On the Cowboy's Trail: Western Boxed-Set. Coolidge Dane
ended he looked at the letter with a smile, wondering whether to send it by freight or express. Six cents in stamps was the final solution of the problem, and as his pocketbook contained only four he stuck them on and awaited his partner’s return.
“Say, Jeff,” he called, as Creede came in from the pasture, “have you got any stamps?”
“Any which?” inquired Creede suspiciously.
“Any postage stamps –– to put on letters.”
“Huh!” exclaimed Creede. “You must think I’ve got a girl –– or important business in the States. No, I’ll tell you. The only stamp I’ve got is in a glass frame, hung up on the wall –– picture of George Washington, you know. Haven’t you never seen it? W’y, it’s right there in the parler –– jest above the pianney –– and a jim-dandy piece of steel engraving she is, too.” He grinned broadly as he concluded this running fire of jest, but his partner remained serious to the end.
“Well,” he said, “I guess I’ll go down to Moroni in the morning, then.”
“What ye goin’ down there for?” demanded Creede incredulously.
“Why, to buy a stamp, of course,” replied Hardy, “it’s only forty miles, isn’t it?” And early in the morning, true to his word, he saddled up Chapuli and struck out down the river.
From the doorway Creede watched him curiously, his lips parted in a dubious smile.
“There’s something funny goin’ on here, ladies,” he observed sagely, “something funny –– and I’m dogged if I savvy what it is.” He stooped and scooped up Tommy in one giant paw. “Well, Tom, Old Socks,” he said, holding him up where he could sniff delicately at the rafters, “you’ve got a pretty good nose, how about it, now –– can you smell a rat?” But even Tommy could not explain why a man should ride forty miles in order to buy a stamp.
CHAPTER IX
MORONI
The Mormon settlement of Moroni proved to belong to that large class of Western “cities” known as “string-towns” –– a long line of stores on either side of a main street, brick where fires have swept away the shacks, and wood with false fronts where dynamite or a change of wind has checked the conflagration; a miscellaneous conglomeration of saloons, restaurants, general stores, and livery stables, all very satisfying to the material wants of man, but in the ensemble not over-pleasing to the eye.
At first glance, Moroni might have been Reno, Nevada; or Gilroy, California; or Deming, New Mexico; or even Bender –– except for the railroad. A second glance, however, disclosed a smaller number of disconsolate cow ponies standing in front of the saloons and a larger number of family rigs tied to the horse rack in front of Swope’s Store; there was also a tithing house with many doors, a brick church, and women and children galore. And for twenty miles around there was nothing but flowing canals and irrigated fields waving with wheat and alfalfa, all so green and prosperous that a stranger from the back country was likely to develop a strong leaning toward the faith before he reached town and noticed the tithing house.
As for Hardy, his eyes, so long accustomed to the green lawns and trees of Berkeley, turned almost wistful as he gazed away across the rich fields, dotted with cocks of hay or resounding to the whirr of the mower; but for the sweating Latter Day Saints who labored in the fields, he had nothing but the pitying contempt of the cowboy. It was a fine large country, to be sure, and produced a lot of very necessary horse feed, but Chapuli shied when his feet struck the freshly sprinkled street, and somehow his master felt equally ill at ease.
Having purchased his stamp and eaten supper, he was wandering aimlessly up and down the street –– that being the only pleasure and recourse of an Arizona town outside the doors of a saloon –– when in the medley of heterogeneous sounds he heard a familiar voice boom out and as abruptly stop. It was evening and the stores were closed, but various citizens still sat along the edge of the sidewalk, smoking and talking in the semi-darkness. Hardy paused and listened a moment. The voice which he had heard was that of no ordinary man; it was deep and resonant, with a rough, overbearing note almost military in its brusqueness; but it had ceased and another voice, low and protesting, had taken its place. In the gloom he could just make out the forms of the two men, sitting on their heels against the wall and engaged in a one-sided argument. The man with the Southern drawl was doing all the talking, but as Hardy passed by, the other cut in on him again.
“Well,” he demanded in masterful tones, “what ye goin’ to do about it?” Then, without waiting for an answer, he exclaimed:
“Hello, there, Mr. Hardy!”
“Hello,” responded Hardy. “Who is this, anyway?”
“Jim Swope,” replied the voice, with dignified directness. “What’re you doing in these parts?”
“Came down to buy a postage stamp,” replied Hardy, following a habit he had of telling the truth in details.
“Huh!” grunted Swope. “It’s a wonder you wouldn’t go to Bender for it –– that Jew over there might make you a rate!”
“Nope,” responded Hardy, ignoring the too-evident desire of the Moroni storekeeper to draw him into an argument. “He couldn’t do it –– they say the Government loses money every time it sells one. Nice town you’ve got down here,” he remarked, by way of a parting compliment; but Swope was not satisfied to let him escape so easily.
“Hold on, there!” he exclaimed, rousing up from his place. “What’s your bloody hurry? Come on back here and shake hands with Mr. Thomas –– Mr. Thomas is my boss herder up in Apache County. Thinking of bringing him down here next Fall,” he added laconically, and by the subtle change in his voice Hardy realized intuitively that that move had been the subject of their interrupted argument. More than that, he felt vaguely that he himself was somehow involved in the discussion, the more so as Mr. Thomas balked absolutely at shaking hands with him.
“I hope Mr. Thomas will find it convenient to stop at the ranch,” he murmured pleasantly, “but don’t let me interfere with your business.”
“Well, I guess that’s all to-night, Shep,” remarked Swope, taking charge of the situation. “I jest wanted you to meet Hardy while you was together. This is the Mr. Hardy, of the Dos S outfit, you understand,” he continued, “and a white cowman! If you have to go across his range, go quick –– and tell your men the same. I want them dam’ tail-twisters up in that Four Peaks country to know that it pays to be decent to a sheepman, and I’m goin’ to show some of ’em, too, before I git through! But any time my sheep happen to git on your range, Mr. Hardy,” he added reassuringly, “you jest order ’em off, and Mr. Thomas here will see to it that they go!”
He turned upon his boss herder with a menacing gesture, as if charging him with silence, and Thomas, whose sole contribution to the conversation had been a grunt at the end, swung about and ambled sullenly off up the street.
“Feelin’ kinder bad to-night,” explained Swope, as his mayordomo butted into the swinging doors of a saloon and disappeared, “but you remember what I said about them sheep. How do things look up your way?” he inquired. “Feed pretty good?”
“It’s getting awfully dry,” replied Hardy noncommittally. “I suppose your sheep are up on the Black Mesa by this time.”
“Ump!” responded the sheepman, and then there was a long pause. “Sit down,” he said at last, squatting upon the edge of the sidewalk, “I want to talk business with you.”
He lit a short black pipe and leaned back comfortably against a post.
“You seem to be a pretty smooth young feller,” he remarked, patronizingly. “How long have you been in these parts? Two months, eh? How’d Judge Ware come