Square Deal Sanderson Part 12

The little man narrowed his eyes at Sanderson.

"You're deeply in love with her, I suppose?"

Sanderson flushed; then his gaze grew steady and cold. "Up till now you've minded your own business," he said. "If you'll keep on mindin'

it, we'll----"

"Of course," grinned Owen. "You couldn't help loving her--I love her, too. You say you're going to tell her. Don't do it. Why should you?

Don't you see that if you told her that her brother had been murdered she'd never get over it? She's that kind. And you know what Dale's scheme was, don't you? Has she told you?" At Sanderson's nod, Owen went on:

"If you were to let it be known that you are not Will Bransford, Dale would get the property as sure as shooting. I know his plan. I overheard him and a man named Dave Silverthorn talking it over one night when I was prowling around Dale's house. The window of Dale's office was wide open, and I was crouching outside.

"They've got a man ready to come on here to impersonate Bransford.

They would prove his claim and after he was established he would sell out to them. They have forged papers showing that Mary is an adopted daughter--though not legally. Don't you see that if you don't go on letting everybody think you are Bransford, Mary will lose the ranch?"

Sanderson shook his head. "I'd be gettin' deeper an' deeper into it all the time--in love an' in trouble. An' when she'd find out how I'd fooled her all the time she'd hate me."

"Not if you save the ranch for her," argued the little man. "She'd feel badly about her brother, maybe, but she'd forgive you if you stayed and beat Dale at his own game."

Sanderson did not answer. The little man climbed down from the fence and moved close to him, talking earnestly, and at last Sanderson grinned down at him.

"I'm doing it," he said. "I'll stay. I reckon I was figurin' on it all the time."

CHAPTER X

PLAIN TALK

Barney Owen had told Sanderson of his hatred for Alva Dale, but he had not told Sanderson many other things. He had not told the true story of how he came to be employed at the Double A--how Mary had come upon him one day at a shallow crossing of the river, far down in the basin.

Owen was flat on his stomach at the edge of the water, scooping it up with eager handfuls to quench a thirst that had endured for days. He had been so weak that he could not stand when she found him, and in some way she got him on his horse and brought him to the ranchhouse, there to nurse him until he recovered his strength.

It had been while she was caring for him that she had told him about her fear of Dale, and thereafter--as soon as he was able to ride again--Owen took it upon himself to watch Dale.

In spite of his exceeding slenderness, Owen seemed to possess the endurance and stamina of a larger and more physically perfect man. For though he was always seen about the ranchhouse during the day--helping at odd jobs and appearing to be busy nearly all the time--each succeeding night found him stealthily mounting his horse to ride to the Bar D, there to watch Dale's movements.

He had not been at the Bar D since the night before the day on which he had left with Sanderson to go to Las Vegas, but on the second night following his return--soon after dark--he went to the stable, threw saddle and bridle on his horse, and vanished into the shadows of the basin.

Later, moving carefully, he appeared at the edge of a tree clump near the Bar D corral. He saw a light in one of the windows of the house--Dale's office--and he left his horse in the shadows and stole forward. There were two men in the office with Dale. Owen saw them and heard their voices as he crept to a point under the window in the dense blackness of the night.

The men Dale had sent to Tucson had not required the full two weeks for the trip; they had made it in ten days, and their faces, as they sat before Dale in the office, showed the effects of their haste. Yet they grinned at Dale as they talked, glowing with pride over their achievement, but the word they brought to Dale did not please him, and he sat glaring at them until they finished.

"Gary Miller ain't been heard of for a month, eh?" he said. "You say you heard he started this way? Then where in h.e.l.l is he?"

Neither of the men could answer that question and Dale dismissed them.

Then he walked to a door, opened it, and called to someone in another room. Dave Silverthorn entered the office, and for more than an hour the two talked, their conversation being punctuated with futile queries and profanity.

At ten o'clock the next morning Dale appeared at the Double A ranchhouse. Apparently he was willing to forgive and forget, for he grinned at Owen, who was watching him from the door of the bunkhouse, and he politely doffed his hat to Mary Bransford, who met him at the door of the ranchhouse.

"Well, Miss Mary," he said, "how does it feel to have a brother again?"

"It's rather satisfying, Dale," smiled the girl. "Won't you get off your horse?"

The girl's lips were stiff with dread antic.i.p.ation and dislike. Dale's manner did not mislead her; his forced geniality, his gruff heartiness, his huge smile, were all insincere, masking evil. He seemed to her like a big, tawny, grinning beast, and her heart thumped with trepidation as she looked at him.

"How's Nyland?" he asked, smiling hugely. "That was a narrow squeak--now, wasn't it? For I found that Ben Nyland didn't brand them cattle at all--it was another man, living down the basin. That nester near Colby's. He done it. But he sloped before we could get a rope on him. Had a grudge against Nyland, I reckon. Sorry it happened."

Thus he attempted to smooth the matter over. But he saw that Mary did not believe him, and his grin grew broader.

"Where's brother Will this mornin', Mary?" he said.

Sanderson appeared in the doorway behind Mary.

"You could see him if you was half lookin'," he said slowly.

"So I could," guffawed Dale. "But if there's a pretty girl around----"

"You come here on business, Dale?" interrupted Sanderson. "Because if you did," he went on before Dale could answer, "I'd be glad to get it over."

"Meanin' that you don't want me to be hangin' around here no longer than is necessary, eh?" said Dale.

"You've said a heap," drawled Sanderson.

"Well, it won't take a long time," Dale returned. "It's just this.

I've got word from Las Vegas that you've swore to an affidavit sayin'

that you're Will Bransford. That's all right--I ain't got nothin' to say about that. But there's a law about brands.

"Your dad registered his brand--the Double A. But that don't let you out. Accordin' to the law you've got to do your registerin' same as though the brand had never been registered before. Bein' the only law around here--me bein' a deputy sheriff--I've got to look out for that end of it.

"An' so, if you'll just sign this here blank, with your name and address, specifyin' your brand, why, we'll call it all settled."

And he held out a legal-looking paper toward Sanderson.

Sanderson's lips straightened, for as his eyes met Dale's he saw the latter's glint with a cold cunning. For an instant Sanderson meditated, refusing to accept the paper, divining that Dale was concealing his real purpose; but glancing sidewise he caught a swift wink from Owen, who had drawn near and was standing beside a porch column. And he saw Owen distinctly jerk his head toward the house.

Sanderson stepped forward and took the paper from Dale's hand. Then he abruptly strode toward the house, telling Dale to wait.

Sanderson halted in the middle of the sitting-room as Owen entered the room through, a rear door. Barney Owen was grinning.

"Wants your signature, does he?" said Owen. He whispered rapidly to Sanderson, and the latter's face grew pale and grim as he listened.

When Owen had finished he grinned.

"Now we'll give him Will Bransford's signature--just as he used to write it. I've seen it more times than any other man ever saw it, and I can duplicate it to a flourish. Give me the paper!"

He sat down at a table, where there was a pen and a bottle of ink and wrote boldly: "Will Bransford." With a grin he pa.s.sed the paper back.

Sanderson stared, then a smile wreathed his lips, for the signature was seemingly a duplicate of that which had been written at the bottom of the letter Will Bransford had written to his father.