Mason of Bar X Ranch

“Ricker,” the Marshal continued grimly, “you have led the life of a mean cur dog. This boy’s father here,” he waved one of his guns at Mason, “was quite a big help to me. He set me straight about you when I was wandering a bit off your track. You stole money from Mr. Mason when he was in the lumber business, and also threatened his life.

“Perhaps it will interest you to learn how I dropped on to your counterfeiting game so easily. Ricker, I am going to make you acquainted with my most able deputy. Jean Barry, step forward!”

“Traitor!” Ricker hissed, as the man Jean Barry stepped over and took a position near the Marshal.

Suddenly a shot rang out, extinguishing the light.

Simultaneous with the report of the gun, Trent Burton’s lithe body shot past Mason. Then from the darkness came blows and curses, followed by a number of shots, as the men fought in the dark.

A bullet seared Mason’s arm like a red hot iron just as Bud shouted a warning for his men to guard the doors.

CHAPTER XIII – THE COUNTERFEITERS

The firing ceased abruptly, each side fearing to hit one of its own men. The next instant Mason was grasped from behind and thrown violently to the floor. His assailant seemed possessed with superhuman strength and ferocity while he breathed with a peculiar whistling sound through his teeth. Mason’s brain worked like lightning as the belief flashed through his mind that he was struggling with the demon hunchback dwarf.

The beast’s bony hands were at his throat and Mason fought desperately. He realized that he was being slowly strangled. His left arm was wounded and lay useless at his side. As he vainly tried to bring his knee into the pit of the dwarf’s stomach his hand touched his own revolver. With his remaining strength he managed to work it free from the holster and brought the butt crashing down on the dwarf’s head.

The bony hands relaxed about his throat and he rolled the thing off his body with a shudder. He realized how close he had been to death.

He had stood near one of the windows when he had been attacked, and as he lay there quietly getting his strength back he heard voices whispering outside the window. There was not a sound from inside the room, each man being afraid to move or make a sound for fear of betraying his location to the other.

He listened eagerly to the whispering, and to his joy discovered that it was two of Bud’s men trying to figure out how they could thrust a lighted lantern through the window without getting shot.

Evidently they had found a way, for there came a crash of broken glass and the lantern passed rapidly over Mason and stopped close to the center of the room. The cowboys had found a long pole and had tied the lantern to one end of it. At the appearance of the lantern a number of bullets passed over Mason, and he was glad he had not attempted to get on his feet.

The light showed a strange scene. Ricker lay on the floor with his hands and feet shackled.

Trent Burton was bending low over him, the two deadly automatics still in his hands. Scotty and Jim Haley stood facing each other with their guns on a level, but neither dared to fire.

“Stick that gun away, Jim, and be nice,” drawled the Marshal. “I’ve got you covered and so has Bud there near the door.”

Jim’s gun wavered a bit as he half turned his eyes towards the door.

Mason had been watching Scotty and Jim from where he lay on the floor and fired the instant Jim’s gun wavered. Jim’s gun fell to the floor, while he grabbed his wrist with a curse. Mason quickly leveled his gun at the dwarf, who was crawling up on him again.

“If you come one inch farther, you beast, I’ll blow your fool head off. This is the second time you have tried to murder me.”

He was in an ugly fighting mood, and his arm was beginning to give him considerable pain. The rest of Ricker’s gang, seeing Jim Haley put out of action and their leader lying on the floor with his feet and hands shackled, lost heart and surrendered.

Bud sent some of the men scouting around for an extra lamp.

“I wonder who shot the lamp out,” the Marshal queried, “it wasn’t done by anybody in this room.”

“I did,” the dwarf spoke up, grinning exultantly. “I was in the cellar and fired through a hole in the floor. Then while the fight was going on I crawled through the window.”

“And well I know it,” Mason said ruefully, “he crept up on me and had me nearly strangled before I knocked him on the head with my gun. He must have a skull like iron.”

The Marshal after a brief struggle snapped a pair of handcuffs on the dwarf’s wrists.

“You are too dangerous a person to be at large, my most excellent engraver.

“This dwarf,” he continued, “was Ricker’s chief engraver.”

Then, noticing Mason’s wound, he called Jean Barry, his deputy, to examine his arm. Jean made a thorough examination.

“Your arm isn’t broken, luckily; as near as I can tell the bullet just grazed the bone in the elbow,” he announced cheerfully, as Mason had winced as he handled the injured arm.

“Well, it felt as though it was broken, I can’t raise it up,” Mason said grimly.

The Marshal was keenly interested. He seemed worried about Mason’s injury, and watched Jean as he put a crude bandage around the injured member.

“Bud,” the Marshal spoke up, “I propose we take a general inventory of our men and see how many wounded we have and how bad their injuries are. In the meantime we will send to the Post for a doctor. Who will volunteer to go?”

“I will,” Scotty spoke up eagerly; “young Mason here did me a good turn when he nailed Jim Haley, and I want to return the favor.”

“All right, Scotty, go ahead,” Bud agreed; “isn’t far to the Post, and while you’re gone we’ll look this ranch over.”

As most of the injured had received only slight flesh wounds, the Marshal and Bud undertook to examine the cellar and premises. The Marshal paused as they were about to commence their search and watched Jean Barry, who was dressing the men’s wounds.

“Jean, after you get the men’s wounds dressed, you had better go and bring in Ricker’s guard,” he said reflectively.

“I’ve got Tug Conners bound securely,” he added, “but I had to tap him on the head first, and he may be suffering.”

Ricker had been jerked to his feet none too gently by one of Bud’s men and placed on a table with his back to the wall. The look of fear in his eyes had died out, and he was regarding the Marshal with a look of hate.

“Who the hell are you, anyway?” he burst out savagely. “I’ve seen you before, somewhere in the East.”

The Marshal turned to the counterfeiter with a grim smile.

“Right, you are, my counterfeiting friend,” he answered suavely, “perhaps I can refresh your memory.”

Into his eyes came a look of reminiscence.

“Follow me back ten years,” he said, keeping his eyes fixed on Ricker, “to a little den on the East Side in New York. There had been a gang of counterfeiters shoving the queer, and they were operating around New York and neighboring cities.

“I was called in from another case I had been working on, and after long search succeeded in tracing the counterfeiters to this little den I speak of. In making the capture of the ringleader, part of my disguise was torn off, and that is the reason you remember me. In the excitement of the struggle you escaped, and I sent one of my men after you.”

Ricker was regarding the Marshal sullenly, his face working in violent spasms mingled with fear with hate.

“He trailed you to Baltimore,” the Marshal continued relentlessly, “and as he was attempting your arrest you sent a bullet through his head. After that, you disappeared and all efforts of my men failed to locate you.

“A short time ago, however, and through the efforts of my deputy, Jean Barry, I learned that you had headed for the West. As there has been a quantity of counterfeit money circulating in the East, I sent Jean Barry, who had at one time been a cowboy, out here to look you up.

“In the course of time, Jean Barry had evidence enough against you to warrant my suspicions, so I came out here and worked with him. This is your last attempt at counterfeiting, Ricker, for you will be tried for the murder of my detective.”

“Trent Burton,” Ricker ground out the name with an oath, “I’ll never be tried for that murder, and only for this traitor, Jean Barry, you would never have got the goods on me for this counterfeiting business. Only a few of my own men knew I was making the queer; the rest I kept in ignorance as they are only cattlemen.

“I owe my discovery to Jean Barry’s trickery; he came to me and hired out as a cowboy, and I didn’t suspect him of being a detective, but I’ll promise you this much,” the counterfeiter brought his shackled hands down on his knee with an oath, “there isn’t a jail made that will hold me. I’ll escape and get revenge on Jean Barry, and I’ll get you too, Mason.