The loot of the Lazy A
grim, sour-faced old man, quick of temper. He hated mankind, and did
not hesitate to say it. The Lazy A made Ault rich. Mining engineers
had urged the old man to lease or sell part of his ranch, which was
rich enough to make him a millionaire. But he refused. He hated
miners. They dug holes in the ground. He did not want to be rich.
Faith had grown up in awe of her parent, the prettiest girl in the
country, but denied suitors. Woe unto the gay cowboy who tried to jingle
his spurs across the threshold of the Lazy A ranch-house. And when she
was eighteen she married Jack Keene, a gambler; ran away with him, spent
a short honeymoon, and came back for the paternal blessing.
But what they found was a door closed against them. Never again did Jud
Ault speak to his daughter. He drew back in his shell, like an old
turtle, even refusing to go to town. And when it was definitely decided
that Jud Ault had made his final decision, Jack Keene, gambler, former
lawyer (according to Miles Lane, a local attorney, who had formed a
friendship for Keene), disappeared from Oreana City--alone.
Not even then did Jud Ault relent and take back his daughter, who had
no means of support. Men went to him and urged him to take care of her,
even if he did not want to see her, and he cursed them out. There was
no doubt in the minds of everyone that Jack Keene had had an eye on the
Lazy A when he married Faith; but had sneaked away like a cur when he
found that his marriage did not mean money.
Then came the Keene baby. Men said that old Jud Ault would relent now.
But he never saw his grandchild. Faith Keene lived in a little shack of
a house, which Jack had partly furnished. She tried to make a living by
taking in washing, but the returns were too small compared to the
physical labor involved. Also she was obliged to compete with a Chinese
laundry--which some of the cowboys offered to put out of business and
give her a clear field. But she declined their offer.
Things were breaking very badly for Faith Keene, when Miles Lane came
to her with some money, which he told her came from Jack Keene. She
did not wonder why he did not send her this money direct, because she
was too thankful to get it. Lane would not tell her where Jack Keene
was. Every month the Oreana City lawyer would bring her enough for her
monthly wants, and she was able to struggle along and take care of her
baby.
East of Oreana City, about four miles, were the tumbledown ranch
buildings of the Cross Arrow, owned by “Badger” Hill and his son,
known as “Shif’less.” They were veritable range derelicts, these
two. Badger was a short, squatty, bewhiskered sort of a man, who
greatly resembled his namesake. His vocabulary was limited to a few
words--mostly profane.
Shif’less was a big hulk of a man, less than thirty years of age. He
was not unhandsome, in his big, lumbering way. His features were
strong, blocky, and his wistful gray eyes seemed to be continually
wondering at the world from beneath a huge mop of blonde hair, which
seemed forever to stand on end.
It was hinted that the Cross Arrow existed through the taking of
oreanas--calves which had escaped the branding-iron of their original
owners. Farther to the north, these animals were designated as
mavericks. And it was also hinted that Badger Hill was not averse to
forcing an oreana--taking a calf away from its mother, that he might
later run it on the Cross Arrow and claim it for his own.
Shif’less Hill had, in a way, grown up with Faith Keene, and always
admired her from afar. Jud Ault had detested Badger Hill and his big
cowpuncher son--making it mutual, because both Badger and Shif’less
hated the hard-faced owner of the Lazy A.
Eph Wheeler was a mild-mannered old man, thin-faced, keen-eyed; one of
the old type of cattlemen, who cursed with no trace of emotion, and
fanned the hammer of his six-shooter, when the need arose, with the
air of a man who had a slightly disagreeable task to do, and wished to
do it as quickly as possible.
“Dude” Wheeler, the son, was a tall, straight-backed young man, who
walked so straight in his high-heeled boots that it seemed as though
a gust of wind would blow him over backward. He was thin of face,
with a wide mouth, showing excellent teeth when he smiled. His eyes
were deep-set, black as India-ink, beneath heavy brows, while his
nose was bony.
His love for gaudy clothes had won him his cognomen, and he was the
flashiest cowboy in the Oreana country. But Dude Wheeler was a top-hand
cowboy; ready to fight, drink, gamble or race. He had been taught to
hate the Lazy A. But now there was no Lazy A, as far as the Ault family
was concerned. Faith had been disowned, and no one ever heard Jud Ault
speak of having any relatives. So, as long as there was no Ault family
to fight, it seemed that the feud would, or had, died. No one considered
that Faith Keene was an Ault.
The Lazy A was in the hands of “Idaho” Breen, who had been Ault’s
foreman for years. Idaho was small of stature, as gray as a badger and
with about the same disposition. Perhaps association with Jud Ault had
caused Breen to become cynical, never smiling.
Cleve Sears, the sheriff, had well described Idaho Breen, when he said,
“If I was goin’ to pick out a man to do a first-class job of murderin’
somebody, I’d pick Idaho Breen, ’cause he’d be sure that it was a neat
job--and I don’t reckon his conscience would ever bother him at all.”
Not that Idaho had ever killed anybody--not in the Oreana country, at
least. No one had ever heard him mention the feud between the Lazy A
and the Star X, but for years he had ridden with a Winchester rifle in
a boot under his saddle fender.
It had been hinted that Dude Wheeler had found Faith Ault rather easy to
look upon, but, because she was an Ault, he had rarely seen her. Seldom
did the Lazy A and the Star X outfits meet in Oreana City, but when they
did both sides were coldly civil. They came to the same dances, thereby
causing the sheriff much mental anguish for fear of trouble, as he
wanted to play square with both sides.
But the Aults were gone now, and there were only Idaho Breen his
three punchers, “Omaha” Woods, “Mex” Leone, and “Pie” Ide. But they
were enough. In range language, a man had to be salty to work for the
Lazy A. Omaha Woods was broad of beam, with the neck and shoulders of
a wrestler and the mustache of a Viking.
Mex Leone was small, slender, almost as black as an Indian; possibly
the best bronc rider in the country. Pie Ide was rangy built, tall,
powerful. Men likened him to Abraham Lincoln in his facial aspect, but
the physical likeness was the only way in which he resembled the great
Emancipator. Pie Ide was as hard-bitted as a roundup bucker, but with
a sense of humor, which neither Omaha nor Mex seemed to possess.
It was about a week after the funeral of Jud Ault. Shif’less Hill
was on his monthly peanut spree. While the other cowboys spent their
monthly salary, or a great part of it, for liquor and cards,
Shif’less Hill consumed large quantities of peanuts and a sprinkling
of peppermint candy hearts, chuckling to himself over the inane
inscriptions thereon.
Just now he had strolled to the front gate of Faith Keene’s little
place, where Faith was sitting on the porch with the little boy. She
spoke to Shif’less, who opened the gate and came in, sprawling lazily
on the steps.
He offered Faith some peanuts, but she declined, smiling at the boyish
actions of the big cowboy, who poked a finger at the boy, who chuckled
with delight.
“Hyah makin’ it?” he asked Faith.
“Oh, all right, Shif’less.”
“Uh-huh,” Shif’less crunched a mouthful of peanuts, his big hands
hanging limply on his knees. “Tha’s good, Mrs. Keene. Glad to hear it.
Say,” he looked up at her quizzically, “I heard that yore dad left a
will.”
Faith looked blankly at him. “Why, I--I never heard----”
“Well, he did. I heard Idaho Breen tellin’ about it. Miles Lane helped
him make it out. Idaho signed it, so he said. Some of the boys got to
talkin’ about the Lazy A, and some of ’em seemed to think that you was
agoin’ to git it. But Breen said there was a will. He didn’t tell much
about it, except that there was a niece, or somethin’ like that, mixed
up in it. I was a wonderin’ if Miles Lane had told yuh anythin’ about
it, yuh know.”
“He didn’t, Shif’less,” Faith sighed deeply. “No, I didn’t know anything
about it.”
“Uh-huh. I hear lotsa fellers goin’ around, kinda admittin’ that Jud
Ault was all right. I suppose that’s the thing to do, after a man’s
dead and gone, but they all knowed that----”
“He was my father, Shif’less.”
“That’s all right. Bein’ a father seems to be more or less of a
responsibility, Mrs. Keene; but yore dad shucked his. Yeah, he’s dead
and gone, and you get tears in yore eyes when folks talk about him.
Mebbe yo’re right. I’ve got a dad,” Shif’less smiled slowly, his
wistful eyes fixed upon the little boy on Faith’s lap, “and lotsa
folks say he ain’t worth nothin’. He’s a mean voiced, hard-fisted old
pelican. Yeah, I know him better than anybody else does.
“They say he steals cattle. But they ain’t never caught him at it. Mebbe
he’s a thief, and he sure uses bad language. Sometimes he gets drunk and
acts pretty rough. But as long as I can remember, Mrs. Keene, he’s never
said a mean thing to me, except,” Shif’less smiled and filled his mouth
with peanuts, “except the time he said that I shore as hell was a
throw-back to my monkey ancestors. Dad hates peanuts.”
Faith laughed, and the boy chuckled, as though he understood.
“Yuh named him Jack, didn’t yuh?” asked Shif’less.
“Yes,” softly. “Jack Keene, Junior.”
“Uh-huh. Well,” Shif’less got to his feet, brushing the peanut shells
off his lap, “I’ll be anglin’ along. Say, I was jist a-thinkin’. Out at
the ranch I’ve got a little painted bronc. He ain’t bigger’n a minute.
Been goin’ to break him to ride, but he’s so small that m’ feet hit the
ground. I was jist a-wonderin’ if little Jack wouldn’t like him.”
“Oh, that’s thoughtful of you, Shif’less, but don’t you realize that
little Jack won’t be able to ride a horse for a long time?”
“Uh-huh. Well, I--uh--tha’s all right, too. Yore welcome. I’ll give him
the bronc, and keep it out at the ranch until yuh need it. Them painted
ones shore live a long time. Well, good day, Mrs. Keene. I reckon I’ll
git more peanuts, and head for home.”
Shif’less walked back to the main street, and was heading toward the New
York General Merchandise Store, when he met Cleve Sears, the sheriff.
Sears was short and fat, with a full-moon sort of a face. His idea of a
good time was to sit in the shade and whittle.
“Hello, Shif’less,” he said jerkily. Too much fat had made him short of
breath.
“’Lo, Cleve,” drawled Shif’less. “Whatcha know?”
“I know that Idaho Breen is sore as hell. Know what he done? This
mornin’, so he says, he found fifty-three Lazy A cow hides in a
prospect hole, somewhere between the Lazy A and the road to Welcome
Creek. Said the damn’ hole was about fifty feet deep, and he didn’t
know that them hides was there until he smelled ’em.”
“Smellin’ kinda deep, wasn’t he?” smiled Shif’less.
“Prob’ly the smell come out the mouth of the shaft.”
“Prob’ly. Still that ain’t so bad for him. Hides are worth good money
right now.”
The sheriff breathed heavily. “I dunno. Idaho’s mad. Says he’ll show the
Star X where to git off at.”
Shif’less cracked his few remaining peanuts, poured them into his mouth
and began chewing complacently. “Didja hear that old Jud Ault wrote out
a will before he died?”
“Somebody said he did. Left the Lazy A to a niece of his.”
“And left his daughter out in the cold.”
“Yeah, that’s true. I hear her husband is sendin’ her money every month.