Rustlers Beware
CHAPTER I
SEALED ORDERS.
I’m glad you’ve decided to throw in with us, Milt. It’ll beat punchin’cows for a crusty uncle. You’ll have a change of scenery from Texas toWyomin’, and all kinds of excitement, includin’, mebbe, a littleshootin’, which ought to appeal to a young feller like you.”
Two men sat conversing in the railroad station. One was middle-aged,with grizzled hair and mustache, tall and big-limbed, but with noextra flesh on his massive frame. His face was long-jowled anddetermined looking, and his keen gray eyes were overhung with bushybrows, which were often drawn together in a scowl. Asa Swingley hadawed many an opponent into submission. Others, whom his aggressiveappearance could not impress, he had beaten or shot, for “Two-bar Ace”was equally at home in a rough-and-tumble or a gun fight.
“Well, I’ve said I’d come, and you can count me in,” said Swingley’scompanion. “But I reserve the right to drop out if I think thingsaren’t on the level.”
Swingley’s brows drew together quickly, and he shot a stabbing glanceinto the eyes that looked into his. But there was no quailing underthe look. The big cattleman gazed into the face of a youth whosedetermination equaled, if it did not exceed, his own.
Milton Bertram was only slightly smaller of build than the giantcattleman. Both men had laid aside their coats, owing to the heat ofthe station. In their flannel shirts, with cartridge belts and gunssagging at their waists, trousers tucked into high-heeled, spurredboots, they typified perfectly the man’s country from which they hadcome. Bertram had laid aside his sombrero, showing a luxuriant crop ofblack hair with a distinct tendency to curl. His forehead was broad,its whiteness in strong contrast with his deeply tanned features. Hissmoothly shaven face was regular in outline, and his dark eyes, forall their straightforward and fearless expression, had a half-humoroustwinkle in them which mystified Swingley.
“It’s too late for you to quit now,” declared the latter finally,discovering that he could not “look down” the youth at his side.
“I didn’t say anything about quitting,” answered Bertram easily. “I’vethrown in with you, though it is at the last minute. But, to tell youthe truth, I haven’t exactly liked the looks of this scheme very muchfrom the start. You’ve shown too much secrecy about it—getting allthese men together under sealed orders.”
“You’ll find it’s got the right brand run on it.”
“All right, but you’ve got to admit I’ve had some grounds forsuspicion. The gang you’ve picked up is the worst in this section.You’ve headed the bunch with Tom Hoog, a notorious killer, and theothers aren’t much behind him.”
“I like men who can take care of themselves,” replied Swingley.
“Well, you’ve got ’em over there,” went on Bertram, looking into theadjoining waiting room, where, in a haze of blue smoke, manycow-punchers could be seen, lolling about on bed rolls, waiting forthe calling of their train.
They were, as Bertram said, a formidable-looking outfit. Nearly everyman had a record as a killer. With big pistols slapping at their hips,as they walked, and with rifles in leather scabbards, stacked in thecorners of the room, or leaning against the rolls of bedding, theoutfit took on the appearance of an armed camp, during a moment ofease.
Tom Hoog, who had been mentioned by Bertram as the leader of thisdaredevil lot, sat apart from the others, gloomily smoking. He was ofmedium height, spare but sinewy, with an aquiline nose, which tende