Stepsons of Light

“He does seem to have a right smart of company,” agreed Hales.

Bob returned with the last comer – a gaunt, brown man with a gift for silence.

“My friend, Mr. Jones,” Bob explained gravely. “He stakes his horse on that hilltop. Bully grass there. And quiet. He likes quiet. He doesn’t care for strangers a-tall – not unless I stand good for ’em.”

The camp – a single room, some fourteen feet by eighteen, flat roofed, made of stone with a soapstone fireplace – was built in a fenced yard on a little low red flat, looped about by the cañon, pleasant with shady cedars, overhung by a red and mighty mountain at the back, faced by a mightier mountain of white limestone. The spring gushed out at the contact of red and white.

The bunch of saddle horses was shut up in the water pen. Preparation for dinner went forward merrily, not without favorable comment from Mr. Smith for Bob’s three bearskins, a proud carpet on the floor. Mr. Jones had seen them before; Hales and Johnny kept honorable silence on that theme. Hales and Mr. Smith set a good example by removing belt and gun; an example followed by Bob, but by neither Johnny nor Mr. Jones. The latter gentleman indeed had leaned his rifle in the corner beyond the table. But while the discussion of bearskins was most animated, Johnny caught Mr. Jones’ eye, and arched a brow. Johnny next took occasion to roll his own eye slowly at the unconscious backs of Mr. Hales and Mr. Smith – and then transferred his gaze, very pointedly, to the long rifle in the corner. Shortly after, Mr. Jones rose and took a seat behind the table, with the long rifle at his right hand.

“Well, Mr. Bob,” said Hales when dinner was over, “here’s your thirty dollars. You give Smith a bill of sale and get your pardner to witness it. Me, I’m telling you good-by. I’m due to lead Smith’s discard pony about forty mile north to-night, and set him loose about daylight – up near the White Oaks stage road. Thank’ee kindly. Good-by, all!”

“Wait a minute, Toad,” said Smith briskly. “I’ll catch up my new cayuse and side you a little ways. Stake him out in good grass, some quiet place – like my pardner here.” He grinned at Mr. Jones, who smiled, attentive. “I’ll hang my saddle in a tree and hoof it back about dark. Safe enough here – all good fellows. And I sure like that bear meat. To say nothing of being full up of myself for society.”

“We’ll do the dishes,” said Johnny. “Bob, you rope me up the gentlest of my hyenas and we’ll slip down to Puddingstone presently.”

“Well, good luck to you, Mr. Dines,” said Hales at the door.

“So long.”

“That horse you’ve got staked out, Mr. Jones,” said Johnny, when the others were catching horses, “how about him? I’ve got a private horse out in the water pen. Shall we swap? Saddles too? You’re a little the biggest, but you can let out my stirrups a notch, and I can take up a notch in yours, up on that pinnacle when I go for my new horse and come back – about dark. That way, you might ride down the cañon with Bob. I think maybe – if it was important – Bob might not find the horses he wants, and might lay out to-night. And you might tell him you was coming back to camp. But you can always change your mind, you know. ‘All you have to do is ride.’”

“This is right clever of you, young man,” said Jones slowly.

“It sure is. Your saddle any good?”

“Better’n yours. Enough better to make up for the difference in hosses, unless yours is a jo-darter. My hoss is tired.”

“He’ll have all fall to rest up. We’d better trade hats, too. Somebody might be watchin’ from the hills.”

“Them fellows?” Jones motioned toward the water pen with the plate he was drying.

“Scouts, I guess. Decoy ducks. More men close, I judge. Acted like it. You ought to know.”

“It ain’t noways customary to send two men after me,” said Jones.

Johnny nodded. “You don’t know about Smithy yet. Let me wise you up.” He outlined the trustfulness of Smithy. “So he was all labeled up for an outlaw, like a sandwich man. Putting one over on Bobby – him being a boy. Bobby fell for it. And me, just a big kid myself, what show did I have with two big grown men smooth as all that? So they fooled me, too. Smithy said ‘Toad’ once – notice? Toad Hales. I’ve heard of Toad Hales. Socorro way. Big mitt man, once. Skunk – but no fighting fool. Out for the dollar.”

“He sees some several. You’re takin’ right smart of a chance, young fellow.”

“I guess I’ve got a right to swap horses if I want to. Hark! They’re ridin’ up the cañon.”

“Well, suh, I’m right obliged to you, and that’s a fact.”

“I’m not doing this for you exactly. I’m protectin’ the Bar Cross. And that’s funny, too,” said Johnny. “I’ve just barely signed up with the outfit, and right off things begin to take place in great lumps and gobs. More action in two days than I’ve seen before in two years. Here’s how I look at it: If anyone sees fit to ride up on you and gather you on the square I’ve got nothing to say. But I hold no candle to treachery. You’re here under trust. I owe it to the Bar Cross – and to you – that you leave here no worse off than you came. I don’t know what you’ve done. If it’s mean enough, I may owe it to Johnny Dines to go after you myself later on. But you go safe from here first. That’s my job.”

“And I’ll bet you’d sure come a-snuffin’. I judge you’re a right white man, suh! But it’s not so mean as all that, this time. Not even a case of ‘alive or dead.’ Just ‘for arrest and conviction.’ So I guess you’ll be reasonably safe on the hillside. No money in killing you, or me, or whoever brings my hoss off of that hill. And they’ll be counting on gathering you in easy – asleep here, likely.”

“That’s the way I figured it – that last.”

“But how’ll you square yourself with the sheriff?”

“I’ll contrive to make strap and buckle meet some way. Man dear, I’ve got to!”

“Well, then – I owe you a day in harvest. Good-by, suh. Jones, he pulls his freight.”

Johnny brought his new horse and saddle down from the red hill, unmolested. He cut out what horses he wanted to keep in the branding pen; turned the others loose, his new acquisition with them; and started supper. Mr. Smith joined him at dark; but the horse hunters did not get back. Supper followed, then seven-up and conversation. Johnny fretted over the non-return of Gifford.

“He talked as if he knew right where to lay his hand on them horses,” he complained. “Wish I had gone myself. Now in the morning I’ll have to be out of here at daylight. That bunch I got in the pen, I got to take them out to grass, and wait till Bob comes – if the blame little fool sleeps out to-night.”

“Oh, he’ll be in purty quick, likely.”

“I don’t know,” said Johnny dejectedly. “I had to-morrow all figured out like a timetable, and here it’s all gummed up. Listen. What’s that in the yard – crunchin’? Varmints, likely. When I was here last we used to throw out beef bones, and of nights we’d shoot through the doorway at the noise. We got eight skunks and three coyotes and a fox and a tub. Guess I’ll try a shot now.” He picked up his revolver and cocked it.

“Hello, the house!” said a hurried voice outside.

“Why, it’s a man!” said Johnny. He turned his gun upon Mr. Smith. “One word and you’re done,” he whispered. His eye was convincing. Smith petrified. Johnny raised his voice. “Hello, outside! You come near getting shot for a skunk! If you want supper and shelter say please and walk out loud like a man. I don’t like your pussy-foot ways.”

“Come out of there – one at a time – hands up!” said the voice. “We’ve got you surrounded. You can’t get away!”

“On the contrary, we are behind thick walls, and you can get away if you’re right quick and immediate,” said Johnny. “Inside of a minute I’m going to empty a rifle out there on general principles. This is a Bar Cross house. I am a Bar Cross man, where I belong, following orders. Half a minute more!”

“You fool! This is the sheriff’s posse!”

“I hear you say it.”

“I am the sheriff of Socorro County,” said another voice, “and I summon you to surrender.”

“I am a Bar Cross man in a Bar Cross house,” repeated Johnny. “If you’re the sheriff, walk in that door on your hind legs, with your hands up, and let us have a look at you.”

“That’s Johnny Dines talking!” said a third voice. “Hello, Dines! This is me, Bill Fewell! Say, this is the sheriff and his posse all right! Don’t you get in wrong.”

“One man may unbuckle his belt and back in at that door, hands up. If you can show any papers for me, I surrender. While I give ’em the quick look, the man that comes in is a hostage with my gun between his shoulder blades. If he takes his hands down or anybody tries any funny business, I’ll make a sieve of him. Step lively!”

“Dines, you fool,” bawled the sheriff, “I got nothing against you. But I’ve got a warrant for that man in there with you, and I’m going to have him.”

“Oh!” A moment’s silence. Then said Johnny, in an injured voice: “You might ha’ said so before. I’ve got him covered and I’ve taken his gun. So now I’ve got one gun for him and one for the hostage. Send in one man walking backward, hands up, warrant in his belt – and let him stop right in the door! No mistakes. If the warrant is right you get your man. Any reward?”

“He’s a stiff-necked piece,” said Fewell. “But he’ll do just what he says. Here, give me your warrant. He won’t hurt me – if you fellows hold steady. If you don’t, you’ve murdered me, that’s all. Hey, Dines! You stubborn long-eared Missouri mule, I’m coming, as per instructions – me, Bill Fewell. You be careful!”

He backed up and stood framed in the open door against the lamplight. Johnny’s hand flickered out and snatched the warrant.

“Why, sheriff, this seems to be all right. Only he gave me a different name. But then, he naturally would. Why, this warrant is all shipshape. Hope I get some of that reward. Here’s your man, and here are my guns.” He appeared at the door and tossed his guns down. The sheriff crowded by, and broke into a bellow of rage.

“You fool! You blundering idiot! This is one of my posse!”

“What?” Johnny’s jaw dropped in pained surprise. “He’s a liar, then. He told me he was an outlaw. Don’t blame me!”

“You hell-sent half-wit! Where’s that other man – Jones?”