Rhodes Eugene Manlove - Bransford of Rainbow Range стр 3.

Not a bit. Hes got the law with him. Then him and the Register is old cronies. Guess this other letter is from him unofficial, likely.

Jeff seated himself on a box. How long has this Lake got to do his filing in, Pappy?

Thirty days from the time he signs the receipt for this letter durn him!

Some one ought to kidnap him, said Leo.

Why, thats illegal! Jeff nursed his knee, turned his head to one side and chanted thoughtfully:

He broke off and smiled at Leo indulgently. Leo glanced at him sharply; this was Jeffs war-song aforetime. But it was to Pappy that Jeff spoke:

Dad, youre a bettern any surgeon. Wish youd go out and look at Leos horse. His ankles all swelled up. Ill be mixin me up a toddy, if Mas got any hot water. Im feeling kinder squeamish.

Hot toddy, this weather? Some folks has queer tastes, grumbled Pappy. Ex-cuse me! Me and Leoll go look at the Charley-horse. That bottle under the shelf is the best. He bustled out. But Jeff caught Ballinger by the sleeve.

Will you hold my garments while I stone Stephen? he hissed.

I will, said Leo, meeting Jeffs eye. Hit him once for me.

Move the lever to the right, you old retrograde, and get Pappy to gyratin on his axis some fifteen or twenty minutes, you listenin reverently. Meanwhile, Ill make the necessary incantations. Git! Dont look so blamed intelligent, or Pappyll be suspicious.

Bransford hastened to the kitchen. Ma Sanders, a bronc fell on me yesterday and my poor body is one big stone bruise. Can I borrow some boiling water to mix a small prescription, or maybe seven? One when you first feel like it, and repeat at intervals, the doctor says.

Dont you get full in my house, Jeff Bransford, or Ill feed you to the hawgs. You take three doses, and thatll be a-plenty for you.

Jeff put the steaming kettle on the rusty store stove, used as a waste-paper basket through the long summer. Touching off the papers with a match, he smashed an empty box and put it in. Then he went into the post-office corner and laid impious hands on the United States Mail.

First he steamed open Lakes unregistered letter from the Land Office. It was merely a few typewritten lines, having no reference to the Butterbowl: Enclosing the Plat of TP. 14 E. of First Guide Meridan East Range S. of 3d Standard Parallel South, as per request.

He paused to consider. His roving eye lit on the wall, where the Annual Report of the Governor of New Mexico hung from a nail. The very thing, he said. Pasted in the report was a folded map of the Territory. This he cut out, refolded it till it slipped in the violated envelope, dabbed the flap neatly with Pappys mucilage, and returned the letter to its proper pigeonhole.

He replenished the fire with another box, subjected Lakes registered letter to the steaming process and opened it with delicate caution. It was the decision; it was in Lakes favor; and it went into the fire. Substituting for it the Plat of TP. 14 and the accompanying letter he resealed it with workmanlike neatness, and then restored it with a final inspection. The editor sits on the madhouse floor, and pla-ays with the straws in his hair! he murmured, beaming with complacent pride and reaching for the bottle.

Pappy and Leo found him with his hands to the blaze, shivering. I feel like I was going to have a chill, he complained. But with a few remedial measures he recuperated sufficiently to set off for Rainbow after supper.

Charleys ankle seems better, said Leo artlessly.

Dont you lay no stress on Charleys ankle, said Jeff, in a burst of confidence. Where ignorance is bliss, tis folly to be otherwise. Just let Charleys ankle slip your memory.

The following day Bransford drew rein at Wes Pringles shack and summoned him forth.

Mr. John Wesley Also Ran Pringle, he said impressively, I have taken a horse-ride over here to put you through your cataclysm. Will you truthfully answer the rebuses I shall now propound to the best of your ability, and govern yourself accordingly till the surface of Hades congeals to glistening bergs, and that with no unseemly curiosity?

Is it serious? asked Pringle anxiously.

This is straight talk.

Pringle took a long look and held up his hand. I will, he said soberly.

John Wesley, do you or do you not believe Stephen W. Lake, of Agua Chiquite, to be a low-down, coniferous skunk by birth, inclination and training?

I do.

John Wesley, do you or do you not possess the full confidence and affection of Felix, the night-hawk, otherwise known and designated as John Taylor, Junior, of Butterbowl, Esquire?

I do.

Do you, John Wesley Pringle, esteem me, Jeff Bransford, irrespective of color, sex or previous condition of turpitude, to be such a one as may be safely tied to when all the hitching-posts is done pulled up, and will you now promise to love, honor and obey me till the cows come home, or till further orders?

I do I will. And may God have mercy on my soul.

Here are your powders, then. Do you go and locate the above-mentioned and described Felix, and impart to him, under the strict seal of secrecy, these tidings, to wit, namely: That you have a presentiment, almost amounting to conviction, that the Butterbowl contest is decided in Lakes favor, but that your further presentiments is that said Lake will not use his prior right. If Taylor should get such a decision from the Land Office dont let him or Felix say a word to no one. If Mr. B. Body should ask, tell em twas a map, or land laws, or something. Moreover, said Felix he is not to stab, cut, pierce or otherwise mutilate said Lake, nor to wickedly, maliciously, feloniously and unlawfully fire at or upon the person of said Lake with any rifle, pistol, musket or gun, the same being then and there loaded with powder and with balls, shots, bullets or slugs of lead or other metal. You see to that, personal. Id go to him myself, but he dont know me well enough to have confidence in my divinations.

You promulgate these prophecies as your sole personal device and construction sabe? Then, thirty days after Lake signs a receipt for his decision and you will take steps to inform yourself of that you sidle casually down to Roswell with old man Taylor and see that he puts preëmption papers on the Butterbowl. Selah!

III

The first knowledge Lake had of the state of affairs was when the Steam Pitchfork punchers informally extended to him the right hand of fellowship (hitherto withheld) under the impression that he had generously abstained from pushing home his vantage. When, in the mid-flood of his unaccountable popularity, the situation dawned upon him, he wisely held his peace. He was a victim of the accomplished fact. Taylor had already filed his preëmption. So Lake reaped volunteer harvest of good-will, bearing his honors in graceful silence.

On Lakes next trip to Escondido, Pappy Sanders laid aside his marked official hauteur. Lake stayed several days, praised the rosebush and Ma Sanders cookery, and indulged in much leisurely converse with Pappy. Thereafter he had a private conference with Stratton, the Register of the Roswell Land Office. His suspicion fell quite naturally on Felix, and on Jeff as accessory during the fact.