin’ scrapper, and out comes his knife. He lunges in to rip Mason in the belly. Down go both. A wild yell, and up outer the dust rises Mason holdin’ Bassett solid. Turnin’ the cuss over his knee he gives him the daggondest paddlin’ ever.
“Now I’ll trade you one of my nags for the roan,” says the tall blond jigger with the scar on his left cheek.
Bassett is ’greeable to most anything right then. But I ain’t the fool to think he’ll forget this spankin’. One of them “get-even” jiggers, he’ll nurse a grouch and brood, and if the chance comes will do plenty dirty work to the hombre he hates.
Soon our herd is strung out, headin’ for Cayuse Brakes. Me and Mason up on point, the cattle stringin’ long behind us, Roper Dixon and Cash Martin in the swing, Bassett bringin’ up the drags. Ahead of us is Raw Beef Oliver’s wagon and the hoss cavvy driv’ by Jinglin’ Jimmy. Sure pretty to see the outfit on the move, with the sun jus’ comin’ up.
* * * *
Nothin’ much happens till the second night out, when we’re camped just outside Cayuse Brakes. The cavvy is grazin’ near the wagon. Oliver, me and the wrangler’s in camp. The other boys is with the herd, on a hill outa our sight. I’m gobblin’ an early supper so I can relieve the rannies, when Mason comes from the herd, ridin’ like Billy-be-damned.
Not stoppin’ at the wagon, he busts right on to the hoss cavvy, ropes his own big iron-gray and leads him close to the fire. Swingin’ from the 90 Bar hoss he’s forkin’, he begins right quick to change saddles.
“Got to leave you, Bill,” he sez over his shoulder. “I know you’ll savvy when I tell you I spotted a hombre comin’ yonder,” pointin’ northeast, “who, I ain’t carin’ to meet.”
“Was it a John Law?” pipes up Jimmy. Mason turns and gives the younker a look outa his cold gray eyes what makes Jinglin’ color up scand’lous an’ act like he wished he was elsewhere.
“Yes, a John Law. Sheriff Dutton of Far Peak, to be prezact.”
“Gol swiggle it, Mason,” I yammers, “you can’t up an’ quit me in a pinch. Here we are, all set to go into Cayuse Brakes come daylight tomorrer. I ain’t got ’nother man as knows that awful country. You can’t—”
“For me it’s quit and run, or shoot, or get free board in a rock house,” Mason snaps, swinging onto his hoss.
“Wait!” I hollers, thinkin’ fast ’bout how I got to get them young steers through to the 3 R. A trail herd boss has got one code—deliver your dogies. “Mason, it don’t make no never-mind to me what you done that a John Law should ride your trail. I won’t turn you over.”
A dry little smile lights the puncher’s lean face. “An’ I don’t want to quit you, Bill, but—”
“You hop up in that chuck wagon,” sez I. “Keep down, so your hat won’t show above the side-boards. The beds has been unloaded and the box is ’most empty.… Jinglin’ Jimmy’ll fork your hoss and fog out ahead of the Law.”
For a jiffy Mason looks me in the eyes. Then he steps off his iron-gray, jerks off the kid wrangler’s hat and slaps his own on Jimmy’s head. “Ride like hell, south! The Law can’t keep in sight of your dust on this Poncho hoss. What you do later depends on you, kid.” Mason climbs into the wagon.
Jimmy gets the idea instanter. Bein’ the kind of kid you can bet your last nickel on, he’s up on that gray and gone like a bat outa hell. None too soon, for foggin’ down the slope from where the herd is, comes an officious lookin’ hombre on a big black horse, Sheriff Dutton of Far Peak.
“Hi, stop!” he yells at Jinglin’ Jimmy. Course Jimmy don’t stop. Sheriff Dutton passes our camp travelin’ like a bullet. A hundred yards beyond our hoss cavvy he reins up sudden, turns his black a little sideways and jerkin’ a rifle to his shoulder, empties the magazine after the kid and the iron-gray hoss. Some of them lead slugs musta come powerful close to Jimmy, but he keeps foggin’.
The