The Twins of Suffering Creek. Cullum Ridgwell
edge he scrambled out of the saddle and began to seek a place where his mare could drink. It was a little difficult, for the banks were sharp, and the bushes plentiful, and he had wandered at least a hundred yards in his search for an opening when a human voice abruptly hailed him from the far side of the stream. He looked across without answering, and, to his intense surprise, beheld a horseman on the opposite bank. The man, judging by his appearance, was a cowpuncher, and, to Scipio’s simple mind, was, like himself, benighted.
“Hello,” he replied at last, after a thoughtful stare.
The man was eyeing the yellow-headed figure with no very friendly eyes, but this fact was lost upon Scipio, who saw in him only a fellow man in misfortune. He saw the lariat on the horn of the saddle, the man’s chapps, his hard-muscled broncho pony gazing longingly at the water. The guns at the man’s waist, the scowling brow and shifty eyes passed quite unobserved.
“Wher’ you from?” demanded the man sharply.
“Suffering Creek,” replied Scipio readily.
“Guess you’ve come quite a piece,” said the other, after a considering pause.
“I sure have.”
“What you doin’ here?”
The man’s inquiry rapped out smartly. But Scipio had no suspicion of anybody, and answered quite without hesitation.
“I’m huntin’ a man called James. You ain’t seen him?”
But the man countered his question with another.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Scipio–and yours?”
In the dying light the man’s saturnine features seemed to relax for a moment into something like a smile. But he spoke at once.
“Come right over,” he invited. “Guess my name’s Abe–Abe Conroy. I’m out chasin’ cattle.” And the fact that he finished up with a deliberate laugh had no meaning at all for his companion.
Scipio gladly accepted the invitation, and, in response to the man’s instructions, moved farther along the stream until he came to a shelving in the bank where his mare could climb down. He crossed over, letting his horse drink by the way, and a few moments later was at his new acquaintance’s side.
The stranger’s mood seemed to have entirely changed for the better by the time Scipio came up. His smile was almost amiable, and his manner of speech was comparatively jocular.
“So you’re chasin’ that crook, James,” he said easily. “Queer, ain’t it?”
“What?”
“Why, he’s run off a bunch of our stock. Leastways, that’s how I’m guessin’. I’m makin’ up to his place right now to spy out things. I was jest waitin’ fer the sun to go. Y’see we’re organizin’ a vigilance party to run–Say, I’d a notion fer a moment you was one of his gang.”
But Scipio disclaimed the honor promptly.
“No. I just need to find him. I’m needin’ it bad.”
“Wot fer?”
For once the man-hunter hesitated. A quite unaccountable feeling gave him a moment’s pause. But he finally answered frankly, as he always answered, with a simple directness that was just part of him.
“He’s stole my wife,” he said, his eyes directly gazing into the other’s face.
“Gee, he’s a low-down skunk,” declared the other, with a curse. But the ironical light in his eyes quite escaped his companion’s understanding.
Scipio was full of his good fortune in falling in with a man who knew of James’ whereabouts. A dozen questions sprang into his mind, but he contented himself with stating his intention.
“I’ll ride on with you,” he said.
“What, right up to James’ lay-out?”
“Sure. That’s wher’ I’m makin’.”
For a moment the man calling himself Conroy sat gazing out at the afterglow of the setting sun. His whole appearance was ill-favored enough to have aroused distrust in anybody but a man like Scipio. Now he seemed to be pondering a somewhat vexed question, and his brows were drawn together in a way that suggested anything but a clear purpose. But finally he seemed to make up his mind to a definite course. He spoke without turning to his companion, and perhaps it was for the purpose of hiding a lurking derisive smile.
“If you’re set on makin’ James’ shanty, you best come right along. Only”–he hesitated for the barest fraction of a second–“y’see, I’m out after this cattle racket, an’ I guess I owe it to my folks to git their bizness thro’ without no chance of upset. See?”
Scipio nodded. He saw the man’s drift, and thought it quite splendid of him.
“Now, I got to spy out things,” the man went on, “an’ if you get right up ther’ first it’ll likely upset things fer me–you goin’ ther’ to hold him up as it were.” His smile was more pronounced. “Now I guess I’ll show you where his lay-out is if you’ll sure give me your promise to let me hunt around fer ha’f-an-hour around his corrals–’fore you butt in. Then I’ll get right back to you an’ you can go up, an’–shoot him to hell, if you notion that fancy.”
Scipio almost beamed his thanks. The man’s kindness seemed a noble thing to him.
“You’re a real bully fellow,” he said. “Guess we’ll start right now?”
The man turned and his shrewd eyes fixed themselves piercingly on the little man’s face.
“Yes,” he said shortly, “we’ll get on.”
He led the way, his horse slightly in advance of the mare, and for some time he made no attempt to break the silence that had fallen. The twilight was rapidly passing into the deeper shadows of night, but he rode amongst the hills as though he were traveling a broad open trail. There was no hesitation, no questioning glance as to his direction. He might have been traveling a trail that he had been accustomed to all his life. At last, however, he glanced round at his companion.
“Say, what you goin’ to do when–you get there?” he asked.
“Fetch my wife back,” replied Scipio earnestly.
“What’ll James be doin’?”
“He can’t keep her–she’s mine.”
“That’s so. But–if he notions to keep her?”
Scipio was silent for some moments. His pale eyes were staring straight ahead of him out into the growing darkness.
“Maybe, I’ll have to shoot him,” he said at last, as though there could be no question about the matter.
The man nodded.
“Got useful guns?” he inquired casually.
“Got one.”
“Ah, what is it? Magazine?”
Scipio pulled his antique possession out of his pocket and handed it over for the man’s inspection.
“It’s all right,” he said. “Guess the sights ain’t good over a distance, but at close range it’ll make a nasty hole.”
Conroy took the weapon in his hand. His keen eyes noted the age of the pattern. He also saw the battered condition of the sights, and the clumsy, rusted, protruding hammer. It was six-chambered, and he knew that it must be all of forty years old. One of the earliest pattern revolvers. The sight of it filled him with cruel amusement, but he kept a serious face.
“I ’lows that should bring James to his senses,” he observed, as he handed it back to its owner.
Scipio read his answer as approval, and warmed towards him.
“I’d say so,” he said, returning his antiquity to his pocket. “You see, a gun’s li’ble to rattle a feller like James. A man who can get around when