Clarence Edward Mulford

THE ULTIMATUM

There was movement on the Gunsight trail at an early morning hour. Five men rode to within half a mile of the town and then halted for a final consultation, which was soon over. Three rode westward at a walk, another went on, bearing slightly to the east, while the fifth, dismounting, led his horse from the trail, picketed it in a steep-walled ravine and went north on foot.

The eastern sky paled, grew silvery, and then became tinted with red and gold. A man crouched behind the hotel shed, swearing softly because he heard no sounds of a horse within it. He snuggled close to a knothole, peering at the hotel wall not far from him, and the rifle in his hand was full cocked. Behind the saloon shed another man had thrust his rifle through a crack and as the light increased, he cuddled his cheek against the stock and peered along the sights into an open window in the rear wall of the hotel. Lying in a clump of weeds north of the saloon and near the trail was another rifleman, who could see Dave's north wall and the front of the saloon as well. A fourth had settled down in the end of a shallow gully across the trail from Dailey's store, his Winchester needing but to move over a short arc to cover the door of the saloon. It was point-blank range for him, and in this matter he was no better off than his three friends. The fifth, the angry and determined foreman of the Bar H, not finding cover as close as he would have liked, was forced to ensconce himself over two hundred yards from the front of the hotel, and a little to the right of Jerry's shop, where he kept turning problems over in his mind. Desperate ailments called for desperate cures, and if Gunsight objected as to methods, then it would have to object in the persons of the three easy-going inhabitants who were likely to be offended. The actions of the Double X were far more serious, but had to be risked if life were to be worth living for the outfit of the Bar H. With the coming of dawn Big Tom pondered less and looked more, his rifle at his shoulder, ready for instant use.

Back on the trail there was silent movement as an indistinct and bootless figure crossed it and paused, waiting for light. The darkness thinned and the figure moved forward again, bent over close to the boot marks on the ground, which it followed with slow sureness. The stockinged feet made no sound, avoiding twigs and dead leaves, and not an out-thrust branch whipped or scraped as the man worked forward. He carried a heavy Sharp's, the heel of his hand over the cocked hammer, his fingers covering the trigger guard as an extra precaution against accidental discharge.

The few buildings in Gunsight appeared as though a curtain were slowly rising and finally stood revealed in their entirety. The sun rose and threw soft, delicate shadows from the bases of all standing objects, too weak to mark their patterns far, melting into oblivion. A door slammed, sounding irreverent and out of place, and from the hotel chimney curled a timid wisp of smoke, this way and that, finally climbing straight up and losing its identity against the gray-blue of the sky, while its supporting column twisted and turned and danced as it hurried to self-effacement. Dailey's chimney sent up a skirmishing film, which died out; and then, as if in stalwart support of the fainting advance, there came a darker, thicker column, telling all who cared to read that Dailey put his trust in kerosene. The hotel door opened, causing a quick movement of Big Tom's rifle, and George, sleepy and unpleasant in looks and disposition, glanced idly around and went back again. From far off in the west the quavering, long-drawn wail of a coyote, mercifully tempered by distance, arose to greet the rising sun. Birds sang with delirious abandon and the soft noises in grass and sand and brush told of a waking world. In the vague grayness of the hotel, framed by the open door, something moved, steadily growing plainer and soon took the form of a towel in the hands of George, who drove winged pests before him and, with a final, frenzied waving, took hold of the door and slammed it shut. As it closed Big Tom relaxed, eased his hold on the rifle and reached back to remove a stone which was beginning to assert its presence under him to his growing discomfort. Turning his head, he looked back, and froze, his groping fingers rigid. Ten feet behind him and to his right was the black muzzle of a heavy rifle, and behind that a pair of gray-blue eyes regarded him malevolently through narrow slits in the bronzed face. For a tense, appreciable interval eyes looked into eyes, and then the foreman squirmed.

"Don't move, only as I tell you, an' slow," said Johnny's clear, low voice. "I got you just th' way I want you—ambushin'! Don't touch that gun, an' don't make no noise. First, put yore hands up even with yore armpits, palms down, on th' ground. Now inch back, away from that gun. Keep on—more—more—all right—stop! Slide 'em forward, straight out ahead of you, an' then lay still. You can admire Fannin's front door, an' imagine me in it, careless an' easy prey for a pot-shooter, if it'll do you any good. Don't look around till I tell you to, an' don't make a sound, blast you!"

Not being able to do anything else, Big Tom obeyed and soon felt his Colt leave its holster. A hand felt up under his coat, to see if the back-strap of his trousers held a gun. Being right-handed, the foreman would hardly choose to carry a six-gun there under ordinary circumstances, but this situation was not in that category. The back-strap was guiltless.

"Roll over on yore back," came the next command, and when it had been obeyed the same inquiring hand passed lightly and quickly over waist-band and shirt bosom, the left hand holding a six-gun now instead of the rifle. "All right, wiggle down in that gully, and then head for where you left yore cayuse, keepin' low down, like yore nature, an' out of sight of town."

"What do you think yo're doin'?" wrathfully inquired Big Tom, but obeying as he protested.

"Huntin' for an excuse to blow you apart, you ambushin' dog," came the metallic reply. "Shut yore mouth, an' keep on goin'. I'll give you a chance to talk later. Any harm that comes to you will be of yore own makin'. Keep on!"

They reached the brush at the edge of the trail, waited a moment, and then crossed swiftly, and when they stopped again it was at Pepper's side. Johnny quickly mounted and urged his captive on again. Coming to a picketed Bar H horse he ordered the foreman to mount it, and as the helpless man obeyed Johnny revealed their objective.

"Head for yore ranchhouse," he said. "Ride on my right side, yore stirrup even with my pommel, where my Colt will have a fair view of you from under my coat. If we meet anybody, pass 'em on yore side, an' don't make no remarks that ain't needed. We go at a lope; hit it up!"

And so they rode, except at a few places in the canyon, where the narrowness of the twisting trail made Big Tom go ahead. Arriving at the ranchhouse they rode around on its further side, tied the horses to a stake, and went indoors.

"Sit down," commanded Johnny, indicating a chair in the middle of the room. "Here, look at this," and he handed the foreman a piece of paper which was covered with sprawled figures. "I don't know what Fraser forgot, or what he got tangled up, so I'll go over it again. Them top figgers are based on th' tally sheets of th' SV in th' fall of th' year that Arnold took possession. They ain't like th' figgers Ol' Simon could 'a' showed, for th' ranch had been on th' slide for some years, an' plenty of its cows went on th' drive trail to give money to th' heirs. Th' lowest figgers are based on th' tally Cimarron finished yesterday. Natural increase, figgered as one to five, shows what they ought to be, minus them that Arnold had to sell to get grub. It's all there."

"Th' h—l with 'em!" blazed the foreman, crushing the sheet in his hand and hurling it from him. "What do I care about any figgers belongin' to th' SV? Take yore figgers an' get out—I'm advisin' you to leave this part of th' country, an' cussed quick. I ain't playin' godfather to th' SV, an' I'm runnin' this ranch without no help from you, Sherwood, or anybody else."

"When I leave this range I'll go of my own accord, an' there won't be no pushin'," retorted Johnny. "Sherwood can 'tend to his own business; I'll 'tend to mine; but I've got time to look after a little of yourn. If you ain't godfather to th' SV, yo're shore goin' to act like one. There's nine hundred an' seventy head clean missin' from it, an' there's plenty of big ranches down Texas way that would yell for th' rangers, an' holler calamity if they had lost that many. For a little ranch to lose 'em it is shore enough calamity. If anybody would put that many cows on th' trail for me I'd show 'em a lot of money at th' other end."

"SV calamities don't mean nothin' to me," rejoined Big Tom. "It was allowed to run itself, an' it run itself into th' ground. Why wouldn't it lose a lot of cattle?"

"It shore might do just that," conceded Johnny, "if it wasn't for one thing. Yo're an old hand in th' cattle business, an' you know that a bunch of cattle can run wild an' grow amazin'. An' they'd shore do it on a range like th' SV with that valley an' them brush-filled draws for winter shelter. There ain't no natural enemies to cut down th' calves—an' that ranch is good grazin' all year 'round. There wasn't cows enough to eat it down."

"There's them quicksands, an' there was a lot of gray wolves runnin' down here th' last couple of years!" shouted Big Tom, red with anger. "They never even kept up th' wire fence around th' quicksands. Why wouldn't they lose cows?"

"The quicksands would get a few," rejoined Johnny. "They would get more if th' cows was drove into 'em like I caught Lang doin'—an' them will be figgered in th' herd to be throwed back. I've asked about wolves an' everythin' else—there wasn't nothin' to keep 'em down. An' as for that fence, th' less you, or any of yore gang have to say about that, th' better it'll be for you."

"Then yo're callin' me a liar," blazed the foreman. "There was wolves down here! An' I never touched that fence, neither."

"Mebby you didn't personal; an' I ain't callin' you a liar while you ain't got a gun," retorted Johnny. "But I am admittin' that yo're plumb mistaken. Comin' down to cases, pleasant an' friendly, I'm sayin' that th' Bar H owes the SV nine hundred an' seventy head of cattle, as they come in a round-up, all kinds an' conditions. When do you aim to start deliverin'?"

The foreman sprang to his feet. "When do I aim to start deliverin'?" he shouted, staring into the calm, gray eyes of the man whose Colt covered him. "When do I aim to start deliverin'?" he repeated, his neck swelling. "I ain't aimin' to at all! Nine hundred an' seventy! That would plumb ruin us!"

"It ain't ruined th' SV," replied Johnny evenly. "Not quite, anyhow," he added. "An' it won't ruin you, because they can all be figgered as extras. We all know they ain't never been put on th' tally sheets with th' other cattle, for th' owners to know about. They're strays, you might say, that have been eatin' up yore grazin' scandalous. They've wandered over on you an' are likely to eat you into some kind of ruin. You ought to be able to do better without 'em, an' you shore ought to be glad to get rid of such a hungry bunch of cattle that you can't prove title to."

"I've got all th' title I need—they're on my ranch, an' that's good enough," shouted Big Tom. "It's good enough for me, an' it's good enough for everybody else, you included."

"Not for nobody else," corrected Johnny, "me least of all. That title is questioned now by more than a dozen men. You can't keep 'em, nohow, for th' general round-up will cut 'em four ways. Th' times are changin' down here like they changed some years back on th' older ranges. Th' runnin' iron is dyin' fast, an' for good reasons. Maverickin' is goin' out of style—an' nothin' can stop it. An' with it goes that title you was mentionin'. Why not get ahead of 'em, an' throw them cows over onto th' SV before anybody gets insultin' you?"

"I'll have somethin' to say about any styles changin' down here," retorted the foreman. "Mebby more than some folks think."

"You ain't got a chance, not a chance," Johnny assured him. "You'll be like th' Injun that tried to push back th' first, an' last, engine he ever saw. It was goin' strong when he tried it."

"An' I ain't got th' authority to give away a cow, not even a single dogie—not to mention a herd. I'm not ownin' this ranch; I'm workin' for it. How can I straighten out my tally sheets to cover th' loss of a herd like that? They don't belong to me—they belong to th' ranch, to th' owners." He was wasting as much time in argument as he knew how in the hope that his outfit would return.

"Pshaw!" laughed Johnny. "They can all be accounted for. Didn't I just say that they never got on th' tally sheets at all? You shore found you had been feedin' a hull passel of cows that didn't belong to th' ranch in case they did get on th' tally sheets. You found it out, an' it was so plumb careless of yore line riders that you up an' fired them that was responsible. That won't bother you, because you got three names off yore pay-roll right now. There ain't nothin' we can't get around if we pull together."

"But th' title to 'em wouldn't stick," objected the baited foreman. "Every one of them cows could be took away from Arnold. I ain't got th' authority to make it stick. An' th' only reason I'm wastin' time talkin' to you over a fool thing like this is because you got a gun on me, an' I can't help myself." His brain seized upon and rejected scheme after scheme for getting out of the situation, one of which he recalled and examined anew. It was not a bad one, if bad came to worse, and he nursed it, sorry that so much time would have to elapse before he could carry it out.

"I just said we could get around anythin'," replied Johnny, pleasantly. "There's an awful lot of mavericks runnin' around on this ranch, most of 'em under four years old. They wouldn't show any Bar H brand. They'd only have a SV. There wouldn't even be a vent brand to single 'em out; an' cattle ain't tellin' where they come from, or we'd 'a' heard a lot of scandals long ago."

"Nine hundred an' seventy mavericks!" snorted Big Tom. "A fine chance I'd have of roundin' up that many! Yo're plumb loco."

"That is a lot, I'll admit," conceded Johnny, apparently balked. "Of course, if you owned this ranch, you could make it up with Bar H brands. But you don't. You can't give away nothin' that you don't own. I can see where that would put you. Anythin' that was yours you could give away; but not no Bar H belongin's. That yore idea?"

"Yo're gettin' th' drift, slow but shore," sarcastically rejoined the foreman. "Anythin' I own I can give away; but not nothin' I don't own. A kid can understand that. An' there ain't that many mavericks on this ranch."

"I still say we can get around anythin' an' I ain't no kid," muttered Johnny. "Lemme see: First, we'll consider cash. Got any?"

"Nothin' but my wages," answered the foreman, a sarcastic smile playing around his lips.

"Too bad," mused Johnny, "wages ain't a patch. If we could have you ownin' a nice pile of money—but can get money!"

"Look here!" snapped Big Tom, aggressively. "I can't sign no checks over a certain amount a year—th' bank wouldn't cash 'em. An' they've all been signed for this year, all but th' pay-roll. An' I don't own that money, neither. That belongs to th' ranch."

"Well, failin' in cash," said Johnny, crisply, "I'll take a note. Will you gimme one?"

"I will; you can have it," nodded Big Tom, his pet scheme coming more vividly into his mind. "I'll make it out right here, an' now."

"I don't want yore note," objected Johnny. "What good is it? Now, if it was endorsed by somebody that could make it good, why that would be different. You said you'd gimme a note; then gimme that one for three thousand dollars, of Arnold's, that is endorsed by somebody that can make it good. An' also a receipt for it. That'll cut down that nine hundred an' seventy an amazin' lot. Th' difference won't be too many to get right here on th' Bar H, an' all of 'em mavericks."

Big Tom was staring at him as if doubting his senses. His face flushed and the veins on his neck and forehead stood out like serpents. He stepped forward involuntarily, but the gun stopped him. He was incapable of speech for the moment and could only make inarticulate sounds.

"That'll help a lot," said Johnny, lightly balanced and leaning slightly forward. "Well let th' Double X say how many cattle, takin' 'em as they come, they would sell for three thousand dollars. Then we'll take that many away from that nine seventy. You can easy round-up what are needed to make up th' difference, brand 'em with th' SV stampin' irons, an' throw 'em over where they belong. I'll take th' note now."

"You'll take h—l!" yelled the foreman. "You'll take h—l!"

"You'll get h—l!" snapped Johnny, his eyes narrowing; "an' you'll get it pronto! Hunt up that note, an' without no more cussed nonsense. It's yore play, an' you shore want to play fast!"

"You won't get no note!" shouted Big Tom, his face twitching with rage. He seemed about to spring.

"Don't!" ordered Johnny, softly, but with a cold ferocity in his voice that carried conviction. "I'll shoot you like I would a coyote, you pot-shooter, for you are a coyote! Get that note!"

Big Tom, seething with rage, swayed in agonizing hesitation. He had courage, plenty of it; but he also had common sense. Unarmed, he could do nothing against the gun which had killed his two-gun man in an even break; and his common sense came to his rescue, and barely in time. Glancing out of the window, he detected no signs of his outfit on the trail, and craftily attempted to begin the argument all over again.

"That'll do," said Johnny. "We've finished that. My time is valuable, even if I ain't lookin' for company; an' if they come, you'll be th' first to go under. Get—that—note!"

Shrugging his shoulders, the foreman stepped forward, but Johnny slipped aside and snarled a warning, so venomous and tense that Big Tom gave up the desperate idea, and slowly turned, a beaten man. He walked toward a metal-bound box in a corner of the room, Johnny close at his heels, the gun against the foreman's back. Unlocking it, he slowly raised the lid, and felt Johnny's breath on his neck, the gun pressing solidly against his spine. As the cover went up it revealed a derringer lying on top of a few papers, and the foreman's hand slowly passed by it and fumbled among the contents, reluctantly withdrawing with an unsealed envelope. Shutting down the lid he turned the key, and arose to his feet as his captor, alert as a cat, stepped aside.

Johnny took the envelope, backed off a little farther, opened it, glanced at the note and nodded. He looked around the room and then ordered Big Tom to the table. Taking the pen and ink from a shelf, he placed them before the foreman and then handed him the envelope, telling him what to write. When the pen ceased scratching he took the receipt, read it, and held it out a moment for it to dry.

"This saves you a lot of brandin'," he remarked. "Somewhere around two-thirds, I reckon, 'though th' Double X will set its value in cattle. Now, you listen close. There ain't goin' to be any round-up or brandin' on th' northwest section of this ranch till th' SV gets its herd. When we know how many will be needed you will have till th' general round-up to use th' SV irons. Send for 'em when you get ready, an' an SV puncher will come with 'em. I'm warnin' you fair: A Sharp's will talk to anybody runnin' a brand or round-up out there unless a SV man is on th' spot. An' there's goin' to be some SV men right soon—good ones—an' they'll be plumb touchy about wire fences comin' down. Now I'm takin' you for a little ride with me, so you won't be tempted to smoke up out of a window while I'm ridin' off. Come on; I'm shore in a hurry."

In a few moments they rode westward, Big Tom leading the way, and it was not until more than an hour had passed that he was free to ride back again, or to Gunsight for his outfit, as his fancy dictated.

He chose to return to the ranch and while he rode he elaborated the plan which had come to him, and rubbed his hands as its details unfolded. Since Nelson had admitted being the man who was responsible for the mysterious events which had puzzled the country, Big Tom had remembered Lang's report about having seen Margaret and Johnny riding together. The foreman had not given her up, although pretending to have no interest in her. Having lost the note he had to change his plans, and go about it in a different way. Now his rage and jealousy fanned the flame of his impatience, gave a keener edge to his scheming wits, and added zest to what he purposed to do; and before he knew it he arrived at the house. Entering, he saw the crumpled piece of paper and, kicking it across the room, laughed sneeringly.

"You've been proddin' th' wrong man, Mr. Nelson," he growled. "I'm slow to start; but when I do, there ain't nothin' that'll stop me."