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OUTLAW
RANCH
by Frank C. Robertson
© 1934, by Frank C. Robertson
ONE
DUST hung over the tithing corrals like fog. Four hundred head of snorting, wild-eyed cattle had been milling about there for two hours, and they had churned the dry dirt into stifling powder. But now the last bunch had been passed upon and Chet Kelvin walked away from the corrals with half a dozen sturdy Mormon ranchers at his heels.
As he passed out of the gate Kelvin looked up and grinned a friendly greeting at a sixteen-year-old lad he had previously noticed roosting on top of the fence with bland indifference to the choking dust. The boy was dressed in a brand-new cowboy outfit, but somehow his unsuppressed eagerness struck a sympathetic chord in the heart of the young cattle buyer.
“Will you men have a drink before we settle up?” Chet hospitably invited the Mormons.
There was no reply, and somewhat puzzled Chet repeated the invitation.
This time he was answered by a broad-shouldered, bearded man by the name of Carey.
“Thank you just the same, but us Mormons don’t drink liquor. It’s against our Word of Wisdom,” he said.
“Especially when the bishop’s around—an’ Carey’s our bishop,” a brawny Mormon laughed.
“Far be it from me to ask any man to go against his principles,” Chet said. “I respect yore scruples, an’ admire their wisdom. But will you-all have a cigar?”
The Mormons looked at each other and grinned.
“Sorry, but smokin’ tobacco is also against our religion,” Carey said.
“Pardon me if I make another blunder, but would it be against yore religion if I buy each of you a lead pencil?” Kelvin asked gravely.
The Mormons laughed, but one of two young fellows who had just ridden up and were looking over the top of the corral fence from their horses’ backs addressed Kelvin.
“If yo’re just lookin’ for somebody tuh buy drinks for, stranger, me an’ my pard’ll absorb a few with you.”
Chet regarded the young fellows with casual interest. They were dressed as cowhands, and were gray with trail dust from their wide-brimmed hats to the ends of their tapideros. Their sweat-stained horses indicated that they had come a long way. They were young fellows, both rather good-looking, yet with a hard, daredevil look about them with which Chet Kelvin, sometimes known as “Tornado Tex,” was far from being unfamiliar.
“All right, boys,” the cattle buyer answered good-humoredly. “Soon as I finish my business with my friends here I’ll have a drink with yuh.”
“We’ll be waitin’,” the puncher replied, and turning their horses they rode on a gallop the short distance across to the nearest saloon.
Bishop Carey cleared his throat. “A-hem,” he began dubiously. “What you do, my friend, is, of course, nothing to us. But if I were you I’d be purty careful about minglin’ much with—with men of that stripe.”
“That so?” Kelvin queried. “You know them?”
“No, I can’t say that I do,” Carey said. “They’re strangers in Curryville. You’ve heard of the Wild Ones, no doubt?”
“Who ain’t?” Chet laughed.
“You are now getting into the Wild Ones’ territory,” Carey said. “Many people here, if not actively in sympathy with Kirk Holliday and his men, are so afraid of them that they give them aid and sympathy. Being a cattle buyer, and traveling about the country the way you do, the Wild Ones might be interested in your movements.”
“I see,” Chet said gravely. He realized that Carey’s warning was well meant, and probably authentic. “You mean you suspect those two punchers of belonging to the Wild Ones?”
“They might,” Carey said guardedly.
“Well, thanks,” Chet said. “I’ll be careful.”
He went into the tithing office with the men and gave them each a draft on the Idaho Land & Livestock Co. to pay for the cattle he had bought. Those drafts, good as the gold in any Western bank, were accepted without question.
His business with the Mormons settled, Chet Kelvin crossed the street and entered the saloon. Cutting and counting the various bunches of range cattle had been hot, dusty work, and he was thirsty. He had slipped over a few times before during the day, and had conversed sociably with the bartender.
As he entered he saw the two young fellows Carey had warned him against touching glasses at the bar. They set their glasses down on the bar with a crash and welcomed him with a whoop.
“Just in time tuh pay fer these here drinks,” the smaller of the two shouted. “What’ll yores be?”
“Beer,” Chet smiled.
They drained their glasses, but before Chet could pay the puncher who talked the most threw a gold piece upon the bar.
“Cattle buyer?” he inquired.
“I occasionally buy up a cow here an’ there,” Kelvin said modestly. “Allow me to return the honors. What will it be, gents?”
“Whisky,” the punchers said in a breath.
The other puncher bought, after that, and then Chet set up the cigars. By that time the two tough young punchers were beaming.
“Mister,” said the smaller one, “if it’s cows yo’re lookin’ fer you’ve hit a ridin’ burro of information. But first off let me interduce myself. I’m Jack Fossum. The dish-faced hombre with me is called Al Biggers.”
“I’m right pleased to meet you both,” Chet said cordially. “I’m Kelvin—Chet Kelvin.”
“Put ’er there, Chet,” Biggers boomed. “Barkeep, fill up them glasses.”
“You was speakin’ of some cows I might pick up,” Chet reminded.
“You bet,” Fossum said. “The barkeep was just tailin’ us you’d bought ’bout five hundred head from these Mormons. You fixin’ tuh buy up a trail herd?”
“That’s more or less my idea,” Chet admitted. “I want to buy between two an’ three thousand head for the Idaho range. They tell me these little, wild southern Utah cattle do well up there—most like the Texas longhorns.”
“Yeah, these Dixie cattle are so light behind that they spend half their time standin’ on their heads. But you git ’em on good feed an’ tie rocks to their tails so their hind ends won’t drive their horns into the ground an’ they do right good,” Jack Fossum said solemnly.
All three laughed, and the bartender joined in heavily.
“The only trouble is yo’re on the wrong side o’ the mountains,” Biggers scowled. “Now if yuh had this bunch a hundred miles east
