Bransford of Rainbow Range Part 2

Pringle took a long look and held up his hand. "I will," he said soberly.

"John Wesley, do you or do you not believe Stephen W. Lake, of Agua Chiquite, to be a low-down, coniferous skunk by birth, inclination and training?"

"I do."

"John Wesley, do you or do you not possess the full confidence and affection of Felix, the night-hawk, otherwise known and designated as John Taylor, Junior, of b.u.t.terbowl, Esquire?"

"I do."

"Do you, John Wesley Pringle, esteem me, Jeff Bransford, irrespective of color, s.e.x or previous condition of turpitude, to be such a one as may be safely tied to when all the hitching-posts is done pulled up, and will you now promise to love, honor and obey me till the cows come home, or till further orders?"

"I do--I will. And may G.o.d have mercy on my soul."

"Here are your powders, then. Do you go and locate the above-mentioned and described Felix, and impart to him, under the strict seal of secrecy, these tidings, to wit, namely: That you have a presentiment, almost amounting to conviction, that the b.u.t.terbowl contest is decided in Lake's favor, but that your further presentiments is that said Lake will not use his prior right. If Taylor should get such a decision from the Land Office don't let him or Felix say a word to no one. If Mr. B.

Body should ask, tell 'em 'twas a map, or land laws, or something.

Moreover, said Felix he is not to stab, cut, pierce or otherwise mutilate said Lake, nor to wickedly, maliciously, feloniously and unlawfully fire at or upon the person of said Lake with any rifle, pistol, musket or gun, the same being then and there loaded with powder and with b.a.l.l.s, shots, bullets or slugs of lead or other metal. You see to that, personal. I'd go to him myself, but he don't know me well enough to have confidence in my divinations.

"You promulgate these prophecies as your sole personal device and construction--_sabe?_ Then, thirty days after Lake signs a receipt for his decision--and you will take steps to inform yourself of that--you sidle casually down to Roswell with old man Taylor and see that he puts preemption papers on the b.u.t.terbowl. Selah!"

III

The first knowledge Lake had of the state of affairs was when the Steam Pitchfork punchers informally extended to him the right hand of fellows.h.i.+p (hitherto withheld) under the impression that he had generously abstained from pus.h.i.+ng home his vantage. When, in the mid-flood of his unaccountable popularity, the situation dawned upon him, he wisely held his peace. He was a victim of the accomplished fact.

Taylor had already filed his preemption. So Lake reaped volunteer harvest of good-will, bearing his honors in graceful silence.

On Lake's next trip to Escondido, Pappy Sanders laid aside his marked official hauteur. Lake stayed several days, praised the rosebush and Ma Sanders' cookery, and indulged in much leisurely converse with Pappy.

Thereafter he had a private conference with Stratton, the Register of the Roswell Land Office. His suspicion fell quite naturally on Felix, and on Jeff as accessory during the fact.

So it was that, when Jeff and Leo took in Roswell fair (where Jeff won a near-prize at the roping match), Hobart, the United States Marshal, came to their room. After introducing himself he said:

"Mr. Stratton would like to see you, Mr. Bransford."

"Why, that's all right!" said Jeff genially. "Some of my very great grandfolks was Dacotahs and I've got my name in 'Who's Sioux'--but I'm not proud! Trot him around. Exactly who is Stratton, anyhow?"

"He's the Register of the Land Office--and he wants to see you there on very particular business. I'd go if I was you," said the Marshal significantly.

"Oh, that way!" said Jeff. "Is this an arrest, or do you just give me this _in_-vite semi-officiously?"

"You accuse yourself, sir. Were you expecting arrest? That sounds like a bad conscience."

"Don't you worry about my conscience. 'If I've ever done anything I'm sorry for I'm glad of it.' Now this Stratton party--is he some aged and venerable? 'Cause, if he is, I waive ceremony and seek him in his lair at the witching hour of two this _tarde_. And if not, not."

"He's old enough--even if there were no other reasons."

"Never mind any other reasons. It shall never be said that I fail to reverence gray hairs. I'll be there."

"I guess I'll just wait and see that you go," said the Marshal.

"Have you got any papers for me?" asked Jeff politely.

"No."

"This is my room," said Jeff. "This is my fist. This is me. That is my door. Open it, Leo. Mr. Hobart, you will now make rapid forward motions with your feet, alternately, like a man removing his company from where it is not desired--or I'll go through you like a domesticated cyclone.

See you at two, sharp!" Hobart obeyed. He was a good judge of men.

Jeff closed the door. "'We went upon the battlefield,'" he said plaintively, "'before us and behind us, and every which-a-way we looked, we seen a roscerhinus.' We went into another field--behind us and before us, and every which-a-way we looked, we seen a rhinusorus. Mr. Lake has been evidently browsin' and pe-rusing around, and poor old Pappy, not being posted, has likely been narratin' about Charley's ankle and how I had a chill. Wough-ough!"

"It looks that way," confessed Leo. "_Did_ you have a chill, Jeff?"

Jeff's eyes crinkled. "Not so nigh as I am now. But shucks! I've been in worse emergencies, and I always emerged. Thanks be, I can always do my best when I have to. Oh, what a tangled web we weave when we don't keep in practice! If I'd just come out straightforward and declared myself to Pappy, he'd 'a' tightened up his drawstrings and forgot all about my chill. But, no, well as I know from long experience that good old human nature's only too willin' to do the right thing and the fair thing--if somebody'll only tip it off to 'em--I must play a lone hand and not even call for my partner's best. Well, I'm goin' to ramify around and scrutinize this here Stratton's numbers, equipments and disposition.

Meet me in the office at the fatal hour!"

The Marshal wore a mocking smile. Stratton, large, florid, well-fed and eminently respectable, turned in his revolving chair with a severe and majestic motion; adjusted his gla.s.ses in a prolonged and offensive examination, and frowned portentously.

"Fine large day, isn't it?" observed Jeff affably. "Beautiful little city you have here." He sank into a chair. Smile and att.i.tude were of pleased and sprightly antic.i.p.ation.

A faint flush showed beneath Stratton's neatly-trimmed mutton-chops.

Such jaunty bearing was exasperating to offended virtue. "Ah--who is this other person, Mr. Hobart?"

"Pardon my rudeness!" Jeff sprang up and bowed brisk apology. "Mr.

Stratton, allow me to present Mr. Ballinger, a worthy representative of the Yellow Press. Mr. Stratton--Mr. Ballinger!"

"I have a communication to make to you," said the displeased Mr.

Stratton, in icy tones, "which, in your own interest, should be extremely private." The Marshal whispered to him; Stratton gave Leo a fiercely intimidating glare.

"Communicate away," said Jeff airily. "Excommunicate, if you want to.

Mr. Ballinger, as a citizen, is part owner of this office. If you want to bar him you'll have to change the venue to your private residence.

And then I won't come."

"Very well, sir!" Mr. Stratton rose, inflated his chest and threw back his head. His voice took on a steady roll. "Mr. Bransford, you stand under grave displeasure of the law! You are grievously suspected of being cognizant of, if not actually accessory to, the robbery of the United States Mail by John Taylor, Junior, at Escondido, on the eighteenth day of last October. You may not be aware of it, but you have an excellent chance of serving a term in the penitentiary!"

Jeff pressed his hands between his knees and leaned forward. "I'm sure I'd never be satisfied there," he said, with conviction. His white teeth flashed in an ingratiatory smile. "But why suspect young John?--why not old John?" He paused, looking at the Register attentively.

"H'm!--you're from Indiana, I believe, Mr. Stratton?" he said.

"The elder Taylor, on the day in question, is fully accounted for," said Hobart. "Young Taylor claims to have pa.s.sed the night at Willow Springs, alone. But no one saw him from breakfast time the seventeenth till noon on the nineteenth."

"He rarely ever has any one with him when he's alone. That may account for them not seeing him at Willow," suggested Jeff. He did not look at Hobart, but regarded Stratton with an air of deep meditation.

The Register paced the floor slowly, ponderously, with an impressive pause at each turn, tapping his left hand with his eyegla.s.s to score his points. "He had ample time to go to Escondido and return. The envelope in which Mr. Lake's copy of this office's decision in the Lake-Taylor contest was enclosed has been examined. It bears unmistakable signs of having been tampered with." Turning to mark the effect of these tactics, he became aware of his victim's contemplative gaze. It disconcerted him.

He resumed his pacing. Jeff followed him with a steady eye.

"In the same mail I sent Mr. Lake another letter. The envelope was unfortunately destroyed, Mr. Lake suspecting nothing. A map had been subst.i.tuted for its contents, and they, in turn, were subst.i.tuted for the decision in the registered letter, with the evident intention of depriving Mr. Lake of his prior right to file."

"By George! It sounds probable." Jeff laughed derisively. "So that's it!

And here we all thought Lake let it go out of giddy generosity! My stars, but won't he get the horse-smile when the boys find out?"

Stratton controlled himself with an effort. "We have decided not to push the case against you if you will tell what you know," he began.