The valley of lost herds

The big Tomahawk--saloon, gambling palace, honkatonk--blazed with lights. Cowboys jostled each other at the long bar, or laughed and made merry with the girls who thronged the rooms. The roulette whirred, poker chips rattled and the voices of the dealers droned above the roar of the crowd.

It was the big night of the month in Tomahawk--pay night on the Reber ranches. And pay night on the Reber ranches meant that all the small ranches to the north would also pay off and let their men come to town. There was no limit to anything. Reber owned the Tomahawk Saloon; owned nearly everything else in the town of Tomahawk, as far as that was concerned.

And with one exception he owned all of Reber Valley. It had been known as Tomahawk Valley, and was still Tomahawk Valley on the map, but to those who lived there it was Reber Valley. For Park Reber owned the M 33, Half-Wheel, Circle S, Two Bar X and the Lightning. There was really only one ranch he did not own, the S Bar P. There was another little place twenty miles south of Tomahawk which belonged to Jack Silver, who had never registered any brand. So, outside of the S Bar P, Park Reber really owned the valley.

In an area thirty miles long by about fifteen miles in width Park Reber was supreme--a real cattle baron. And Park Reber sat in his big house in Tomahawk town, all alone except for a Chinese cook, and gloated. He was the big man of the country--big and lonesome. And sometimes he was mad, they said. Men worked for him, spent their money in his saloon and gambling house; but none of them admired him.

He was about sixty years of age--white-haired, harsh of feature, his deep-set eyes gloomy. Over his left eye was a white scar like a crescent moon, and he often touched it, as if it annoyed him. He drove his men hard, demanded results and got most of their wages back via the green cloth.

It had taken him twenty years to become owner of the valley.

His herds, the Diamond R brand, roamed the many hills. While his ranches were all designated by their original brand names, all the stock was branded with the Diamond R. Other ranches shipped from Tomahawk, but the Diamond R was the heavy shipper. They owned the loading corrals--or rather Reber did.

Park Reber did not come often to the Tomahawk Saloon, but he had been coming oftener of late. Some said it was because of June Meline, the tall, black-haired beauty who played the violin. She was not a fiddler. There seemed a difference between June Meline and the rest of the girls of the honkatonk. Her white skin was untouched by rouge or paint and there was an imperious lift to her well shaped head. Nor did she mix with the others.

Park Reber loved music and most of all he loved the wailing notes of her violin. Often she had come to his table to talk with him. She refused drinks, but liked to discuss with him his business troubles. Some said she was trying to “rope-in” the old man, but Park Reber knew better. He admired her level-headed way of looking at things.

And on this pay night Park Reber came again, taking his usual table, where he might drink and watch the show. With him was “Slim” Patterson, foreman of the Half-Wheel ranch. Their table was near the platform, where the three-piece orchestra rattled out its tin-panny music.

The show was just at its height as they sat down. There was a burst of applause as June Meline came out carrying her violin. She was dressed in black silk, which accentuated the pallor of her skin. Only the piano played her accompaniment, and as she lifted her violin the pianist hesitated.

Some one had spoken a word aloud--the name of a man.

“‘Buck’ Priest!”

And there he stood, not more than six feet away from Park Reber, backed by two of his men. It was the first time Buck Priest had ever been in the Tomahawk Saloon. He was as old as Park Reber, possibly older. He wore his hair long, but his thin, evil face, with the hawk-bill nose, was smooth-shaven. He wore a silver-trimmed sombrero, buckskin shirt, gray trousers tucked in the tops of his high-heeled boots, and around his waist was a wide, beautifully carved leather cartridge belt supporting a holstered Colt.

The men with him were hard-bitted cowboys--fighting men of the S Bar P. It took nerve for Buck Priest to lead his men in among the cowboys of the Diamond R. But Buck Priest had nerve. He had fought Park Reber until Reber had told his men to leave the S Bar P alone.

At one time--over twenty years ago--these two men had been comrades.

It was evident that Buck Priest was drunk this night. He was not a drinking man, but once a year Buck Priest would get drunk; and when he got drunk, he was so cold-blooded that even his own men did not wish to associate with him.

It seemed as if every man in the room were holding his breath. Park Reber got slowly to his feet, and Priest laughed harshly.

“You dirty old cow thief!”

Buck Priest fairly hissed the words at Reber.

“You sneakin’ old rustler!”

No one moved; no one spoke. The two men, one on each side of Buck Priest, were bent forward tensely, their eyes sweeping the room, ready to draw and shoot at the first move. Park Reber’s eyes blinked angrily, but he held still, staring at Buck Priest.

“I’m talkin’ to you, Reber,” said Priest slowly. “Callin’ you a thief. And you ain’t gut guts enough to deny it. You’ve rustled my cows just as long as you’re goin’ to, Reber. I’ve come into the lion’s den to tell yuh what I think of yuh, you cow thief!”

There could be but one answer to that accusation. Reber had been a gun-man, but of late years he had left that distinction to his hired men. He did not wear a belt and gun, but under his left arm-pit was a holstered Colt; and now he jerked back, reaching for this concealed gun.

It was what Buck Priest wanted, what he came there to force Park Reber to do--reach for a gun. His hand streaked down to his thigh and whipped up a big black-handled revolver. For a fraction of a second Park Reber’s life was not worth a penny. Something flashed between Reber and Priest just as Priest pulled the trigger--something that smashed against Priest’s hand and arm, partly ruining the shot which was intended for Park Reber’s heart.

The big gun thundered as Buck Priest jerked sidewise. Park Reber stepped backward against his chair, tripped and fell to the floor. Priest and his two men whirled and headed for the doorway, and the crowd gave them plenty of room.

Men lifted Reber to his feet and then set him in a chair.

“That fiddler girl!” exclaimed one of them. “She threw her fiddle and hit Buck Priest on the arm.”

The girl sprang from the platform and was at Park Reber’s side in a moment, and he smiled at her. Slim Patterson ripped away the shoulder of his coat. The room was in an uproar. No one thought of going after Buck Priest. Some one went after a doctor, who came in a few minutes.

The bullet had struck high in Reber’s shoulder, and he was quite ill. The doctor, skilled in gunshot cases, told him he was very lucky. Some one had recovered the violin, but it had been walked on until it hardly resembled an instrument. The girl looked ruefully at it, but said nothing.

Several of the cowboys secured a cot, using it in lieu of a stretcher, and carried Reber home; but not until he had received June Meline’s assurance that she would act as his nurse.

“I wish you would,” said the doctor. “Nurses are hard to find out here. And, anyway, your violin is broken.”

“I’ll buy yuh a carload,” said Reber weakly. “Don’t leave me alone with Hop Lee and this darned doctor. I’ve got lots of room up there, June.”

And so June Meline became nurse for Park Reber. She knew little about nursing and told Park Reber so. But he grinned painfully and told her he didn’t know much about being shot, as far as that was concerned.

She took up her residence in the big old house, which was really a ranchhouse, in the town. Hop Lee, the old Chinese cook, who cared for no one except Park Reber, took to June and actually smiled at her.

It was a new sensation to Park Reber, this idea of having a woman around. Not in nearly twenty-five years had he seen a woman in his house. His five foremen came at irregular intervals to report to him, and June often heard the name of Buck Priest spoken.

There was another name that caused Park Reber to curse--the name of Jack Silver.

It seemed that Jack Silver’s name was connected with the word “rustler.” There were two of these foreman that June did not like--Nort Jackson of the Lightning and Dave McLeese of the Two Bar X.

Nort Jackson was tall, thin, swarthy, black of eye, and wore a weak black mustache. He smiled at her too much, June thought. McLeese was ruddy of skin, with cold blue eyes under huge blonde brows. His nose had been broken across the arch and a huge scar twisted his mouth into a leer. Reber told her McLeese had been kicked in the face by a shod horse.