The loot of the Lazy A
Shif’less nodded gloomily. “Prob’ly not, Jones. I don’t sabe what Lane
was doin’ there at that time in the mornin’.”
“I don’t know. Shif’less, I’ve heard that you kinda think a lot of Faith
Keene.”
Shif’less turned in his saddle. “You heard it, did yuh?”
“That’s nothin’ ag’in yuh, cowboy. Why don’t yuh marry her?”
“Plenty of reasons, I reckon. In the first place, I dunno if she’d marry
me if she could, and in the second place--she’s still got a husband.”
“Well,” smiled Cultus, “yuh can easy find out the first part of it, and
in the second place, jist between me and you, her husband is dead.”
Shif’less stared at Cultus.
“How do yuh know, Jones?”
“I happened to be there when he was killed. I didn’t know it at the
time, but I seen his picture later, and it was the face of a feller
they called Loring, a cheap lawyer in Frisco.”
Shif’less nodded quickly. “There was two men killed--and a woman. Her
name was Janice Lee.”
Cultus leaned closer to him. “How do you know that?”
It did not take Shif’less long to explain about finding it in the paper.
“I took it to Lane.” he said. “Lane was Keene’s friend, and I
thought----”
“You took it to him last night?” Cultus jerked up his horse.
“Yeah.”
“Good gosh!” exploded Cultus. “And Lane has gone to meet Idaho Breen.
Listen, Shif’less; you go to town. If Breen or Lane show up there with
that girl--Mary Ault--stop ’em. No, I can’t tell yuh why. Just stop
’em, and then come out to the Lazy A.”
Cultus whirled his horse around, drew his hat down over his eyes, and
sent the roan on a stiff gallop back toward the Lazy A. He realized
that the newspaper clipping would prove to Lane and Breen that Mary
Smith was an impostor. It was something unforeseen, and Cultus knew
that Breen would stop at nothing now to get control of the Lazy A.
* * * * *
And about the time that Cultus had found out about the newspaper
clipping, Miles Lane was riding back to the Lazy A with the papers for
Mary to sign. He had had them prepared for days. They were snake-tight,
and all they needed was the signature of Mary Ault, and his own, as
notary public. He had made the imprint of his seal before he left the
office.
Her signature would make Idaho Jim Breen owner of the Lazy A estate, and
Idaho Breen would take Miles Lane in as a full partner in the holdings.
Even the partnership papers were all prepared. Lane was very thorough in
his crooked work.
He rode his lathering horse up to the ranch-house and went in. Mary
was sitting beside the table, her face very white. On a chair against
the wall sat Idaho Breen. He had been drinking from a bottle, and was
just drunk enough to be alert.
“Got everythin’ ready?” he asked. Lane nodded and spread the papers on
the table. “Get the pen and ink, Idaho.”
Mary stared at the typewritten sheets.
“Take a good look at ’em, sister,” laughed Breen, as he came, with the
pen and ink and placed them on the table.
Lane dipped the pen in ink and handed it to her, placing his finger on
the ruled line. “Put your name right there. Just write Mary Ault.”
Mary looked up at them, her hand trembling. “But that isn’t my name.”
“Nobody knows it better than we do,” laughed Breen. “Write it out, and
we’ll take a chance on it. You wasn’t supposed to come here, yuh know.”
“Suppose I refuse to sign,” Mary shut her lips and looked defiantly at
Breen. “You can’t make me sign.”
“Tryin’ a holdup, eh? No good, my dear. Everybody knows you are the
owner of the Lazy A, and if yuh refuse to sign, we’ll fake a signature.”
“And I’ll swear it isn’t mine--and prove it.”
Breen’s jaw tightened and he leaned closer to Mary. “No, yuh won’t;
you won’t prove anythin’. If you’ve got a lick of sense, you’ll sign
that paper right now.”
Mary took the pen and signed the name of Mary Ault. There was nothing
else for her to do. Breen laughed softly, as Lane handed him the paper,
and reached for the bottle.
“Better go easy on that stuff,” advised Lane. “We’re not out of the
woods yet.”
Breen took a big drink and put the bottle on the floor. He turned to
Mary, who still held the pen in her hand.
“Git dressed for travelin’,” he ordered. “Pack yore suitcase. In ten
minutes we’re pullin’ out. _Poco tiempo!_”
He turned to Lane. “You stay here with her, while I hitch up a team to
the buggy.”
Mary walked back to her room and packed her clothes. She put a few
things in the suitcase, but did not bother to pack the trunk. She had
not worn any of Janice Lee’s clothes, as she had not been out of the
house since her arrival.
She was glad to leave the Lazy A, but down in her heart was a fear that
these two men were not through with her yet. She had been living in sort
of a daze ever since that night at the restaurant in San Francisco. And
when she had asked Breen where he was going to send her, he had said,
“Quien sabe”--who knows?
She carried the suitcase in to the living room and sat down in an old
rocking-chair. Lane was helping himself to Breen’s bottle, and his hand
trembled as he looked at Mary.
Breen was hitching up a pair of vicious-looking grays, a half broken
team. He was obliged to tie them to the corral fence and drag the buggy
around to them. As soon as they were hitched he went to the house and
flung open the front door.
“You pull out ahead of us, Miles,” he growled. “Hit the grit, hombre,
because we’ll need an open road.”
Lane placed the bottle on the table and walked out, going straight to
his horse which he mounted and rode swiftly away. “What about my trunk?”
asked Mary. Breen turned from watching Lane gallop out of sight.
“You don’t need to worry about that.”
Mary shivered slightly, as Breen emptied the bottle down his throat and
threw the bottle viciously aside. He picked up her suitcase and pointed
toward the door.
“Start goin’,” he growled. Mary preceded him from the house and they
went down to the corral, where the gray team humped angrily under the
feel of the harness.
Breen threw her suitcase in the back of the buggy and motioned her
to get in. As she sat down and looked at him, he half turned and was
staring past the end of the stable. Then he began running toward the
front of the stable, which was near the main gate.
He was within twenty yards of the gate when Cultus came in sight,
swinging his horse toward the gate. Mary saw Breen jerk to a stop,
throwing up his right hand which held a six-shooter. She tried to cry
out to Cultus, who was partly masked from Breen by the huge gate-post,
but before she could utter any sound, Cultus turned to come through
the gate, and Breen fired.
Cultus jerked sideways from the shock of the heavy bullet, and his tall
roan whirled quickly, throwing Cultus heavily just inside the enclosure.
The horse trotted a few yards away, whirled in against the fence and
stopped, looking back at its rider.
Breen ran up to him and quickly turned him over. Evidently satisfied
that Cultus was out of the game for good, he ran back to the buggy and
untied the horses, which were still jerking nervously from the sound of
the revolver shot.
He climbed in beside Mary, whirled the team around and went out through
the gate at racing speed. The lurch of the buggy almost threw Mary out,
and she did not get a look at Cultus as they raced past. Breen did not
try to check the horses. His jaw was set tightly, and Mary could see
that his lips were white. He did not speak to or look at her.
Mary had only been over the road once, but she knew it was even more
dangerous than the one she had ridden over in the runaway the night
she came to Oreana City. About a mile below the Lazy A the road looped
around over some dizzy grades above a deep canyon, and she remembered
that Cultus had remarked that it was a place where a driver was only
allowed one mistake.
She looked at Breen, wondering why he did not make any attempt to
check the running team. He was crouched on the edge of the seat, his
feet drawn well under him, his eyes shut to mere slits, as the buggy
lurched and bounded over the uneven road. They whirled down through
a swale, where the mesquite ripped along the wheels and sides, like
the sound of tearing silk.
A rock sent them skidding wildly, but the buggy did not upset. It
threw Mary to her knees, but Breen, ripping out an oath, yanked her
back in the seat, his elbow striking her in the mouth, as he recovered
his balance. She threw up both hands to protect her face, and the next
instant Breen had flung himself clear of the buggy. Mary whirled
around, trying to see him, but he was blotted out in a swirl of dust.
She jerked around in the seat, and saw just ahead of her the beginning
of the grades around the deep canyon. There was nothing she could do
now. To attempt a jump from the buggy would mean that she would have
to choose between falling into the canyon or being smashed against the
rocky side of the grade.
The two horses were running at top speed, their bellies low to the
ground, the lines whipping through the air, the buggy and its one
occupant bounding along behind them. Mary tried to pray, but she was
so dazed, so frightened that she could only hang on.
They whirled around the first turn on two wheels, straightened
perilously near the outer edge, and headed for the next sharp curve.
It was a sharp turn to the right, and on the left hand side was an
old washout, filled with brush.
But the running team turned too late, and the inside wheels of the buggy
smashed against the wall. Came a whirl of dust and gravel, a cataclysm
of overturned buggy, flying hoofs, the scream of a horse, and the outfit
hurtled over the edge, dropping straight down for fifty feet, where it
struck the apex of a broken ledge, seemed to hang for a moment, and then
went crashing and rolling into the bottom of the gorge a hundred feet
below.
* * * * *
Cultus had seen Idaho Breen just before the shot was fired, and before
the shock of the bullet had knocked him unconscious he knew that Breen
had shot him. He was shocked back to consciousness by a deluge of cold
water, and opened his eyes to see Hop, the Chinese cook, standing over
him, bucket in hand.
“You hu’t pletty damn’ bad?” queried the Chinaman anxiously.
Cultus struggled to a sitting position, clamping his jaws to hold
back the exclamation of pain which came to his lips. It seemed that a
red-hot iron was searing deeply in his left shoulder. He panted for
several moments, while cold perspiration dripped from his face.
But his mind cleared rapidly, and the Chinaman helped him to his feet.
He wasn’t just sure why Breen had shot him. He felt for his gun and
found it still in the holster.
“Why did he shoot me?” asked Cultus hoarsely.
The Chinaman shook his head. “Do’ know. I not see; I hea’.”
Cultus looked vaguely around, as though trying to see Breen.
“He go ’way,” said Hop. “He take li’l missie way in buggy. Mebbe go
town. Go like hell. Team run ’way. Yo’ sabe?”
“Team run away?”
“Plitty bad team: not bloke yet.”
“For gosh sake!” Cultus wiped the back of a hand across his eyes. “Hop,
was Miles Lane here today?”
“Yessa. He lide way jus’ befo’ you come. Lide damn’ fast.”
“That’s it,” muttered Cultus. “A runaway team--and those grades. Oh,
Hop, I’ve been a fool.”
Cultus went gropingly out to his horse, which did not try to get away
from him. He climbed into the saddle, forgetting to pick up his
sombrero, and spurred the animal savagely through the gateway and down
the road toward Oreana City. His shoulder was bleeding and he was racked
with pain, but he shut his teeth against the hurt and weakness and drove
the roan at racing speed, feeling down in his heart that nothing could
save Mary Smith now.