The Cowboy MEGAPACK ®. Owen Wister

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ gettin’s good. We’ll pick up the stuff an’—”

      “What’ll we do with these baboons?” Neff persists, eyeing us in a way that ties my insides into knots.

      “Take ’em as far as the badlands an’ let ’em have it,” Curly says. “No one’ll likely find ’em there.”

      “Killin’ never appealed to me,” Orv says with a shudder. “Even when Neff an’ I was helpin’ you before you got arrested an’ sent up, I was always against killin’.”

      “That ain’t neither here nor there,” Neff says. “We can’t leave these two snoopers to go back to Putantake an’ tell the law—”

      “I ain’t squeemish about killin’ ’em,” Curly says.

      They haul Wintergreen and me to our feet and push us out into the cold darkness. Soon we are all mounted and on our way.

      * * * *

      Daylight finds us riding into the badlands and winding through great washes and gullys and climbing over landslides.

      I look at Wintergreen, and he looks at me and sighs deep. “Lywell,” he says faintly, “leave us resolve never to earn a fast dollar without working honest for it. Never again will I take advantage of a dude, or—”

      “I’ll say you won’t,” Curly pipes up, chuckling unfunny. “Hold it; this is the place. Fall off your hosses, boys.”

      Wintergreen and I dismount, and Neff slides from his saddle and digs two old spades from a pile of dead brush. The next thing, we know, they have taken the ropes off our hands, and we are digging what looks like our graves. But it turns out we are digging up the bank loot, which they buried here. All too soon, we have uncovered a wooden box wrapped in an old slicker.

      “Thanks, boys,” Curly says, pulling his gun. “Now that we no longer need you, I’ll—”

      “Hold it!” a voice says grim.

      Turning, who should we see but Percival Octavius Ogram sitting astraddle his horse, holding twin black-handled sixes in steady hands.

      “The dude!” Orv says, and makes a grab for his gun.

      But there comes a blast from Omaha’s right gun, and Orv forgets all about going for his weapon. In fact, all he can think about is the bloody hole in his right hand.

      “Take those ropes and tie the varmits up, boys,” Omaha says, voice calm. “And much obliged for helping me pin something on the Paschal brothers. Always before, they’ve been too slick for us. This time, it’ll be a different story.”

      “But—but—” Wintergreen gurgles.

      “Sorry I had to fool you,” Omaha says, “but when I ran across your ad, I saw a chance to live close to this nest of skunks without arousing suspicion. Brought along that old newspaper, thinking maybe I’d want to show Curly’s picture to someone. As soon as I heard about the bank holdup, I guessed these coyotes had done it, but had no way to prove it, so I left the paper where you’d be sure to see it. Figured you’d make a try for the reward. Rode to the Double-X ahead of you. Aroused the sidewinders by throwing a rock through a window. Wanted ’em to find you and get scared. Followed you out here where the loot was hidden, and—”

      “Just who are you?” Wintergreen manages to wheeze.

      “Percival Octavius Ogram, Special Deputy Marshall, but just call me Omaha for short.” Then, grinning cheerful, “Too bad you boys didn’t capture these owlhooters so you could collect the reward.”

      * * * *

      It is the next day, and Wintergreen Wilson and I are sitting at the breakfast table, sopping up molasses with our biscuits. It is Wintergreen who breaks a long, gloomy silence.

      “Right decent of Omaha to give me the money he won in them poker games,” he says.

      “Easy money,” I murmur.

      Wintergreen chokes slightly, hangs his big hat on his beermug ears and walks out, cussing.

      GUARDIAN OF THE TRAIL, by Johnston McCulley

      Beth Patchey’s eyes were filled with worry. “Hurry back with Dad’s medicine, Bob,” she urged. “And don’t forget the mail. I’ll be here at the ranch alone until you get back.” She looked up at him anxiously. “You know, with the two boys gone up into the hills looking for those strays, and not coming back until late tomorrow or the next day—” Bob Polk swung up into his saddle and gathered the reins. He was an attractive man of about thirty, tall and strong of movement.

      “You’ll be all right, honey,” he told Beth. “Read your Dad to sleep and let him sleep as long as he will. I’ll burn up the trail.”

      He looked at Beth as she stood in the doorway of the sprawling ranch-house nestling in a grove of trees. Beth made a lovely eyeful. Bob Polk, top rider for the outfit had fallen in love with her the first week he was at the ranch. That was three years ago. Now they were to be married when things got straightened out a bit.

      Beth waved to him as he wheeled his eager bay pony and turned down the trail to the town of Oasis Valley, several miles away.

      The trail was exclusively for the Rafter P. No other ranch used the road that dipped down sharply off the mesa to run on to the town. It was said that one man could stand among the rocks at the head of the trail and fight off a dozen more. That never had come to pass yet, and Polk hoped it never would. The Rafter P had had trouble enough, in his estimation.

      A year ago John Patchey had been terribly hurt when a horse had thrown him and his foot had caught in a stirrup. He had been dragged for a long distance before the frenzied mount was stopped.

      There had been a long fight to save his life. Doctors from a distant city, expensive operations, months of being in casts. The Rafter P was not a wealthy ranch, and the financial drain due to Patchey’s injury had about wrecked it. Stock had been sold and ranch hands dismissed and now only Bob Polk and two others remained. Polk bore the burden willingly. Things would be all right someday, he kept saying.

      John Patchey was beginning to mend swiftly. Still extremely weak from his long illness, the leg encased in a cast was mending more satisfactorily.

      Only the day before, Polk had gone through the books and accounts and had held a conference with Patchey. They had worked out a plan.

      They had a bunch of yearlings ready for sale. The money realized would clear away their debts and leave enough to get going again, if strict economy was used. The news had cheered Beth and her father.

      * * * *

      Out on the trail, Bob let the eager pony show all the speed he wished. At the top of the mesa trail, he stopped the pony for a breathing spell, and looked ahead. In the distance he could see the cluster of brown dots that was the town of Oasis Valley.

      In reality, it was only a trading post containing Luke Harson’s general store and postoffice, a saloon-eating house, a blacksmith shop, and half a dozen small dwellings.

      Polk sent his pony down the steep descent from the mesa and presently they were on the flinty trail that led to the town.

СКАЧАТЬ