Tumbling river range

CHAPTER II: “HANGING IS TOO GOOD⸺”Pinnacle City was the oldest settlement in the Tumbling River country and had always been the county seat since the boundary lines had been drawn. Originally the place had been only a small settlement and the houses had been built along a wagon-road. And as the place grew larger this road became the main street, with very little added to the original width. In several places the road had twisted to avoid a mud-hole, and the main street was consequently very crooked. But Pinnacle City had never become a metropolis. It was still the small cow-town; muddy in winter, dusty in summer, with poorly made wooden sidewalks. The railroad had added little to Pinnacle City except a brick-red depot warehouse and some loading corrals. Eighteen miles southeast was the town of Kelo, and twelve miles northwest was the town of Ransome. Tumbling River ran southwest, cutting straight through the centre of the valley. A short distance west of Pinnacle City were the high pinnacles of the Tumbling range, which gave the town its name. Barbed-wire had never made its appearance in the Tumbling River range, feed was good and there was plenty of water. Five outfits ranged their stock in the Pinnacle City end of the Tumbling River range, the farthest away from town being Ed Merrick’s Circle M, located about eight miles due south. Midway between the town and the Circle M, and just on the east bank of Tumbling River, was Jim Wheeler’s HJ ranch. Southwest, about three miles from town, was Curt Bellew’s Lazy B. This was on the west side of the river. A little less than three miles to the northeast of Pinnacle City was Uncle Hozie Wheeler’s Flying H; and four miles northwest of town was Buck West’s 3W3 outfit. Jim Wheeler’s ranch was just between the wagon road and the railroad, on the way to Kelo. The two bridges were less than half a mile apart. Jim Wheeler’s wife had died when Peggy was a little slip of a girl but Jim had kept his ranch and raised his daughter, aided and abetted by Aunt Emma Wheeler, who had wanted to raise her. The HJ was a small ranch. Jim had been content to run a few cattle and horses. Wong Lee, the Chinese cook, had been with the HJ for years, and Jim swore that the county had always assessed Wong as personal property of the HJ. Uncle Hozie Wheeler’s Flying H was a larger outfit, employing three cowboys, Lonnie Myers, Dan Leach and “Nebrasky” Jones, known as the “Heavenly Triplets,” possibly because there was nothing heavenly about any of them. Lonnie was a loud-talking boy from the Milk River country; Dan Leach hailed from eastern Oregon, and Nebrasky’s cognomen disclosed the State of his nativity. Uncle Hozie called them his debating society and entered into their State arguments in favour of Arizona. Curt Bellew’s Lazy B supported three cowboys: Eph Harper, “Slim” Coleman and Honey Bee. Mrs. Bellew contended that the ranch could be handled with one man, but that Curt wanted to match Hozie Wheeler in numbers. She pointed out the fact that Buck West could run his 3W3 outfit with only two men, Jimmy Black and Abe Liston, just because Buck wasn’t so lazy he couldn’t do some of the work himself. Which of course was a gentle hint that Curt might do more, himself. The Circle M ranged more stock than any of the other ranches and only carried three men besides Ed Merrick. Ben Collins, “Dutch” Siebert and Jack Ralston made up the personnel of the Circle M, since Len Kelsey had left them to take up his duties as deputy sheriff under Joe Rich. It was the morning following the wedding which had not taken place that Joe Rich rode up to the Flying H. All night long he had ridden across the hills, fighting out with himself to decide what to do, and he was a sorry-looking young man when he drew rein near the veranda of the Flying H ranch-house. He had ridden away without coat, hat or chaps. His trouser-legs were torn from riding past brush, his face scratched, his hair dishevelled. Uncle Hozie saw him from the window and came down to him. Lonnie Myers and Nebrasky were at the corral, saddling their horses. They merely glanced in his direction, recognising him, but paying no attention. Uncle Hozie looked Joe over critically, but said nothing. “Well, why don’t yuh say somethin’?” demanded Joe wearily. “My God, Hozie, don’t just stand there! Swear at me, if yuh feel thataway.” Uncle Hozie shook his head slowly and sighed. He had drunk a little too much the night before and his spirits were not overly bright. A tin can rattled loudly, and they looked toward the stable, where Dan Leach was throwing out the stuff they had stacked in the stall for the shivaree. Joe’s eyes closed tightly for a moment and he turned his head away. He knew what those noise producers had been meant for. A cow-bell clattered among the cans. Lonnie and Nebrasky were watching Joe from the corral. “I don’t feel like cussin’ anybody,” said Uncle Hozie. “Not even me?” asked Joe. “You? Nope. What’sa use, Joe? If yuh cuss folks before they do wrong it might do some good. Afterward, it’s no use. Yuh can’t wipe out what a man writes in the book of fate, Joe.” “And I shore wrote a page last night, Hozie.” “Yea-a-ah, I’d tell a man yuh did, Joe.” Uncle Hozie c****d one eye and looked at Joe. “There’s, by actual count, seventeen blasted fools in this Tumblin’ River range—and yo’re all of ’em, Joe.” “I admit it, Hozie.” “You do? My God, you didn’t think for a minute yuh could deny it, didja? Huh! Why don’tcha git down? My God, I hate to talk to a man on a horse! Especially the mornin’ after. Kinda hurts my eyes to look up.” Joe shook his head. “No, I can’t stay, Hozie.” “Nobody asked yuh to, did they?” “No. Is Peggy here yet?” “No, she ain’t, Joe,” softly. “They went home last night—her and Jim and Laura Hatton. Jim thought it was best. Emma tried to get ’em to stay a while, but they kinda wanted to be at home, where there wouldn’t be anybody to ask questions.” “To ask questions!” echoed Joe. “That’s the worst of it.” “I dunno,” sighed Hozie. “It’s the first weddin’ I ever seen that ravelled right out thataway. Honey Bee showed up with his coat in one hand and his shoes in the other. He shore was the worst-lookin’ best man I ever seen.” “Poor old Honey.” “Yeah, yuh ought to feel sorry for somebody, Joe. I don’t sabe yuh; by Gee, I don’t! I thought I knew yuh, but I reckon I don’t. I ain’t said what I think about yuh to anybody. Mebbe I ain’t had no chance; so many folks has said what they thought about it that I’ve kinda got their ideas and mine all tangled up. Mebbe after a while I’ll git my own ideas straightened up to where I know they’re all mine, I’ll look ’em over.” “I suppose they’d like to hang me, Hozie.” “Hang yuh? Huh! Reminds me of a Dutchman I knowed. He runs into a gang of punchers that was goin’ to lynch a horse thief. Dutchy runs into ’em, and asks what it’s all about. “‘Vat iss it all about?’ asks Dutchy. “‘Goin’ to hang a horse thief,’ says a puncher. “‘Oh, dot’s too bad,’ says Dutchy. ‘You shouldn’t hang a man for stealing von horse.’ “‘It was yore horse, Dutchy.’ “‘So-o-o-o? Don’t hang him; dot’s too good for him. Let me kick him in de pants.’” Joe smiled bitterly. “Do you think hangin’ is too good for me, Hozie?” he asked. “I don’t say it is, Joe; but when I got a look at Peggy last night I shore wanted to give yuh some of the Dutchman’s medicine.” Joe wiped the back of his hand across his cheek and wet his lips with a dry tongue. “I reckon I’m all through in Tumblin’ River, Hozie.” “Well,” Uncle Hozie bit off a huge chew of tobacco and masticated rapidly, thoughtfully. “Well, Joe, it ain’t for me to say. I got up as far as ‘Silver Threads’ last night myself, but of course it wasn’t my weddin’ night. But, accordin’ to some remarks I heard expressed last night, the folks of the Tumblin’ River ain’t takin’ up no collection to buy yuh a monument. Yuh see, Joe, Peggy is kinda well liked.’” “Kinda well liked! My Lor’!” Joe shut his jaw tightly and fumbled at his reins. “I’ll be goin’, Hozie.” “Yeah? Well.” Hozie spat thoughtfully, but did not look up at Joe. “Be good to yourself,” he said slowly. Joe turned and rode away, never looking back. Hozie sat down on the veranda and Aunt Emma came out. She had been watching from a window. “What did he have to say?” she asked. “Joe? Oh, nothin’ much.” “What excuse did he offer?” “None.” “Didn’t deny bein’ drunk?” “Didn’t mention it.” “Feel sorry about it, Hozie?” “Didn’t say.” “Well, what in the world did you two talk about?” “Public opinion.” Aunt Emma snorted. “Public opinion, eh? Did you tell him what you thought of him?” “Nope; wasn’t quite clear in my own mind, Emma.” “I suppose not. If Jim hadn’t stopped yuh last night⸺” “Oh, I know,” Hozie smiled softly. “My voice was kinda good, too. Curt Bellew said he never heard me sing so well.” “Curt was drunk, too.” “Thasso. Prob’ly accounts for him likin’ my voice. I’d like to sing to a sober man some day and get an honest opinion.” “No sober man would listen to you, Hozie.” “I s’pose not,” Uncle Hozie sighed deeply. “I suppose it’s jist sort of a drunken bond between inebriates that makes me feel sorry for Joe Rich, Emma; but I do. He looked so doggone helpless and lonesome this mornin’. No, I didn’t tell him I felt sorry. He don’t deserve sympathy.” “He don’t deserve anythin’,” declared Aunt Emma. “Hangin’—mebbe.” “And you feel sorry for him?” “I want to, Emma.” Uncle Hozie turned and looked at her. “I’ve worked with that boy a lot. Me and him have rubbed knees on some hard rides, and I kinda looked on Joe like I would on my own son. He was straight and square—until now, Emma. Mebbe,” he hesitated for a moment, “mebbe I’m feelin’ sorry for the Joe Rich of yesterday.” “Well, that’s different, Hozie,” said Aunt Emma softly, and went back in the house. She had thought a lot of Joe Rich of yesterday, too. Joe rode back to Pinnacle City and stabled his tired horse. He had spent all his savings for a little four-room house on the outskirts of Pinnacle and had gone in debt for the furnishings. It was to have been their home. Len Kelsey was asleep in the office when Joe came in and sat down at his desk. He woke up and looked curiously at Joe. “Wondered where yuh was, Joe,” he said sleepily. “Yeah?” Joe drew out a sheet of paper, dipped a pen in the ink bottle and began writing. Kelsey turned over and went to sleep again. Joe finished writing, folded the paper and walked out of the office. Just south of his office was the old two-story frame-building court-house, and as Joe started to enter the front door he met Jim Wheeler and Angus McLaren, chairman of the board of county commissioners. McLaren was a big, raw-boned Scot who owned a general store in Kelo. McLaren, Ed Merrick and Ross Layton, of Ransome, composed the board of commissioners. Joe Rich stopped short as he faced Jim Wheeler. For possibly five seconds the HJ cattleman stared at the sheriff of Tumbling River, and then, without a word, he struck Joe square in the face, knocking him through the doorway, where Joe went to his haunches on the sidewalk, dazed, bleeding from his nose and mouth. Quickly the big Scotsman stepped in front of Wheeler, grasping him with both hands. “Stop it, Jim!” he ordered. Wheeler stepped back, his face crimson with anger, but saying nothing. Joe did not get up, nor did he even look at Wheeler, who stepped past McLaren and went slowly up the street. “Are ye much hurt, Joe?” asked McLaren not unkindly. He knew all about what had happened the night before.