The Valley of Lost Herds

by W. C. Tuttle

A New Kind of Ranch Foreman Deals with Cattle-Rustlers

The big Tomahawk—saloon, gambling palace, honkatonk—blazed with lights. Cowboys jostled each other at the long bar, or laughed and made merry with the girls who thronged the rooms. The roulette whirred, poker chips rattled and the voices of the dealers droned above the roar of the crowd.

It was the big night of the month in Tomahawk—pay night on the Reber ranches. And pay night on the Reber ranches meant that all the small ranches to the north would also pay off and let their men come to town. There was no limit to anything. Reber owned the Tomahawk Saloon; owned nearly everything else in the town of Tomahawk, as far as that was concerned.

And with one exception he owned all of Reber Valley. It had been known as Tomahawk Valley, and was still Tomahawk Valley on the map, but to those who lived there it was Reber Valley. For Park Reber owned the M 33, Half-Wheel, Circle S, Two Bar X and the Lightning. There was really only one ranch he did not own, the S\ Bar\ P. There was another little place twenty miles south of Tomahawk which belonged to Jack Silver, who had never registered any brand. So, outside of the S\ Bar\ P, Park Reber really owned the valley.

In an area thirty miles long by about fifteen miles in width Park Reber was supreme—a real cattle baron. And Park Reber sat in his big house in Tomahawk town, all alone except for a Chinese cook, and gloated. He was the big man of the country—big and lonesome. And sometimes he was mad, they said. Men worked for him, spent their money in his saloon and gambling house; but none of them admired him.

He was about sixty years of age—white-haired, harsh of feature, his deep-set eyes gloomy. Over his left eye was a white scar like a crescent moon, and he often touched it, as if it annoyed him. He drove his men hard, demanded results and got most of their wages back via the green cloth.

It had taken him twenty years to become owner of the valley.

His herds, the Diamond R brand, roamed the many hills. While his ranches were all designated by their original brand names, all the stock was branded with the Diamond R. Other ranches shipped from Tomahawk, but the Diamond R was the heavy shipper. They owned the loading corrals—or rather Reber did.

Park Reber did not come often to the Tomahawk Saloon, but he had been coming oftener of late. Some said it was because of June Meline, the tall, black-haired beauty who played the violin. She was not a fiddler. There seemed a difference between June Meline and the rest of the girls of the honkatonk. Her white skin was untouched by rouge or paint and there was an imperious lift to her well shaped head. Nor did she mix with the others.

Park Reber loved music and most of all he loved the wailing notes of her violin. Often she had come to his table to talk with him. She refused drinks, but liked to discuss with him his business troubles. Some said she was trying to “rope-in” the old man, but Park Reber knew better. He admired her level-headed way of looking at things.

And on this pay night Park Reber came again, taking his usual table, where he might drink and watch the show. With him was “Slim” Patterson, foreman of the Half-Wheel ranch. Their table was near the platform, where the three-piece orchestra rattled out its tin-panny music.

The show was just at its height as they sat down. There was a burst of applause as June Meline came out carrying her violin. She was dressed in black silk, which accentuated the pallor of her skin. Only the piano played her accompaniment, and as she lifted her violin the pianist hesitated.

Some one had spoken a word aloud—the name of a man.

“‘Buck’ Priest!”

And there he stood, not more than six feet away from Park Reber, backed by two of his men. It was the first time Buck Priest had ever been in the Tomahawk Saloon. He was as old as Park Reber, possibly older. He wore his hair long, but his thin, evil face, with the hawk-bill nose, was smooth-shaven. He wore a silver-trimmed sombrero, buckskin shirt, gray trousers tucked in the tops of his high-heeled boots, and around his waist was a wide, beautifully carved leather cartridge belt supporting a holstered Colt.

The men with him were hard-bitted cowboys—fighting men of the S\ Bar\ P. It took nerve for Buck Priest to lead his men in among the cowboys of the Diamond R. But Buck Priest had nerve. He had fought Park Reber until Reber had told his men to leave the S\ Bar\ P alone.

At one time—over twenty years ago—these two men had been comrades.

It was evident that Buck Priest was drunk this night. He was not a drinking man, but once a year Buck Priest would get drunk; and when he got drunk, he was so cold-blooded that even his own men did not wish to associate with him.

It seemed as if every man in the room were holding his breath. Park Reber got slowly to his feet, and Priest laughed harshly.

“You dirty old cow thief!”

Buck Priest fairly hissed the words at Reber.

“You sneakin’ old rustler!”

No one moved; no one spoke. The two men, one on each side of Buck Priest, were bent forward tensely, their eyes sweeping the room, ready to draw and shoot at the first move. Park Reber’s eyes blinked angrily, but he held still, staring at Buck Priest.

“I’m talkin’ to you, Reber,” said Priest slowly. “Callin’ you a thief. And you ain’t gut guts enough to deny it. You’ve rustled my cows just as long as you’re goin’ to, Reber. I’ve come into the lion’s den to tell yuh what I think of yuh, you cow thief!”

There could be but one answer to that accusation. Reber had been a gun-man, but of late years he had left that distinction to his hired men. He did not wear a belt and gun, but under his left arm-pit was a holstered Colt; and now he jerked back, reaching for this concealed gun.

It was what Buck Priest wanted, what he came there to force Park Reber to do—reach for a gun. His hand streaked down to his thigh and whipped up a big black-handled revolver. For a fraction of a second Park Reber’s life was not worth a penny. Something flashed between Reber and Priest just as Priest pulled the trigger—something that smashed against Priest’s hand and arm, partly ruining the shot which was intended for Park Reber’s heart.

The big gun thundered as Buck Priest jerked sidewise. Park Reber stepped backward against his chair, tripped and fell to the floor. Priest and his two men whirled and headed for the doorway, and the crowd gave them plenty of room.

Men lifted Reber to his feet and then set him in a chair.

“That fiddler girl!” exclaimed one of them. “She threw her fiddle and hit Buck Priest on the arm.”

The girl sprang from the platform and was at Park Reber’s side in a moment, and he smiled at her. Slim Patterson ripped away the shoulder of his coat. The room was in an uproar. No one thought of going after Buck Priest. Some one went after a doctor, who came in a few minutes.

The bullet had struck high in Reber’s shoulder, and he was quite ill. The doctor, skilled in gunshot cases, told him he was very lucky. Some one had recovered the violin, but it had been walked on until it hardly resembled an instrument. The girl looked ruefully at it, but said nothing.

Several of the cowboys secured a cot, using it in lieu of a stretcher, and carried Reber home; but not until he had received June Meline’s assurance that she would act as his nurse.

“I wish you would,” said the doctor. “Nurses are hard to find out here. And, anyway, your violin is broken.”

“I’ll buy yuh a carload,” said Reber weakly. “Don’t leave me alone with Hop Lee and this darned doctor. I’ve got lots of room up there, June.”

And so June Meline became nurse for Park Reber. She knew little about nursing and told Park Reber so. But he grinned painfully and told her he didn’t know much about being shot, as far as that was concerned.

She took up her residence in the big old house, which was really a ranchhouse, in the town. Hop Lee, the old Chinese cook, who cared for no one except Park Reber, took to June and actually smiled at her.

It was a new sensation to Park Reber, this idea of having a woman around. Not in nearly twenty-five years had he seen a woman in his house. His five foremen came at irregular intervals to report to him, and June often heard the name of Buck Priest spoken.

There was another name that caused Park Reber to curse—the name of Jack Silver.

It seemed that Jack Silver’s name was connected with the word “rustler.” There were two of these foreman that June did not like—Nort Jackson of the Lightning and Dave McLeese of the Two Bar X.

Nort Jackson was tall, thin, swarthy, black of eye, and wore a weak black mustache. He smiled at her too much, June thought. McLeese was ruddy of skin, with cold blue eyes under huge blonde brows. His nose had been broken across the arch and a huge scar twisted his mouth into a leer. Reber told her McLeese had been kicked in the face by a shod horse.

It was several days after the shooting of Reber. Up to this time he had not mentioned Buck Priest to her. The doctor had finished dressing the wound and had given her orders for the feeding of the patient. Reber had been watching her closely for quite a while.

“Gettin’ tired of bein’ nurse to an old man?” he asked suddenly.

June smiled at him and shook her head.

“No, I’m not tired, Mr. Reber.”

“That’s good. I like you, June. You saved my life that night. Buck Priest is a good shot. He meant to kill me, yuh see. You shore thought real quick, June. You’ve got a head, girl. I’ve watched yuh around here and I’ve talked to yuh. You’ve got sense—too much sense to be playing a violin in a honkatonk.”

June smiled at him.

“One must eat, Mr. Reber. And you have paid me better than I could get any other place.”

“You’ve earned it, June. I wondered how they’d take yore kind of music. But cowboys are sentimental. I’ve seen ’em cry over yore music. Give the average cowboy a few drinks and he’ll cry over ‘Home Sweet Home’. Yes, they will, June. Lot’s of ’em never had a regular home; lots of ’em were kicked out early in life—but they’ll cry, just the same.”

“I suppose,” said June, nodding.

“And you never asked me anythin’ about Buck Priest. That night he called me a dirty cow thief, didn’t he?”

Park Reber smiled bitterly.

“Mebbe Buck was drunk. He’s hated me for years, June. Oh, I’m no angel. I tried to run Buck out of this country. He’s a fighter. He’s not sorry he shot me, but sorry he didn’t kill me.”

“Why didn’t you have him arrested, Mr. Reber?”

“Arrested? For shootin’ me? Why, no, June, it was an even break. My shoulder-holster—well, it isn’t a fast draw. I’d have killed him. Oh, he hates me! Funny, isn’t it, June? We used to be pardners—me and Buck.

“And it was all over a woman—a woman like you, June. She was like you in lots of ways, I think. The valley wasn’t what it is now. Tomahawk was a tradin’ post. This girl came here with her family in a covered wagon. I was in the south end of the valley at that time, where me and Buck had a small herd of cattle. Buck was here at the post, and met her.

“He was two days late bringing in supplies, and when he came he told me about her. I told him he was a fool to even think of a girl. It was a bad country to bring a girl into. The Cheyennes were unfriendly then, and there were a lot of them in the valley. They stole cattle and horses. It kept us busy protectin’ our herds.

“But Buck went back to the post, over thirty miles from our ranch, and was gone five days. He was going to bring in more ammunition, but when he came back he was drunk and had no ammunition, so I left him there and went after it.

“And I met this girl. Her name was Janice Gray. Pretty name, eh? And she was pretty. I found that Buck had proposed to her and she had turned him down. Two days later we were married and went back to the ranch.”

Park Reber smiled bitterly and looked at the ceiling.

“I don’t know why she married me, June. I can see the look on Buck’s face yet when we rode in and told him. And I had forgotten the ammunition. He didn’t say much. Didn’t wish us happiness—just sat there and looked at the ground. Finally he said—

“‘Park, I’ll pay you for this some day.’”

“I didn’t know what he meant at the time. He saddled his horse and rode away. Later on he built a cabin at the forks of the river and sent two men for half of the stock. I helped them round up all the cattle and horses, and we divided them equally.

“But he never came near me. I heard that he said he would pay me back for what I had done, but I did not pay any attention to what I heard. We were happy, Janice and I. The spring came and turned into summer. There were few settlers. The Cheyennes were gettin’ worse, but every one said that when the winter came they’d be driven out by the deep snows and lack of game. The deer all move over to Clear Valley in the winter, because of the laurel, which does not grow here.

“The winter came early that season. I had cut a lot of wild hay on the bottoms, but not enough to feed stock all winter. In October there was three feet of snow, and it did not go off. By Christmas my hay was all gone, and I was in a desperate condition.

“I knew that the north end of the valley was open, and there was only one thing to try and do—to take my herd out of my range. I had one man working for me. He was a young man by the name of Sneed—John Sneed—a good boy. I couldn’t leave Janice alone, yuh see. There would be a baby along soon, and some one had to stay with her. There was a doctor at the trading post. I tell yuh, I was desperate, so I broke trail with horses and led my cattle to the upper end of the valley. It was a tough pull. I took them past Buck’s place, but didn’t see him. He had moved his cattle out a few days before, and the trail was open from there.

“I had to bring those half-starved cattle almost up to here, where I threw them in with Buck’s cattle, and came on to the post. It was bitter cold that night I rode in, but it warmed up a little, and by morning the worst blizzard that ever swept this country came down through here.

“This whole valley was a howling hell of wind and snow, June. I don’t suppose our cattle lasted one night. You couldn’t see a man at your elbow. A man couldn’t live in it. Twenty below and a fifty-mile gale. I swore I’d go home, but they stopped me. It lasted five days.

“And when the wind died down the temperature died with it, until the thermometer at the post froze. Then we started for my place, the doctor and me, traveling on snowshoes. The valley was a place of the dead. There was not even a rabbit-track. Our cattle were under the drifts.

“There was some one at Buck’s cabin. We could see a thread of smoke from his chimney; the rest of the cabin was buried in the snow. But there was no smoke from my chimney.”

Park Reber shut his eyes, and for a while June thought he had fallen asleep. Then:

“No, there was no smoke, June; the cabin was empty. We dug our way down to the door and went in. There was John Sneed, lying face down in the middle of the room—dead. His head had been cut open—his scalp taken. The Cheyennes had been there. The doctor said he had been dead quite a while. I think they had been there ahead of the blizzard.

“I don’t remember just what I did, June. They told me that I went hunting for the Cheyenne camp; I don’t remember. Later I went back to the post and spent the winter. In the spring I went to the Cheyennes and tried to find some trace of my wife, but it was useless. They treated me like a crazy man—and I reckon I was. Later on I went further north and opened a saloon in a new mining camp. It was a money-maker, and in two years I came back here and went into cattle again.

“Buck was still here; still hatin’ me. We met one day and he taunted me with my loss. I tried to kill him with my hands and almost succeeded. It didn’t help any. Buck Priest ain’t the kind you can whip into friendship.

“And I think he hates me for being successful. I own practically all of the Valley. They call it Reber’s Valley. That must hurt Buck Priest. I tried to buy him out, but he wouldn’t sell. He shot my cattle when they came on his range, and I—I shot his cattle on my range.

“Oh, it’s been a battle for years. Finally I gave my men orders to let him and his cattle alone. It seemed to be a mutual truce. But my cattle have disappeared. I don’t think Buck Priest took them.”

“Who is Jack Silver?” asked June.

Reber looked curiously at her.

“Jack Silver?”

“Yes, I heard his name spoken, Mr. Reber.”

“Jack Silver,” mused Reber. “A handsome devil of a breed, June. He’s tall, graceful—too smart for my men. He comes to Tomahawk. He’s not afraid of me. Half Cheyenne. There are no Cheyennes in the Valley now, June. Uncle Sam keeps ’em on a reservation. But Jack Silver lives back on Trapper Creek, twenty miles southwest of here. We’ve tried to catch him stealing my cattle, but he eludes us.

“McLeese of the Two Bar X and Nort Jackson of the Lightnin’ have trailed him for weeks; and Slim Patterson has tried to trap him, but he’s too clever. He’s got the cunning of the Cheyenne, the brain of a white man.”

June sat in an old rocker, her chin resting on the palm of her right hand, as she thought over Reber’s story. It was the first time she had ever heard the reasons for Buck Priest’s hatred of Park Reber.

“How many head of cattle has Jack Silver stolen from you?” she asked.

Reber shook his head slowly.

“Who knows, June? More than I care to lose.”

He smiled at the thoughtful expression on her face.

“What would you do if you was in my place, June?”

“I was just thinking,” said June, “that if I were in your place I’d hire Jack Silver to work for me.”

Reber frowned quickly. “Hire him to—”

“Why not? You’d save money—and he would be worth what you paid him, wouldn’t he?”

“I never thought of that, June.”

They were interrupted by Hop Lee, who came in and told Reber that Slim Patterson of the Half-Wheel was waiting to see him. June left the room when Patterson came in.

“How’re yuh comin’?” asked Slim, sitting down in the chair June had vacated.

“All right,” said Reber. “Be out in a day or so.”

“Good! Say, I was back between Trapper Creek and the West Fork yesterday and I found about a hundred cows bunched in a draw back there. It shore looked as though somebody was all set for a drive. Me and ‘Chuck’ Avery laid there until night waitin’ for somebody to show up, but they didn’t.

“I left Chuck there and went home. Sent ‘Biddy’ Conley and Abe Lehman out to keep him company and pulled out for here this mornin’, after Biddy came in and said they hadn’t seen anybody yet.”

Reber sighed wearily.

“I dunno, Slim,” he said slowly. “I talked with McLeese the other day and he suggested that we post men in that Trapper Creek pass. It might be a good scheme. They can’t get past the Two Bar X into West Fork pass without bein’ seen by some of the boys, and those are the only two ways out, except past here.

“I’ll tell yuh what I want yuh to do, Slim. Send about three of yore men to Trapper Creek pass, and then pack a message to Jackson, McLeese, Franks and Carlin to be here at my place tomorrow night, and you come with ’em. I’ve got a scheme to stop Jack Silver.”

“You have? That’s fine.”

Slim got to his feet and picked up his hat.

“I’ll pass the word to the boys for tomorrow night. Heard anythin’ more of Buck Priest?”

“Not a word, Slim. Have you?”

“Only that he says yo’re stealin’ his cows. I think he’s tryin’ to excuse himself for shootin’ yuh.”

Reber smiled slowly, and Slim went out.

The S\ Bar\ P ranchhouse and other buildings were of log construction, rambling old structures one story in height. The ranchhouse and bunk-house had the old mud-and-stone fire-places. Back of the stables was Porcupine Creek, which ran northwest to Tomahawk River. It was about six miles from the ranch to Tomahawk town.

It was the day after Reber had sent the message to his foremen when Jack Silver rode in at the S\ Bar\ P ranch. He rode a tall black gelding, a fitting mount for a man of his physique.

Silver was tall, lithe, dark-skinned. He wore his hair long, but his face was smooth-shaven. His shirt was black, as were his muffler and sombrero, and he wore no chaps. His high-heeled boots were of the short-topped Southwest style, and around his waist was a hand-made cartridge belt supporting a Colt gun in a hand-made holster.

He swung off his horse, waving a greeting to three of Buck Priest’s men who were down near the corrals. Priest met him at the door of the ranchhouse and they shook hands warmly.

“How are yuh, Jack?” asked Priest, as they sat down in the main room of the ranchhouse.

“I’m fine,” replied Silver. “Been over in Clear Valley for a week and just got back. Ran into Dave McLeese yesterday and he told me about you and Reber havin’ a fight.”

Priest scowled heavily and slapped the palm of his right hand on his knee.

“I tried to kill him, Jack. A girl ruined the shot.”

Silver smiled, showing a flash of white, even teeth.

“A girl, eh? McLeese didn’t tell me about her.”

“A fiddler in the Tomahawk,” said Priest. “Flung her fiddle and hit me in the hand. Oh, I was goin’ to kill him, Jack. Reber and his gang of cutthroats are runnin’ all the S\ Bar\ P cattle out of the valley.”

“I thought there was sort of a truce.”

“Truce!” Priest laughed shortly. “Reber sent me word that he’d quit if I would. I quit, Jack. But he didn’t. The only way I can ever make Park Reber quit is to kill him. Next time there won’t be any fiddle-throwin’ female present.”

Jack Silver laughed softly.

“You know what they think of me, Buck. I’m watched every minute by Reber’s men. Why, I can’t even kill a piece of fresh meat any more. They’re layin’ for a chance to kill me. Some day they’ll put up a job on me—and I’ll swing for it.

“Oh, they’re nice to my face—McLeese, Jim Carlin, Nort Jackson—all nice to my face. Behind my back they call me the dirty half-breed—the Injun rustler. I trap for a livin’, Buck. You know that. Reber hates me because I’m half Cheyenne.”

Buck Priest smiled crookedly, nodding slowly.

“There’s plenty of hate in this valley, Jack. I hope some day to see Park Reber suffer.”

“He ought to be half Injun,” said Silver bitterly. “That’s enough sufferin’ for one man. Last night he sent word to me by one of the Half-Wheel punchers to be at his place tonight.”

“He sent word to you?”

“Yeah.”

“Wants to trap yuh, eh?”

Silver shrugged his shoulders.

“I played safe, Buck. Today I came across the hills and I’ll stay here until dark. I don’t know what Reber wants.”

“He’s still crippled, and that girl is nursin’ him. She’s makin’ a play for Reber.”

“Pretty girl, Buck?”

Priest nodded.

“Yeah, pretty as a picture. But what do yuh suppose Reber wants of you?”

“I dunno.”

“Are you goin’ to take a chance on him, Jack?”

“I’ll see what he wants.”

“It might be a scheme to harm yuh, Jack.”

“Might be. But as far as that’s concerned, if they want to kill me they can pick me off most any time.”

“That’s true,” agreed Priest. “We’ll all ride in after supper, Jack. If things go wrong, we’ll do what we can.”

“And if Reber finds you in town he’ll set his dogs on yuh,” said Silver grimly.

“I’ll have my dogs along,” replied Buck meaningly. “We went into the Tomahawk and came out safe enough. But I was drunk, Jack. It wasn’t a job for a sober man. We sure shocked that gang a-plenty.”

“I wish I had been there,” smiled Jack. “I’ve never been in the Tomahawk.”

“It’s not a safe place, Jack; and maybe you’ll find it out tonight.”

None of Reber’s foremen knew why he had sent for them. Some of them were obliged to ride the length of the valley, but they were all there—Patterson, Jackson, McLeese, Carlin and Franks. McLeese was drunk; not blind drunk by any manner of means, but inclined to be quarrelsome.

Park Reber was out of bed, and met them in the big living-room, a huge place forty feet long and twenty-five feet wide. Around two sides of this huge room was a wide veranda. At one end was a doorway leading out on to the veranda; and there was another doorway about fifteen feet from the corner, on the side. About midway of the room was a big window, and there were two windows at the front end.

Across this front end of the room was a long table and a number of chairs. On the opposite side of the room from the side entrance was a huge fireplace, capable of taking ten-foot logs. Most of the furnishings were of the home-made variety, and the floors were strewn with bright-colored Navajo rugs and the skins of wolf and grizzly. The walls were darkened with smoke and age.

The five foremen came in together. Reber seated them around the big table, he himself sitting at the head of the table, still a trifle pale, unable to use his left arm. At his right sat June Meline. She received several undisguised scowls. Beside her sat Franks of the M 33. At the opposite end of the table sat McLeese, scowling at everybody, and June in particular. He did not like the idea of having a woman at their conference. On the other side of the table sat Patterson, Jackson and Carlin.

Reber’s glance swept around the table and came to rest on McLeese.

“You’re drunk,” he said shortly. “Why?”

McLeese grimaced and tried to laugh it off, but Reber’s eyes bored into him and he coughed a little.

“I wanted sober men at this meetin’,” said Reber.

“I’m sober enough to know what I’m doin’,” said McLeese.

“Not if you had three drinks—and you’ve had more.”

Reber did not wait for McLeese to reply, but turned to the others.

“I brought you boys here tonight to see if we can’t figure out some way to stop this rustlin’,” he said slowly. “We’re losin’ too many cattle to suit me. What’s to be done?”

Patterson shook his head.

“I dunno, Park,” he said slowly. “It beats me.”

“How about you, Jackson?”

“Same as Slim.”

“Same here,” growled Carlin.

“They ain’t hit my place,” said Franks of the M 33. “Mebbe I’m too far north.”

“That may be,” nodded Reber. “But it’s got to stop.”

“Go out and stop old Buck Priest,” said McLeese.

Reber studied McLeese’s flushed face.

“You think they’re runnin’ ’em out this end of the valley, Mac?”

“Priest hates yuh, don’t he? They’re not goin’ over the West Fork pass, and the boys have been watchin’ the Trapper Creek pass. Jack Silver is friendly to Buck Priest. By ⸺, I’d wipe out that whole ⸺ gang.”

“There’s a lady present,” said Reber coldly.

“I forgot,” said McLeese. “Anyway, I don’t think this is any place for a woman.”

“I asked her to be here,” said Reber. “When I want yore opinion on that I’ll ask for it, McLeese!”

“I’m jist wonderin’ if McLeese’s idea ain’t worth quite a lot, at that,” said Jackson. “I don’t mean about the lady, but about Priest and Silver. We’ve tried to trap Silver a lot of times, but he’s too much Injun to be trapped.”

“He’s smart,” said McLeese.

“Too smart for you, eh?” asked Reber.

“Oh, I dunno,” flared McLeese.

“You haven’t landed him, and that’s the answer,” said Reber. “He’s too smart. He thinks twice while you’re thinkin’ once. And you object to this lady being here. She’s got more sense in a minute than you’ll ever show, McLeese.”

Both June and McLeese flushed, but for different reasons.

The rest of the men eyed June closely. Perhaps they thought Reber was getting old and that this pretty girl was in a position to get a hand into the Reber fortune. It was an embarrassing position for the girl. McLeese laughed, and they saw Reber’s lips tighten. Carlin kicked at McLeese’s ankle beneath the table, but only succeeded in kicking a leg of the table.

“We’re not gettin’ anywhere,” said Reber coldly.

“No, and we’ll not get anywhere as long as you’ll let Jack Silver and Buck Priest do as they please,” growled Carlin. “Let’s clean ’em out, I say.”

“On what evidence, Carlin?”

“General principles. Buck tried to kill you. He’ll try it again. Silver is a half-breed thief. Just pass the word and we’ll rid the valley of the whole brood.”

“Meanin’,” said Reber slowly, “that Silver is too smart for you to catch red-handed, eh?”

“If yuh want to put it that way—yes.”

“You think he bunches up cattle and takes ’em through the Trapper Creek pass and sells ’em in Clear Valley?”

“Cinch. We can’t get any evidence in Clear Valley. We’ve tried it often enough.”

“That gang over there will take stolen cattle, that’s a cinch,” said Jackson. “You’d never get any evidence if yuh went there in a gang—and one or two men would soon be wiped out. They’re pretty clannish.”

Reber nodded slowly. He knew Jackson was right. Suddenly there came the slither of a moving body, and they turned toward the big window about ten feet beyond them. Just inside the window stood Jack Silver, his left shoulder resting against the wall, his two thumbs hooked over his belt.

For several moments no one spoke. Silver laughed, and his teeth flashed white in the light from the hanging lamp in the center of the room. He seemed to be resting lazily against that shoulder, but every man at that table knew he could draw and shoot quicker than any of them.

“Gentlemen, Mr. Silver himself,” said Reber slowly.

The men glanced at Reber curiously, but turned back to Silver.

“You sent for me,” said Jack.

Reber nodded.

“Yeah, I sent for yuh, Silver. Slim, will you get a chair for Mr. Silver?”

Slim Patterson started to get up, but Silver halted him.

“I’ll stand up,” he said slowly, smiling again. “Since when did the Reber outfits start havin’ squaws at their council?”

June straightened in her chair, her eyes flashing. Silver’s laugh was almost an insult. Reber did not look at her. McLeese grinned in evident enjoyment.

“Silver,” said Reber firmly, “you’re deliberately tryin’ to antagonize us, but I’ll overlook it. I asked you here tonight to make you a proposition. Will you go to work for me as a foreman on one of my ranches?”

It was like a bomb-shell exploding in the room. The idea of offering Jack Silver a position as foreman! The men wondered whether Reber was losing his mind. Even Silver laughed.

“Make me a foreman?” said Silver. “What’s the idea, Reber?”

“That’s my business, Silver. I’m makin’ you that offer.”

Silver’s eyes swept the faces of the five foremen.

“Which ranch?” he asked smiling.

“Any one you’ll take.”

Silver’s amused glance came back to June.

“Which one is the squaw goin’ to take?”

Reber shook his head sadly.

“You don’t understand what I’m offerin’ you, Silver.”

“Yes, I do, Reber.”

Silver was not smiling now and he had shoved away from the wall.

“You’re tryin’ to buy me off—tryin’ to get me to work for you. You’re afraid of me, Reber. I dunno why, but yuh are. Your men watch me day and night. I’m tired of it, but not so tired that I’ll take a job with you. You hate me because I’m half Cheyenne.

“You ran my people out of Tomahawk Valley, Reber. I know your story—know why you hate my people. I had a little herd of cattle started, but you and your men killed ’em off to keep me from being a cattleman. I’ve no cause to love you. I don’t want your job. Give it to the squaw.”

He flung his left leg across the windowsill, and before any one could say anything further, he disappeared. Patterson sprang to his feet, and the other men were behind him, but Reber stopped them.

“Sit down,” he ordered. “He’s done no wrong.”

“The dirty half-breed!” snarled McLeese.

June Meline was on her feet, her hands on the table, as she leaned forward, staring at the window where Silver had disappeared. He had taunted her, called her a squaw! But there was something romantically wild about this tall, slim, white-toothed young man who defied them. He had laughed at them and refused to work for Park Reber.

“The trouble is,” Reber was speaking, “yo’re all afraid of Jack Silver.”

June turned quickly to Reber.

“I’m not,” she declared.

Reber smiled at her.

“You’re not, June?”

“Not a bit. I’ll bet I could trap him.”

Several of the men laughed aloud.

“He’d steal you,” declared McLeese, and then laughed at his own statement.

“You think you could, eh?” said Reber slowly. “I wonder.”

“Ridiculous,” declared Jackson.

Reber leaned on the table looking at June, studying her keenly. Suddenly he struck the table with his clenched fist.

“I’ll do it!” he exclaimed. “June, beginnin’ tomorrow you’ll be a ranch-foreman for the Diamond R.”

He looked around at the hard-bitted faces of his men, who were looking at him, wondering whether he was in his right mind.

“What ranch?” asked McLeese.

Reber shifted his eyes to McLeese.

“The Two Bar X.”

McLeese’s ranch. He shut his jaws tightly and looked at Reber. He knew it meant that Reber was going to fire him.

“That’s a ⸺ of a note!” he snorted.

“I run my ranches to suit myself, McLeese.”

Reber reached in his pocket and took out a wallet, from which he counted out several bills. He handed them to McLeese.

“That’s yore pay up to the first of the month, McLeese.”

“And I’m through right now, eh?”

“Yeah, right now.”

“All right,” McLeese got to his feet unsteadily. “I’ve got some personal stuff at the ranch and I’ll go get it.”

Reber nodded, and they watched McLeese leave the house. None of the other men made any comment. For several moments after McLeese was gone Reber stared silently at the door. Then:

“I think that’s all boys. Goodnight.”

He got to his feet and June walked from the room with him. The men looked curiously at him, and went out.

“I need a shot of liquor,” said Patterson dryly. “Personally, I think the old man is losin’ his mind.”

“He’s as crazy as a bedbug!” snapped Carlin. “Offers a job to Jack Silver, and then gives it to a ⸺ woman! I’ll take a drink with yuh.”

Park Reber wanted to go with June to the Two Bar X ranch the next day, but the old doctor vetoed such a move on the part of his patient. Reber was far from well. There was none of his men in from the ranches, so he sent Jud Nelson and Sam Heard, two of his men who worked in Tomahawk, to accompany June.

These men did not know why June was going to the ranch, nor did they ask Reber. They loaded June and her baggage into a light wagon, kicked off the brake and drove out of town. It was nearly thirty miles to the Two Bar X, and the roads were none too good. June occupied the back seat, and with the rattle and lurch of the vehicle there was little opportunity for conversation. The two men devoted themselves exclusively to chewing tobacco and keeping the wagon on the road.

At the forks of the river, about twelve miles south of town, they saw Slim Patterson and two of his cowboys. The road passed close to the Half-Wheel ranchhouse. Slim waved at them, but they did not stop. They took the right-hand road, which led to the Two Bar X. There were no bridges, and the river crossings were almost deep enough to float the wagon.

About three miles south of the Half-Wheel ranch they passed the mouth of Trapper Creek, One of the men told her it was Trapper Creek, and she knew that Jack Silver’s place was somewhere between the West Fork and the mountains.

June was still in somewhat of a daze over her new job. She didn’t know a thing about cattle; she knew nothing about running a ranch. But Reber had told her merely to use her head. He was the real head of all the ranches, and he would see that she learned the game. Not that Reber intended keeping her at the Two Bar X. He was not crazy. But he was willing to grasp at any straw to stop the cattle rustling. If June could figure out a way to trap Silver it would be worth many dollars to the Diamond R and he was going to give her a chance.

He knew the temper of his men, knew that the majority of them were against the idea of hiring a woman. But he did feel that any of them would support any scheme she might formulate to stop the wholesale stealing of his cattle.

They had just passed the mouth of Trapper Creek and were traveling through a willow patch in the river bottom, near a ford, when the driver suddenly jerked up his team, almost throwing June off the seat. She had a confused impression of the team’s twisting sidewise, of a man yelling a warning, of the sound of a shot.

She flung out her right hand, grasping the back of the front seat to steady herself. Sam Herd was sprawling forward, as if looking down over the left front wheel, and he suddenly slid ahead limply and slithered over the wheel to the ground.

Jud Nelson’s two hands were in the air. Two masked men had turned their horses in close to the wagon. They were wearing empty flour sacks over their heads, with holes cut in them for eyes. One of them looked down at Herd.

“That’s one less for Reber,” he growled behind his mask.

The one man kept a rifle trained on Nelson, while the other dismounted, climbed up and removed Nelson’s revolver.

June’s face was pale, but she kept her nerve when this masked man turned to her.

“Git out of the wagon,” he ordered gruffly.

There was nothing else for her to do. These men had killed one man already. She climbed down and he indicated his horse.

“Climb on.”

She looked at Nelson, who was looking straight ahead, his lips compressed tightly, both hands held rigidly above his head. June could ride. She climbed into the saddle, hampered by her skirts, and the other bandit laughed.

“Good lookin’ squaw,” he observed.

The other man turned and walked around the wagon to where Herd’s body lay. He picked him up, carried him to the rear of the wagon and dumped him unceremoniously over the tailgate into the wagon-box. He came back and motioned to Nelson.

“Turn around and drive back,” he said hoarsely. “Take all the time yuh need. A little hurry might ruin yore health.”

“And yuh might tell old Reber that he ain’t runnin’ this valley yet a while,” added the other. “The road from here to Tomahawk won’t be healthy for him and his men, so they don’t need to blame us if they git what this feller got.”

Nelson nodded. He was more than willing to get away with a whole skin. He managed to turn the team around in the willows, and started back, holding the team to a slow walk.

The man mounted behind June, but before they started out he blindfolded her with a none too clean handkerchief.

Then they rode out of the river bottom, forded the river and headed into the hills. June knew this, because the horse was climbing most of the way. There was no conversation. The bandit guided the horse, with an arm on each side of June. He had been drinking, but not enough to give him more than a whisky breath.

It seemed to June that they had been riding about an hour, when the horses fairly slid downward for considerable distance, traveled along for a while on level ground and stopped. The men dismounted and lifted June off the saddle, guiding her into a cabin, where they removed the blindfold.

It was a small log cabin, crudely furnished, with a dirt floor. It smelled musty in there. June blinked painfully as she looked around at the two men. One of them secured a length of lariat-rope with which he roped her tightly to a chair. He knew how to knot ropes, and when he was finished there was no possible way for June to escape. The other man inspected the knots and nodded his approval.

“That’s the old Injun knot,” he growled. “No squaw ever wiggled loose from one like that.”

The other laughed.

“You’ll stay here quite a while,” he told June. “No use to yelp. There ain’t a man within miles of here. When Jack Silver does a job, he does it well. Park Reber can hunt and be ⸺ to him, but he’ll never find yuh. We’re goin’ away, but we’ll be back tonight some time and bring some feed for yuh.”

They turned abruptly and left the cabin, closing the door behind them. June heard the creak of their saddles and the sound of the horses walking away. She tried to loosen her bonds, but she soon found that there was nothing to do but to sit and wait.

She wanted to cry, to scream for help. But she knew that it would not help matters in the least. She was going to need all her nerve. She wondered what Park Reber would do. What could he do, she wondered? It might take them weeks to find her. Jack Silver had outwitted him again.

She wondered whether one of these men was Silver. Neither looked like the man who had taunted her. They were not so tall and slim as Silver.

It was, possibly, thirty minutes after the departure of the two men when she heard the soft plop-plop of a horse’s hoofs. She listened intently. The horse had stopped near the cabin door, and she heard a footstep.

Suddenly the door was flung open and a man stood in the opening—a tall, slender man. She was looking against the light and could not see his features, but she knew it was Jack Silver.

He came slowly in and stood looking down at her.

“Reber’s squaw, eh?” he said softly.

June shut her lips tightly, refusing to reply. He walked back to the door and looked around. Beyond him she could see his tall black horse looking toward him. Finally he came back to her and began taking off the ropes.

It did not take him long to unfasten her hands, and then he dropped to his knees beside her, fumbling with the knots beneath the chair. It was her big chance, and she had the nerve to take advantage of it.

Leaning slightly toward him she reached down and quickly whipped the six-shooter from his holster and shoved the muzzle against his neck. June knew guns. The hammer came to full cock from a twist of her thumb.

Jack Silver did not look up, but his hands came away from the rope. He did not move, but waited for her to act.

“Unfasten that rope,” she ordered, and was surprized to find her voice fairly steady.

Silver unfastened the remaining rope, and she got to her feet, backing away from him.

“Now I’ve got you,” she said hoarsely.

“Looks thataway,” he said slowly. “I hope yuh know that trigger only pulls about a pound.”

“I am not interested in trigger pulls, Mr. Silver.”

“Possibly not. I am.”

June picked up the loose rope with her left hand, keeping an eye on Silver, and then motioned for him to precede her out of the cabin. He made no objection, but his eyes were just a little curious.

June tossed him the looped end of the rope.

“Put it around your neck,” she ordered.

He shut his lips tightly and studied her intently. She had the gun at her hip now, and the hammer was still cocked. He shrugged his shoulders and smiled thinly.

“Single-handed lynchin’?” he asked.