CHAPTER III
BERTRAM MAKES A GO-DEVIL.
The men detrained at a little northern Wyoming town, the terminus of the railroad, after an all-night journey from Denver.
Swingley was everywhere, asserting his leadership. There was none of the jocularity about him now, which he had assumed during the long journey. His orders were sharp and imperative. They were accompanied by blows, on two or three occasions, when cowpunchers did not move quickly enough to suit him. One of the men, who had made a move to draw his gun, was knocked bleeding and insensible before he could drag the weapon from its holster.
Evidently things were moving according to a prearranged program. There were chuck wagons on hand, into which food and cooking utensils were piled. Also there were wagons for the bedding.
Twenty or thirty additional men had joined the outfit at Denver, and these were reinforced by as many more, who were waiting at the station when the special train arrived, followed in an hour or two by the train carrying the horses.
The new men were apparently of the same ilk as those who had joined from the start—sunburned, hardy-looking fellows in cowboy garb, and every one of them was heavily armed. There were greetings between some of their number and a few of the new arrivals, as the long trails abounded with men who were accustomed to drifting from one ranch to another, and whose circle of acquaintances was correspondingly large.
The only accident preparatory to getting the cavalcade under way was one that was destined to affect Bertram strangely.
“Milt,” called Swingley, reining his sweating horse in front of Bertram, who was smoking a cigarette and wondering what had become of the girl whose card had been taken out and scanned many times. “Milt, I know you’re handy at blacksmithing. Old Jim Dykes, the only horseshoer we’ve got along, has got himself kicked in the arm, and he won’t be any more good to us on this trip. Come and help us out.”
Bertram accompanied Swingley to the improvised forge, where the groaning blacksmith was having his injured arm set by an amateur surgeon. The young Texan had often been called upon to shoe fractious bronchos on his uncle’s ranch, the work presenting little difficulty to him on account of his exceptional skill in managing the wildest horses.
Seeing that the old blacksmith was incapable of further work, Bertram took off his coat and rolled up his sleeves, disclosing a pair of muscular arms, and in an hour he had completed the tasks necessary to set the caravan moving.
“It sure was lucky that I remembered seein’ you blacksmithin’ on your uncle’s ranch,” said Swingley, reining his horse beside Bertram’s, shortly after the start was made. “You may have to help us out a little more before we git through, but, anyway, mebbe you’ll have pleasanter work mixed in with the blacksmithin’—a little shootin’ at a mark, for instance.” Swingley had grinned meaningly, as he spoke.
“I’ve heard there might be some shooting,” observed Bertram dryly, “but I might as well let you know right now that I always get an awful attack of buck fever when I’m shooting at men.”
“You’ll forget it when we hit into the thick of the fightin’,” returned Swingley, not catching the sarcasm in Bertram’s voice, or deliberately overlooking it. “I don’t mind tellin’ you that we may be in for a little ruction inside of another twelve hours. We’ve come up here to put an end to cattle rustlin’ in this part of the State. The rustlers are so strong that they’ve been runnin’ things as they wanted. But, when they see what they’re up against now, it may be that they’ll quit without a fight. If they don’t—so much the worse for them.”
Swingley turned in his saddle and looked proudly back at his little army. The sight would have inspired pride in any captain. Here was a grim company of tanned, resolute-looking horsemen, riding with that easy grace peculiar to the saddlemen of the Western plains. The loud jests that had been heard on the train were not in evidence. The men rode quietly. Pistols were ready to the grasp, as were the guns in the scabbards at the horses’ sides. Behind the command rumbled the camp wagons.
“Cattle rustlin’ is goin’ to be a lot less popular than it has been, before this outfit is through,” observed Swingley, “and there’ll be some old scores that’ll be paid off in full, too.”
The cattleman’s voice was thick with passion. His heavy brows were drawn together in a frown, and the muscles of his powerful jaws worked spasmodically as he clenched his teeth determinedly.
“I hope this crowd ain’t been brought up here just to settle some old personal scores,” answered Bertram, his voice bringing Swingley back with a start.
The cattleman, darting a quick glance at Bertram, realized that he had said too much. Muttering something about picking a camping place for the night he spurred ahead, leaving Bertram plodding with the column at the moderate pace which had been prescribed.
The young Texan’s thoughts went back once more to the girl whom he had met at the station. He paid scant attention to the talk of Archie Beam, who had taken Swingley’s place at his side. He was wondering about the girl—who she was, and the mission which had sent her on her long journey. Evidently it was a mission of some danger, for she had hinted at enemies who had sought to interfere with her progress. And her apparent knowledge of the purpose of the expedition was a puzzle. How much did she know of Swingley’s invasion of Wyoming, and what interest could it hold for her?
“Well, if nothin’ else’ll wake you up, pardner,” said Archie good-naturedly, after many ineffectual attempts to arouse Bertram to conversation, “mebbe the smell of a little bacon and coffee will help. It looks as if we’re goin’ to camp right ahead, and them chuck wagons can’t come up too soon fer me. I could eat everything in them wagons and then chase the hosses.”
Swingley had picked an admirable camp site in a grove of cottonwoods, beside an alkali-lined stream. Several springs near by afforded plenty of pure water for cooking purposes. Soon the wagons rattled up. Tents were put up, beds were unrolled, and the cooks had supper started. The men lolled about at ease, but there was no drinking, nor was there any card playing. Conversation was carried on in low voices. As soon as supper was over and the night herders were told off most of the men turned in and were sound asleep in a few minutes. They might be called on to fight before the night waned, but these men, used to the arbitrament of firearms, were not to be robbed of their sleep.
Bertram was aroused, apparently before he had more than dropped off to slumber. Swingley was shaking him by the shoulder, and Hoog was standing in the entrance to the tent. The moon was high, and Bertram could see the faces of both men distinctly.
“Come on out,” said Swingley gruffly. “We’ve got some special work for you.”
As he dressed hurriedly, the young Texan saw that it was only a little past midnight.
“We’ve had your hoss brought in,” said Swingley briefly. “Saddle quick and come on with us.”
Without any questions Bertram saddled his horse. The three men mounted and rode out of camp silently. As soon as they struck the road Swingley and Tom Hoog took the lead, Bertram riding close behind them at an easy gallop. Nothing was heard for an hour or more but the pounding of hoofs on the hard road. Then Swingley and Hoog turned in at a long, one-story building, which was set a short distance back from the road. Bertram followed, and the three men dismounted.
Swingley and Hoog, dropping their reins, entered the wide doorway of the building. After they had lighted two lanterns, that were bracketed in the wall, Bertram saw that the place was a fairly well-equipped blacksmith shop. There was a pile of old horseshoes in one corner, and in another was considerable farm machinery of various sorts.
“Can you take something out of that pile of junk and make up a sort of fort on wheels?” asked Swingley of Bertram. “I might as well tell you that we’re goin’ right on to Wild Horse, the county seat, forty mile from here. Before we reach the town we may have to do some purty stiff fightin’, and I figger that somethin’ armored may come in handy. Old Jim, the blacksmith, was outlinin’ somethin’ that he had in his head—a kind of go-devil on wheels he called it—but now he is useless, and I want you to help me out.”
Bertram showed no surprise. In fact no development of this strange adventure, in which he found himself cast, could surprise him. He looked the pile of machinery over carefully.
“There are the wheels and frame of a hayrake,” said Hoog. “And there are a couple of road scrapers. Take the bottoms of those scrapers and fasten them to the hayrake frame, and you’ve got something that you could walk right up to a nest of rifles with. Ain’t that right, Bertram?”
The young Texan nodded. “I reckon it might work out that way,” he replied, “but I didn’t know that you were accustomed to getting your men from behind things like that, Hoog.”
The gunman darted a murderous glance at Bertram, and his hands moved toward his hips, but Swingley stepped quickly between the two men.
“Hyar! No fussin’!” he commanded. “We ain’t got more’n two hours start of the gang, and we’ll have to work fast. Let’s have that go-devil fixed ’fore the boys git here.”
Bertram knew that to refuse outright would be equivalent to a declaration of war. Yet he was far from having so detached a viewpoint regarding the expedition as he had at the start. Previous to his meeting with the girl he had been ready for most any adventure. As an alien gunman—a Hessian in cowboy traps, as he bitterly called himself—he would have cared little about any harm he might bring to those concerned in this range war, so remote from his home. Cattle interests or rustlers—it had made no difference to him until he had met Alma Caldwell. Since then a growing distaste for the whole business had come upon him. Yet he could not very well drop out. He would be a marked man in a strange country, and somebody would be certain to slay him as one of the invaders.
Working so leisurely that he made Asa Swingley curse fervently under his breath, and deepened the glitter of hate in Tom Hoog’s eyes, Bertram started the forge fire and performed the comparatively simple task of attaching the scraper bottoms to the wheels.
When the work was completed Swingley crouched behind the contraption and pushed it about with an enthusiasm that was almost boyish.
“You’ve been slow enough about it, Milt,” he said to the young Texan, who stood with bare arms folded over the leather apron Swingley had provided, looking at the cattleman in undisguised contempt. “But it’s a good job, all right. If anybody holes up in front of us, they ain’t goin’ to stay holed up very long, now that we’ve got this go-devil.”
It was as Swingley said. The machine would afford protection for two men, who might push it with their hands under the very muzzles of rifles and revolvers. Bullets might rattle against that thick shield of iron, but the men behind it would be safe.
“Old Jim had the right idea!” exclaimed Swingley, “and you’ve worked it out in good shape, Milt. It’s time for the crowd to be comin’ up, and, if I ain’t mistaken, you can see this go-devil tried out, purty quick after daylight.”
As Swingley spoke, the advance guard of the command could be heard coming, and soon the road by the blacksmith shop was filled with mounted men, none too good-humored at being routed out before sunup and without breakfast.
“There’ll be plenty to eat after a little work that’s mapped out first,” said Swingley, haranguing the crowd. “The first rustlers we’ve got to git are not more’n a mile ahead of us, in a cabin to the left of the road, toward the foothills. You can’t miss the place. I want it surrounded. If any man from the cabin shows his face after daybreak, he’s to be shot—and shot dead. But I don’t want any noise and no firin’ till you see somethin’ to shoot at. Tom Hoog will take half the men this side of the cabin, and I’ll take half around on the other side. Be careful shootin’ across, so we don’t hit each other.”
Hoog and his division started up the road. The moon was beginning to pale, and there were bird noises from the prairie, indicating that dawn was not far away.
Bertram had not put on his coat, but still stood in his leather apron, a sledge hammer in his hand.
“That’s right, Milt,” said Swingley, reining his horse beside the young Texan, “you stay here and be ready to bring up this go-devil when I send for it. Arch Beam, you stay here with him.”
Bertram knew that Swingley was suspicious, that he had detailed Beam as his guard. He smiled grimly, as the leader of the expedition clattered away at the head of his half of the command.
“Arch,” said Bertram, as the last echo of hoofs died away, “let’s see your gun.”
“Sure,” said the cowboy, handing over his six-shooter, with a grin. Bertram put the weapon in his own belt, beneath the blacksmith’s apron. Then he stepped to the cowboy’s horse, which was standing riderless in the doorway. Drawing Beam’s rifle from its scabbard Bertram extracted the cartridges from the magazine. Then he put the weapon back where he had found it.
“Now Arch,” said Bertram calmly, “consider yourself held up. Both guns are useless, and I’ll ask you to step back in the shop and not move, while I undo a little piece of work I’ve had to do for Swingley.”
“Sure,” replied the imperturbable Arch, with a grin, “I’ve seen so many queer things on this queer picnic that nothin’ is goin’ to surprise me—I’ll give you warnin’ of that.”
Bertram swung the sledge and with half a dozen strokes destroyed the wheels of the go-devil, past all fixing. Then he flung the hammer into one corner of the smithy and, rolling down his sleeves, put on his coat.
“Arch,” he said, “I’m quitting this expedition right here. Want to desert with me?”
“I don’t guess I do,” replied Arch, surprised in spite of himself. “The people in this country will scalp you alive when they learn that you came in here with this gang. You’d better stay on and chance it with us, Milt.”
“I’d have to fight Swingley when he saw that,” replied Bertram, pointing grimly to the destroyed go-devil. “Between the two camps of enemies I seem to have made, there’s nothing for me to do but take to the brush. Good-by, Arch, and sorry to have had to hold you up.”
Bertram flung down the cowboy’s empty gun and, swinging into his own saddle, cantered down the road, with a backward wave of his hand to the puzzled cowboy in the doorway of the blacksmith shop.