J. Allan Dunn
Rimrock Trail
Published by Good Press, 2021
EAN 4057664597090
Table of Contents
GRIT
CASEY
MOLLY
SANDY CALLS THE TURN
IN THE BED OF THE CREEK
PASO CABRAS
BOLSA GAP
THE PASS OF THE GOATS
CAROCA
SANDY RETURNS
PAY DIRT
WHITE GOLD
A ROPE BREAKS
A FREE-FOR-ALL
CASEY TOWN
EAST AND WEST
WESTLAKE BRINGS NEWS
DEHORNED
THE HIDEOUT
MOLLY MINE
THE END OF THE ROPE
THE VERY END
CHAPTER I
GRIT
"Mormon" Peters carefully shifted his weighty bulk in the chair that he dared not tilt, gazing dreamily at the saw-toothed mountains shimmering in the distance, sniffing luxuriously the scent of sage.
"They oughter spell Arizona with three 'C's,'" he said.
"Why?" asked Sandy Bourke, wiping the superfluous oil from the revolver he was meticulously cleaning.
"'Count of Climate, Cactus, Cattle—an' Coyotes."
"Makin' four, 'stead of three," said the managing partner of the Three Star Ranch.
Came a grunt from "Soda-Water" Sam as he put down his harmonica on which he had been playing The Cowboy's Lament, with variations.
"Huh! You got no more eddication than a horn-toad, an' less common sense. You don't spell Arizony with a 'C.' You can't. 'Cordin' to yore argymint you should spell Africa with a 'Z' 'cause they raise zebras there, 'stead of mustangs. Might make it two 'R's,' 'count of rim-rock an'—an' revolvers."
Mormon snorted.
"That's a hell of a name for a man born in Maricopa County to call a gun. Revolver! You 'mind me of the Boston perfesser who come to Arizona tryin' to prove the Cliff Dwellers was one of the Lost Tribes of Israel. He blows in with an introduction to the Double U, where I was workin'. Colonel Pawlin's wife has a cold snack ready, it bein' middlin' warm. The perfesser makes a pretty speech, after he'd eaten two men's share of victuals tryin', I reckon, to put some flesh on to his bones. An' he calls the lunch a col-lay-shun! Later, he asks the waitress down to the Rodeo Eatin' House, while he's waitin' for his train, for a serve-yet. A serve-yet! That's what he calls a napkin. You must have been eddicated in Boston, Sam, though it's the first time I ever suspected you of book learnin'."
It was Sunday afternoon on the Three Star rancheria. The riders, all the hands—with the exception of Pedro, the Mexican cocinero, indifferent to most things, including his cooking; and Joe, his half-breed helper,—had departed, clad in their best shirts, vests, trousers, Stetsons and bandannas of silk, some seeking a poker game on a neighboring rancho, some bent on courting. Pedro and Joe lay, faces down, under the shade of the trees about the tenaya, the stone cistern into which water was pumped by the windmills that worked in the fitful breezes.
The three partners, saddle-chums for years, ever seeking mutual employ, known through Texas and Arizona as the "Three Musketeers of the Range," sat on the porch of the ranch-house, discussing business and lighter matters. One year before they had pooled their savings and Sandy Bourke, youngest of the three and the most aggressive, coolest and swiftest of action, had gloriously bucked the faro tiger and won enough to buy the Three Star Ranch and certain rights of free range. The purchase had not included the brand of the late owner. Originally the holding had been called the Two-Bar-P. As certain cattlemen were not wanting who had a knack of appropriating calves and changing the brands of steers, Sandy had been glad enough, in his capacity of business manager, to change the name of the ranch and brand. Two-Bar-P was too easily altered to H-B, U-P, U-B,