Crooked Trails and Straight

  CHAPTER I

  AT THE ROUND UP CLUB

  A big game had been in progress all night at the Round Up Club. Now thegarish light of day streamed through the windows, but the electric clusterstill flung down its yellow glare upon the table. Behind the players wereother smaller tables littered with cigars, discarded packs, and glassesfull or empty. The men were in their shirt sleeves. Big broad-shoulderedfellows they were, with the marks of the outdoors hard-riding West uponthem. No longer young, they were still full of the vigor and energy ofunflagging strength. From bronzed faces looked steady unwinking eyes withhumorous creases around the corners, hard eyes that judged a man and hisclaims shrewdly and with good temper. Most of them had made good in theland, and their cattle fed upon a thousand hills.

  The least among them physically was Luck Cullison, yet he was theirrecognized leader. There was some innate quality in this man with thegray, steel-chilled eyes that marked him as first in whatever company hechose to frequent. A good friend and a good foe, men thought seriouslybefore they opposed him. He had made himself a power in the Southwestbecause he was the type that goes the limit when aroused. Yet about him,too, there was the manner of a large amiability, of the easy tolerancecharacteristic of the West.

  While Alec Flandrau shuffled and dealt, the players relaxed. Cigars wererelit, drinks ordered. Conversation reverted to the ordinary topics thatinterested Cattleland. The price of cows, the good rains, the time of thefall roundup, were touched upon.

  The door opened to let in a newcomer, a slim, graceful man much youngerthan the others present, and one whose costume and manner broughtadditional color into the picture. Flandrau, Senior, continued to shufflewithout turning his head. Cullison also had his back to the door, but theman hung his broad-rimmed gray hat on the rack--beside an exactly similarone that belonged to the owner of the Circle C--and moved leisurelyforward till he was within range of his vision.

  "Going to prove up soon on that Del Oro claim of yours, Luck?" askedFlandrau.

  He was now dealing, his eyes on the cards, so that he missed theembarrassment in the faces of those about him.

  "On Thursday, the first day the law allows," Cullison answered quietly.

  Flandrau chuckled. "I reckon Cass Fendrick will be some sore."

  "I expect." Cullison's gaze met coolly the black, wrathful eyes of the manwho had just come in.

  "Sort of put a crimp in his notions when you took up the canyon draw,"Flandrau surmised.

  Something in the strained silence struck the dealer as unusual. He lookedup, and showed a momentary confusion.

  "Didn't know you were there, Cass. Looks like I put my foot in it surethat time. I ce'tainly thought you were an absentee," he apologized.

  "Or you wouldn't have been talking about me," retorted Fendrick acidly.The words were flung at Flandrau, but plainly they were meant as achallenge for Cullison.

  A bearded man, the oldest in the party, cut in with good-natured reproof."I shouldn't wonder, Cass, but your name is liable to be mentioned justlike that of any other man."

  "Didn't know you were in this, Yesler," Fendrick drawled insolently.

  "Oh, well, I butted in," the other laughed easily. He pushed a stack ofchips toward the center of the table. "The pot's open."

  Fendrick, refused a quarrel, glared at the impassive face of Cullison, andpassed to the rear room for a drink. His impudence needed fortifying, forhe knew that since he had embarked in the sheep business he was notwelcome at this club, that in fact certain members had suggested his namebe dropped from the books. Before he returned to the poker table the drinkhe had ordered became three.

  The game was over and accounts were being straightened. Cullison was theheavy loser. All night he had been bucking hard luck. His bluffs had beencalled. The others had not come in against his strong hands. On a straightflush he had drawn down the ante and nothing more. To say the least, itwas exasperating. But his face had showed no anger. He had played pokertoo many years, was too much a sport in the thorough-going frontierfashion, to wince when the luck broke badly for him.

  The settlement showed that the owner of the Circle C was twenty-fivehundred dollars behind the game. He owed Mackenzie twelve hundred,Flandrau four hundred, and three hundred to Yesler.

  With Fendrick sitting in an easy chair just across the room, he found it alittle difficult to say what otherwise would have been a matter ofcourse.

  "My bank's busted just now, boys. Have to ask you to let it stand for afew days. Say, till the end of the week."

  Fendrick laughed behind the paper he was pretending to read. He knew quitewell that Luck's word was as good as his bond, but he chose to suggest adoubt.

  "Maybe you'll explain the joke to us, Cass," the owner of the Circle Csaid very quietly.

  "Oh, I was just laughing at the things I see, Luck," returned the youngerman with airy offense, his eyes on the printed sheet.

  "Meaning for instance?"

  "Just human nature. Any law against laughing?"

  Cullison turned his back on him. "See you on Thursday if that's soonenough, boys."

  "All the time you want, Luck. Let mine go till after the roundup if you'drather," Mackenzie suggested.

  "Thursday suits me."

  Cullison rose and stretched. He had impressed his strong, dominantpersonality upon his clothes, from the high-heeled boots to the verywrinkles in the corduroy coat he was now putting on. He bad enemies, agood many of them, but his friends were legion.

  "Don't hurry yourself."

  "Oh, I'll rustle the money, all right. Coming down to the hotel?" Luck wasreaching for his hat, but turned toward his friends as he spoke.

  Without looking again at Fendrick, he led the way to the street.

  The young man left alone cursed softly to himself, and ordered anotherdrink. He knew he was overdoing it, but the meeting with Cullison hadannoyed him exceedingly. The men had never been friends, and of late yearsthey had been leaders of hostile camps. Both of them could be overbearing,and there was scarcely a week but their interests overlapped. Luck wascapable of great generosity, but he could be obstinate as the rock ofGibraltar when he chose. There had been differences about the ownership ofcalves, about straying cattle, about political matters. Finally had comeopen hostility. Cass leased from the forestry department the land uponwhich Cullison's cattle had always run free of expense. Upon this he hadput sheep, a thing in itself of great injury to the cattle interests. Thestockmen had all been banded together in opposition to the forestryadministration of the new regime, and Luck regarded Fendrick's action astreachery to the common cause.

  He struck back hard. In Arizona the open range is valuable only so long asthe water holes also are common property or a private supply available.The Circle C cattle and those of Fendrick came down from the range to theDel Oro to water at a point where the canyon walls opened to a spreadingvalley. This bit of meadow Luck homesteaded and fenced on the north side,thus cutting the cattle of his enemy from the river.

  Cass was furious. He promptly tore down the fence to let his cattle andsheep through. Cullison rebuilt it, put up a shack at a point whichcommanded the approach, and set a guard upon it day and night. Openwarfare had ensued, and one of the sheepherders had been beaten because hepersisted in crossing the dead line.

  Now Cullison was going to put the legal seal on the matter by making finalproof on his homestead. Cass knew that if he did so it would practicallyput him out of business. He would be at the mercy of his foe, who couldruin him if he pleased. Luck would be in a position to dictate termsabsolutely.

  Nor did it make his defeat any more palatable to Cass that he had broughtit on himself by his bad-tempered unneighborliness and by his overreachingdisposition. A hundred times he had blacknamed himself for an arrant foolbecause he had not anticipated the move of his enemy and homesteaded onhis own account.

  He felt that there must be some way out of the trap if he could only findit. Whenever the thought of eating humble pie to Luck came into his mind,the rage b
oiled in him. He swore he would not do it. Better a hundredtimes to see the thing out to a fighting finish.

  Taking the broad-rimmed gray hat he found on the rack, Cass passed out ofthe clubhouse and into the sun-bathed street.