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  CHAPTER XVII

  SUSPICION

  After all it seemed that for some reason the time was not yet ripe forCole Dalton to put his rope on "Mr. Badman". For the days ran onsmoothly for Buck Thornton, the weeks grew out of them and he rode,unmolested, unsuspicious of any threatened interference, about his ownbusiness.

  He had gone a second time to the dugout at Poison Hole, carryingprovisions enough to last Jimmie Clayton several days. Clayton seemedassured that Bedloe would look out for him now and insisted that therewas danger of some of the range hands learning of Thornton's trips here.So, for a week he did not ride near the man's hiding place, and when oneday he did visit the dugout again there was nothing to show that Claytonhad been there and no hint of how or where he had gone. Thornton felt adeep sense of relief, believing that the episode, so far as he wasconcerned, was closed.

  Another week and he was close to forgetting Jimmie Clayton altogether.The demands of the routine of range work kept him busy every day, earlyand late, and as though that were not enough to tax his endurance therecame a fresh call upon him.

  The stage had not been robbed that day he had seen it leaving Dry Town,and he had begun to persuade himself that the epidemic of crime from oneend of the county to the other was at an end; that the highwayman hadleft the country while he could. But now came news of fresh outlawry,news that ran from tongue to tongue of the angered cattle men and minerswho demanded more and more loudly that Cole Dalton "get busy".

  Rumour flew back and forth, indignant, voluble, accusatory. It stackedcrime upon crime; it mouthed the names of many men whom the county wouldbe glad to entertain in its empty jail, the names of the three Bedloeboys, of Black Dan, of Long Phil Granger, of certain newcomers to Hill'sCorners who, naturally, were to be looked upon with suspicion. It listedthe depredations committed during four weeks with a result that wasstartling. It told of the theft of a herd of steers from Kemble's place;the shooting of Bert Stone and the looting of Hap Smith's mail bags; therobbery of Seth Powers who left the poker table at Gold Run at twoo'clock one morning with seven hundred dollars in his overalls and wasfound at eight o'clock beaten into unconsciousness and with his pocketsturned wrong-side out; the stage robbery in which Bill Varney of TwinDry Diggings had been killed; the robbery of Jed Macintosh in Dry Town.A hundred and fifty miles lay between the most widely removed of theplaces where these things had happened, but no two of them had occurredwithin a time too short for a man to ride from one to the other.

  And now came the list of the bold crimes committed since the day, fourweeks ago, when Buck Thornton had ridden into Dry Town with the fivethousand dollars. Kemble, to the westward of the Poison Hole, told ofagain losing cattle, seven big steers run off in a single night, nothingleft of them but their tracks and the tracks of a horse whichdisappeared in the rocky mountain soil; Joe Lee, of the Figure SevenBar, to the north of the Poison Hole, reported the loss of nine cows andtwo horses, all picked stock; Old Man King of the Bar X grew almostspeechless with trembling wrath at the loss of at least a score ofcattle. And Ben Broderick, the mining man who was working his claim tothe eastward of the Poison Hole, admitted quietly that a man, a big manwearing a bandana handkerchief as a mask, had slipped into his camp onenight, covered him with a heavy calibre Colt, and had taken away withhim a six hundred dollar can of dust.

  As yet no single loss had been noted by the Poison Hole outfit. ButThornton believed that he saw the reason: now, there were few nightsthat found him at the range cabin or his cowboys in the bunk house. Hiscattle had been brought down from the mountains, herded into the openmeadow lands, and the night riders kept what watch they could upon thebig herds. Many a night he lay in his blankets close to the border ofhis range upon the south, knowing that here and there upon otherborders, watching over his cattle, guarding the mouths of canons downwhich a rustler might choose his way, his men lay. He began to wish thathis property might be attacked, feeling secure in his alertness,thinking that an over bold "badman" might come suddenly to the end ofhis depredations here. And yet no attack came, not so much as awandering yearling was lost to him.

  Men of the stamp and calibre of these ranchers who were hearing of aneighbour's losses only as a sort of prelude to their own, were notpatient men at the best, nor did such lives as they led permit of laxhands and natures without initiative. It was in no way a surprise toThornton, upon riding to the Bar X, to learn that the cattle men werenow rising swiftly and actively to a defence of their own property. Manyof them lifted frank and angry voices in condemnation of their countysheriff, many of them more generously admitted that Dalton was upagainst a hard proposition and was doing all that any one man could do.But they were unanimous in saying that what Cole Dalton couldn't do theywould do.

  This morning Thornton found old man King saddling his horse in the Bar Xcorrals and snapping out orders to his foreman and the two cowboys whosat their horses watching him with speculative eyes. His recent loss haddriven him to a towering rage and his voice shook with anger in it.

  "Twenty head they've took from me," he spat out angrily. "Twenty headin one night an' they think they c'n git away with it an' go on doin'jest what they damn please!" He jerked his cinch tight, climbed into hissaddle and as his young horse whirled about Thornton saw that he had arifle under his leg.

  "Them cows," he went on wrathfully, merely ducking his head at the newcomer, "will average a hundred dollars a head. Two thousan' bucks gonelike a fog when the sun's up! What in hell do you fellers think I'mpayin' you for?"

  "It ain't goin' to happen one more time," growled Bart Elliott, theforeman whose wrath under the direct eyes of the "Old Man" was no lessthan King's. "I jes' wish they'd try it on again...."

  "Ain't goin' to happen again, ain't it?" retorted King. "That's got tosatisfy me, huh? Jest so long as they take a couple thousan' dollarsout'n my pockets, an' then don't come back for _all_ I got, it's allright, huh? Now you boys can jest nacherally take the glue out'n yourears an' listen a minute: I'm goin' to know who took them cows an' wherethey went, an' I'm goin' to have 'em back, every little cow brute of'em! Git me, Elliott? An' you, Jim an' Hodge? If you fellers are lookin'for jobs where you ain't got nothin' to do you better look somewhereelse. Now, listen some more."

  He told them that they would find two more rifles and a shotgun at therange house. To this information he added that they could pack up somegrub and hit the trail along with him. For he was going to bring hiscattle back if he had to ride through three states to get them and backthrough hell to drive them home.

  The men rode away to the range house talking among themselves, and Kingswung about upon Thornton.

  "Hello, Buck," he said shortly.

  "Hello, King. Anything I can do?"

  "Not for me," said King drily. "How about yourself? Lost any cows off'nthe Poison Hole?"

  "Not a one. The rustlers seem to be giving me a wide berth. I've had mymen out every night, though. Maybe they've got wise."

  King looked at him sharply. And Thornton was vaguely aware in that swiftglance of something which made but little impression on him at the time,something which he forgot even as he saw it, imagining he had misreadbut something to be remembered in the days that followed: it was a cool,steely look of suspicion.

  "Mebbe," King grunted. "It's happenin' all _aroun'_ you. I wasn't sayin'much so long's it didn't come too close the Bar X. An' now I ain't goin'to _say_ much."

  Thornton finished his errand with Old Man King and saw him with his menride away into the little hills of the range. Then he was turning backtoward the Poison Hole when young King, riding around the corner of thebarn, called to him.

  "Hello, Bud," Thornton said casually. "What's the word?"

  Bud King rode up to him before he answered. Then, sitting loosely inthe saddle, his eyes meditative upon one free, swinging boot, heanswered.

  "There's a dance over to the school house tonight, for one thing.Coming, Buck?"

  Thornton shook his head.

  "No. Hadn't heard of it and
I guess I'll be busy enough without prancingout to dances." And then, a little curiosity in his even tones, "Howdoes it happen you're not out hunting rustlers with the old man?"

  Young King lifted his head and again Thornton saw in a man's eyes athing which was so vague that it went almost unnoted, a look of veiledsuspicion.

  "The old man hunts his way and I hunt mine," Bud King said briefly. "Andbesides, I haven't been to a shindig for six months."

  A little flush ran up into his face under Thornton's level glance, andBuck laughed softly.

  "Who's the girl, Bud?" he challenged.

  "Aw, go chase yourself," Bud flung back at him, but with a reddeninggrin. To Thornton came a swift inspiration.

  "Wonder if Miss Waverly will be over from the Corners?" he asked.

  "Dunno," Bud replied innocently, so innocently that Thornton laughedagain.

  Thornton rode back to the Poison Hole. And as he went, his thoughts rannow to the mission upon which old man King had set forth, now upon thewisdom of shaving, putting on his best suit and new hat and going to adance....

  "It isn't so much I want to see her again," he told himself, "as I wantto give back her spur rowel!"