Outlaw Ranch. Frank C. Robertson
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fatigue. He called the horse Mike.
No sooner was Chet out of town than he altered his course and worked back to the narrow wagon road which led to Penoloa canyon, the route which he had been told to take. It was all open country so far as fences were concerned, and he kept outside of the road. He let Mike out at a spanking trot until he reached the mouth of the canyon. Here the country was covered with brush and small trees.
He drew his mount to a halt as he saw the buckboard containing the Harrisons and their guide winding up the canyon less than a quarter of a mile distant. As they disappeared around a bend he forced his horse deep into a thicket beside the road, and dismounted where the animal was well out of sight; but where Chet himself could keep an eye upon the road.
Within an hour his vigil was rewarded. Al Biggers and Jack Fossum came shacking along at the familiar jog trot of the range. They seemed hilariously happy.
The corners of Chet Kelvin’s mouth crinkled in a somewhat grim smile. He bore no particular malice against his erstwhile boon companions of short acquaintance, but they had told him they meant to proceed in the opposite direction, and now they were going back the way they had come. He thought he knew the reason why.
Then, suddenly, his face became more serious. He had remembered the people in the buckboard ahead. If Biggers and Fossum were, as he had reason to believe, members of the notorious gang of Wild Ones, would they not be liable to attempt a robbery of the other party?
When the two riders had passed on out of sight he led Mike out of the brush, mounted, and proceeded slowly up the canyon.
TWO
LEDA HARRISON had become somewhat impatient back in Curryville over her brother’s delay in reaching the buckboard when they were ready to start. She was pacing nervously back and forth beside the rig when he arrived.
“Bud, don’t you realize that we haven’t any time to waste?” she scolded. “Nevada says it will be dark now before we reach the place where he wants to camp.”
“I was only a minute late,” Bud defended. “I was just talking to that cattle buyer. I thought he might have heard something about Charley.”
“Had he?” the girl asked eagerly.
“No; but he said he was heading for Highriver, too, and I invited him to camp with us.”
“You shouldn’t have done that, Bud,” the sister reproved. “This country is beginning to frighten me. It makes me more than ever certain that something is wrong with Charley.”
“You cain’t be too careful who yuh pick up with, miss,” the garrulous old guide chirped. “They say the Wild Ones roams these here parts considerable, an’ yuh never kin tell who they are, an’ when yuh’ll meet up with ’em.”
“But this man is a stranger in the country. He couldn’t belong to the Wild Ones,” Bud insisted.
“You can’t be sure of anything,” Leda declared. “But there’s one thing I’m beginning to be afraid of, and that is that these Wild Ones, as they call themselves, have—have murdered Charley, and stolen his ranch.” In spite of her efforts to maintain her self-control, the girl’s voice broke. “Otherwise we’d have heard something about him by this time.”
“Aw, Charley’s all right—he’s just been too busy to write,” Bud maintained.
Nevada began to whistle to himself in a way which expressed skepticism plainer than words. He had already told the Harrisons that he believed they were upon a wild-goose chase.
“Will you please get started?” Leda urged, half angrily.
“Oh, shore—jest waitin’ fer you-all tuh git located,” Nevada said cheerfully.
They all three had to squeeze into the one seat of the buckboard, for the long, narrow back of the vehicle was piled high with their camp impedimenta. Leda had chosen to buy their own outfit in preference to depending upon getting meals and lodging in the few remote villages and towns along their way. She had been told that few of them boasted a hotel.
The saving of money also was an important item now. Back in New York state the Harrison family had been an old and respected one. Never extremely wealthy, they had yet managed until recently to escape any privations due to poverty.
Then, just five months ago, Mrs. Harrison had died, following her husband to the grave within two months. Every effort had been made to locate the oldest son, who had gone West five years before, but without avail. Shortly after the funeral the family lawyer had notified Leda that her father had suffered financial reverses, and that even the house and furniture would have to be sold. When the estate was settled less than a thousand dollars remained.
It was then that Leda and Bud had determined to find Charley. Their gay, handsome brother had been home several times after he had gone to the West. He had had plenty of money, and boasted loudly of his big ranch. Young, impressionable Bud had fairly worshiped this big, swashbuckling brother. Leda, too, had thought him wonderful; but lately she recalled that her parents had retired from society about the time Charley had first left New York. And they had not seemed greatly impressed by Charley’s display of wealth. Despite their own reverses they had refused to accept the money he had offered them. But this Leda had attributed to their stubborn pride. She believed that their lives had been shortened because of financial worries.
The girl was of a practical mind. Charley had money, and if he was dead she knew that she and Bud were his heirs, unless he had married. It was Charley she wanted to find, but if something had happened she intended to see what had become of his money. She didn’t care so much for herself, but Bud was entitled to an education and she meant to see that he got it.
She had been both amazed and awed by the size of the country into which she had landed. She was just now beginning to get her bearings. It had been different with Bud. He had liked the country from the first. The more lonely it was the more he gloried in it.
“The only thing wrong with this outfit,” he asserted, as he settled himself on the left side of the seat, “is that I wish I had a saddle horse. When we get to Charley’s ranch you bet I’m going to have me a horse and saddle.”
“We don’t know what we’ll get when we reach Charley’s ranch,” Leda reminded.
“An’ you said a mouthful then,” Nevada concurred.
As the buckboard started up Penoloa canyon the girl was conscious that they were at last beginning the final leg of their journey. In four more days, Nevada had told her, they would reach the town of Highriver, and learn the truth about the I X L ranch.
They had got well into the canyon, and the buckboard was worming its bumpy way beneath the towering red cliffs which walled the canyon when they were overtaken by two horsemen. Leda, seated in the middle, felt their guide stiffen, and there was a quaver in his voice as he spoke to the team of ponies.
The riders parted, and passed one on each side of the buckboard. They were young, hard-bitten fellows, dressed in the usual trappings of rangeland; wide-brimmed, flat-topped hats; silk neckerchiefs, tied loosely at their throats; blue shirts and overalls, the latter pretty much covered by their leather, batwing chaps. Their feet were encased in the high-heeled boots with which Leda was beginning to be familiar. Charley Harrison had brought much the same kind of regalia home with him on the occasion of his last visit, and as soon as they reached the West Bud had insisted upon getting a similar outfit.
In addition to this, each rider wore a filled cartridge belt slung loosely about his waist, and a heavy Colt’s .45 swung low at his right thigh in an open-topped holster. Each man carried a carbine under the fender leather of his saddle.
The riders were grinning, but they sized up the outfit with eyes that missed nothing. Leda felt herself coloring under their scrutiny.
“What yuh blushin’ about, sister?” one of them jibed good-naturedly. “You ain’t got nothin’ you need tuh be ashamed of.”
“Aw,