The trail of deception
git together. And when he trots, brace yore legs. No use of him goin’
one way and you the other. And another thing; that horse is rein-broke.
Yuh don’t have to take holt of one rein with both hands and yank his
jaw loose. Try it again.”
At supper time Jim Bailey staggered to the house. Peter the Hermit
didn’t stagger at all, he lay down where he was. This was almost too
much for his ancient bones. Archibald Haas said to Mary:
“All he needs is the finishin’ touches.”
“What do you mean, Archie?” she asked.
“Jist shoot him and put him out of his misery.”
“You’ll not shoot Peter the Hermit!”
“’Course not. I didn’t mean him.”
VI
Jim Bailey was in bad shape next morning. He was barely able to limp to
the breakfast table. The rest of the crew had eaten and gone away, long
before Jim Bailey came to breakfast. Archibald Haas was there.
“I’ve got a bronc all saddled for yuh,” he said.
Jim Bailey groaned.
“This’n is a little faster than Pete,” Archibald said. “And more
durable.”
Tellurium placed Jim’s breakfast on the table, stepped back and looked
Jim over appraisingly.
“I found a pair of boots for yuh,” he said. “They ain’t no Sunday
specimens, but they’ve got heels. You’ve got to have heels.”
“What I need,” groaned Jim, “is two new legs, two new arms and a
headache tablet.”
“Does it hurt yuh to set down?” asked Archibald.
“It does,” replied Jim grimly, “but it also hurts me to stand up or lie
down.”
“Didja ever try hangin’ by yore hands?” asked Tellurium soberly.
Archibald stood in the kitchen doorway, yawned widely and announced:
“Here comes that knot-headed lawyer from Pinnacle.”
Jim didn’t want to talk with Ed McLean. In fact, he didn’t want to
talk with anybody, but McLean came up to the kitchen. Hot weather
gave McLean a beaded complexion and he continually polished his bald
head with a pink handkerchief. Jim could see that the lawyer was not
in good humor. He refused breakfast curtly.
Jim finished and limped outside with McLean, who led him down by the
corral, where he could talk without being overheard.
“In my mail last evening,” said McLean, a bit grimly, “I got a letter
and a clipping from a friend of mine in Frisco. The clipping deals with
the death of Bob Hawley.”
“Bob Hawley?” asked Jim quickly. “Is Bob dead?”
Ed McLean looked at Jim Bailey, and his expression was not exactly
friendly.
“According to the time element,” he replied, “Bob Hawley must have died
the night before you left San Francisco. Bob Hawley told me that your
name was De Haven.”
“Well,” said Jim, “is that remarkable?”
“According to this clipping--yes. The body believed to be that of Jim
Bailey has been identified as that of Cliff De Haven, and the police
are looking for Jim Bailey, who roomed with De Haven. They would like
to know why De Haven had articles on his person, which identified him
as Bailey.”
Jim Bailey thought the thing over carefully. It would be easy to explain
to the police, as far as he was concerned. He said:
“Well?”
“You,” said the lawyer accusingly, “are an impostor.”
Jim Bailey laughed, “So the pot calls the kettle black, eh?”
“You can tell me the truth, Bailey,” McLean said. “I don’t want the San
Francisco police tracing you to Pinnacle City.”
“They won’t get that far,” said Jim, and proceeded to tell the lawyer
exactly what happened.
“So De Haven merely appropriated your suit, eh?”
“That’s all. I took his letter--and took a chance.”
“All right. I’ll go back now. What makes you so lame?”
“Learning to ride a horse,” groaned Jim.
“Stay off the bad ones,” warned the lawyer. “At least, stay off them,
until this deal is finished. I need a live heir to the Lazy H.”
Ed McLean drove away, and Archibald came down from the kitchen, carrying
a pair of old, high-heel boots. The heels were worn off on the outside,
indicating that the owner had been bow-legged.
“They ain’t much--but they’ll help,” Archibald said.
* * * * *
Leaning against the corral fence, Jim painfully pulled them on. They
were a little tight, but not too bad. Walking was difficult, especially
with his aching legs. There was an old pair of overalls and an old
sombrero hanging on a peg in the stable. The overalls were tight but the
sombrero was loose.
Archibald looked him over approvingly.
“Right now,” he declared, “yo’re three looks and a whoop from bein’ a
tenderfoot. I ain’t sure whether you’d be diagnosed as a broken-down
cowpoke, or a up-and-comin’ sheepherder. However, my friend, you won’t
scare the cows.”
Mary came down to the stable. She wanted to be sure that no tricks were
being played on Jim. When she saw him she emitted a smothered shriek,
and he laughed heartily.
“How do I look, Mary?” he asked.
“How do you feel?” she whispered huskily.
“Terrible.”
“You look just that way, Jim. Are you going to ride again?”
“I am going to try.”
Archibald came out with a Roman-nosed sorrel, saddled and bridled.
There was little comparison between this horse and Peter the Hermit,
except that they both had four legs. Mary said:
“Do you think he’s capable of handling Blondy, Archie?”
“Well,” replied the wrangler, “I figure that Blondy is the only horse
around here capable of handling him. He won’t buck. You know Blondy. If
he gits four, five miles away from the ranch, he’ll come back in spite
of hell and high-water.”
Mary nodded, and watched Jim get into the saddle. It was a very painful
procedure, and Jim’s face showed it.
“Don’t go too far,” she advised. “If you get lost, give Blondy his
head, and he’ll come home. And if he wants to come home, don’t try to
stop him; it makes him mad.”
“I shall do my best,” replied Jim.
“You let Blondy do that, you jist set,” advised Archibald.
Mary shook her head as Jim disappeared down an old road.
“You ain’t worryin’ about that gallinipper, are yuh?” asked the
wrangler.
“Not worrying, no,” she replied. “I didn’t think he would have the nerve
to get on a horse today.”
Archibald chuckled. “Not only that, but he looks almost human in them
clothes, Mary.”
“People’s ideas of humanity differ, I’m afraid,” said the girl.
Jim Bailey soon found out that Blondy was not like Peter the Hermit.
Blondy _wanted_ to go places. Mary had said that Blondy would bring him
home; so why worry? There was a cooling breeze in the hills, which made
riding pleasant. He struck a trail, leading up through a wide swale, and
sent Blondy over it in a swinging walk.
For the first time in his life Jim Bailey felt freedom. He was not going
any certain place, and he was not going home until the horse decided to
go back. All he had to do was enjoy the scenery. The sore muscles were
much easier now, and he began to like riding.
At the top of the swale they found another well-worn trail, and kept
on going. For an hour or more they followed trail after trail, until
Jim began to wonder how long before Blondy would feel the urge to go
back to the ranch. By this time they were high in the breaks, where
he could see the blue haze of the valley. There were cattle along
the trail, wild-eyed creatures, moving quickly aside into the brush.
Two deer broke out of a thicket and went bouncing into the heavy
cover. It was all very new to Jim Bailey. Suddenly Blondy stopped
short, shaking his head. Jim booted him gently, but the horse
whirled, almost upsetting his rider, struck a down-trail through the
brush, and went along at a swinging walk. Jim laughed aloud. Blondy
was going home.
It seemed that Blondy was taking a short-cut, instead of going around
the way they came. The trail was steep, and the hoofs of the horse cut
deep into the dirt, angling down into a canyon. They struck the bottom
and kept on going down through a mesquite thicket, where the trail was
almost too narrow. Those mesquite claws slashed at Jim’s overalls and
boots, and now he understood why cowpokes wore leather chaps.
Suddenly they broke into an opening, possibly two acres in size. Just
ahead, standing against the edge of the brush, were two saddled horses.
Near the horses were two men, one of them kneeling down beside a roped
yearling. A few feet away was a tiny pile of sticks, a thin spiral of
almost colorless smoke indicating the branding fire. Blondy stopped
short, and one of the horses nickered softly.
* * * * *
Both men whirled, the one lurching to his feet. Jim started to call a
greeting to them, when a gun flamed and he felt Blondy jerk back from
the impact of the bullet. Another shot blasted, and Jim found himself
pitching into space as the horse fell sideways. Only slightly dazed
from the fall, Jim got to his feet, dimly realizing that these men
were shooting at him. A bullet tugged at his sleeve, and Jim Bailey
had a sudden urge to get as far away as possible in the least space
of time.
It has been said that it is impossible to run fast in high-heel boots,
but Jim Bailey disproved this theory. It was the first time he had ever
been obliged to run in order to save his life, and he made the best of
it. There was no soreness left in his legs, and he went into that heavy
brush with all the dispatch of a frightened cottontail. Not only did he
go into the brush, but he kept right on going, while bullets whistled
past him.
Finally he sprawled, exhausted, and waited for the worst. He could
not hear any sounds of pursuit. A half-hour passed, but there were
no sounds, except the buzzing of a bee, the call of a bird. Jim got
carefully to his feet. Something else buzzed near him, and he
instinctively held still. After a few moments a diamond-back rattler
slowly uncoiled and slid easily away in the undergrowth. Jim Bailey
shivered. The snake had rattled not over five feet away.
Cautiously he made his way back to the cleared space. There was Blondy,
flat on his side, but no sign of the two men. He went to the horse, but
the animal was dead. Jim’s heart sank. He knew it was a long way back to
the Lazy H, but in just what direction?
“It must be downhill,” reasoned the young man, “because we came all the
way uphill. If I ever get out of this alive, I’ve had all I want of the
West.”
It was after sundown that evening, when Skeeter Smith came riding
along the base of the hills north of the Lazy H. He saw a man stumble
out of the mouth of a small canyon. The man stopped in the open,
looking around. When he saw Skeeter he ducked down behind some brush.
He was acting so queerly that Skeeter approached him cautiously.
It was Jim Bailey, scratched and torn, his face bleeding, hands cut.
One sleeve of his shirt was entirely gone, the rest of the garment in
tatters. One bare knee protruded from a split overall leg, and there
were cactus spines in that knee.
“Meade! What happened to you?” Skeeter gasped.
“I’ve been walking,” replied Jim wearily.
“Yeah, I reckon you’ve been doin’ somethin’. Here,” Skeeter slipped his
left foot out of the stirrup, “hook your foot into that stirrup and come
up behind me.”
“You mean two on one horse?”
“That’s right. Hook that stirrup and I’ll help yuh on. Don’t stand there
like a billy-owl--climb up.”
With his help, Jim managed to get up behind Skeeter. He drew a deep
breath.
“I went riding and somebody shot my horse,” he said.
“They did? Well, that’s interestin’. Shot yore horse, eh?”
“Tried to shoot me, too,” complained Jim. “Are you sure you know the way
back to the ranch? I think you’re going the wrong way.”
“Yore compass is busted, pardner,” chuckled Skeeter.
“I feel completely busted,” said Jim. “Even the snakes buzzed at me.”