"How long have you owned the Wagon-wheel?"
"I don't, but I'm representing Trenton. What do you say?"
"One thing only: bring me the houn' who shot my father an' I'll talk with you."
Garstone made an impatient gesture. "You ask the impossible. Dave Dover had enemies, no doubt; he was the type to make them, stubborn, overbearing--" He paused as the young man's right hand moved threateningly towards his hip. "I'm not armed."
"No, an' I ain't got my back turned on you, have I?" Dan said meaningly. "Take notice, Garstone; if I hear o' you blackenin' Dad's name again, that excuse won't work; I'll horsewhip you."
Even this deadly insult failed to break the other's control, and he showed no sign of the fire raging within him. He appealed to Bowdyr.
"You are a witness that I tried to make peace," he said.
"This hot-head boy insists on war, and by God! he shall have it--war to the knife."
"Meanie' a stab in the back, o' course," Dan retorted. "Meaning the end of the Circle Dot," Garstone snapped.
As he went out of the saloon, the young rancher's voice followed him:
"Get yoreself a gun, Easterner; you'll be needin' one." He sat down again, drew a deep breath, and added, "That clears the air some."
Bowdyr shook his head. "He's a cunnin' devil; knowed you'd turn his offer down, but it puts the blame for any trouble on you, an' there's those in town will see it thataway."
"I ain't carin'," Dan replied. "What you think of him, Jim?"
"He's dangerous," Sudden said. "An' I wouldn't gamble too high on his not totin' a gun."
"I hope he does," was the sinister answer. "Time to be movin', Bill." This to the foreman, who promptly collected his men.
The ride home was very different to the usual hilarious return from town. Death was no stranger to any of them, but to-day farewell had been said to one they liked and respected, who, but yesterday, had been their leader. Stern-faced, the three cowboys paced behind the buckboard, speaking only rarely and then in lowered tones.
"Young Dan shorely made hisself clear to that dude," remarked Bob Lister, who was commonly addressed and referred to as "Blister."
"He did so, an' I'll bet he warn't wide o' the mark neither," Tiny--the heftiest of the outfit--replied. "What you think, Noisy?"
"Yeah," the third man said.
Tiny turned to the first speaker. "Allus the same. Ask that fella a simple question an' out comes a torrent o' talk like a river in flood-time. Honest, Noisy, if you don't hobble that tongue o' yores you'll git a bad name."
"He has that a'ready," Blister pointed out, and inconsequently, "There's goin' to be bustlin' times in this neck o' the woods. I'm likin' the look o' that new hombre--if he's on our side."
"Bill spoke well of him an' he's a good judge--he engaged me," Tiny said modestly.
"yeah, I heard him apologizin' to the 01' Man," Blister grinned, and Tiny--having no retort ready--the conversation languished.
The Circle Dot reached, horses unsaddled and turned into the corral, the rancher and Sudden were making for the house when a man emerged from a little shack near the wood-pile and came towards them. He was old, as his dead-white, untrimmed hair and beard bore witness, but in his prime he must have been both tall and powerful. Even yet, the broad but bowed shoulders suggested strength above the average. In one hand he was swinging a heavy axe, the blade of which shone like silver in the rays of the sinking sun. As he drew near, Sudden noted that his eyes were dull, expressionless.
"'Lo, Hunch," the young man greeted.
The man stared at him for a moment, and then, with apparent effort, stammered, "What's--come--o'--Dave?"
In a few sentences, and speaking very slowly, Dover told the tale. The other listened with seeming indifference, swung round without a word, and lurched away to the wood-pile. They saw the axe flash into the air and heard the thud of the blade as the keen edge bit deep into a baulk of timber; the blow was followed by others, each driven home with savage intensity; it almost seemed as though he were wreaking a vengeance on the tree-trunk.
"Another o' pore Dad's pensioners," Dan explained. "Drifted in 'bout two years back, sick an' starvin'. He lives in the hut, an' keeps us in fuel. 0' course, he's kinda lackin'lost his memory. For months we figured he was dumb, couldn't get a word from him; even now, it takes somethin' extra, but he 'pears to savvy what folks say."
"There don't seem to be much wrong with his muscles."
"He's as strong as a bullock--packs or hauls in loads you'd take a team for. He can't remember any name, but the boys called him `Hunch' on account of his stoop. Just worships that axe. I figure that he's been a lumberjack; every now and again, hell be missin' for a spell, wanderin' in the woods."
"Ever have any trouble with him?"
"On'y once. We had a new hand--fella named `Rattray,' an' the first half o' that described him. He was the kind what would tease a kid, an' he regarded a daft old man as the answer to a bully's prayer. It didn't come out just that way. Rattray got the axe an' started breakin' stones to blunt the edge. Hunch threw him clear across the bunkhouse, snappin' a leg, an arm, an' some ribs. Doc Malachi put him together again, an' when he was able to ride, Dad told him to. Rattray rode, but on'y as far as the Wagon-wheel, so there's another who had reason to ..."
Sudden switched the subject. "Odd number, that pill-merchant," he remarked. "What's he doin' here?"
"Committin' slow suicide," Dan replied. "It's a pity for he's a clever chap an' knows his job. Don't you pick holes in him; I've a notion he's a friend, an' we ain't overburdened with 'em."
"Well, there's one good thing about an enemy--yu know what to expect; friends ain't allus so dependable," was the puncher's cynical comment.
At the door of the ranch-house, Yorky was lounging. He scowled at the rancher.
"So now he's gone, yer t'rowin' me out," he said resentfully.
"Where did you get that idea?" Dan asked curiously.
"Flint said yer wouldn't be tannin' a home for hoboes no more.''
"I don't consult Flint about my actions; you can stay as long as you want," Dan replied shortly, and went in. Sudden hung back. "Why don't yu fork a hoss an' get out in the open, 'stead o' stayin' cooped up in the house, smokin' them everlastin' coffin-nails?" he asked quietly.
The boy's rebellious expression softened. "The 01' Man ureter talk that way, but it ain't no good," he muttered. "I told yer, I'm a weed an'--I can't ride, Mister."
"Weeds can grow big an' strong," Sudden smiled. "I'll teach yu to stay in a saddle. Think it over, an'--I'm Jim--to my friends."
He went, and Yorky slumped down on the long bench by the door. "Hell! I b'lieve he meant it, but what's th' good?"
He reached out a screw of tobacco and papers, only to thrust them back again. "Awright--Jim--it's a bet."
So, on the following morning, when Sudden came to get his horse, he was accompanied by an unhappy-looking youth who stood and gazed doubtfully at the pony Burke had selected for him.
"Too old an' lazy to buck," the foreman said. "Been here damn near as long as I have. His name's `Shut-eye.' Story is that one o' the boys--years ago--after a long an' tirin' day, dozed off in the saddle, figurin' his hoss would fetch him home. When he woke, hours later, they were in the same place an' the hoss was asleep too."
The average cow-horse, sensing that saddling is the prelude to hard work, resents the operation, but Shut-eye gave Tiny and Flint no trouble at all. But Sudden was not taking chances; even a mild fit of bucking might result in a fall which would send his pupil back to the ranch-house cured of any desire to ride. He meant to try the animal first.