The Buckaroo of Blue Wells/Chapter 3

EX ALDEN had left the Oasis and sauntered down the street to where a weathered sign proclaimed the office of Lee Barnhardt, Attorney at Law. Barnhardt was a lean, hatchet-faced, keen-eyed sort of person, possibly forty-five years of age, whose eyes were rather too close together, ears small and clinging close to his bony head, and chin was wedge-shaped. His neck was so long and thin that it was the general opinion in Blue Wells that on Sunday Barnhardt wore a cuff around his neck instead of a collar.

Tex Alden and Lee Barnhardt had considerable in common, as Tex was manager of the X Bar 6 cattle outfit, while Barnhardt was legal counsel and manager for the same outfit. Tex had always born a fairly good reputation, except that he was an inveterate gambler. People admitted that Barnhardt was shrewd, even if they did not like him.

Barnhardt was busily engaged in cleaning out his old cob pipe when Tex walked in and sat down, and like all lawyers he kept Tex waiting until the pipe was cleaned, filled and lighted. Then he turned around on his creaking swivel-chair and fixed his cold eyes upon Tex.

“Well?” he managed to say, between puffs.

“Well, !” snorted Tex. “I just finished losing the eight thousand dollars I got for that shipment to Frisco.”

Barnhardt’s eyebrows lifted slightly and he sucked heavily on his extinguished pipe, staring steadily at Tex. Then:

“You lost it all, eh? Playing poker with Neal?”

Tex nodded wearily. Barnhardt leaned back in his old chair, squinting narrowly at the ceiling.

“That’s a lot of money, Tex,” he said thoughtfully. “It puts you in pretty bad, don’t yuh think?”

“Sure. That’s why I came over here, Lee.”

“Is that so? Thinking, of course, that I can square it for yuh,” Barnhardt laughed wryly. “It’s quite a job to explain away eight thousand dollars, Tex. I don’t know why you didn’t bring that check to me.”

“They made it out in my name,” said Tex, as if that might mitigate the fact that he had used eight thousand belonging to the X Bar 6 outfit.

“That didn’t cause it to belong to you,” reminded Barnhardt. “They can jail yuh for that, Tex. It’s plain embezzlement. I’ve got to account for that eight thousand dollars.”

“How soon, Lee?”

The lawyer frowned thoughtfully. He knew he could defer the accounting for a long time, but what good would that do Tex Alden, whose monthly salary was seventy-five dollars.

“Got something in sight, Tex?” he asked.

“Not yet,” Tex studied the toes of his dusty boots. “But yuh never can tell what might turn up.”

“I see.”

Barnhardt relaxed and lighted his pipe. After a few puffs he said—

“I think the Santa Rita pay-roll comes in tonight.”

“Thasso?” Tex stared at Barnhardt. “How do yuh know?”

“Chet Le Moyne rode in a while ago. He always shows up just ahead of the pay-roll and takes it back to the Santa Rita himself.”

Chet Le Moyne was paymaster of the Santa Rita mine, which employed close to three hundred men. The mine was located about twelve miles from Blue Wells. Le Moyne was a handsome sort of a person, dark-haired, dark-eyed, athletic, although slender. Like Tex Alden, he was an inveterate gambler, although not inclined to plunge wildly.

“I think probably he went out to the Taylor ranch,” offered Barnhardt casually. “He never does stay very long in town.”

Tex scowled at his boots, and tried to make himself believe that it didn’t make any difference to him if Le Moyne went out to see Marion Taylor. But down in his heart he knew it did—a lot of difference. Paul Taylor owned a small ranch about two miles south of Blue Wells, and there was no one to deny that Marion Taylor was the best-looking girl in that country.

Even Lee Barnhardt had cast covetous eyes in that direction, but Marion showed small favor to the thin-faced lawyer. In fact, she had showed little favor to any of the men, treating them all alike. Perhaps Tex and Le Moyne had been the most persistent suitors.

Old Paul Taylor, often known as “The Apostle,” did not favor any certain one as a son-in-law. They were all welcome to call, as far as he was concerned. Between himself, his son, a wild-riding, hot-headed youth, known as “Buck,” and one cowboy, a half-breed Navajo, known as “Peeler,” they managed to eke out a living. Buck and Peeler were as wild as the ranges around Blue Wells, and The Apostle was not far behind, when it came to making the welkin ring. The Apostle was a typical old-time cattleman, who hated to see civilization crowding into the ranges.

Barnhardt studied Tex, while the big cowboy humped in a chair and studied the floor. Finally Tex lifted his head and looked at Barnhardt.

“Just why did yuh tell me about the Santa Rita pay-roll comin’ in tonight, Lee?”

“No reason, Tex; just conversation, I reckon. It must run close to thirty thousand dollars. Le Moyne had one man with him. That train gets in about nine o’clock. Le Moyne probably will ride straight for the mine. That’s quite a lump of money, Tex. I hear they always pay off in gold, because there’s quite a lot of Mexicans working there, and they like the yellow money.”

“Uh-huh,” Tex’s eyes narrowed as he looked at Barnhardt. “Thirty thousand is a lot of money.”

“It sure is plenty,” nodded Barnhardt. “More than a man could make in a lifetime out here.”

Tex got to his feet and rolled a cigaret.

“Yuh can keep that eight thousand under cover a while, can’tcha, Lee?”

“For a while, Tex—sure thing.”

“Thank yuh, Lee. Adios.”

Tex sauntered out and the lawyer looked after him, a crooked smile on his lips, feeling that he and Tex Alden understood each other perfectly. He could look from his window and see Tex get his horse at the livery-stable and ride away.

The sheriff did not go back to the Oasis Saloon that afternoon. The whole incident wasn’t quite clear in his mind. He had a lump on his forehead, where he hit the floor, and one shin was skinned from the chair, but he wasn’t quite sure just who was to blame for it all. Anyway, he wasn’t sure that they had tin-canned the minister’s horse with Louie Sing’s copper can.

He wished Al Porter, his deputy, were there. Al knew how to get along with those fellows from the AK. But Al had gone to Encinas that afternoon to see his girl, and wouldn’t be back until late that night, even if he were fortunate enough to catch a freight train. Encinas was twelve miles east of Blue Wells.

The election of Scotty Olson had been more or less of a joke. There had been quite a lot of mud-slinging between the Republican and Democrat candidates, and a bunch of the boys got together and induced Scotty to run independently. And while the two favorites in the race, to use a racing parlance, tried to cut each other down in the stretch, Scotty, hardly knowing what it was all about, won the election.

He had appointed Al Porter, a former deputy sheriff, to act as his deputy and mentor, and the office was really run by Al, much to the amusement of every one concerned, except Scotty, who was satisfied that he was making a big reputation for himself.

Oyster Shell, Johnny Grant and Eskimo Swensen continued to make merry at the Oasis, mostly at the expense of the bartender, who writhed under punishment but grinned in spite of it, because he owned an interest in the Oasis, with Neal, and the boys of the AK were good patrons.

It was after dark when Johnny Grant decided that it was time to go back to the ranch. He announced the fact, and his two companions suddenly found themselves of the same notion.

Out to the hitch-rack they weaved their erratic way, only to find the rack empty of horses. Johnny leaned against the end-post and rubbed his nose, while Oyster walked up and down both sides of the rack, running one hand along the top-bar.

“Nossin’ here,” he declared. “’F there’s a horsh at thish rack, I can’t fin’ him. Whatcha shay, Eskimo?”

“I shed,” replied Eskimo heavily, “I shed, tha’s queer.”

“Isn’ it queer?” asked Oyster. “I ask you open and ’bove board, ain’t it queer? Whazzamatter, Johnny—gone in a tranch?”

“He’s drunk,” declared Eskimo, trying to slap the top-bar of the rack with his hand, and hitting his chin instead.

“And yo’re cold shober,” said Oyster. “Losin’ a horsh makes you so mad that you bite the hitch-rack. Go ahead and gnaw it f’r me, Eskimo. Johnny, whatcha think, eh?”

“I think,” said Johnny thickly, “I think it’s between the sheriff and the preacher. Shomebody took our horshes.”

“He’s commencin’ to wake up, Eskimo,” said Oyster. “He’s had a vision, that’s what he’s had. Oh my, tha’ boy is clever. Let’s have a vote on which one we kill firsht—sheriff or preacher.”

“I vote for the sheriff,” declared Eskimo. “We need lossa gospel ’round here. Let’s kill the sheriff firsht. Then when the preacher preaches the funeral shervice, if he shays a good word for Scotty Olson, we’ll kill the preacher and let the morals of thish here country go plumb to .”

“Let’s not kill anybody—yet,” advised Johnny. “Lissen t’ me, will yuh. Didja ever hear that sayin’ about whom the gods would destroy, they firsht make awful mad? Didja? Well let’s make Scotty Olson awful mad, eh?”

“But we ain’t gods,” reminded Oyster.

“Tha’s a fact,” admitted Johnny. “We ain’t gods. But,” hopefully, “mebbe we’ll do until shome better ones come along.”

“We’re jist as good,” declared Eskimo. “I’m jist as good as any I’ve ever sheen—prob’ly a lot better. Let’s go ahead and do shomethin’. Whazza program, Johnny?”

“First,” said Johnny, “we’ll ask Scotty in a ladylike manner what he done with our horshes. And I don’t want you pelicans to forget that you’re as drunk as a pair of boiled owls. C’mon.”

They weaved across the street. Johnny Grant lost his hat, and after several minutes’ search, it was discovered that Eskimo was standing on it.

“Thirty dollars gone t’ !” wailed Johnny.

“Aw,, it ain’t hurt!” snorted Eskimo. “Jist dirty, thasall.”

“After you wearin’ it on one of yore big feet all over the street? My, I can see the moon through it.”

“Wonnerful!” gasped Oyster. “I tell yuh the boy’s got shecond shight. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! There ain’t no moon.”

They managed to reach the door of the sheriff’s office. A light from the front window attested to the fact that Scotty Olson was in the office, and he answered their knock.

“What do you want?” he asked. Johnny leaned against the door-sill, his torn and dusty sombrero pulled rakishly over one eye.

“We want you to shettle a question that’s been botherin’ us, Scotty. C’n we come in?”

“All right,” said Scotty grudgingly.

He stepped aside and the three cowboys came in. They had been in the office many times, but not in this same mood.

“My, my, thish is a nice office!” exclaimed Eskimo. “Gotta desk and a chair and a lot of outlaw’s pitchers on the walls!”

“What question did you want answered?” asked Scotty nervously. He suspected them of having ulterior reasons.

“The question is thish:” said Johnny. “What did you do with our horshes?”

“A roan, a bay and a sorrel,” enumerated Oyster.

The sheriff shook his head.

“I ain’t seen yore horses.”

“Jist try and remember,” urged Johnny. “Try and recall the fact that you got mad at us and took ’em away.”

“Aw-w-w, !” snorted Scotty vacantly. “I can’t remember nothin’ of the kind.”

“I’ll betcha,” said Oyster seriously, “I’ll betcha he’s got ’em in one of his cells.”

“Aw-w-w-w!” Scotty goggled at him. “That’s a of a thing to say. Put a horse in a cell!”

“Mind if we look?” queried Johnny.

“Well, of all the drunken ideas! No, I don’t care if yuh look. , yuh can’t put a horse in a cell!”

He turned on his heel and led them to the rear of the building, where a series of three cells had been built in, leaving a corridor down the center. The doors were heavily barred and fitted with spring locks. Just now there were no occupants in the Blue Wells jail, and the doors sagged partly open. Scotty, half-angry, more than half disgusted, swung the door of the first cell wide open and stepped partly inside, turning to let the cowboys see for themselves that there were no horses in the cell, when Eskimo seemed to stumble, flung his weight against the door, which promptly snapped shut, locking the sheriff in his own cell.

“Hey! You fool!” yelled Scotty.

“Whatcha tryin’ to do, anyway?”

“Look what you done!” wailed Johnny. “You’ve locked the sheriff in his own jail. Now, you’ve done it. My, my!”

“Go and get the keys out of my desk,” ordered the sheriff. “They’re in the top drawer.”

The three cowboys trooped obediently out through the office, extinguished the lamp, closed the door and stood on the edge of the sidewalk, chuckling with unholy glee.

“Let’s see if he put our broncs in his stable,” suggested Johnny. But the sheriff’s stable was empty. They went to the livery-stable and found it locked.

“How about visitin’ the preacher?” asked Eskimo.

“He never done it,” declared Oyster. “That jigger is too timid to go near a bronc. I’ll betcha that smart sheriff jist turned ’em loose on us, that’s what he done. We might as well git a room at the hotel, or walk back to the ranch.”

“I’ll walk,” said Eskimo. “I stayed one night at that old hotel and the bedbugs et holes in my boots.”

“Shall we let the sheriff loose before we go?” asked Oyster.

“Let ’m alone,” said Johnny. “Somebody will turn him loose after while, and I don’t want to be here when they do. Eskimo, if I was you, I’d buy a bottle to take along with us. It’s a long, hard walk.”

“That’s a pious notion,” declared Eskimo, and they went weaving back toward the Oasis.