Cowmen and Rustlers: A Story of the Wyoming Cattle Ranges, Edward Sylvester Ellis [e reader .TXT] 📗
- Author: Edward Sylvester Ellis
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"The more cause, therefore, why I should stay," responded the other.
"A poor argument—"
The discussion was interrupted by the sound of a horse's hoofs. Some one was riding toward them on a gallop, and speedily loomed to view in the bright moonlight. The three instinctively ceased speaking and gazed curiously at the horseman, who reined up in front of where they were sitting.
Hospitality is limitless in the West, and, before the stranger had halted, Fred Whitney rose from his chair and walked forward to welcome him.
The man was in the costume of a cowboy, with rifle, revolver and all the paraphernalia of the craft.
"Is your name Whitney?" asked the horseman, speaking first.
"It is; what can I do for you?"
"Do you know Mont Sterry?"
"He is a particular friend of mine," replied Whitney, refraining from adding that he was the young man sitting a few paces away with his sister and hearing every word said.
"Well, there's a letter for him; if I knew where to find him I would deliver it myself. Will you hand it to him the next time you meet him?"
As he spoke he leaned forward from his saddle and handed a sealed envelope to Fred Whitney, who remarked, as he accepted it:
"I will do as you wish; I expect to see him soon; won't you dismount and stay over night with us?"
"No; I have business elsewhere," was the curt answer, as the fellow wheeled and spurred off on a gallop.
Budd Hankinson and Grizzly Weber, the two hired men, were absent, looking after the cattle, for the rustler is a night hawk who often gets in the best part of his work between the set and rise of sun.
Mrs. Whitney was sitting in the gloom, alone in her sorrow. Jennie wished to stay with her, but the mother gently refused, saying she preferred to have none with her. No light was burning in the building, and that night the weather was unusually mild.
Mont Sterry accepted the paper from the hand of his friend and remarked, with a smile:
"I suspect what it is. When the rustlers don't like a man they have a frank way of telling him so, supplemented by a little good advice, I fancy I have been honoured in a similar way."
He deliberately tore open the envelope, while Jennie and her brother looked curiously at him. The moonlight, although strong, was not sufficiently so to show the words, which were written in lead-pencil. Fred Whitney, therefore, struck a match and held it in front of the paper, while the recipient read in a low voice, loud enough, however, to be heard in the impressive hush:
"MONT STERRY: If you stay in the Powder River country twenty-four hours longer you are a dead man. Over fifty of us rustlers have sworn to shoot you on sight, whether it is at Fort McKinley, Buffalo, or on the streets of Cheyenne. I have persuaded the majority to hold off for the time named, but not one of them will do so an hour longer, nor will I ask them to do so. We are bound to make an honest living, and it is weak for me to give you this warning, but I do it, repeating that if you are within reach twenty-four hours from the night on which this is handed to Whitney I will join them in hunting you down, wherever you may be. "LARCH CADMUS."
CHAPTER VIII. — GOOD-BYE.
Monteith Sterry read the "warning" through in a voice without the slightest tremor. Then he quietly smoked his cigar and looked off in the moonlight, as though thinking of something of a different nature.
It was natural that Jennie Whitney should be more impressed by the occurrence, with the memory of the recent tragedy crushing her to the earth. She exclaimed:
"Larch Cadmus! Why, Fred, he has visited our house several times; he was here last week."
"Yes," replied her brother; "he has often sat at our table; and, by the way, he is a great admirer of yours."
"Nonsense!" was the response; "why do you say that?"
"It may be nonsense, but it is true, nevertheless. Your mother noticed it; and, that there might be no mistake, Larch had the impudence to tell me so himself."
"I never liked him; he is a bad man," said Jennie, much to the relief of Sterry, who felt a little uncomfortable. "I did not know he belonged to the rustlers."
"He was a cowboy until last fall. He had a quarrel with Col. Ringgold and went off with the others, and has been on the blacklist ever since."
"Why didn't he bring the message himself," continued the sister, "instead of sending it?"
"He did," was the significant reply of the brother.
"What! That surely was not he?"
"It was. I knew his voice the moment he spoke; those whiskers were false; he didn't want to be recognized, and I thought it as well to humor his fancy, but I could not be mistaken."
"Now that I recall it, his voice did resemble Cadmus'," said the sister, more thoughtfully.
"Of course, and I can tell you something more; he was among the rustlers with whom we had the fight yesterday. He did his best to kill me, and came pretty near succeeding. It wasn't he, however, who put the bullet through my arm, for I dropped that fellow."
"You frighten me!" was all that Jennie Whitney could say.
Sterry still smoked in silence. He was thinking hard, but it was his turn to be startled by the next remark.
"Larch Cadmus hates you, Mont, not so much because you are the enemy of all rustlers, but more because he believes my sister holds you in higher esteem than she does him."
Sterry was clever enough to parry this compliment with considerable skill.
"For the same reason he is jealous of every gentleman whom Miss Whitney has ever met, for it would be a sorry tribute to any man's worth if he did not stand higher in her regard than Larch Cadmus."
"Well spoken!" said the young lady, relieved from what threatened to become an embarrassing situation for her.
Had her brother chosen he might have expressed what was in his mind, but
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