Guardians of the Sage by Harry Sinclair Drago Read Free Book Online

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    â€œHi, Jim!” he called out, surprised to see him there. “What you all doin’ up this way? You still workin’ fer Uncle Sam?”
    â€œNo, I’m paying my own wages now,” Montana laughed as he slid from his saddle. “And that’s a condition that’s got to be corrected awful sudden, Dan.”
    Crockett’s habitually solemn face creased into a smile.
    â€œWell, with all this war-talk in the air, there ain’t no one I’d rather have around than you,” he said. “A top hand is worth fifty a month and cakes. I ain’t got no right to be treating myself to a luxury like that, but I reckon you’re hired.” His smile flickered out. “Things are goin’ to happen fast around here, Jim. In fact they begun to happen already. The Bar S moved in yesterday.”
    â€œI reckoned they would,” Montana acknowledged glumly. “They drive some stock in?”
    â€œAbout five hundred head. They came in through the Malheurs from Furnace Creek. They’re on the Big Powder and the North Fork of the Skull. There’s at least twenty Bar S men with Reb.”
    â€œSo Reb’s going to represent for the old man, eh?” Montana shook his head slowly. “That ought to show you how things are drifting. If the old man wasn’t looking for trouble he’d have given this job to Joe Tracey or Case—somebody who’d be awfully slow on the draw. Reb’s distinctly hair-trigger . . . Did anything happen?”
    â€œNot so far as I know. It looked like trespassing to move across a man’s range; but the sheriff was here, spoutin’ law. He says a man’s got a right to move his stuff up to his own water. The boys let it go at that. Quantrell was there. He’s a fire-eater; you know that. His talk sounded good to some, I reckon. But Dave Morrow and Gault and me cooled them down.”
    â€œQuantrell hasn’t any judgment,” Montana declared bluntly. “Look out for him, Dan; he’s a trouble maker. The old man is going to give us every chance to overplay our hand. If we do, look out! He can move two hundred men in here. And the law will ride with ’em, ’cause he can deputize every one of them!”
    â€œI know it,” Dan nodded. “You ain’t paintin’ it any blacker than it is. With Furnace Creek on the east and Willow Vista to the southwest, he can squeeze us on two sides—and he will, Jim. I reckon until last week he didn’t have a thousand acres in the valley—and that was cut up into four pieces. He’s got more now.”
    â€œWhere’d he get it?” Montana asked uneasily.
    Dan squatted on his toes and began to draw a map on the ground.
    â€œYou can see the old Adelaide mine from here,” he explained. “Quantrell’s line goes north of there about two miles.” He indicated it with his stick. “From there, right through the Junipers to the Willow Vista line, was Eph Mellon’s range . . . You follow me, Montana?”
    â€œYes. And——?”
    Dan tossed away his stick and stood up.
    â€œEph sold out to the Bar S on Monday,” he muttered gloomily. “Old Slick-ear’s line is now right here in the valley. He’s driven a wedge right into the middle of us—and you’ll see plenty Bar S steers in here before you git your hair cut ag’in.”
    Montana did not try to hide his vexation. By advancing the boundary line of Willow Vista into the very heart of Squaw Valley, the Bar S had scored a tactical victory that strengthened their stand immeasurably. He could appreciate the fortitude it took to face the future calmly.
    Gene and Brent Crockett, Dan’s sons, narrow-hipped six-footers, rode in half an hour later. Both were taciturn, in the way of the mountain breed. If they were surprised to see Montana, they dissembled it.
    â€œThe boys have been mavin’ some of our stuff onto our new