The Midland Journal

SYNOPSIS
Kentucky Jones, veteran cowman, attends the inquest, in the little town of Waterman, into the death of John Mason, banker and financial mainstay of the district. Jean, daughter of Campo Ragland, owner of the Bar Hook ranch, where Mason met death, to Kentucky's mystification surreptitiously passes to him the bullet which had killed Mason.
Kentucky goes to work on the Bar Hook ranch. The verdict is accidental death. Sheriff Hopper is dissatisfied.

CHAPTER III
Campo Ragland struck a match, and as the light of three or four lamps filled the room the faces of the riders likewise lightened. From Waterman, Kentucky Jones had pushed his horse steadily, and as darkness closed down he had overtaken the Bar Hook people. With them he had ridden the long Bar Hook horse trail across the Bench, until they came out at last upon long rolling reaches, and the rambling buildings of the Bar Hook loomed before them, dark and shapeless.
The kitchen wing in which they now gathered was built of big square-hewn logs; but the interior was neat.
Jean Ragland said, "There's no fire made." And Kentucky noticed the odd way in which they all fell silent for a moment, as if it was a strange and uncommon thing that a fire should not spring into being and set coffee on itself, at a deserted ranch.
"You see," Campo Ragland said to Kentucky, "we generally have a cook around here; lately it's been a lame boy named Zack Sanders. Used to be a rider, but his horse fell on him and turned him into a cook. But this boy is kind of gone missing on us, it seems."
"Been missing long?"
"Last week he was supposed to take two days off, and he rode over to see a girl he has over here thirty, forty mile," Ragland said. "I didn't notice it so much Saturday, when he didn't come in, that being the day that this-this accident happened to Mason. But in Waterman today his girl said he left there Saturday sun-up. That's four days gone."
"He'll probably show up." Lee Bishop grunted.
"Oh, I suppose so." Campo Ragland jerked himself into activity again, and began throwing wood into the great stove. "The way things have been going around here, it gets a feller nervous, I guess."
In a little while the big stove began to fill the room with a lazy warmth, and the hot smoky smell of frying beef and potatoes began to thaw the riders out. With the heartening warmth the mood of the Bar Hook changed, so that for a little while it could have been any ranch house, anywhere-except that the presence of Jean Ragland made a difference here. That girl could subtly change the time and place, making it different from any other ranch house and any other night. Perhaps no cowboy ever rode for the Bar Hook without feeling that he was in some part riding for this girl.
Looking at her now Kentucky Jones would not have guessed that she had today testified concerning a death that had occurred within fifty yards of this door; and that in the midst of those proceedings she had felt impelled to thieve the heart out of the evidence of that death.
He had come here to find out the exact nature of the shadow which had fastened itself on the Bar Hook, and upon Jean Ragland as a part of the Bar Hook; and, accordingly, he turned now to studying the others as they ate. Lee Bishop, the solid, square-set foreman, undoubtedly would stand steady as a rock in a pinch. Evidently he was a man born at a branding and raised in the saddle, for he would hardly have attained a foremanship at thirty had he been handicapped in experience.
The other two cowboys Kentucky Jones classified as a couple of kids. Jim Humphreys, though only five years younger than Bishop, would perhaps always be a kid. And Billy Petersen was the youngster, essential to every outfit, who would be given the undesirable jobs of horse-wrangling and night herd, and errands which were a nuisance.
Campo Ragland remained silent throughout the meal; and for the moment Kentucky could make out no more about him than he already knew—which was little enough.
"Sure miss Zack Sanders around here," Campo said at last, getting up. "Might's well set out what we'll need, handy to breakfast, I guess."
"Dad," said Jean, "I'll take care of all that."
"You get along to bed," her father told her gruffly. "I want you to get some sleep."
Jean obediently picked up a lamp. Kentucky Jones moved efficiently about making ready for morning. Out in lonely camps upon the range these men would have got their own breakfasts effortlessly without thought; but here, where a cook was supposed to be, a cookless breakfast loomed as an ordeal untold.
"I wish I knew-" Campo began; he was ladling fresh coffee into a big pot with an enormous spoon—"I wish I knew-" Suddenly he stopped, and stood staring, while from the poised spoon a thin trickle of dry coffee dribbled to the floor.
Jean Ragland had returned, and was standing in the broad doorway. She still carried the lamp, and its sharp near light, illumining her face remorselessly, showed that her features were drawn by a hard and unaccustomed emotion. It took a moment or two for Kentucky Jones to realize that what he saw in the girl's face was fear.
For a moment no one spoke. Then Ragland said, very low, his coffee spoon still motionless, "What is it, Jean?"
Jean Ragland's voice could hardly be heard.
"Someone's been through the house."
"Been through the house?"
"Ransacked it - through and through!"
Her father let the big spoon splash into the coffee pot. Jean turned, throwing the light into the room beyond, and for a moment father and daughter stood together in the doorway, staring at what the others could not see. Then, slowly, with a curious uncertainty, Campo Ragland moved out of their sight. Jean followed him with the lamp.
Kentucky Jones, with the others, went to the door through which Campo had disappeared. The room was long and broad. In one end a huge fireplace with a six foot opening was built of rugged chunks of the native rock, and near this Campo stood, holding up a second lamp.
They heard him say, "You're right; there's no question about it."
Jim Humphreys said, "Is there anything we can-"
Ragland shot them a quick glance, as if momentarily he had forgotten that he was not alone. "It's nothing much, I guess," he said in a rocky voice. "This dump has been searched, all right. That's all. Wait back, you."
Jim Humphreys and Billy Petersen returned to the kitchen. At the doorway Kentucky Jones turned and stood for a moment in a final survey of the main room. He saw Ragland pass on into the next room. Jean moved to follow him.
Then suddenly the girl stopped and stood rigid. Following her eye, Kentucky Jones saw at once what she was looking at.
On the wall hung a cheap picture frame, perhaps ten inches in its longer dimension, made of narrow dark wood. And it was distinguished from other picture frames by the fact that there was no picture in it. Through its glass could be seen the torn manila paper which had backed the frame, and a section of the wall.
Jean Ragland set her lamp down, stepped forward and jerked the empty frame from the wall. For a moment she stood irresolute, glancing quickly about her.
"Do you want me to wrangle that for you, too?" said Kentucky from the doorway.
For an instant she stared at him, her eyes wide and hostile. It was surprising to him-a little. That afternoon, at the inquest, she had pressed into his keeping the bullet she had taken from the evidence. But now he knew that she had not elected him as her ally, nor wanted more than momentary aid.
Her father's step sounded close at hand beyond the other door. Jean dropped the picture frame behind a wooden chest that stood against the wall, and picked up her lamp again as her father re-entered.
They went back into the kitchen. Campo Ragland paused in the main room a moment to exchange the briefest sort of word with Jean. But his announcement was to all of them, at once.
"Somebody's ransacked this dump," he told them slowly. "Somebody's ransacked it good. There's a rifle gone."
Lee Bishop said, "Is that all?"
"They pried open the cash box, but didn't take anything, so far as I know. It beats me."
"We can spare a rifle, I guess," Jean said sharply. Except for a certain soberness, Kentucky was unable to make out in Jean's face any sign of the cold still terror he had seen in it a little while before. But he saw now that a change had come over Campo Ragland. Campo's face was stiffly expressionless; but the eyes were those of a man lost in uncertainty.
Kentucky Jones knew Campo to be typical of the Wolf Bench breed of owners, a man as durable as the hide of his own range-bred ponies. Behind his genial facade Campo had always been completely sure of himself. But now, while the outer aspect of the man was still little changed, Jones saw that the inner confidence was gone, as if the qualities which had made him the fit boss of a hard-held and forever-resistant range were cut through at the root.
"We may as well get some shut-eye I guess," Campo said. "One of you fellers better turn out in the morning and load the stove."
"I'm a pot-buster," Kentucky offered. "Leave breakfast to me."
"All right. Might's well turn into Zack's bunk, then."
Alone in the little lean-to room off the kitchen where Zack had lived, Kentucky Jones sat for a little while on the bunk, and smoked a final cigarette. It was time to take stock of what he knew.
He did not conceal from himself that his interest in the murder of Mason turned upon the involvement of Jean. The foundation of the thing was, of course, the fact that John Mason was dead, shot from the saddle within fifty yards of Ragland's door as he arrived from the 88 on Bob Elliot's pinto horse. Jean Ragland had stolen from the evidence the bullet that had killed Mason—and the sheriff probably had the mate to that bullet. Upon this foundation now rested a miscellany of puzzling and unrelated detail.
A Bar Hook rider had lied about his whereabouts at the hour of Mason's death. A lame cowboy cook was missing from the Bar Hook. Somebody had ransacked the Bar Hook ranch house, taking away a rifle and a picture out of the frame. Jean thought little of the disappearance of the rifle, much of the empty frame. Unquestionably, he needed more of the missing fragments before he could piece that picture together.
In the meantime the range was thrown out of balance by the death of the cow financier. Bob Elliot, facing ruin, could save himself only by forcing Ragland over the edge in his place. In one stride Kentucky Jones had stepped into a situation of greater pressure than any he had before encountered in an active life.
For what seemed a long time he lay awake, while his mind quartered the case like a lion hound failed of the scent. Presently he became aware that there was something he had left undone. Without striking a light he opened a seam in the lining of his coat and extracted the bullet which Jean Ragland had pressed into his hand that afternoon. He opened the window, and found that the snow was drifted here against the log wall. Kentucky Jones hesitated a moment more: then flicked the bullet that had killed John Mason out into the drifted snow.
Whatever else happened the work had to go on. Campo Ragland had contracted to ship five carloads of two-year-old steers to a southern feeder, but although the cars were already waiting on the Waterman siding, the gather and cut for the shipment still lacked many head. The two other Bar Hook cowboys—Harry Wilson and Joe St. Marie—had come in from Waterman during the night: and with this full force Campo himself jumped into the job of finishing the work in a day.
After breakfast Kentucky Jones made an opportunity to familiarize himself with the scene of Mason's death. "I suppose," he asked Lee Bishop, "that's the pump house?"
"Yeah, that stone dump. The place where I found Mason is about three horse-jumps southwest. He was lying face down with his head this way, and I—but I guess you heard all that."
"It worked out so I missed part of the inquest," Kentucky said. "Did it come out why Mason was riding from the SS to the Bar Hook? Seems kind of funny—the way things stand between the two brands."
"Yeah, that was all thrashed out," said Lee Bishop. "Old Ironsides was always a great hand to keep in touch with all corners of Wolf Bench; and he was just making one of his regular circuits of the range."
"I heard he was riding one of Elliot's plugs."
"Yeah. His way of doing was to borrow some horse that could be counted on to go home by itself, and at the next outfit borrow another such a horse, and so on. This time he was riding an 88 horse."
"Yes, I got that," Kentucky said. "One of Bob Elliot's top horses—a big pinto, with white forelegs."
"So they said. We got to get going, Kentuck. You and me aren't working with Campo today; there's a little job over here we got to wrangle separate. Rope you a low grade horse."
They took the trail toward the rim before Kentucky could talk to Jean alone.
For a long time they rode in silence; Bishop had given no hint as to the nature of their errand, as yet.
"I don't know exactly what we're up against here," the foreman said at last: "I haven't said much to the old man yet. I think we'll be able to tell just about how it's going to work out when we get up here four, five mile. It's made a beginning, I think."
"What has?" said Kentucky.
"You'll pretty soon see. I wish to God Jean was out of here. There's no better cattle woman anywhere than Jean. But this might not be a good place for her, pretty quick here."
"What's become of her mother?" Kentucky asked him.
"She's putting in the winter out on the coast."
"I reckon she's got judgment," said Kentucky.
The foreman shrugged moodily. "You can call it judgment. It looks more like a run-out, to me." He checked himself, already sorry for what he had said. He tried to apologize, and made it worse. "There isn't anybody means any better than Mrs. Ragland does: it's just that somehow she doesn't take to cattle, I guess."
"Looks like Jean would have gone with her?"
"Jean takes after her father." Lee Bishop said. "This busted-up country is bred into her blood and bone. She's a true Ragland. There's been a Ragland running cattle on Wolf Bench since the first long-horn showed."
"And how long has there been an Elliot?"
"Well, there's always been an Elliot, too: though until Bob Elliot took it over from his old man, the 88 was just a kind of chicken-yard outfit. It's Bob that's got ambitious."
Kentucky Jones decided to try one of his shots in the dark. "Lee," he said casually, "have you let anyone in on the fact that Mason was not killed at the time he was supposed to be."
Lee Bishop turned to face Kentucky Jones slowly. "How's that?" he said without expression.
"Let it go," said Jones. "From the way you talked at the inquest, it seemed to me like you didn't join in with the others in figuring that Mason was killed before the snow begun."
"I said," Lee Bishop responded combatively, "that there wasn't no snow under him, didn't I?"
"You mean you grant that he was dead before snow flew?"
The foreman did not answer for almost a hundred paces. Then he burst out with a sudden, unaccustomed display of black temper. "I'm tired of these here everlasting questions! I don't want to hash this thing over no more, you hear me?"
They came out now upon a high point of the rim, a monstrous declivity so sheer that it seemed as if at some time the world itself must have cracked to let the desert down. Far below the Bake Pan country began, a flat plain stretching into blue distance. At a glance the vast flats seemed utterly devoid of life. Cowmen's eyes, however, could pick out here and there among the dark dots of sage and cat-claw other dots that were cattle. But what interested the riders on the rim was something else—a greater concentration of cattle, a long, dark irregular string of them lying on the face of the desert like a blacksnake whip.
"Uh huh," said Lee Bishop. "There you have it! How many head would you count that drive?"
"Maybe twelve hundred," said Kentucky. "88 stock?"
"Sure they're 88! You know now why Bob Elliot put on six more hands!"
Already, then, this thing had come. Legally the public domain was open to all, whatever tradition or moral justice might hold. But Bob Elliot must have known that the brand which held this range would defend it bitterly; and this land had been Bar Hook graze for a long time.
Perhaps, Kentucky Jones considered, Bob Elliot could not wholly be blamed. It was hard to withhold all sympathy from a man making a stubborn fight in the face of a crush-out. But it seemed to him that there was something grossly unnatural about the manner in which the move was being made. In Elliot's position almost any enemy of Ragland might have been expected to attempt a gradual infiltration of the Bar Hook range.
But this sudden, openly hostile mass move was like nothing Kentucky Jones had ever seen. The thing was too swift, too unequivocal, too bald-faced.
"Eight riders," Lee Bishop commented. "He certainly is figuring to make this stick! He wouldn't be laying on all those riders if this was anything more than a beginning, Kentuck."
"Can the Bar Hook stand it, Lee?"
"We'll d-n well see," said Lee Bishop. He squinted at the sun. "It's pretty near a three-hour ride to get down to where them cattle is, but I guess we got to go; sorry we didn't bring no sow bosom and hard-tack, Kentucky."
"To h-l with grub," said Kentucky, swinging his horse into the down trail.
Out from the herd, as the Bar Hook men drew near, rode a lank angular man on a hammer-headed roan pony.
"This is Bill McCord," Lee Bishop said in an undertone; "he's from away. Bob Elliot's run through half a dozen range bosses in the last three years, but this one will suit him, I guess. He
Yeah—I know him. If he found you drinking at a crick he'd ride through upstream, to see if you objected to mud.
Hello, McCord."
McCord ignored Jones.
"Howdy, Bishop."
"I see you're moving a few head of stock," Bishop began,
(To Be Continued)