Rim o' the World. B. M. Bower
your time. Ever figure that out, Al?”
“Now, what’s eatin’ on old Scotty Douglas, do yuh reckon? That’s him, all right. I could tell him on horseback ten mile off. He rides like a Mormon.”
Tom grunted. His boys, he had long ago discovered, were very apt to find some excuse for 47 changing the subject whenever he mentioned the past which had not held their arrogant young selves. Tom resented the attitude of superior wisdom which they were prone to assume. They were pretty smart kids, but if they thought they were smarter than their dad they sure had a change of heart coming to them.
“Supposin’ it is old Scotty. Do you reckon, Al, I’ve got you along for a guide, to point out what my eyes is getting too poor to see? As for Cheyenne,” he reverted angrily to the argument, “as for Cheyenne, when you’ve growed to be a man, you’ll find it’s just as much the mark of a fool to go along suspecting everybody as it is to bank on everybody. You think now it’s funny to put the Judas brand on every man you don’t know. It ain’t. It’s a kid’s trick. Boys git that way when they begin to sprout hair under their noses. I been pretty patient with yuh, Al. You’re growing up fast, and you’re feeling your oats. I make allowances, all kinds. But by the humpin’ hyenas, don’t you start in telling me where to head in at with my own outfit! If you do, I’ll jest about wear out a willer switch on yuh!”
This to a youth almost old enough to vote was dire insult. Al pulled up his horse. “Run your own outfit and be darned to yuh!” he cried hotly, and spurred off in the direction of the ranch.
Tom laughed shortly and rolled a cigarette. “Thinks now it’ll bust up the round-up if he 48 goes,” he opined. “Lucky for my kids I ain’t as strict as my old dad was; they wouldn’t have any hide left, I reckon.”
Up loped Aleck Douglas then, riding stiff-legged, his bony elbows jerking awkwardly with the motion of his horse, a rusty black vest dangling open under his coat which flapped in the wind. That the Douglas wrath rode with him Tom saw from the corner of his eye and gave no sign.
“Hello,” said Tom casually and drew a match along the stamped fork of his saddle. “You’re quite a stranger.” He lighted his cigarette, holding his reins lightly in one hand while he did so; gave the reins a gentle flip to one side and sent his horse after a cow and calf that showed symptoms of “breaking back.”
“Mister Lorrigan, ’tis aboot a spotted yearlin’ that I’ve come to speak with ye. I’ve found the hide of her in the brush beneath yon hill, and the brand is cut from it. But I wad swear to the hide wi’out the brand. ’Twas a yearlin’ I ken weel, Mister Lorrigan.” He rode alongside, and his close-set little eyes regarded keenly Tom’s face.
“A spotted yearling with the brand cut out, hey? That looks kinda bad. Have you got the hide with you?”
“I have no got the hide wi’ me, but I ken weel whaur it lies, Mister Lorrigan, and I thinkit so do you.”
“Hm-m. You’d ought to of brought it along.” 49 Tom’s glance went out toward the herd and the cattle lumbering toward it far and near. “The range is plumb lousy with spotted yearlings, Scotty. What do you expect me to do about it?”
The Douglas face worked spasmodically before he spoke. “I expect ye, Mr. Lorrigan, to pay for yon beastie. I ken weel ye could name the mon that stickit the knife in her throat. An’ she made fine eatin’, I have na doot. But ’tis the law, Mister Lorrigan, that a mon should pay for the meat he consumes.”
“Meaning, of course, that you think I’m feeding Douglas meat to my outfit. Don’t you think you’re kinda hasty? I kill a beef about every three or four days in round-up time. The boys work hard and they eat hard. And they eat NL beef, Scotty; don’t overlook that fact. Hides ain’t worth anything much, but salt’s cheap, too. I ain’t throwin’ away a dollar when it’s no trouble to save it. If you’re any curious at all, you ride over to ranch and count all the green hides you can find. Belle, she’ll show ’em to you. Take a look at the brands, and figure it out yourself, I don’t know how many you’ll find, but I’ll gamble you a dozen cows against one that you’ll wonder what went with all the beef that was in them hides. Humpin’ hyenas! Ain’t I got cattle enough of my own, without rustlin’ off my neighbors?”
“Aye. Ye ha’ cattle, Mister Lorrigan; I ken weel ye should no’ be put to it for a wee bit 50 meat––but I ken weel yon spotty yearlin’ was mine. I ken ye’ve been campin’ thereabout––and it wad seem, Mister Lorrigan, that the salt was no sa plentifu’ when the spotty yearlin’ was kilt.”
The downright foolhardiness of the Douglas wrath held Tom’s hand,––though of a truth that hand trembled and crept backward. Nor was Aleck Douglas nearsighted; he saw the movement and his bearded underlip met his shaven underlip in a straight line.
“Ye do weel to be reachin’ for the gun, Mister Lorrigan. I dinna carry aye weapon save the truth.”
Tom flushed. “Blame your oatmeal soul, if I reached for my gun, you wouldn’t be telling me about it!” he exploded. “Carry the truth, do yuh? You’ve got to show me where you keep it, then. If you wasn’t an old man––and a darn fool on top of that.”
“ ’Tis no brave to cover shame wi’ bitter words, Tam Lorrigan. ’Tis the way of ye to bluster and bully until the neighbors all are affrighted to face ye and yere ill deeds.”
Toward them clattered two riders hotly pursuing a lean, long-legged steer with a wide spread of horns and a gift of speed that carried him forging past the disputants. Tom wheeled mechanically and gave chase, leaving the Douglas wrath to wax hotter or to cool if it would. It was a harsh accusation that Aleck Douglas had made, and that he 51 did make it seemed to prove that he had what he considered very good evidence that he was right. Tom was well schooled in troubles of that kind. He did not take the matter so indifferently as Douglas believed.
Duke and Mel Wilson, riding hard, came upon Tom just as he had roped and thrown the steer in a shallow draw that hid them from the level where Aleck Douglas waited.
“Hey!” Tom beckoned them close. “Old Douglas says there’s a hide in the willows this side of Squaw Butte, with the brand cut out; a spotted yearling, and he claims it’s his and he can swear to it without the brand. I don’t know a darn thing about it. Nobody does in this outfit; I’ll stake all I’ve got on that. But he’s on the fight––and a mule’s a sheep alongside him when he’s got his back up. He left the hide where he found it. Haze this steer and ride over there and see what there is to his talk. If you find a hide cachéd in the willows, put it outa sight. We don’t want any rustling scraps started on this range; that’s bad medicine always. If he can’t produce any hide, he can’t start anything but talk––and talk’s cheap.”
A few moments later they came tearing up out of the draw, the steer running strong, the three riders still hotly pursuing. Duke and Mel rushed it on to the herd, and Tom dropped out of the race and came along across to where Douglas wrath 52 had not cooled but had smoldered and waited for the wind of opposition to fan it to flame again.
“Well, you still mournin’ over your spotty yearlin’?” Tom called. “You must have more time than you know what to do with to-day. Us, we have to work.”
“If it’s to the round-up ye’re going, then I’ll ride wi’ ye, Tom Lorrigan. I’m a fair mon and I wush na ill to my neighbors. But I canna twiddle the thumbs whilst others fare well on Douglas beef.”
“You can ride where you please; it’s open range. But if you ride to the herd I’ll show you forty yearlings that I’ll bet are dead ringers for the one that you claim was killed. I never seen that hide neither, unless maybe when the critter was using it.
“Now, I don’t want any trouble with yuh, Scotty. But I tell yuh right now I can’t stand for much more of this talk about beef rustling. Thief’s a pretty hard word to use to a man’s face––and get away with it.”
“ ’Tis a hard mon I’m usin’ it