Silvertip's Strike (6 page)

“Wycombe wasn't crazy,” said Harry Rutherford. “Not a bit.”

“What was he, then?” asked big Delgas.

“He was out for blood, that's all,” said Rutherford.

“Go on, handsome, and tell me what you mean,” said Delgas.

“Aw, you tell him, Silver,” said Rutherford. “He can't see it. Poor old Delgas is so gentle and trusting that he doesn't know how to look around the corner and see the devil in what people do.”

Silver smiled, his faint, faint smile. “As Wycombe lay dying,” he said, “there were three men in the world that he wanted to kill. Name 'em, Delgas.”

“You first, because you'd sunk a shot in him between wind and water,” said Delgas presently. “And I suppose that me and Rutherford would come on the list, too.”

“Very well,” said Silver, “and to whom did he leave his land?”

“Well, the same three. But how's he goin' to kill us by givin' us the land?”

“Because he hoped that we'd not be friends. He hoped that you and Rutherford would hang together and that you'd be against me, and that we'd start a war and fight to a finish.”

“Hey!” exclaimed Delgas. “You mean that, Silver? You think that's the straight of it, Harry?”

Harry Rutherford waved a slender hand.

“Of course that's it,” he said. “Don't be so dumb, Brother Morris. Wycombe set us up for a battle royal. What else could he have had in his mind? Think that he wanted to
reward
us for being after his scalp?”

Delgas champed noisily on the butt of his cigar, the smoke squeezing out of the burning end of it in little rapid puffs.

“I begin to see,” said he. “We can starve out Silver because we've got the land, and he can starve out us because he's got the water. The minute one shuts down on the other, there's bound to be trouble. It's a fight to the finish, and a mighty quick fight.”

“There's only one way out,” said Rutherford.

“Name it,” said Delgas.

“Not to fight,” said Rutherford.

“Sure! And that's easy,” said Delgas. He turned to Silver. “You got a kind of an upstage way about you,” he declared. “And maybe you ain't been very friendly toward the pair of us, now and then. But that don't matter to me so much. I can get on with anybody. My skin is thick enough. And I got a place in my system where I could use the dough we're goin' to pull down out of this business.”

“So have I,” said Rutherford. “All we need to do is to lay down a scheme to run the ranch. One of us has to run it, and the others stand by, and make a few suggestions.”

“It won't work,” said Silver.

“Why not?” asked Rutherford sharply.

Silver turned up the palm of his right hand.

“Do the same thing,” he said to the others.

They obeyed him, frowning with curiosity.

“We've got soft hands,” said Silver.

“Now, what the devil does that mean?” asked Delgas.

“Why, it means that we don't know enough about the business to run a ranch, any of us,” answered Rutherford shortly.

He left his chair and walked rapidly back and forth through the room. He seemed to be angry. Now and then he swore softly under his breath.

“Well,” he exclaimed suddenly, stopping right in front of Silver, “what's the solution?”

“I haven't any,” said Silver.

“What
have
you got, then?”

“Only an idea.”

“Let's have it, Silver. Nobody accuses you of being a fathead. Fire away with the idea,” urged Rutherford.

“My idea is that we all step out and let a fourth man run the place,” suggested Silver.

“What man?” snapped Rutherford and Delgas in one voice.

“Any man we can all agree on,” said Silver.

“Name one,” said Rutherford.

“I haven't any names on the tip of my tongue,” said Silver. “How about you?”

“It's all a funny business,” said Delgas. “I dunno. I got no ideas. I only got a hunch that maybe Wycombe was right and a lot of trouble is likely to grow out of this here deal. Dead men don't enjoy the money they spend.”

There was such truth in this remark that a short silence followed.

“How's the place running now?” demanded Rutherford.

“Pretty well, I suppose,” said Silver. “The foreman knows his business. If he could suit a hound like Wycombe, he ought to suit us.”

“There is something in that,” agreed Delgas instantly.

“Make him the manager?” asked Rutherford.

“You fellows think that I'm sure to be against you, and that I'm sure to try to put one over on you,” said Silver. “Get that idea out of your head. If you don't want Farrel, take anybody you like — if I like him, too.”

Delgas and Rutherford looked fixedly at one another.

“Well, that sounds all right to me,” said Delgas.

Rutherford shrugged his narrow shoulders. He sat down, made a cigarette with the fingers of a conjurer, and lighted it. He spoke, breathing out the smoke through nose and mouth.

“Make it Farrel till we vote him out,” suggested Rutherford. “A majority vote puts one ranch manager out and a new one in. This is a democratic country, and the majority ought to rule.”

“You've got your voters all in a lump,” answered Silver. “No. One vote has to be enough to put out the manager. And a new one can't go in until every one of the three of us is satisfied.”

There was another silence.

“Well,” said Rutherford, “that might mean never. We might never hit on the kind of a fellow who would please all of us. I'm for putting this whole ranch on sale and getting rid of it.”

“You couldn't get a quarter of what it's worth,” complained Delgas. “I asked a couple of bankers what this here place is worth. The money they talked made me sick, I can tell you! They don't want to pay nothing. Nothing at all! There ain't any market for desert land, like this. People are afraid of a big drought when even the well might go dry, and then the cows would starve before they could be drove to the nearest water hole. And all we could do would be to sell the cattle and call it quits. And I ain't ready to be robbed like that!”

“Nor I!” said Rutherford. He turned to Silver, saying: “We'll start out with Farrel, then. Your man Farrel will make a start. If any of us don't like him, he's fired on the spot. That suit you?”

“That has to suit,” answered Jim Silver.

He stood up.

“You boys,” he said, “have been talking about building a shack up in the foothills. You don't have to. You can stay right here and live in the house. It belongs to me, but you're mighty welcome to room in it.”

He walked out of the room and into the kitchen, where he saw the girl. She had had sleepless nights since the death of Wycombe, and now there were black shadows inlaid around her eyes.

“It's all right,” said Silver. “Farrel stays on. He's not the foreman, but the manager.”

He went out to the place where Farrel was nailing some new shakes on the roof of the big shed. At the signal he gave, Farrel came quickly down to the ground.

“You're to stay on as manager,” said Silver.

“Thanks,” said Farrel. “I know you did that for me, Jim. It's not the first good thing you've done for me, though. Are things going to be all right?”

“All right?” echoed Silver, laughing a little. “Why, man, one of these days there's going to be an explosion big enough to blow up everything.”

“Then why do you stay?” asked Farrel, agape. “Two of 'em to one of you. I'd be on your side, but I'm no gunman. Why do you stay, Jim?”

“Because,” said Silver, “I don't know when the explosion will come, and I like to hear the fuse burn.”

Since Jim Silver looked for a storm, he was by no means deceived by the perfect peace and quiet of the first few days that followed, when big Morris Delgas and Harry Rutherford were both the perfection of consideration, as far as they knew how to be.

For one thing, they seemed to be taking very seriously their new-found duties as ranchers, for they were hardly ever at the ranch house, except for meals. The lunch hour they often missed completely when they went off on a whole day of exploration — “a day's hunt,” as Morrie Delgas used to say, “to find mountain lions, mountain sheep, or mountain suckers.”

Morrie Delgas was very gay. His loud voice boomed through the house. His heavy step thundered on the floor. Rutherford, beside him, was like a cat beside a horse, speaking little, keeping himself neat always, with a pale smile on his pale face. But, by the shifting lights in his eyes, it was plain that his mind was never still.

There was only one sign of trouble, a few days after Delgas and Rutherford came to live at the house. At the breakfast table, after Delgas had had his “eye opener” of rye, he boomed out to Silver:

“You've got the ready cash, Silver. You've got heaps of it, and we're just about broke. How about a couple of thousand on account?”

Silver looked across the table and permitted his smile to broaden a trifle.

“You mean a couple of hundred, Morrie, don't you?” he asked.

Delgas stared back, not at Silver but at Rutherford.

“He says that I mean a couple of hundred, not grands,” quoted Delgas.

Rutherford nodded. Nothing further was said, no gesture made to accept the money. Delgas seemed to be hearing what he expected, and Silver knew by a thrill in his bones that trouble had been brought still closer to him.

Two days later, Farrel reported quietly to Silver that he was beginning to have trouble with the men.

“They look me in the eye and swallow their grins,” said Farrel. “I feel their eyes following me, too, and their grins when my back is turned.”

“What's wrong?” asked Silver.

“You know,” said Farrel, “one bad apple will spoil a barrel. And this gang was always a tough lot to handle. Wycombe wanted them that way. He never employed a man that hadn't done time.”

“You mean all the lads on the place have a prison record of some sort?” asked Silver.

“That's what I mean,” answered Farrel. “Wycombe always felt that he might get into a pinch where he'd want tough fellows around him, to back him up. So he collected this crew. Only, when he heard that both Delgas and Rutherford were on the trail after him, he lost his nerve and sent for you. He needed a bigger gun than any he'd ever hired, so he got hold of you. But there's not a man on the place that isn't pretty good with guns, in one way or another. Wycombe knew I hadn't been in jail, and that suited him because he wanted an honest foreman to handle accounts.”

“How have you managed to handle this gang?” asked Silver curiously.

“I'm a little better with my hands than they are,” said Farrel. “Besides, I know one end of a gun from another. They don't want trouble with me unless it's worth their while; but, if it
is
worth their while, any one of the lot would be glad enough to rip into me, I suppose.”

“What bad apples were dropped into the barrel?” asked Silver.

“You guess,” answered the foreman.

“You mean Delgas and Rutherford?”

“They're not too busy riding the range for the sake of hunting,” said Farrel. “They never bring any game in. And they don't need all of this time to look over the lay of the land on the ranch. But I've spotted one of them time and again, off on the sky line, talking to one of the punchers and then fading out of the picture. They got up into the foothills, too. I don't know for what.”

“Any guesses?” asked Silver.

“Yes. But nothing I can back on.”

“Fire away.”

“I think that they're in touch with crooks who'll buy a lot of cattle if they can get 'em at the right price. The other day I bumped into Sam Waring riding across our range. You know Sam?”

“No,” said Silver.

He leaned back in his chair and let the sun flow over his body while his eyes were closed.

Farrel regarded the placid calm of his “one-third” boss with a troubled eye. He stepped closer as he added:

“Sam Waring is a tough hombre. He's as tough as they come. He's done plenty of time, and he's been up for counterfeiting. You know that they're tough when they handle the green goods.”

“That's Federal business. Yes, they're tough or crazy when they handle the green goods,” agreed Silver, opening his eyes drowsily.

“Waring,” said Farrel, “isn't up here for his health. He's in on some deal or he wouldn't be around. He told me that he was just passing through on a line for the other side of the Farrel Mountains. But I think he was lying. He'd make a good running mate for Delgas and that ghoul of a Rutherford. If he's that close to them, it'll be strange if they don't get together.”

“You don't like Rutherford?” said Silver.

“Do you?” asked Farrel.

“He's a handsome fellow,” said Silver. “Go on and think out loud, Danny.” Farrel hesitated.

Then he exploded: “In two days the punchers on this place could sweep every sound head of cattle right off up the valleys in the foothills and turn 'em over to anybody with the cash to pay half value on the nail! And Waring always represents plenty of money. My hunch is that he's been sent for to take the cows — at a price.”

“Why does this burn you all up?” asked Silver lazily.

“Why?” cried Farrel. “Because I've put in my years building the herd. When I came here, there was a scratch lot of worthless beef too weak to cover ground for fodder and get back to water again. I've traded and bred and fought and prayed to make this herd what it is. I came onto the job when I was a kid. I'm not very old now, but, believe me, I've done a lifetime's work already, I think.

“This herd is what it ought to be — long and rangy, with enough bone to carry flesh when the cattle go north to fatten on good grasslands. It's my work. It's the sort of a herd that used to run on the place when my father had the ground. You can't build the right sort of a herd in a minute. It takes years. Once it's wiped out, you have to go clear back to the start, and that's hard. Maybe you'll never hit just the right combination again. And now a pair of crooks are likely to wipe out all the work that I've done. That's why I'm burning up! That's why I want to know what you intend to do about it.”