The One-Way Trail: A story of the cattle country

CHAPTER XIX
BRANDED

There is no calm so peaceful, no peace so idyllic as that which is to be found on a Western ranch on a fine summer evening. Life at such a time and in such a place is at its smoothest, its almost Utopian perfection. The whole atmosphere is laden with a sense of good-fellowship between men and between beasts. The day’s work is over, and men idle and smoke, awaiting the pleasures of an ample fare with appetites healthily sharp-set, and lounge contentedly, contemplating their coming evening’s amusement with untroubled minds.

And the beasts which are their care. Fed to repletion on the succulent prairie grasses they know nothing but contentment. The shadow of the butcher’s knife has no terrors for them. They live only for their day. And the evening, when their stomachs are full and repose is in sight, is the height of their contentment.

Then, too, Nature herself is at her gentlest. The fierce passion of heat has passed, the harsher winds have died down, the worrying insects are already seeking repose. There is nothing left to harry the human mind and temper. It is peace–perfect peace.

It was such an evening on the ranch of the “AZ’s.” All these conditions were prevailing, except that the mind of Dan McLagan, the owner, was disturbed. Six of his boys were out on the special duty of searching for stolen cattle. This was bad enough, but Dan was fretting and chafing at the unpleasant knowledge that the epidemic of cattle stealing was spreading all too quickly.

He was never a patient man. His Celtic nature still retained all its native irritability, and his foreman, Jim Thorpe, had ample demonstration of it. He had spent several uncomfortable half hours that day with his employer. He was responsible for the working of the ranch. It was his to see that everything ran smoothly, and though the depredations of cattle-thieves could hardly come under the heading of his responsibilities, yet no employer can resist the temptation of visiting his chagrin on the head of his most trusted servant.

The hue and cry had been in progress for several weeks, and as yet no result of a hopeful nature had been obtained. And, in consequence, at every opportunity Dan McLagan cursed forcibly into the patient ears of his foreman.

Now, Jim was enjoying a respite. Dan had retired to his house for supper, and he was waiting for his to be served. He was down at the corrals, leaning on the rails, watching the stolid milch cows nuzzling and devouring their evening hay. His humor was interested. They had eaten all day. They would probably eat until their silly eyes closed in sleep. He was not sure they wouldn’t continue to chew their cud amidst their bovine dreams. Each cow was already balloon-like, but the inflation was still going on. And each beast was still ready to horn the others off in its greediness.

He thought, whimsically, that the humbler hog was not given a fair position in the ranks of gluttony. Surely the bovine was the “limit” in that basest of all passions. One cow held his attention more particularly than the others. She was small, and black and white, and her build suggested Brittany extraction. She ran a sort of free lance piracy all round the corral. Her sharp horns were busy whenever she saw a sister apparently enjoying herself too cordially. And in every case she drove the bigger beast out and seized upon her choicest morsel.

Nor could he help thinking how little was the difference between man and beast. It was only in its objective. The manner was much the same. Yes, and the very means employed created in him an impression favorable to the hapless quadruped. Surely their battle for existence was more honest, more natural.

His mood was pessimistic, even for a man who sees the traffic which is his keenest interest threatened by a marauding gang of land pirates. Maybe it was the wearing hours of McLagan’s nagging that caused his mood. Maybe it was an inclination brought about by the long train of disappointments that had been his as he trod his one-way trail. Maybe, as the cynical might suggest, his liver was out of order. However, whether it was sheer pessimism, or even the shadow cast by approaching events, he felt it would be good when the evening was past, and he could forget things in the blessed unconsciousness of sleep.

But his meditations were suddenly disturbed. The ranch dogs started their inharmonious chorus, and experience taught him that there are only two things which will stir the lazy ranch dog to vocal protest; the advent of the disreputable sun-downer, and the run of driven cattle.

He quickly discovered, at sight of a thick rising dust to the westward of the ranch, that the present disturbance was not caused by any ragged “bum.” Cattle were coming in to the yards, and it needed little imagination on his part to guess that some of the boys on special duty were running in lost stock.

His pessimism vanished in a moment, and in its place a keen enthusiasm stirred. If it were some of the lost stock then they would probably have news of the thieves. Maybe even they’d made a capture. He hurried at once in the direction of the approaching cattle. Nor was he alone in his desire to learn the news. Every man had left his supper at the bunk house to greet the newcomers.

The incoming herd was still some distance away, but the bunch was considerable judging by the cloud of dust. Jim found himself amongst a group of the boys, and each and all of them were striving to ascertain the identity of those who were in charge.

“Ther’s two o’ them, sure,” exclaimed Barney Job, after a long scrutiny. “Leastways I ken make out two. The durned fog’s that thick you couldn’t get a glimpse o’ Peddick’s flamin’ hair in it.”

“Cut it out, Barney,” cried the lantern-faced owner of the fiery red hair. “Anyways a sight o’ my hair ’ud be more encouragin’ than your ugly ‘map.’ Seems to me, bein’ familiar with my hair ’ll make the fires of hell, you’ll likely see later, come easier to you when they git busy fumigatin’ your carkis.”

“Gee! that’s an elegant word,” cried Hoosier Pete, a stripling of youthful elderliness. “Guess you’ve bin spellin’ out Gover’ment Reg’lations.”

“Yep. San’tary ones. Barney’s thinkin’ o’ gettin’ scoured in a kettle o’ hot water,” said Peddick, with a laugh.

“Needs it,” muttered a surly Kentuckian.

“Hey!” interrupted Barney, quite undisturbed by his comrades’ remarks upon his necessity for careful ablutions. “Them’s Joe Bloc an’ Dutch Kemp. I’d git Dutch’s beard anywher’s. You couldn’t get thro’ it with a hay rake. Sure,” he went on, shading his eyes, “that’s them an’ they’re drivin’ them forty three-year-olds that was pinched up at the back o’ the northern spurs. Say–”

But he broke off, concentrating upon the oncoming cattle even more closely. Everybody was doing the same. Jim had also recognized the two cow-punchers. And he, like the rest, was wondering and speculating as to the news that was to be poured into their curious ears directly.

The cattle were running and it was evident the two boys were in a hurry for their supper, or to deliver their news. The waiting crowd cleared the way. And one of the boys, at Jim’s order, hurried down to the corrals to receive them. He stood by, joined by several others, to head the beasts into their quarters.

They came with a rush of shuffling, plodding feet bellowing protest at the hurry, or welcome at sight of the piles of hay that one or two of the men were already pitching into the corral for their consumption. And in less than five minutes they were housed for the night.

Then it was that Jim greeted the two cow-punchers.

“The boss’ll be pleased, boys. Glad to see you back, Dutchy, and you, too, Joe. Guess you’ll have things to report so–”

The boys were out of their saddles and loosening their cinchas. They eyed him curiously without attempting to acknowledge his greeting. The rest of the men had gathered round. And now it was noticeable that while they pointedly ignored their foreman, the newcomers, equally markedly, exchanged friendly nods and grins with their colleagues. Just for a moment Jim wondered. Then annoyance added sharpness to his words. He was not accustomed to being treated in this cool fashion.

“You best come right up to my shack and report,” he said. “You can get supper after. I’ll need to know at once–”

“Best get a look at them beasties fust,” said Joe, in a harsh tone, and with an unmistakable laugh.

“Yep,” sniggered Dutchy, with an insolent look into Jim’s face.

The studied insult of both the men was so apparent that all eyes were turned curiously upon the foreman. For Jim Thorpe was popular. More than popular. He was probably the best-liked man on the range. Then, too, Jim, in their experience, was never one to take things “lying down.”

His dark, clear brows drew ominously together, and his eyes narrowed unpleasantly.

“Say, the sun’s hurt you some, boys, hasn’t it?” he asked sharply. Then he went on rapidly, his teeth clipping with each sentence: “See here, get right up to my shack. I’ll take that report. And I don’t need any talk about it. Get me?”

But though the men remained silent the insolence of their eyes answered him. Dutchy slung his saddle over his shoulder and stood while Joe picked up his belongings. And in those moments his eyes unflinchingly fixed his foreman, and a smile, an infuriating smile of contempt, slowly broke over his heavy Teutonic features.

It was too much for Jim. He pointed at his shack. “Hustle!” he cried.

But before the men had time to move away, two of the boys, who had elected to obey their comrade’s suggestion, came running up from the corral.

“Say, boss,” cried Barney, excitedly, “get a peek at their brands!”

Nor was there any mistaking the man’s anxiety–even awe. There was a general rush for the corral. And by the time Jim reluctantly reached the fences he heard smothered exclamations on all sides of him. He came to the barred gateway and peered over at the cattle inside.

The first thing that caught his eye was the broadside of a big steer. On its shoulder was a brand, at which he stared first incredulously, but presently with horrified amazement. It was the familiar “**.” He looked at others. Everywhere he saw his own brand, “double-star twice,” as it was popularly known, on cattle which he recognized at a glance as being some of his employer’s finest half-bred Polled Angus stock.

His feelings at that moment were indescribable. Astonishment, incredulity, anger all battled for place, and the outcome of them all was a laugh at once mirthless and angry. He turned on the two men waiting with their shouldered saddles.

“I’ll take your report–up at the shack.” And he pointed at his hut, fifty yards away.

The men moved off obediently. And Jim, left to his own unpleasant thoughts, followed them up.

Half-way to the hut he was joined by McLagan. The Irishman had seen the cattle come in, and was anxious to learn the particulars. His manner, after his recent ill-humor, was almost jocular. He realized that these were cattle he had lost.

“Say, Jim, those boys have picked up a dandy bunch of the lost ones. How many?”

But the foreman’s humor did not by any means fit in with his employer’s.

“Didn’t count ’em,” he said shortly. “I’m just getting the boys’ report. You best come along. It looks like being interesting.” Just for a moment a half-smile lit his face.

Dan glanced at him out of the tail of his eyes and fell in beside him. His foreman’s manner was new, and he wondered at it. However, Jim made no effort to open his lips again until they reached the hut.

When they came up the boys were waiting outside the door. Jim promptly led the way in, angrily conscious of the meaning looks which passed between them.

Once inside, and Dan had seated himself on the bed, Jim called the two men in.

“Come along in, boys,” he cried, and his manner had become more usual. He understood their attitude now, and somehow he found himself sympathizing with their evident suspicions. After all, he had grown into a thorough cattleman. “Speak up, lads. Let’s get the yarn. The boss wants to hear where you found those cattle of his–re-branded with my own brand.”

McLagan sat up with a jerk.

“Eh?”

His face was a study. But chiefly it expressed a belief that he was being laughed at. Jim looked squarely into his half-resentful eyes and nodded.

“Those cattle they’ve just brought in are branded with my brand. You know the brand. You helped me design it. ‘**’ And,” he added whimsically, “it’s a mighty fine one for obliterating original brands, now I come to study it.”

But Dan turned sharply on the two men.

“Let’s hear it,” he said; and there was no pleasantness in his tone.

It was Joe Bloc who took the lead. Dutchy, though speaking the language of the West freely enough, had, in moments of involved explanation, still the Teutonic failing of involving the verb.

“You see, boss,” said Joe, his eyes steadily fixed on the foreman’s unflinching face, “we got the news in Barnriff. We’d been out for nigh four days, and we’d decided to ride in here to get fresh plugs. Ours wus good an’ done, an’ we’d set ’em in Doc Crombie’s barn, an’ had got over to the saloon for a feed.”

“Feed?”

But Dan’s sarcasm had no effect.

“That’s how, boss. Wal, right in the bar was one of the ‘◇ P’ boys–one of old man Blundell’s hands.”

“Yes, yes.”

“He’d got a tidy yarn, sure, an’ seein’ we was your hands, an’ his yarn was to do with your stock, he handed it to us with frills. He’d just got in from the hills, wher’ he’d been trailin’. He said he’d run into Jim Thorpe’s stock, tucked away in as nice a hollow of sweet grass as you’d find this side of Kentucky. Wal, he hadn’t no suspicion, seein’ whose beasties they were, an’ he was for makin’ back. He’d started, he said, when somethin’ struck him. Y’see he guessed of a sudden it was a mighty big bunch for a ranch-foreman to be running, an’ ther’ was such a heap o’ half-bred Polled Angus amongst ’em. Wal, seein’ that kind was your specialty, he just guessed he’d ride round ’em an’ git a peek at the brands. Say, as he said, the game was clear out at once. They’d every son-of-a-cow got ‘**’ on ’em, but nigh haf wus re-brands over an’ blottin’ out the old one. He got to work an’ cut out an’ roped one o’ them half-breeds, an’ hevin’ threw him, got down an looked close. The original brand had been burned out, an’ the ‘**’ whacked deep over it. That’s just all, boss. We got out an’ brought the bunch in–that is, them we knew belonged to the ‘AZ’s.’”

An ominous silence followed the finish of his story. The smile on Jim’s face seemed to be frozen and meaningless. Dan was staring intently at his boots and flicking them with his quirt. Joe turned his head and exchanged a smile of meaning with Dutchy, and both men shifted into an easy pose, as much as to say, “Well, we’ve found the cattle duffer for you.” The moments passed heavily, then suddenly Dan looked up. There was storm in his eyes. He had forgotten the cow-punchers.

“Well, what are you waitin’ for?” he cried. “Get out!”

It was all the thanks the men got for the unctuously given story, and their hard work.

They vanished rapidly through the door, and hastened to air their grievance and repeat their story with added “frills” to ready ears at the bunk house.

Jim gazed through the doorway after them, and Dan furtively watched him for some silent moments.

“Well?” he said at last.

The tone of his inquiry was peculiar. There was no definite anger in it, nor was it a simple question. Yet it stung the man to whom it was addressed in a way that set his teeth gritting, and the blood running hot to his head.

“Well?” he retorted. And their eyes met with the defiance of men of big physical courage.

Dan was the first to avert his gaze, but it was only to hide that which lay behind in his thoughts. And when he spoke there was a harsh smile in his eyes.

“What ha’ ye got to say t ”–he jerked a thumb in the direction of the bunk house–“that feller’s yarn?”

Jim’s answer was unhesitating. He shrugged as he spoke.

“Guess there’s no definite reason to doubt it. There are the cattle. They’re all re-branded with my brand. I’ve seen ’em. The hand that did it was a prentice hand, though. That’s the only thing. The veriest kid could detect the alteration.”

“It’s your brand.” Dan’s eyes were still averted.

“Sure it’s my brand. There’s no need for more than two eyes to see that.”

McLagan’s quirt again began to beat his boot-leg. Jim understood the temper lying behind that nervous movement. He felt sick.

“Wher’ d’ye keep your brands?”

“There’s one here and one up in the hills, in my little implement shack, where I run my cattle. I keep that there for convenience.”

“Just so.”

Jim was groping under the bed on which Dan was reclining. He heard the reply, but chose to ignore it.

But he knew by its tone that suspicion had been driven home in this cattleman’s mind. He drew an iron out from amongst the litter under the bed, and held it up.

“That’s the iron,” he said. “It would be well to compare it on the brands. It is identical with the iron I keep up in the hills.”

“For convenience.”

The men’s eyes met again.

“Yes–for convenience.” There was a sharpness in the foreman’s acquiescence.

The Irishman’s eyes grew hot. The whites began to get bloodshot.

“Seems to me it’s fer you to see if that iron fits, an’, if so–why?”

In spite of Dan’s evident heat his tone was frigid, and its suggestion could no longer be ignored. Jim Thorpe, conscious of his innocence, was not the man to accept such innuendoes without protest. Suddenly his swift rising anger took hold of him, and the fiery protest which McLagan had intended to call forth broke out.

“Look here, McLagan,” he cried, vainly trying to keep his tone cool, “I’ve been with you about four years. You know something of my history, and the folks I spring from. You know more than any one else of me. For four years I’ve worked for you in a way, as you, yourself, have been pleased to say in odd moments of generosity, in a way that few hired men generally work out here in the West. You’ve trusted me in consequence. And you’ve never found me shirking responsibilities, nor slacking. You’ve helped me get together a bunch of cattle with a view to becoming independent, and shown me in every way your confidence. You’ve even offered to lease me grazing. These latter things have not been without profit to you. That’s as it should be. However, I just mention these things to point the rise in confidence which has grown up between us. You understand? Now the cattle stealing begins. These cattle are brought in here with my brands on. There is no doubt they are your steers. You listen to the story of the manner of their finding. You witness the cold suspicion of me which those two men possess. Those four years go for nothing. Your confidence won’t stand the least strain. You do not accuse me straight out, but show me the suspicion with which you are contaminated in a manner unworthy of an honest man. I tell you it’s rotten. It’s–it’s despicable. Do you think I’m going to sit down under this suspicion? It will be all over the countryside by to-morrow, and I–I shall be a branded man. I tell you I’m going to sift this matter to the bottom. But make no mistake. Not for your sake–nor for anybody else but myself. Those four years of hard honest work don’t count with you. Well, they shan’t count with me. I’ll stay here with you so that I’m handy whenever wanted–you understand me, I suppose–‘wanted.’ But I’ll thank you to let me pursue my investigations in the way I choose. Your work shan’t suffer. If I don’t lay my hands on the thief or thieves in a month’s time, then write me down a wrong ’un. If I do round ’em up I’ll at once take my leave of you, for I’ve no use for a man of your evident calibre.”

He was standing when he finished speaking. His dark eyes said far more than his words, and the clenching hands at his sides conveyed a threat that Dan was quick to perceive. However he felt the other’s words he gave no sign. And his attitude was once more disconcerting and puzzling to the furious Jim. He wanted one of those outbursts of Celtic passion he was used to; he wanted a chance to hand out unrestrained the fury that was working up to such a pitch inside him. But the opportunity was not given. Dan spoke coldly and quietly, a process which maddened the injured man.

“Words make elegant pictures,” he said, “an’ I hate pictures. See here, Jim Thorpe, you’ve ladled it out good an’ plenty. Now I’m goin’ to pass you a dipper o’ hash. There’s the cattle; there’s your brands; there’s wher’ they was found. Three nuts that need crackin’. You guess you’re goin’ to crack them nuts. Wal, I’d say it’s up to you. Crack ’em. An’–you needn’t to stop here to do it. You can get right out an’ do the crackin’ where you like. An’ when you’ve cracked ’em, an’ you feel like it,–mind, I don’t ask you to–you can come along and you’ll find this shack still standin’. That, too, is up to you. Meanwhiles, Joe Bloc’ll slep right here. Guess you’ll be startin’ out crackin’ nuts to-morrow morning. There’s just one thing I’d like to say before partin’, Jim,” he added, his frigidity thawing slightly. “I’m a cattleman first an’ last. It’s meat and drink an’ pocket-money to me. My calibre don’t cut any figure when there’s cattle stealin’ doing. As sure as St. Patrick got busy with the snakes, I’d help to hang the last cattle-rustler, an’ dance on his face after he was dead–if he was my own brother. Think o’ that, and maybe you’ll understand things.”

He rose from the bed and walked out of the hut without waiting for a reply.

For a full minute Jim stood staring after him through the doorway. Then his eyes came back to the branding-iron on the bed. He stared at it. Then he picked it up and mechanically examined the stars at the end of it. Suddenly he flung it out of sight under the bed where it had come from, and sat on the blankets with his face resting in his hands.

It was a hideous moment. He was dismissed–under suspicion. Suddenly he laughed. But the sound that came was high-pitched, strained, and had no semblance of a laugh in it. A moment and he sprang to his feet.

“By G–, he can’t–he can’t know what he’s done!” he muttered, a new horror in his tone. “Sacked–‘fired’–kicked out! he’s branded me as surely–as surely as if he’d put the irons on me!”