Sawtooth Ranch Page 5

  CHAPTER V

  A DEATH "BY ACCIDENT"

  Lone Morgan was a Virginian by birth, though few of his acquaintancesknew it.

  Lone never talked of himself except as his personal history touched acommon interest with his fellows. But until he was seventeen he hadlived very close to the centre of one of the deadliest feuds of theBlue Ridge. That he had been neutral was merely an accident of birth,perhaps. And that he had not become involved in the quarrel that ragedamong his neighbours was the direct result of a genius for holding histongue. He had attended the funerals of men shot down in their owndooryards, he had witnessed the trials of the killers. He had grown upwith the settled conviction that other men's quarrels did not concernhim so long as he was not directly involved, and that what did notconcern him he had no right to discuss. If he stood aside and letviolence stalk by unhindered, he was merely doing what he had beentaught to do from the time he could walk. "Mind your own business andlet other folks do the same," had been the family slogan in Lone'shome. There had been nothing in Lone's later life to convince him thatminding his own business was not a very good habit. It had grown to besecond nature,--and it had made him a good man for the Sawtooth CattleCompany to have on its pay roll.

  Just now Lone was stirred beyond his usual depth of emotion, and it wasnot altogether the sight of Fred Thurman's battered body that unnervedhim. He wanted to believe that Thurman's death was purely anaccident,--the accident it appeared. But Lorraine and the telltalehoofprints by the rock compelled him to believe that it was not anaccident. He knew that if he examined carefully enough Fred Thurman'sbody he would find the mark of a bullet. He was tempted to look, andyet he did not want to know. It was no business of his; it would befoolish to let it become his business.

  "He's too dead to care now how it happened--and it would only stir uptrouble," he finally decided and turned his eyes away.

  He pulled the twisted foot from the stirrup, left the body where itlay, and led the blaze-faced horse to a tree and tied it securely. Hetook off his coat and spread it over the head and shoulders of the deadman, weighted the edges with rocks and rode away.

  Halfway up the hill he left the road and took a narrow trail throughthe sage, a short-cut that would save him a couple of miles.

  The trail crossed the ridge half a mile beyond Rock City, dipping intothe lower end of the small gulch where he had overtaken the girl. Theplace recalled with fresh vividness her first words to him: "Are _you_the man I saw shoot that other man and fasten his foot in the stirrup?"Lone shivered and threw away the cigarette he had just lighted.

  "My God, that girl mustn't tell that to any one else!" he exclaimedapprehensively. "No matter who she is or what she is, she mustn't tellthat!"

  "Hello! Who you talking to? I heard somebody talking----" The bushesparted above a low, rocky ledge and a face peered out, smilinggood-humouredly. Lone started a little and pulled up.

  "Oh, hello, Swan. I was just telling this horse of mine all I wasgoing to do to him. Say, you're a chancey bird, Swan, yelling from thebrush like that. Some folks woulda taken a shot at you."

  "Then they'd hit me, sure," Swan observed, letting himself down intothe trail. He, too, was wet from his hat crown to his shoes, thatsquelched when he landed lightly on his toes. "Anybody would beashamed to shoot at a mark so large as I am. I'd say they're poorshooters." And he added irrelevantly, as he held up a grayish pelt, "Igot that coyote I been chasing for two weeks. He was sure smart. Hehad me guessing. But I made him guess some, maybe. He guessed wrongthis time."

  Lone's eyes narrowed while he looked Swan over. "You must have beenout all night," he said. "You're crazier about hunting than I am."

  "Wet bushes," Swan corrected carelessly. "I been tramping sincedaylight. It's my work to hunt, like it's your work to ride." He hadswung into the trail ahead of John Doe and was walking with longstrides,--the tallest, straightest, limberest young Swede in all thecountry. He had the bluest eyes, the readiest smile, the healthiestcolour, the sunniest hair and disposition the Sawtooth country had seenfor many a day. He had homesteaded an eighty-acre claim on the southside of Bear Top and had by that means gained possession of two livingsprings and the only accessible portion of Wilder Creek where itcrossed the meadow called Skyline before it plunged into a gulch toonarrow for cattle to water with any safety.

  The Sawtooth Cattle Company had for years "covered" that eighty-acrepatch of government land, never dreaming that any one would ever fileon it. Swan Vjolmar was there and had his log cabin roofed and readyfor the door and windows before the Sawtooth discovered his presence.Now, nearly a year afterwards, he was accepted in a tolerant,half-friendly spirit. He had not objected to the Sawtooth cattle whichstill watered at Skyline Meadow. He was a "Government hunter" and hehad killed many coyotes and lynx and even a mountain lion or two. Lonewondered sometimes what the Sawtooth meant to do about the Swede, butso far the Sawtooth seemed inclined to do nothing at all, evidentlythinking his war on animal pests more than atoned for his effrontery intaking Skyline as a homestead. When he had proven up on his claim theywould probably buy him out and have the water still.

  "Well, what do you know?" Swan turned his head to inquire abruptly."You're pretty quiet."

  Lone roused himself. "Fred Thurman's been dragged to death by thatdamned flighty horse of his," he said. "I found him in the brush thisside of Granite Creek. Had his foot caught in the stirrup. I thoughtI'd best leave him there till the coroner can view him."

  Swan stopped short in the trail and turned facing Lone. "Last night mydog Yack whines to go out. He went and sat in a place where he looksdown on the walley, and he howled for half an hour. I said then thatsomebody in the walley has died. That dog is something queer about it.He knows things."

  "I'm going to the Sawtooth," Lone told him. "I can telephone to thecoroner from there. Anybody at Thurman's place, do you know?"

  Swan shook his head and started again down the winding, steep trail."I don't hunt over that way for maybe a week. That's too bad he'skilled. I like Fred Thurman. He's a fine man, you bet."

  "He was," said Lone soberly. "It's a damn shame he had to go--likethat."

  Swan glanced back at him, studied Lone's face for an instant and turnedinto a tributary gully where a stream trickled down over the water-wornrocks. "Here I leave you," he volunteered, as Lone came abreast ofhim. "A coyote's crossed up there, and I maybe find his tracks. Icould go do chores for Fred Thurman if nobody's there. Should I dothat? What you say, Lone?"

  "You might drift around by there if it ain't too much out of your way,and see if he's got a man on the ranch," Lone suggested. "But youbetter not touch anything in the house, Swan. The coroner'll likelyappoint somebody to look around and see if he's got any folks to sendhis stuff to. Just feed any stock that's kept up, if nobody's there."

  "All right," Swan agreed readily. "I'll do that, Lone. Good-bye."

  Lone nodded and watched him climb the steep slope of the gulch on theside toward Thurman's ranch. Swan climbed swiftly, seeming to take nothought of where he put his feet, yet never once slipping or slowing.In two minutes he was out of sight, and Lone rode on moodily, tryingnot to think of Fred Thurman, trying to shut from his mind the thingsthat wild-eyed, hoarse-voiced girl had told him.

  "Lone, you mind your own business," he advised himself once. "Youdon't know anything that's going to do any one any good, and what youdon't know there's no good guessing. But that girl--she mustn't talklike that!"

  Of Swan he scarcely gave a thought after the Swede had disappeared, yetSwan was worth a thought or two, even from a man who was bent onminding his own business. Swan had no sooner climbed the gulch towardThurman's claim than he proceeded to descend rather carefully to thebottom again, walk along on the rocks for some distance and climb tothe ridge whose farther slope led down to Granite Creek. He did notfollow the trail, but struck straight across an outcropping ledge,descended to Granite Creek and strode along next the hi
ll where thesoil was gravelly and barren. When he had gone some distance, he satdown and took from under his coat two huge, crudely made moccasins ofcoyote skin. These he pulled on over his shoes, tied them around hisankles and went on, still keeping close under the hill.

  He reached the place where Fred Thurman lay, stood well away from thebody and studied every detail closely. Then, stepping carefully ontrampled brush and rocks, he approached and cautiously lifted Lone'scoat. It was not a pretty sight, but Swan's interest held him therefor perhaps ten minutes, his eyes leaving the body only when theblaze-faced horse moved. Then Swan would look up quickly at the horse,seem reassured when he saw that the animal was not watching anything ata distance, and return, to his curious task. Finally he drew the coatback over the head and shoulders, placed each stone exactly as he hadfound it and went up to the horse, examining the saddle rather closely.After that he retreated as carefully as he had approached. When he hadgone half a mile or so upstream he found a place where he could washhis hands without wetting his moccasins, returned to the rocky hillsideand took off the clumsy footgear and stowed them away under his coat.Then with long strides that covered the ground as fast as a horse coulddo without loping, Swan headed as straight as might be for the Thurmanranch.

  About noon Swan approached the crowd of men and a few women who stoodat a little distance and whispered together, with their faces avertedfrom the body around which the men stood grouped. The news had spreadas such news will, even in a country so sparsely settled as theSawtooth. Swan counted forty men,--he did not bother with the women.Fred Thurman had been known to every one of them. Some one had spreada piece of canvas over the corpse, and Swan did not go very near. Theblaze-faced horse had been led farther away and tied to a cottonwood,where some one had thrown down a bundle of hay. The Sawtooth countrywas rather punctilious in its duty toward the law, and it was generallybelieved that the coroner would want to see the horse that had causedthe tragedy.

  Half an hour after Swan arrived, the coroner came in a machine, andwith him came the sheriff. The coroner, an important little man,examined the body, the horse and the saddle, and there was the usualformula of swearing in a jury. The inquest was rather short, sincethere was only one witness to testify, and Lone merely told how he haddiscovered the horse there by the creek, and that the body had not beenmoved from where he found it.

  Swan went over to where Lone, anxious to get away from the place, wasuntying his horse after the jury had officially named the death anaccident.

  "I guess those horses could be turned loose," he began without prelude."What you think, Lone? I been to Thurman's ranch, and I don't findanybody. Some horses in a corral, and pigs in a pen, and chickens. Iguess Thurman was living alone. Should I tell the coroner that?"

  "I dunno," Lone replied shortly. "You might speak to the sheriff. Ireckon he's the man to take charge of things."

  "It's bad business, getting killed," Swan said vaguely. "It makes mefeel damn sorry when I go to that ranch. There's the horses waitingfor breakfast--and Thurman, he's dead over here and can't feed his pigsand his chickens. It's a white cat over there that comes to meet meand rubs my leg and purrs like it's lonesome. That's a nice ranch he'sgot, too. Now what becomes of that ranch? What you think, Lone?"

  "Hell, how should I know?" Lone scowled at him from the saddle androde away, leaving Swan standing there staring after him. He turnedaway to find the sheriff and almost collided with Brit Hunter, who wasglancing speculatively from him to Lone Morgan. Swan stopped and putout his hand to shake.

  "Lone says I should tell the sheriff I could look after Fred Thurman'sranch. What you think, Mr Hunter?"

  "Good idea, I guess. Somebody'll have to. They can't----" He checkedhimself. "You got a horse? I'll ride over with yuh, maybe."

  "I got legs," Swan returned laconically. "They don't get scared, MrHunter, and maybe kill me sometime. You could tell the sheriff I'mgovernment hunter and honest man, and I take good care of things. Youcould do that, please?"

  "Sure," said Brit and rode over to where the sheriff was standing.

  The sheriff listened, nodded, beckoned to Swan. "The court'll have tosettle up the estate and find his heirs, if he's got any. But you lookafter things--what's your name? Vjolmar--how yuh spell it? I'll swearyou in as a deputy. Good Lord, you're a husky son-of-a-gun!" Thesheriff's eyes went up to Swan's hat crown, descended to his shouldersand lingered there admiringly for a moment, travelled down his flat,hard-muscled body and his straight legs. "I'll bet you could put upsome fight, if you had to," he commented.

  Swan grinned good-humouredly, glanced conscience-stricken at thecovered figure on the ground and straightened his face decorously.

  "I could lick you good," he admitted in a stage whisper. "I'm ason-off-a-gun all right--only I don't never get mad at somebody."

  Brit Hunter smiled at that, it was so like Swan Vjolmar. But when theywere halfway to Thurman's ranch--Brit on horseback and Swan stridingeasily along beside him, leading the blaze-faced horse, he glanced downat Swan's face and wondered if Swan had not lied a little.

  "What's on your mind, Swan?" he asked abruptly.

  Swan started and looked up at him, glanced at the empty hills on eitherside, and stopped still in the trail.

  "Mr Hunter, you been longer in the country than I have been. You seensome good riding, I bet. Maybe you see some men ride backwards on ahorse?"

  Brit looked at him uncomprehendingly. "Backwards?"

  Swan led up the blaze-faced horse and pointed to the right stirrup."Spurs would scratch like that if you jerk your foot, maybe. You're agood rider, Mr Hunter, you can tell. That's a right stirrup, ain't it?Fred Thurman, he's got his left foot twist around, all broke fromjerking in his stirrup. Left foot in right stirrup----" He pushedback his hat and rumpled his yellow hair, looking up into Brit's faceinquiringly. "Left foot in right stirrup is riding backwards. That'sa damn good rider to ride like that--what you think, Mr Hunter?"