Mason of Bar X Ranch

“Guess I’ve got maw’s fool in a fuss,” he said grimly to himself as he braced his body for a struggle. “This thing is dippy or I’m foolish.”

When within a few feet of Mason the hunchback suddenly dropped his revolver and grappled with him.

Mason met the onslaught with a terrific swing to the dwarf’s jaw. Hard as the blow was, it did not seem to have any effect. Mason felt the bony hands of his assailant close about his throat with crushing force. Bright lights flashed before his eyes and he could hear the hunchback’s breath come and go in a sharp whistle. Mason realized the hunchback had him at a disadvantage, and allowing his body to become limp, he sank slowly to his knees. The ruse worked, for the hunchback released the strangle hold about his neck.

Like a flash Mason straightened up and throwing his left arm around his assailant’s neck he seized his right arm and exerting tremendous pressure forced it sharply up between his shoulder blades. It was the hammerlock and he soon had the hunchback begging for mercy.

Mason was thoroughly angered by this time and threw the loathsome creature into the corner, a groveling mass.

Picking up the gun he slipped it into his pocket.

“Why did you wish to take my life?” he demanded, gazing down at his fallen foe.

“I know you,” the dwarf grated in a cracked voice. “Your name is Mason, the new man at Walters’ ranch, and I got orders to watch you.”

“Why watch me?” Mason asked, his curiosity aroused.

“That’s for you to find out,” the dwarf answered, a crafty look coming into his eyes.

Mason suddenly whipped the gun out of his pocket and leveled it at the dwarf.

“Tell me the truth,” he commanded sternly.

“I thought you was trying to steal something, and there was nobody about and I was left to guard the place,” the dwarf whined.

“That’s a lie and you know it,” Mason retorted, his ire rising once more. “You claim you were told to watch me, who gave you those orders?”

Great beads of sweat stood out on the dwarf’s ugly face, and his claw-like fingers were working like the talons of some great bird.

“Ricker gave me orders to watch you. He has spies everywhere, he knows you and your father and hates you both. If you want to save your hide you had better clear out of these parts,” he snarled at last.

Mason was astounded. That Ricker should know his father and have set this half-witted dwarf to watching his son was a puzzle. He was inclined to doubt the dwarf’s sanity. So far as he knew his father had no enemies in the world. He determined to sound the dwarf thoroughly.

“Stand up,” he commanded him sternly, holding the gun into the pit of the dwarf’s stomach. “I am going to get at the bottom of this thing. What do you mean by saying that Ricker hates my father?” The dwarf rose in abject terror and started to mumble through chattering teeth.

“Cut that out and talk like a man,” Mason commanded him sharply.

“Ricker claims that your father did him an injury long ago while they were in the lumber business in the East. He says it is in his power to ruin him now and he will ruin you, too,” the dwarf snarled, glaring savagely at him.

Mason smiled grimly.

“I’ve found out what I wanted to know and will act accordingly if it is true,” he said, backing slowly out of the room.

“Tell your precious master I will keep this little toy,” tapping the gun he was holding, “to remember him by, and also tell him I said the Masons are hard to drive.”

Reaching the door he dropped the gun in his pocket and mounting his horse rode slowly towards Trader’s Post. He breathed a sigh of relief when well out of sight of the ranch buildings.

“Well, this is a rum go,” he said softly to himself. “What will Josephine say when I tell her of my adventure. She’ll say right off quick that I need a guardian, and bawl me out for not waiting for her to take me to the ranch as she promised.”

Still, he was troubled over what he had heard, and made up his mind that if he didn’t get a letter from his father soon he would write him all about it, or better still, take a trip East to warn him that Ricker was a desperate character.

He was fast getting on to the ways of the West, and feeling the red blood flowing swiftly through his veins, he felt like getting into action on any trouble that might involve his father in peril.

He meant to take Josephine into his confidence as soon as he got home, and Scotty, too, whom he felt sure he could trust. Thus musing to himself he was covering ground at a slow canter.

Again his thoughts would travel Eastward to his old friends, and the hope of getting his car soon raised his spirits high. Then he remembered Roy Purvis to whom he had said good-bye just before he had started for the West.

Roy had been a keen and enthusiastic automobile racer along with Mason, and had just gone in for aviation. He had several bad spills in learning, but was keener for flying than he ever had been for automobile racing. He had laughingly made the remark to Mason that he might expect a birdman to visit him in his chosen god-forsaken country.

“Just the thing,” he said aloud to Sport, who was so startled that he broke into a swift run. “Steady, old boy,” he called softly, slowing him down. “When I get to Trader’s Post I will telegraph for Roy to come on, and send in a hurry order for my car at the same time.”

It was an ideal day with a gentle wind blowing, and Mason drank in deep breaths of the pure air for his brain was still whirling with the adventures of the past hour. He could not connect his father’s past with Ricker’s life, try as he would. Then he remembered his father never had taken him into his confidence to any great extent, for he was a man of few words.

Mason knew that he held vast holdings in coal, and in the iron industry, besides holding the controlling interest in his New York bank. As for himself, he never had questioned his father on business affairs, being content to follow his own usual mad pursuits.

Now, he wished he had taken more interest in his father’s affairs, as he was getting old. The two weeks he had been away from home had given him time to think over some of his own mad enterprises of the past, and he mentally resolved he would square himself with his father and prove he was a chip of the old block.

The Masons came of good fighting stock, his father was born in Virginia and served through the Civil War. Mason’s eyes were taking in the surrounding country with keen delight as his thoughts ran in this channel. Like most rich Americans, he had toured the principal cities of Europe and seen little of his own country.

“America for mine,” he said aloud, his eyes aglow with health.

He was but a few miles from Trader’s Post now, and he wondered if he would meet any of the boys from the ranch there. A few minutes later he entered the town and was giving his horse over to the care of a hostler with instructions to feed him well, along with a generous tip, when he heard a woman scream.

Running out into the hotel inclosure he beheld a sight that made his blood boil.

It was a girl struggling in the arms of Pete Carlo, the halfbreed. With a bound, Mason was by her side and tearing the Mexican away from her, he promptly knocked him down.

“Great work,” called a voice from the hotel porch.

Mason turned and saw Bud and Scotty grinning at him. In the same instant, Bud’s hand flashed from his hip, followed by a sharp report.

He heard a cry of pain behind him, and bewildered, he turned again to see the halfbreed nursing a pair of bleeding knuckles.

Bud and Scotty strode toward them with burning wrath in their eyes.

“The dirty skunk,” Scotty was saying, as he kicked a gun out of the halfbreed’s reach. “He tried to bore you. Never turn your back on a greaser.”

“He’s drunk,” cut in Bud, “but that don’t excuse him. Get up, you whelp, and make tracks out of here, you’ll lose your job for this.”

Bud took his gun and the halfbreed slunk away with muttered threats. Mason looked at the girl. She had recovered from her fright and was regarding him with large dark eyes filled with gratitude, and suspiciously close to the point of tears.

He saw at a glance that she was a Spanish girl of unusual beauty. Taking off his hat he made her a bow and in return he was rewarded with a dainty curtesy.

Turning to Bud he shook his hand warmly and said,

“Thanks, old man, you saved my life.”

“That’s all right, Jack,” the big fellow returned heartily. “You have to watch them greasers. Come, Scotty, let’s play a game of cards. Coming in soon?” he questioned of Mason.