Easy money

Author of “Hands Off!” “The Land of Frozen Suns,” Etc.

When Charlie Shaw, the carefree cow-puncher, was accused of being a shallow josher, and therefore worthless for rounding up cow thieves, Charlie got angry and proved that even a “kidder” can get down to business.

The cool autumn wind riffled across Lonesome Prairie. It fluttered the manes and tails of a dozen saddled horses standing in a compact group, awaiting the pleasure of their riders, who stood and squatted in various postures, casting occasional glances at a number of flat, wrinkled objects in the grass of a tiny hollow. They had come upon these objects quite unexpectedly and had stopped to examine them. One rider had gone galloping back toward camp. The rest waited.

“Gosh, old Elmer’ll go straight in the air when he sees this,” one remarked.

Two miles distant a herd was stringing south. Heavy-loaded wagons, tooled respectively by a cook and a night herder, with a comet’s tail of saddle stock following behind, bore in the same direction. And from that direction three men were now riding full tilt toward the dismounted cow-punchers.

When they pulled up at the group, Elmer Duffy gave an immediate exhibition of what his rider had termed “going straight in the air.” Elmer was past forty, a sandy-haired Texan, with a capacity for irritable conduct that remained mostly hidden beneath a placid exterior. He had a long, solemn face. He took his position as the active head of a big cow outfit rather more seriously than range bosses usually did. This attitude, together with his slumbering crabbedness, did not make him popular with his men.

“What’s all this?” he demanded.

“Well,” one sunny-faced young fellow explained, “as near as we can see, it’s eight beef hides with the Seventy-seven brand, that’s been skinned off their rightful wearers and laid out to dry in the sun by some kind soul. We happened on ’em an’ sent Mike back to tell you, because we thought maybe you’d be interested.”

Mr. Duffy prowled from one hide to the other. The skulls and shin bones and hoofs of the defunct animals were scattered about for all and sundry to behold, where the coyotes had gnawed them. But they knew very well that neither wolf nor coyote had pulled down a bunch of mature cattle like that. And, as the foreman of the Seventy-seven gathered the import of these remains, he grew red in the face, and his language became eloquent but unprintable.

“Some dirty thieves has been butcherin’ beef an’ gettin’ away with it,” he stormed. “I’d give five hundred dollars cold cash to lay hands on ’em.”

“If you’d advertise that in the River Press,” the same youngster laughed, “maybe they’d come in and give themselves up for the reward.”

Elmer glared at him.

“Don’t get fresh,” he growled. “This here’s serious.”

“So it seems,” Charlie Shaw replied carelessly. “But there’s no law against joshin’.”

“This ain’t no josh,” Duffy declared, embellishing his statement with an earnest oath. “And I suppose all a man can expect when he finds that a bunch of thieves is loose on the range is for featherheads like you to make a joke of it. If it was your cattle that’d been killed, you’d sing a different tune.”

Charlie Shaw’s laughing mouth shut in a tight line.

“I would, Elmer,” he said quietly. “I’d keep my mouth shut and go after ’em. I wouldn’t waste my breath cussin’.”

“_You_ wouldn’t waste your breath cussin’!” Elmer exploded. “No! All you c’n waste is the outfit’s time an’ your money at poker. If I had to depend on boneheads like you to protect the outfit’s interests, the Seventy-seven would go to hell in two seasons. Josh--that’s all you know how to do.”

Charlie took a step toward him. He was tall and slim, older in years and experience than his boyish face told, and his merry blue eyes suddenly ceased to be merry.

“Don’t get too personal in your remarks, Elmer,” he warned. “I might get serious myself.”

“Personal! Personal!” Duffy bellowed. “Say, lemme tell you somethin’.”

As an offset to his unfortunate disposition, Elmer Duffy had a reasonable amount of common sense; otherwise, he could not have guided the destiny of the Seventy-seven. He realized that he had got too personal. And he couldn’t back down without losing face. He had no high opinion of Charlie Shaw’s intelligence. No serious-minded man ever has a high opinion of light-minded youth, and Charlie had been the play boy of the Seventy-seven all that summer--a competent enough range rider, with no proper sense of responsibility, according to Elmer. But Shaw had nerve. His record and his actions made even Elmer Duffy concede that. And Elmer didn’t hunger for war over a mere matter of levity.

“You go onto the wagon,” he said stiffly, refusing to pursue the contention farther. “Catch your horses, pack your bed, and we’ll part company. Here’s your time.”