fell, so that the owner would have evidence of the manner of its death. Only lightning could work such havoc on bones without a surface mark. It might be important. Anyway, there was room to drive around the carcass, and they could come back later and drag it off.
All of which had a certain bearing on later developments, as they were soon to discover.
Chapter Four. The Unwelcome Guest
These seemingly small matters disposed of to their satisfaction, the Happy Family rode cheerfully homeward; all, that is, save Happy Jack, who galloped away on a narrow stock trail which led by a short cut to the Adams ranch and on up to Jackson’s; and Cal Emmett, who turned off at the upper gate on his way to bring Bert Rogers.
With a hundred and more horses fresh from the range and needing to know that man is master, no preparation for a bronk-riding contest was necessary. Give them an appreciative audience roosting on the top rails of the corral, and Monday’s hard work would become Sunday afternoon’s sport. They’d coax old Patsy to cook up a flock of blueberry pies and make plenty of coffee, and it would be a real picnic. Maybe some of the women would object to dancing that evening, on account of its being Sunday, but even old lady Jackson, who was said to be a member of the Baptist Church back East somewhere, allowed Rena to play games on Sunday. The Happy Family decided that there would be plenty doing, and if it didn’t rain again, there would be a full moon for good measure.
“If Bert’ll ride that Flopper horse of his over, I might give him a race with Glory. Any money in this crowd?” planned Weary.
Whereupon Slim had a sudden thought that brought a queer look into his eyes.
“Say, Weary, mebby I oughta told yuh b’fore—but that red-headed cousin of Bert’s is out here ag’in. Bert told me in town. You want to keep yer eye peeled.”
Certain men in the group had never heard of Bert Rogers’ cousin, who had caused Weary more trouble than one woman has any right to cause. Those who did not know the story asked questions which Slim, rolling uneasy eyes toward Weary, blunderingly tried to parry. Then suddenly Weary laughed and turned to face them.
“Ancient history, boys. Myrt Forsyth and I went to school together back in Chadville, Iowa, and I got a bad case of calf love over her. Then I got the notion she was double-crossing me, so I pulled out and came west. I never knew she was Bert’s cousin till she showed up out here at a dance in Dry Lake. I was all cured long ago, but mamma! It’s women that taught cats how to deal a mouse misery. Myrt—” For once Weary hesitated, groping for words.
“Shore, we know the rest.” Big Medicine laughed. “You went and had a relapse.”
Weary flashed a glance at him.
“That’s just the trouble; I didn’t. No woman—some women—never can seem to realize a man can fall out of love as easy as he falls in. Myrt wasn’t to blame, I guess, for trying a little spite work when she found out I wasn’t packing any busted heart on her account. She’s all right—”
“Aw, why don’t you tell the truth about ’er?” Slim growled. “How she went an’ lied about yuh, and tried to bust up you ’n’ Miss Satterly—an’ did, by golly! I always thought that was at the bottom of her pullin’ out fer home—”
“I don’t know as that’s important right now,” Weary rebuffed him. “The point is, Myrt Forsyth’s here, and it’s likely she’s forgotten the whole thing. I know I have, just about.”
Whereupon Slim twisted his bulky torso in the saddle and lowered a fat eyelid at the others.
“Fergive and fergit is what the Good Book says,” he stated sententiously. “I don’t guess it’ll spoil your riding any to have Myrt Forsyth hangin’ over the top rail watchin’ yuh.”
“Not what you could notice,” Weary grinned. “I’m going to try that glass-eye sorrel a whirl; the one that come up in that bunch from Wyoming.”
“Did you notice the spur marks on him?” the Native Son inquired. “But no mark of the saddle. A bad sign, amigo.”
“All signs are bad when you ease your saddle up on a bronk’s middle,” Weary retorted. “Yes, he looks about as snaky as anything in the bunch. If I don’t gentle him down, some of you boys are liable to get hurt; and it’s too close to round-up to let you take a chance.”
As Weary intended, the talk ranged far from girls and broken romances after that. Even the pilgrim was forgotten until they dismounted at the stable and hung the town saddle by one stirrup on a spare peg in the shed. The Native Son untied the small black satchel from behind his cantle and held it up with a peculiar light in his eyes.
“Has it struck you fellows as being just a little peculiar, our unexpected guest heading into the Badlands in such a hurry with only this little bag?” he asked. “A locked bag.” He looked at Big Medicine. “Before we go up to the bunk-house again, I think you ought to know that I caught him watching us on the sly and taking in every word we said about him.”
“Say, when was that?” Big Medicine demanded with some resentment in his voice. “If yuh’re tryin’ to make out he was playin’ me fer a sucker—”
“I didn’t say that. It was when you kicked my boots back under the bunk, Pink, and I was down on the floor fishing them out. That hombre was watching you fellows like a trapped coyote. I saw his eyes turning from one to another through the slit of his eyelids. He was supposed to be unconscious, you remember. It was when Big Medicine was trying to convince us we ought to haul him to a doctor.”
“That was before breakfast,” said Pink, grinning a little.
“He got better, right away,” Miguel added drily. “Asked for some coffee, you remember, and said he didn’t feel so bad, only he had a head on him like the morning after, and he guessed he’d stay in bed to-day. Remember?”
“That’s right.”
“Say!” bawled Big Medicine angrily. “What yuh tryin’ to make out? That pore feller never knowed what hit ’im, by cripes! When he woke up and found himself in a strange place this mornin’, he just nacherly wanted to size up the layout ’fore he let on he was awake. I’d do the same thing m’self.”
“They’s something to that, all right,” Slim agreed, looking from one to the other, wondering which side to take. “By golly, it was a tough-sounding bunch this mornin’.”
“Yes, but there’s something off-color in the whole thing,” Miguel persisted, forgetting his little Spanish mannerisms, as he did when he was very much in earnest. “Why would a tenderfoot hire a livery horse and go pelting into the Badlands? That horse was a lather of sweat when he was struck dead. Didn’t you boys notice it when we turned him over? Where the rain didn’t wash off the dried sweat, it showed plain as day. And in a twenty-mile ride a man doesn’t get saddle-galled like that hombre was—unless he’s been hitting a fast pace.”
“By golly, that’s right,” Slim admitted. “I never seen a man’s legs skun any worse.”
“Well, what’s the answer, Mig?” Weary looked up from rolling a cigarette.
“Quien
