The Buckaroo of Blue Wells/Chapter 5

HE Taylor ranch, by its brand name the Double Bar 8, was one of the old-time ranches. The ranch-house was a two-story adobe, closely resembling the Hopi in architecture, as the roof of the first story was used as a porch of the second. The bunk- house was one story, on the opposite side of the patio, and a semicircle adobe wall, three feet thick, extended from each end of the bunk-house, and circled the ranch-house. At the front was a huge gate, arched over with adobe, and at the two sides of the patio were entrances. In the center of the patio was an old well. The stables, sheds and corrals were at the rear of the bunk-house.

Earlier residents had planted oaks, pepper trees and flowering eucalyptus, which had grown into big trees, shading the patio, where grape-vines clambered over the old walls, tangled with the climbing roses. From afar it appeared an oasis in the gray and purple of the hills.

It was the following day after the train robbery. Marion Taylor lifted a bucket of water from the old well and poured it into a trough, while she held the lead-rope of a blue-black horse, a tall, rangy animal, a few degrees better bred than the average range animal.

The girl was bareheaded, the sleeves of her white waist rolled to her elbows. She wore a divided skirt of brown material, and a serviceable pair of tan riding-boots. Her hair was twisted in braids around her well-shaped head, and held in place with a hammered silver comb set with turquoise.

She was of average height and rather slim, with the olive tint from the desert sun. Her eyes were wide and blue, and her well-shaped lips parted in a smile, showing a flash of white teeth, when the horse snorted at the splash of water in the trough.

“Somebody must ’a’ pinned yore ears back, Spike,” she said softly. “Or are yuh tryin’ to make me think yo’re a bad horse?”

The ears of the blue-black snapped ahead, as if he understood, and he plunged his muzzle into the clear water, drinking gustily, while the girl drew another bucket and gently poured it into the trough. A burro came poking in through the patio gate, an old ancient of the Arizona hills. His right ear had been broken and looped down over his eye, and his long, scraggly gray hair carried an accumulation of almost everything that grew and wore spines.

“Hello, Apollo,” called the girl. The burro lifted his one good ear, thrust out his whiskered muzzle and sniffed like a pointer dog. Then he brayed raucously, shook himself violently and came slowly up to the trough.

The horse drew aside, being either through drinking or too proud to drink with such an object. The burro looked at the horse, decided not to be particular, and proceeded to drink deeply.

Marion leaned against the curbing and laughed at the burro. That was the one reason the ancient was tolerated around the ranch—to make them laugh. His goat-like appetite was a constant provoker of profanity. Shirts, boots, straps, bedding, anything eatable or uneatable went into his maw. And as a result the inhabitants of the Double Bar 8 were careful not to leave anything lying around loose.

And Apollo was not to be tampered with. In spite of his age he was quick to resent any familiarity, and to feel the caress of his heels left nothing to be desired in the way of shocks. At one time Buck Taylor and Peeler had roped Apollo and clipped him closely, and so heavy was his coat that he almost died from chills, with the thermometer at US degrees in the shade.

As Marion turned away from the well and started leading the horse back toward the gate, three horsemen rode up. They were Apostle Paul, Buck and Peeler, who had left the ranch the morning previous to search for Double Bar 8 cattle, which had been reported thirty miles away on the Yellow Horn mesa.

Marion continued out of the patio and met them just outside the gate. With them was a strange dog, which came up to her, acting very friendly. It was the missing Geronimo.

“Where did you get the dog?” asked Marion, after greetings had been exchanged.

“He picked us up,” smiled her father. “I dunno who owns him. There was a piece of rope draggin’, and we took it off, ’cause it was always gettin’ hung up on somethin’. Friendly cuss, ain’t he.”

Geronimo danced around, as if he knew what was being said about him. Apostle Paul Taylor was a tall, skinny, lean-faced man, with a hooked nose, wide mouth and deep-set gray eyes. His hair was fast turning gray, and he stooped a trifle.

Buck Taylor was almost replica of his father, except that he was bow-legged, had a mop of brown hair, and did not stoop. The half-breed, Peeler, was heavy-set, deep-chested, typically Indian in features, and showing little of his white blood. The two Taylors were dressed in blue calico shirts, overalls, chaps, high-heeled boots and sombreros. The half-breed’s raiment was practically the same, except that he wore a faded red shirt, scarlet muffler, and his hat-band was a riot of colored beads.

All three men wore belts and holstered guns, and in addition to this the two Taylors had rifles hung to their saddles. They were dusty, weary from their long ride. The Apostle Paul dismounted and handed his reins to Peeler.

“Did yuh find any stock on the mesa?” asked Marion.

“About thirty head,” replied her father. “Wild as hawks, too. We brought ’em in as far as Buzzard Springs. Anythin’ new?”

“Not a thing, Dad.”

“You ain’t tried ridin’ Spike, have yuh?”

Marion shook her head and looked at the blue-black.

“Then yuh better let Buck or Peeler fork him first. He ain’t been saddled for three months.”

“Yeah, and the last time I climbed him he piled me quick,” laughed Buck. “Let Peeler do it.”

“After pay-day,” grinned Peeler. “I don’t want to die with money comin’ to me.”

“Pshaw, I’ll ride him myself,” said Marion.

Her father laughed and turned toward the gate when two men rode around from behind the bunk-house and came up to them. It was Scotty Olson, the sheriff, and Al Porter, the deputy. Porter was a big man, dark-featured, with a nose entirely too large for the rest of his face, and very flat cheek-bones.

“Hyah, Sheriff,” greeted Taylor.

“Howdy.”

The sheriff removed his hat and bowed awkwardly to Marion—

“Howdy, Miss Taylor.”

“Hello, Sheriff,” replied the girl.

Olson rubbed a huge hand across his big mustaches. There was still a lump on his forehead, where he had bumped himself on the floor in the Oasis.

“Just gettin’ in?” queried Porter, glancing at the horses.

Apostle Paul nodded quickly.

“Yeah. Been back on Yellow Horn mesa, lookin’ for cattle.”

“Way up there, eh?” said the sheriff. “Quite a ride.”

“Went up yesterday,” offered Buck.

“Uh-huh,” the sheriff eased himself in the saddle. “Then yuh wasn’t around here last night, eh?”

“Nope. Why?”

“Didn’t yuh hear about the hold-up?”

“Hold-up?” Taylor shook his head. “Where?”

“Last night,” said Porter, “the train was robbed between Broken Cañon and Blue Wells. They got the Santa Rita pay-roll.”

“Well, I’ll be darned!” exclaimed Taylor. “Anybody hurt?”

“Nope.”

“They must ’a’ got close to thirty thousand,” said Buck.

Porter turned quickly.

“What do you know about it, Buck?”

Buck stared back at him, his eyes hardening at the implication in the deputy’s question.

“I don’t reckon the amount of the Santa Rita pay-roll is any secret, Porter.”

“Thasso?” Porter shrugged his shoulders.

“Yes, that’s so,” Buck dropped his reins and walked over to Porter, who squinted narrowly at him.

“I don’t like the way yuh said that, Porter.”

“The way I said what?” queried Porter.

“You know what I mean,” declared Buck, angrily.

“Drop it, Buck,” advised his father, and turned to Olson.

“How many men in the gang, Scotty?”

“Three that we know of—possibly a fourth. A man got on the express car when the train stopped at Encinas, and him and the express messenger had a fight. They fell out of the door and rolled into the ditch. It kinda looks as though this feller was one of the gang. Anyway, there was three that stopped the train, cut off the engine and express car, and blowed the safe.”

“Are you just startin’ out after ’em?” asked Buck, squinting at the sun. “Not very early, it seems to me.”

“I didn’t know nothin’ about it until this mornin',” said Porter. “I came in from Encinas early this mornin’ on a freight, and went to bed. I got up jist before noon, and they told me about it; so I got the sheriff and we started out.”

Apostle Paul turned to the sheriff, whose ears were red.

“Where were you all this time, Scotty?”

“He was in jail,” said Porter.

“In jail?”

“In my own jail,” said Olson angrily. “Oyster Shell, Eskimo Swensen and Johnny Grant came over to my office last night. They were drank, and insisted that I had stolen their horses. And they wanted to look in the cells, the fools! Jist because they was drunk I let ’em look, and they accidently [sic] locked me in.

“I told ’em where to find the keys, but they went on out and never came back. That’s why nobody could find me last night. I never knowed there was a hold-up, until Porter showed up this noon. And somebody turned our horses loose, too. Mebbe it was that drunken bunch from the AK. Anyway, we’re goin’ over and tell ’em about it, yuh betcha.”

Marion turned away, shaking with laughter, while her father and the other two of the Double Bar 8 choked back their laughter. They knew the gang from the AK very well indeed. But it was no laughing matter to the two officers.

“I can arrest them three drunks for interferin’ with an officer,” declared Olson hotly. “They interfered with the law when they locked me in. I was badly needed, I tell yuh.”

“Sure yuh was,” choked Buck. “If they hadn’t locked yuh up you’d ’a’ had all three of them robbers in jail now.”

“Mebbe. Anyway, I’d have been on their trail.”

“Where’d yuh git the new dog?” asked Porter.

“New dog?” queried Buck. “That one? Huh! We raised him.”

“Never seen him before.”

“Lotsa things you never seen before.”

“Have yuh any clues?” asked Apostle Paul.

“Clues?” The sheriff wasn’t sure of that word.

“Yeah—evidence that might lead yuh to the outlaws.”

“We ain’t had no time yet.”

“Then what are yuh wastin’ it around here for?” demanded Buck.

Porter glared at Buck, but did not reply. He disliked this thin-faced young man, but was just a trifle dubious about starting anything with him.

“Well, I s’pose we might as well be goin’ along,” said the sheriff. “Mebbe we’ll swing around and look in at the AK. I’ve sure got a few things to say to them fellers.”

“God be with yuh, brother,” said Apostle Paul piously. “The AK is sure a good place to make a talk, but when the collection is taken up, you’ll find small pay for yore work.”

“We’ll make ’em respect the law!” snapped Porter.

“Yes, you will,” said Buck. “You better back yore law with an army. They may love yuh for startin’ trouble with ’em, but they’ll never respect yuh. My advice to you jiggers would be to let the AK alone. You’ll never find out who robbed that train if yuh try to shove the law down the necks of them three.”

“Well, by, I’m runnin’ my office!” snapped Olson hotly. “No drunken puncher can lock me in my own jail and not hear about it.”

“Let ’em hear about it, by all means—but in a roundabout way, Scotty. And please don’t swear any more. Remember, there’s ladies and gentlemen present.”

“Ex-cuse me,” grunted Scotty, picking up his reins. “Well, we’ll be goin’ along, folks. Adios.”

“Adios, amigo," said Apostle Paul.

Porter glared at Buck, who wrinkled his nose at the big deputy, and rode away.

They watched the two riders head east across the little valley, riding side by side, as if carrying on a conversation.

“You think they ever find out who rob that train?” asked Peeler.

Buck snorted and headed for the stable.

“Find out nothin’, Peeler. Them two jiggers couldn’t find their own boots. I’d like to be at the AK, when they start their war-talk. That sure was funny about lockin’ him in his own cell.”

Peeler did not reply. He stopped at the stable door and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Buck looked at him sharply.

“Whatsa matter, Peeler?”

“I’m tryin’ to think of one word, Buck.”

“What kind of a word?”

Peeler smiled softly.

“I think it is ‘convenient.’”

“Convenient? What for?”

“For the robbers, Buck. That he is locked in his cell.”

Buck stared at Peeler for a moment. Then—

“Yea-a-a-a, that might be true. But it’s nothin’ to us; so we will forget it, eh?”

“I forget,” smiled Peeler.

Porter was very angry when he and the sheriff rode away from the Taylor ranch, heading for the AK. He was inclined to do a lot of talking, once he was far enough away to conceal his language from the Taylor family.

“I tell yuh they know somethin’, Scotty.”

“Do yuh think so, Al?”

“Yo’re right. Didn’t Buck speak right up and tell how much money was in that pay-roll? And didn’t he get right on the prod when I picked him up on it? Don’t tell me that he don’t know somethin’ about it. They’ve been to Yaller Horn mesa, have they? That’s a of a good excuse.”

“Do yuh think that’s enough evidence to arrest ’em on, Al?”

“Well, mebbe not. But it’s sure as enough to suspect ’em on. I wouldn’t trust any of ’em as far as I could throw a bull by the tail. Buck’s a bad hombre, Scotty. The old man is pretty salty, and that breed fits in well with the bunch.”

Scotty nodded. He was in the habit of agreeing with Porter, which saved him many an argument.

“We’ve got to watch ’em,” continued Porter. “They’re slick.”

“Slick,” agreed Scotty absently. “I’m jist wonderin’ what to say to them slick-ears at the AK.”

“Give ’em ,” advised Porter. “They shore need a good curryin’, Scotty.”

“I know they do, Al. But it, they won’t listen to reason. I dunno why they locked me in that jail last night.”

Porter grinned sarcastically, but sobered suddenly.

“Say, Scotty, here’s somethin’ to think about. They locked yuh in yore cell, and in about an hour the train was held up. Does that mean anythin’ to you?”

Scotty shook his head.

“My, yo’re dense. Listen:” Porter repeated his statement. “Now do yuh get it?”

“You mean—they locked me up and robbed the train?”

“They locked yuh up—and the train was robbed, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, I know that, Al; but they was too drunk.”

“Acted too drunk, yuh mean.”

“Well, they acted—say, Al,” the sheriff grinned slowly, “you sure can see things. I wonder if that ain’t right? But it ain’t enough evidence to arrest ’em on, is it?”

“Well, mebbe not enough to arrest ’em on, but it’s enough for us to suspect ’em real hard, and to keep an eye on ’em, Scotty.”

“Yo’re sure gittin’ evidence,” applauded the sheriff. “Al, I’d be lost without yuh. You think faster than I do. I’d prob’ly think of these things after while, yuh see. And they prob’ly turned our broncs loose; so’s we couldn’t foller ’em, even if I got loose.”

“I was jist goin’ to mention that part of it, Scotty. Yuh see how things work out.”

“Yeah. You’d make a good sheriff, Al.”

“Sure. Mebby I will be. Unless somethin’ happens I’ll take a crack at the office next election.”

“Will yuh? I dunno what I’ll do. A feller gits kinda ’tached to a job like this, don’tcha know it? Yo’re prob’ly a better deputy than you’d ever be a sheriff. A feller has to have certain qualifications to be a sheriff, and it ain’t as easy as it looks. Buck was kinda sore at yuh, wasn’t he?”

“Yeah, and he’ll get smart jist once too often. One of these days I’m goin’ to bend him plumb shut and rub his nose off agin’ his knee. I’ll jist stand so much from a hombre like him.”

“You sure hang on to yore temper well, Al.”

“Feller’s got to, when he’s a deputy. Yuh can’t go fightin’ every whippoorwill that wants a fight. It don’t look well, Scotty.”

The AK ranch was located well away from the hills, and about three miles southeast of Blue Wells. It was a typical Arizona ranch; the buildings were part adobe, but more elaborate and larger than those of the Double Bar 8. There was no patio to the AK, but the group of buildings were fenced in with barbed wire.

The sheriff and deputy rode in through the gate and up to the ranch-house, where they met old George Bonnette, owner of the outfit. He was a pudgy little man, almost bald, almost toothless, one cheek bulged from a huge chew of tobacco. He spat explosively and nodded to the officers. It was not often that the law came to the AK, and the old man looked at them curiously.

“Howdy, George,” said the sheriff.

“’Lo, Scotty; hyah, Porter,” Bonnette shifted his chew and waited for them to state their errand.

“Where’s the boys?” asked Scotty, glancing around.

“Well,” the old man scratched his head, “I’ve only got three workin’ here now. T’day is pay-day.”

“Meanin’ that they’ve gone to town, eh?”

“Follerin’ the natcheral inclination of cowpunchers, I’d say that’s where they’ve gone. Whatcha want ’em fer?”

“Oh, nothin’ much,” Scotty sighed with evident relief. He really didn’t want them very badly.

“You heard about the hold-up, didn’t yuh?” asked Porter.

Bonnette hadn’t. And he grew so interested in Porter’s recital of it that he bit off two more chews of tobacco during the telling, which swelled his cheek until one eye was almost closed.

“Well, the dern cusses!” he said earnestly. “Thirty thousand dollars, eh. Worth takin’, eh? Who wouldn’t? Got anythin’ to work on, Scotty?”

“Well,” said Scotty darkly, “we might have more’n anybody’d think, George. Did the boys find their horses?”

“Hm-m-m-m,” the old man scratched his head. “Seems to me I did hear one of ’em say they walked home, and that their horses was here when they arrived. Them broncs was raised here at the AK, and they’d head for home. I didn’t pay much attention, but I did hear Eskimo say that somebody turned their broncs loose in town last night.”

“I jist wondered if they got ’em,” said Scotty.

Bonnette squinted at Scotty, his brows lifted inquiringly.

“Didja ride all the way out here to find that out?”

“Not exactly, George. Yuh see, them three jaspers locked me in my own jail last night. Didja know that?”

“In yore own jail? No, I didn’t know it, Scotty.”

“Yeah, they did, George. And I was in there when word came of the robbery, and didn’t know a thing about it. They’re liable for blockin’ the law.”

“Yeah, I s’pose they are. Huh!” Bonnette turned away, choking a trifle, and when he turned back there were tears in his eyes.

“We came down here to see about it,” said Porter. “It’s a of a note, when things like that happen, Bonnette. Them three fellers ort to be run out of the country.”

“Yea-a-ah?” The old man looked narrowly at Porter. “Why don’t yuh go ahead and do it, Porter. They’re all of age, yuh know. And there ain’t a milk drinker in the crowd; so they really wouldn’t suffer if yuh took ’em away from the cows.”

“Oh, they ain’t so tough,” retorted Porter. “They’re not runnin’ this country. They’ve kinda had their own way in Blue Wells for a long time, but now is the time to call a halt. We’re civilized, I’ll tell yuh that.”

“Who do yuh mean, Porter?”

“Well, all of us—ain’t we?”

“I dunno. Sometimes I wonder if we are. We ain’t savages. We don’t worship no idols, nor we don’t eat each other. Holdin’ up a train is a sign of civilization. I dunno about lockin’ a sheriff in his cell. It sure as ain’t old-fashioned, cause I never heard of it bein’ done before.”

“Well, I don’t care a !” snorted the sheriff. “They done it to me, and I’m sure goin’ to let ’em know that I’m sore about it.”

“Yo’re probably more interested in that than yuh are in findin’ the men who held up the train.”

“Yuh think so, do yuh?” growled Porter. “Well, I’ll tell yuh we’re plenty interested in that, too. C’mon, Scotty; we’re jist wastin’ time around here.”

“You don’t need to get mad at me,” laughed Bonnette. “I never locked up any sheriffs.”

“Well, yore men did!” snapped Scotty.

Bonnette laughed at the sheriff’s red face.

“I’ll prob’ly fire ’em for not havin’ more respect for the law.”

“Aw, c’mon,” urged Porter. “T’ with ’em; we’ve got work to do.”

They rode away from the AK, heading back toward Blue Wells, no better off for their long ride to the AK.

“I’ve jist been thinkin’ that folks around here don’t show a of a lot of respect for the law,” said Scotty Olson.

“Well,” growled Porter, “it’s up to us to make ’em. By, I’m all through lettin’ folks make remarks to me. From now on I’m goin’ to make these smart pelicans set up and salute when the law shows up.”