"SECOND TIME WEST"

Wairarapa Times-Age, 7 September 1938, Page 10

"SECOND TIME WEST"

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT

COPYRIGHT

BY

T. C. BRIDGES

(Author of “Watching Eyes,” “Seven Years’ Sentence,” etc.)

CHAPTER XIV. .—Continued. “Then how in sense did you beat them here?” “Flew,” said Ward. He looked round to make sure they were alone. “Can you do with a couple of extra hands?” “I could do with a dozen if I could find the right ones. There’s storm over the valley, Ward.” “How’d an English baronet and a London taxi-driver suit you?” The old man frowned. “I guess not. Let me introduce you. This here gent in the blue shirt is Sir James Andrew Chernocke who owns a ranch in Scotland pretty night as big as this spread. The other is Mr Noah Trant, late of London. He can drive any sort of auto, and is right handy in a fight. Only he don’t use a gun. A monkey wrench is the weapon he prefers.” Dave Condon passed the fingers of his right hand through his thick white hair. His expression of bewilderment was almost ludicrous. “You don’t need to look so bothered, Dave,” said Ward. “Sir James here is an old friend of yours. Only, when you knowed him, he called himself Jim Preston.” Dave stiffened and stared at Jim. “Jim Preston,” he repeated, “him as killed Wesley Garnett! I surely would not know him.” “I’m glad of that, Dave,” said Jim. “I got myself fixed up in New York so that I should be recognized.” Dave thrust out his hand. “Shake, Jim. I know you now, by your voice. But you’re taking a terrible big risk, coming back to Loomis.” He turned to Ward. “Reckon there’s more to all this than I know about. I’d like to hear.” “So you shall,” said Haskell. “Maybe Jim had better tell you.” Like Haskell, Jim looked round to make certain there were' no listeners, then he gave London a brief account of everything that had happened since his escape after the shooting of Garnett. The old man leaned forward, his blue eyes glistening with interest, and when Jim had finished his story he spoke quickly and decisively. “You done exactly right, Jim. You got to get Joan Chandler away from Bignal and Fame and you can count on me to help you all I can. Anyway the showdown is due, and what happened today proves I couldn’t keep out of it even if I wanted to. I’ll take you and Trant on as ordinary hands. You ride, Trant?” “I ain’t much use on a horse, sir,” Trant said, “but I seed a mowing machine as I come in. That’s more my line.” “Fine!” said Dave. “We need a chap to handle our machinery and that automobile may come in mighty handy. Only thing is you’ll both have to keep under cover. Even the boys in the bunk house mustn’t know who you are. What do you reckon to call yourselves?” “I’m Grant Andrews,” said Jim, “and Trant is Chip Wilson.” “Good, but, Jim, you’ll have to be mighty careful not to run into any of Fame’s crowd, that might know you.” As he spoke there was the sound of a horse cantering up to the front of the house. They all looked out of the window. “Darned if it ain’t the Sheriff. Haskell exclaimed in sudden dismay. “Jim you get out of this, quick.” Jim shook his head. “What’s the use? I’m bound to meet him sooner or later. This is the chance to see if my disguise is good.” CHAPTER XV. There was no time to say more, for Grant Garnett was off his horse and coming up the steps on the piazza. Dave Condon rose to meet him. Though he disliked and despised the man, he would not show it in his own house. That was against his code. The Sheriff came in. He was tall, and wore whipcord breeches, expensive boots, and a tweed coat that certainly was not made in New Mexico. His spurs were silvei- and his shirt of silk. His big nose was contradicted by a weak mouth partly hidden by a large moustache, and his small eyes were deep-set under immensely thick eyebrows. He believed himself to be good-looking, but Jim had always thought him a most repulsive person. “Howdy, Mr Condon?” was his greeting. “Howdy, Mr Haskell?” “I get around still,” said Dave, drily, “will you have a drink, Mr Garnett?” Garnett took a stiff drink and put it away. „ , ■ . , “Got company, I see, he remarked. “Two hands I’m hiring. This is Grant Andrews and this is Chip Wilson. There was not the slightest change in Jim’s expression as he nodded to the Sheriff, but inwardly he was nervous. Garnett, however, did not show any sign that he had ever seen him before, and Jim felt relieved. Garnett spoke to Dave. “I come to see you about that waterhole up beyond Red Butte. Buck Coulton complains as you’ve, fenced it. “And why shouldn’t I fence it. Dave Condon’s voice was hard. “It’s on my own land.” “Buck claims the line runs through the pool, so Faroe’s got as much right to it as you.” , . , ~ “If Buck would study his map he d see his line runs a hundred paces and more on the north side of that hole, said Dave, drily. He went on: Its Buck Coulton’s fault. I never wanted to be unneighbourly, but he’s pushed five hundred head or more over on that south strip—twice as many as the land will carry. Consequence is they re all the time straying on my range and eating down my grass. 'l’ve warned him twice about it, but he didn t pay no attention, so I’m fencing the whole line.” The Sheriff frowned. “I reckon you’re wrong about that there boundary, Mr Condon. Fame showed me his map afore he went away, and the line runs plumb through the centre of the hole.” “Fame’s been here four years; Ive been here more than forty. Don t you reckon I know more about it than he does?” Garnett opened his mouth to speak, but Dave stopped him with a sharp question. “And listen here, Garnett! Only an hour ago some blacksouled bush whacker shot my grandson when he was up on the line and nigh killed him. One of Fame’s men it was— and I can give you his name if you want it. You go out and catch that dirty murderer, and after that you can come and talk about the water h °Garnett pulled his moustache. His eyes narrowed. I “Did anyone see this fellow as shot Bud?” he asked.

“No, because he was hidden up in the scrub, but I’ll tell you this, he used a .38 Marlin rifle, and he rode a paint horse. If that ain’t evidence enough for you to make an arrest it’s a pity.’ Garnett scowled.

“There's more than one uses a Marlin around here, and a dozen as rides paint ponies.” “But only one does both,” retorted Dave, “and you know who that is as well as I do.” The Sheriff shook his head.

“That ain’t evidence to kill a cat. Besides everyone knows as there’s trouble between you and Faroe.” “Just as everyone knows which side you take in that trouble,” answered Dave Condon. The Sheriff drew himself up. “Are you accusing me of favouring folk?”he blustered. “That’s a dangerous thing to say, Dave Condon.” “It’s what everyone is saying round here except you and Fame and Vincent Bignail and you don’t need say it for you know it.” Garnett slammed his glass down on the table with a force that broke it. “If you wasn’t an old man,” he began furiously. Condon cut him short. “No need to hesitate on that account, Garnett. I ain’t as spry as I was twenty years ago, out I'm still game to draw against you.” Garnett bit his lip. In his heart he was afraid of this old fire-eater. He ducked out. “I ain’t such a fool as to start a war with you in your own house, but I tell you straight, threatening a law officer won’t get you anywhere, Condon.” “Then we will wait till you are no longer a law man, Garnett,” said Dave sweetly, “and maybe that won t be very long.” It was too much for Garnett. With an oath he picked up his hat and stumped out of the room. Another few seconds and he was in the saddle and, ramming in his spurs, rode off a. gallop- . „ „ “You kind of nettled him, Dave, said Ward Haskell. “I meant to,” replied the old man. “He can’t hate me any more than he does already. He’s Fame’s dog and a yellow dog at that/’ Haskell shook his head. “Looks like I’ve come home to a range war Dave. Well you can count on me and my boys when the trouble breaks ” “And break it will before long,” said the old man gravely. He turned to Jim. “Garnett didn’t spot you, Jim. Thats one sure thing.” “I didn’t speak,” Jim said. He might know me by my voice.” “That’s a fact. You’ll have to be careful that way. But I don’t reckon anyone yould recognize you apart from that. It ain’t only the way they’ve fixed you up but you’ve filled out a lot. You were only a kid when you were here before. You’re a man n6w.” He smiled. “It’s nigh supper time. I’ll take you down to the bunk house. I’d like to have you in the house, but it might cause talk.” “Don’t think twice about that, Dave. I’m a cowboy from now on.” The old man laughed outright. “It’s surely one peace of a business me engaging an English baronet as nurse.” Jim laughed, too. “You’ll find I haven’t forgotten my job, Dave, v he said as he followed the other out to the bunk house. CHAPTER XVI. Dave Condon had ten riders, all picked- men. Jim needed no introduction. Mart Dowling and Nat Vedder had already spread the story of how he had saved Bud, and Jim was at once accepted as one of the crowd. They didn’t ask him who he was or where he came from; Personal questions of that sort are not considered good manners in the West. One man showed him an empty bunk, another pointed out where to wash and offered the loan of a clean towel. To Trant they were equally civil though they at once spotted him as a Britisher.

Supper came in. Beef steaks fried, baked sweet potatoes and plenty of green stuff and raw tomatoes. Dave had a good garden. There were canned peaches and coffee and the “biscuits” (baking powder scones) were not and crisp from the oven. A hough meal but a good one, and Jim enjoyed it. Afterwards some of the men helped Sam to collect the dishes and wash up, two went down to the corrals to do various chores and four started a game of penny ante poker. Jim was ready to help, but Mart, who was foreman, said he was to lay off, so Jim and Trant went outside, where they sat on a bench in the cool of the evening and lit their pipes. “They’re all right, these chaps, Sir James,” said Trant. “As fair a lot as you could meet, Trant, but for God’s sake don’t call me Sir James. I’m Grant Andrews, and you’re Chip Wilson in future and so long as we stay in this country.” Trant looked shocked.

“You mean I got to call you Grant?” “You jolly well have, and the sooner you get accustomed to it the better. One mistake on your part may bust up everyihing.” Trant looked so serious that Jim almost laughed. “I’ll watch out,” he said. He gazed at the great stretch of shadowed valley below and at the tall peak of The Painted Cross now reddened by the last rays of the invisible sun. “Blowed if it ain’t just like the movies!” he remarked. “I never knowed them pictures could be real-like. I though it were all made up so to speak.” “The old West isn’t dead yet,” Jim told him. “Motor roads and dude ranches haven’t changed it all. And here we are on the raw edge of things.” “You’re surely right, Grant,” came a voice behind him, and Mart Dowling, smoking a corn-cob filled with Bull Durham, took a seat beside him. “Trouble’s been brewing here ever since Murray Fame bought the Kettle Drum. Things wasn’t too good before with Garnett as Sheriff, but with him and Fame and Vincent Bignal in cahoots the storm’s due to break. Dave just told me he’d heard as Fame and Bignal is back from England. I reckon they’ve been gathering money there to buy up more land. They ain’t got no conscience, those fellows. They’ll buy if they ■ can buy cheap and steal if they can’t. They aims to own all this country. “But they can’t do it so long as old timers like Dave and Ward Haskell sit tight,” said Jim. Mart puffed a cloud of smoke into the still air, then took his pipe from his mouth. (To be Continued.)