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Meadowlark Basin

<h2>CHAPTER NINE</h2> <h3>BUTCH CASSIDY GIVES ADVICE</h3> Lark rode moodily up to the rim of the Basin and halted there, as was his habit, and gazed down upon meadow, field, small orchard and the chain of corrals, with the house and two or three cabins sitting back against the bold cliff that shut in the upper end of the river valley like a wall. Ages ago the river, then a glacial stream, no doubt, had gouged and dug at the hills until it had made a fair retreat just here along its bank; had shrunk as the climate changed and dried; left the valley a fertile place with seeds of trees and grasses and wild flowers imbedded in the soil. Birds had come there to nest, and in the spring the air was all vibrant with the sweet, rippling notes of the meadowlark and robin and the little wild canaries. Old Bill Larkin had ridden into the valley by chance and had liked it well enough to appropriate it and build in it his home. Meadowlark Basin he called it—having come in the spring. Later he brought cattle and horses, when the pioneers were just awaking to the fact that Montana was an ideal grazing country. Some called old Bill a rustler—said his cattle and horses were mostly stolen. But they did not say it to his face, for old Bill was also called a killer. At any rate he owned a certain whimsical sentiment, for he fashioned the crude outline of a bird (though in the state brand book it was called the Half-moon-open-A) and stamped it deep in the hides of every hoof of stock he called his own. Moreover, he held his own against brand-blotters and prospered. Now Lark stared glumly down into the Basin and wished his old dad was alive and able to take a hand in the fight he felt was coming. But old Bill lay deep in the grove of cottonwoods between the river and the house, and Lark glanced that way as he swung back into the road. Bud's horse—called the Walking Sorrel because of his gait—tilted his ears forward and picked up his feet with the springy, eager steps of a horse glad to be home after an absence. At the foot of the hill he broke into a gallop that Lark did not check until they reached the yard by the shed where the saddles were housed. Lark slipped out of the saddle and was untying the valise from behind the cantle when Bud strolled down to greet him. He glanced over his shoulder, then handed the valise to Bud, who judged the weight of it and grinned. "Got it, I see. You weren't held up then," he said. "I thought afterwards that you shouldn't have gone alone, but I see it was all right, after all." Lark jerked off the saddle and led the horse to a gate and turned him through without speaking. The two started for the house, walking side by side up the roadway. "Boys all here?" Lark spoke abruptly. "Sure. They're eating supper. Butch Cassidy rode over from the Frying Pan yesterday to see why we hadn't come after the horses. I think Kid wants that fifteen hundred all right. Butch is waiting to ride back with us." Bud changed hands on the valise, for ten pounds added to the ordinary weight of a leather grip well filled is distinctly noticeable. "Have a good trip, and did you hear anything about the robbery?" "Yeah, to both questions. Take that grip on into my room, son, and come over to the bunk house. I wanta talk to the boys." "Oh—oh!" Bud exclaimed under his breath, and made off in a hurry. Lark in that mood promised action in plenty, and action meant joy in the heart of young Bud. He passed Marge without a word of teasing, which gave that young woman an uneasy half-hour, thinking she had somehow offended her perfect type of cowboy. "Now's a good time to break the news to you pelicans," Lark began abruptly, when the preliminary greetings were over and Bud had arrived and sat down expectantly on the end of the long bench at the supper table. "Butch, it won't hurt nothin' for you to set in on this yoreself. Suspicions is like measles; once they start they spread through a hull neighborhood. "To cut it short, they're tryin' their hell-darnedest, down Smoky Ford way, to pin that killin' and bank robbery on to the Meddalark. Soon as they find out where Bud come from that day they're liable to throw in the Fryin' Pan outfit fer luck. And my Jonah, I lost over fifteen thousand dollars to them thieves!" "Pin it on us!" Bud voiced the incredulity of the group. "How do they make that out, Lark? I was in the Elkhorn—" "Yeah—and Delkin told me they're sayin' that you was in there spottin' for the bunch that done the dirty work, son. You left the saloon and put straight fer the bank—to make sure it was all over and done without a hitch—and then you put out across the hills, mebbe for a blind, mebbe to help the get-away. Delkin don't believe nothin' like that, of course; but that's the story that's being circulated around town. He just give me the tip in a friendly way, so we'd know how to shape our plans." "Pull in the corners, hunh?" Frank Gelle snorted. "Pull in nothin'!" Lark's kindly hazel eyes hardened. "I'll tell you now, boys, I went on to Glasgow and borried some money to buy them Fryin' Pan horses and run the outfit on till the bank kinda pulls itself together again. Whilst the money lasts, I'm goin' to pay you rannies in gold. If yo're scared to show it, fer fear some one may think it's stole, you can go hide it under yore bunks. Delkin said he'd try and find out who's doin' all the gabbin' about us. He thinks it was started by somebody that's got a grudge agin the Meddalark—and, my Jonah! I can think of plenty that has! You dang pelicans go larry-whoopin' around the country, lickin' this one and that one, till the hull country's down on us, chances are!" "Couldn't be somebody you've run a sandy on, of course," Gelle hinted mildly, and lowered an eyelid at the others. "Palmer, you mean? He's got as good cause as anybody." Lark made no attempt to hedge. "Could be. Still, there's somethin' happened that Palmer didn't have no hand in, that I don't savvy. Up in Harlem I was waitin' to git my ticket, and my grip was settin' on a bench behind me in the waitin' room, and two different jaspers sneaked up and hefted it. Didn't know I seen 'em, but I caught 'em out the tail of my eye. And that was goin' out! At the time I thought they was lookin' fer easy stealin' and lost their nerve; or mebbe was curious to know if I had a gun or a bottle cached inside. Now, I know they was jest heftin' to see if I had the bank loot, er some of it. There was a lot of gold in the vault, Delkin told me. Detectives on my trail, mebbe. When I come back, I was packin' about ten pounds more weight, but I never let that grip outa my hands, you might say. I told Delkin about it, after he'd spilled his news, and showed him where I'd borried some money—just in case the talk gits too dang loud. He swore the bank never sicked no detectives on to us, nor anybody else in particular. Them bank officers don't dare give a guess at who done it, looks like to me. It could be what they call an inside job, and they know it don't look too good fer the bank officers." "The thing to do," Butch Cassidy advised, "is lay low till somebody tips their hands. They'll do it—never knowed it to fail." He grinned and reached for the sirup can. "Way Bud was tellin' me, I'd say that hold-up job was a strictly home product. What do you think, Lark?" "My Jonah!" Lark gave an exasperated snort. "I ain't any artist in that line, Butch. Looks to me like a daylight robbery with murder throwed in is something that takes nerve, and them town roosters don't qualify, if you want my opinion." Butch chewed and swallowed a huge bite of hot biscuit dripping with sirup, his eyes staring vacantly before him as if he visioned things afar. Lark was calling for a clean plate and a cup of coffee, his long ride having given him a clamorous appetite which the supper table only aggravated. "Bud was tellin' me about a few head of loose horses bein' hazed outa town and across the river right after the job at the bank." Butch came out of his trance and turned again to Lark. "Looks to me like that was meant fer a blind. Otherwise, the feller that drove 'em wouldn't make no bones of tellin' about it. "And here's another point you don't want to overlook, none of you: Smoky Ford sets wrong fer a bank robbery to be pulled off durin' the day. Bank's away down at the wrong end of the street, and them cutbanks and washes where the bench breaks off down to the river bottom ain't rideable, except along the road. A bunch raidin' the bank would have to ride back through town and either cross the river or foller up the road to the bench, and take out across the reservation or come up this way. The trail across the river could be reached, uh course, by ridin' out back of town, the way Bat Johnson went with his pack outfit, but three or four riders foggin' along there would take big chances, seems to me. A job like that would need at least three men; two inside and one on guard outside the bank, jest in case anybody happened along. And even then it wouldn't be no picnic, right in daytime. With the town jammed into a pocket in the hills like that, and only two get-away trails, and them either leadin' around town or through it, they'd have to want money worse'n what I do." He laughed dryly. "Them loose horses shod all around and takin' out across the river to the hills—that looks too much like a blind trail to me. Nobody was seen ridin' through town, so after a play like that, what I'd guess they done was git to the river bank and drop on down river in a boat." Butch Cassidy, vaguely rumored to be something of an outlaw himself, spoke as one who knew the tricks of the trade. "River's too dang treacherous, down below the ford," Lark objected, with his mouth full. "It could be done, mebbe, but nobody in a hurry would ever think of doin' it. Moreover, what with rapids and bars and quicksands, there ain't a boat on the river anywhere; not that I know of." "My—my grandpa was—was makin' a boat," the eager voice of Skookum broke in upon them. "In a shed where—where calves was weaned." "Palmer, hunh?" Butch turned and stared reflectively at the boy, whom no one had noticed in the bunk house. A silence followed; a startled pause, as if each mind there took hold of the statement and turned it about and eyed it with surprised attention. Only Butch's light blue eyes, set close together, held a peculiar gleam. "When was this, kid?" "That was 'fore I come here with—with Lark. And—and—" "Here! Quit that stutterin', kid, and take yore time." Lark spoke sharply, his eyes darting inquiring glances at Bud and the others. "Tell it slow, Skookum, and be dang sure you tell it straight. It's liable to mean a lot. You say yore grandpa was makin' a boat. Did he say what for?" Skookum shook his head, his eyes big and round with the thrill of giving information to all these gods and heroes whose deeds and lightest words were things to dwell upon. "Bat Johnson was makin' it, and Ed White. When they caught me—peekin' in, Bat s-shook me and swore. And—he took me where grandpa—was. He said I was—sneakin' around where I didn't have no—business. And—and grandpa—" Skookum shut his eyes tightly for a moment. "If you please, I—can't tell it—please. It's when grandpa made them cuts—" "You can skip all that," Lark gritted, while the others shuffled their feet uncomfortably, their faces going glum with anger against Palmer for his brutal beating of the boy. "And you needn't to worry; yore grandpa's got more marks than what you've got." "He oughta be strung up by the heels over a slow fire," Tony muttered, with the exaggerated malevolence of one who indulges in strong figures of speech. "Go on, kid. Did you hear what they was goin' to do with it?" "No—only Bat said sinkin' it was easy." "There's the clew to the robbery!" Bud leaned forward, the light of revelation in his eyes. "It's the last thing any one would think of, and about the easiest thing to do. Bat Johnson himself could have hazed those horses across the ford and come back after his pack horse. He could have done the murder and robbery too. If they had a boat hidden under the bank, he could have slipped out of the side door with all the plunder in a sack, packed it on his horse to the river, tossed it into the boat and gone on about his business—which was turning those horses loose and throwing them back across the river. I know where they were tied out of sight in the wash for an hour or two at least. It's so damned simple, Lark, it was practically safe!" "It could be done," Lark agreed, "but they couldn't go on down river and stand a chance of getting anywhere." "They wouldn't need to. Who would see a boat if it slipped down river from Palmer's place and went back the way it came? The farther bank is too rough to ride and too barren for stock to range close, and the current swings that way and cuts close to shore. This side it's boggy wherever you can get to the bank, so all the town stock waters at the ford, where there's a streak of gravel bottom. The willows are thick as the hair on a dog, most places—though of course a man could crowd through to the bank, close enough to throw a bag or two. Why, at three o'clock or a little before, even the kids were all in school down at the other end of town, and every footloose man was locked inside the Elkhorn!" "Palmer was in town, you said." Butch Cassidy's eyes had squinted half shut as his mind focused upon the robbery and shuttled back and forth from scene to scene. "You're darned right he was in town. It was Palmer who locked the saloon door, and it was Palmer who seemed to hate the idea of having it opened when I started to leave. Steve did all the bellowing, but Palmer's face gave him away; he wanted that door to stay shut. Of course, he had just deposited five thousand dollars in the bank, and he's been making quite a holler, I suppose—at least, he did at the inquest. But maybe he put that money in the bank for that very reason, to give him something to howl about. What do you think, Lark?" "I'd bet on it," Lark answered sententiously, and with a three-tined fork turned over several pieces of beef fried so thoroughly that the meat was tender simply because it was too young to be tough under any mistreatment. He selected a particularly crisp piece, sawed off a corner with his knife and poised the morsel on the end of his fork. "Oughta be some way to git the goods on that outfit. I've a dang good notion—" "Better let it ride for a while," Butch counseled earnestly. "If it's them, they're bound to tip their hands; any mismove, and they'll be gone clean outa the country. Any of the bunch gone since it happened? What about Bat and his pack outfit? Did he leave with it?" "Palmer sent him back home after the inquest. I overheard him telling Bat that some of them might have to join the manhunt and he'd better stay on the ranch in case he was needed," said Bud. "None of 'em got out with the posse," Lark added. "Delkin told me the sheriff was handlin' it with his deppities, and said he didn't want the hull country messed up with tracks. Said it was time enough to make a general round-up when they picked up a trail of some kind. Good sense, too." "How many men has Palmer got?" Butch wanted to know. "Not more'n three or four—he's too stingy to hire more'n he has to. Who works for yore gran'paw, kid?" "Bat Johnson and Ed White, and—and Mex, and—and Blinker. But Blinker's no good. He—he's old and—and won't talk, and—and just whispers—to himself. He—he's afraid somebody's—comin' to—to kill him. And then there's the cook," Skookum added slightingly. "He's Sam, and—and he's a nigger." "They're all to home," Gelle ended the discussion. "I and Bob met all three riders jest yeste'day drivin' a bunch of horses out towards the reservation." "Got the stuff hid somewhere," Butch concluded. "That is, if they done the job. Thinkin' so ain't proof, we got to remember." "Dang right it ain't," Lark agreed cynically. "They's folks in the country claims they think we done it, fur as that goes. That Maw callin' supper, Bud? You tell her I've et. By Jonah, I can't git no comfort out of a meal with them two pilgrims settin' there watchin' every mouthful and criticizin' my manners. I'll eat Jerry's cookin' fer a spell." "I'm goin' to—to eat here," Skookum announced firmly. "I can't git no comfort, either. That old girl's learnin' me table etiquette! She makes me hold my fork like—like this!" To make his argument strong, Skookum grasped a fork as no human being would naturally hold one. "Say," drawled Tony, "send her over here to eat with us, and you two gwan where you belong. Me, I never did know how to hold a fork in m' life. Why, I can't even hold a hayfork proper! You tell her, Skookum, that there ain't a one of us that's got the hang of makin' peas ride our knives without rollin' off. Jelly claims it's proper to mash 'em so they lay flat, but I say they was made to ride straight up. Gwan, kid. You tell 'er they's certain ones that needs to be learnt manners, and learnt 'em quick. Tell her we got a pelican here that whistles his soup 'stead of blowin' it gentle and then gulpin' 'er down. Gwan, kid." "Yeah. Tell her I want t' know whether it's proper to say, 'Pass me those m'lasses,' or just 'Hand me them m'lasses.'" Bob Leverett winked at the others. "Tell 'er I'm liable to be invited out to a party, some time, an' I'm liable to make a bad break. Gwan, kid. You tell 'er that." "Say, kid, you tell 'er I got another type she oughta study. Tell her this one is a sure-enough dinger, and that it's got the smile of a he-angel and the heart of a demon. It's this here sow-ayve kind, you tell 'er—" "Soo-ahve, you darned knot-head," Gelle corrected disgustedly. "Bud can tell her," Skookum stated calmly, and straddled the long bench to sit beside Lark. "I'm goin' to eat here." "And hurt Maw's feelings?" Bud paused in the doorway and sent a glance of surprised disapproval at the boy. "She'll think you don't like her cooking any more." "Aw, shucks!" Skookum threw down his knife and straddled back across the bench. <hr class="chap" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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