Charles Alden Seltzer - Square Deal Sanderson

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SQUARE DEAL SANDERSON

by

CHARLES ALDEN SELTZER

Author of
The Boss of the Lazy Y, "Beau" Rand, "Drag" Harlan, The Ranchman, etc.

Frontispiece by J. Allen St. John

Grosset & Dunlap
Publishers --- New York

Published, March, 1922

[Frontispiece: Out of the valley went Streak, running with long, smooth
leaps.]

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I The North Trail
II A Man's Curiosity
III "Square" Deal Sanderson
IV In Which a Man Is Sympathetic
V Water and Kisses
VI Sanderson Lies
VII Kisses--A Man Refuses Them
VIII The Plotters
IX The Little Man Talks
X Plain Talk
XI The Ultimatum
XII Dale Moves
XIII A Plot that Worked
XIV The Voice of the Coyote
XV Dale Pays a Visit
XVI The Hand of the Enemy
XVII The Trail Herd
XVIII Checked by the System
XIX A Question of Brands
XX Devil's Hole
XXI A Man Borrows Money
XXII A Man from the Abyss
XXIII The Gunman
XXIV Concerning a Woman
XXV A Man Is Aroused
XXVI A Man Is Hanged
XXVII The Ambush
XXVIII Nyland Meets a Killer
XXIX Nyland's Vengeance
XXX The Law Takes a Hand
XXXI The Fugitive
XXXII Winning a Fight
XXXIII A Man Leaves Okar
XXXIV A Man Gets a Square Deal
XXXV A Deal in Love

Square Deal Sanderson

CHAPTER I

THE NORTH RAID

An hour before, Deal Sanderson had opened his eyes. He had been
comfortably wrapped in his blanket; his head had been resting on a saddle
seat. His sleep over, he had discovered that the saddle seat felt hard
to his cheek. In changing his position he had awakened. His face toward
the east, he had seen a gray streak widening on the horizon--a herald of
the dawn.

Sanderson found what seemed to be a softer spot on the saddle, snuggled
himself in the blanket, and went to sleep again. Of course he had not
neglected to take one sweeping glance around the camp while awake, and
that one glance had convinced him that the camp was in order.

The fire had long since gone out--there was a heap of white ashes to mark
the spot where it had been. His big brown horse--Streak--unencumbered by
rope or leather, was industriously cropping the dew-laden blades of some
bunch-grass within a dozen yards of him; and the mighty desolation of the
place was as complete as it had seemed when he had pitched his camp the
night before.

Sanderson reveled in the luxury of complete idleness. He grinned at the
widening streak of dawn as he closed his eyes. There would be no
vitriolic-voiced cook to bawl commands at him _this_ morning. And no
sour-faced range boss to issue curt orders.

In an hour or so--perhaps in two hours--Sanderson would crawl out of his
blanket, get his own breakfast, and ride northeastward. He was a free
agent now, and would be until he rode in to the Double A to assume his
new duties.

Judging by the light, Sanderson had slept a full hour when he again
awakened. He stretched, yawned, and grinned at the brown horse.

"You're still a-goin' it, Streak, eh?" he said, aloud. "I'd say you've
got a medium appetite. There's times when I envy you quite considerable."

Reluctantly Sanderson sat up and looked around. He had pitched his camp
at the edge of a thicket of alder and aspen near a narrow stream of water
in a big arroyo. Fifty feet from the camp rose the sloping north wall of
the arroyo, with some dwarf spruce trees fringing its edge. Sanderson
had taken a look at the section of country visible from the arroyo edge
before pitching his camp. There were featureless sand hills and a wide
stretch of desert.

Sanderson started to get to his feet. Then he sat down again, stiffening
slowly, his right hand slipping quickly to the butt of the pistol at his
right hip. His chin went forward, his lips straightened, and his eyes
gleamed with cold alertness.

A horseman had appeared from somewhere in the vast space beyond the
arroyo edge. Sanderson saw the outlines of animal and rider as they
appeared for an instant, partly screened from him by the trees and
undergrowth on the arroyo edge. Then horse and rider vanished, going
northward, away from the arroyo, silently, swiftly.

Schooled to caution by his long experience in a section of country where
violence and sudden death were not even noteworthy incidents of life, and
where a man's safety depended entirely upon his own vigilance and wisdom,
Sanderson got up carefully, making no noise, slipped around the thicket
of alder, crouched behind a convenient rock, huge and jagged, and waited.

Perhaps the incident was closed. The rider might be innocent of any evil
intentions; he might by this time be riding straight away from the
arroyo. That was for Sanderson to determine.

The rider of the horse--a black one--had seemed to be riding stealthily,
leaning forward over the black horse's mane as though desirous of
concealing his movements as much as possible. From whom?

It had seemed that he feared Sanderson would see him; that he had
misjudged his distance from the gully--thinking he was far enough away to
escape observation, and yet not quite certain, crouching in the saddle to
be on the safe side in case he was nearer than he had thought.

Sanderson waited--for only a few minutes actually, but the time seemed
longer. Then, just when he was mentally debating an impulse to climb to
the top of the gully, to see if the rider was in sight, he heard a sound
as of a heavy body crashing through some underbrush, and saw two riders
skirting the edge of the arroyo near him.

They halted their horses back of the spruce trees near the arroyo edge.
The rank undergrowth in the timber prevented them seeing Sanderson's
horse--which was further concealed by the thicket of alder. The men,
however, did not look into the arroyo. Their attention and interest
appeared to be centered upon the actions of the first horseman. Sitting
erect in their saddles, they shaded their eyes with their hands and gazed
northward.

After a short look, one of the men laughed, unpleasantly.

"Sneakin'--he is," said the one who laughed. "Knows we're campin' on his
trail, an' reckons on givin' us the slip. I never thought Bill would go
back on his friends thataway. We'll make him sweat, damn him!"

The other cursed, also. "Hoggin' it, he is," he said. "I ain't never
trusted him. He won't divvy, eh? Well, he won't need it where he's
goin'."

Both laughed. Then one said, coldly: "Well, I reckon we won't take
chances on losin' him again--like we did last night. We'll get him right
now!"

They urged their horses away from the edge of the gully. Sanderson could
hear the clatter of hoofs, receding. He had heard, plainly, all the
conversation between the two.

There was a grin of slight relief on Sanderson's face. The men were not
aiming at him, but at the first rider. It was clear that all were
concerned in a personal quarrel which was no concern of Sanderson's. It
was also apparent to Sanderson that the two men who had halted at the
edge of the arroyo were not of the type that contributed to the peace and
order of the country.

Plainly, they were of the lower strata of riffraff which had drifted into
the West to exact its toll from a people who could not claim the
protection of a law that was remote and impotent.

Sanderson suspected that the first rider had been concerned in some
lawless transaction with the other two, and that the first rider had
decamped with the entire spoils. That much was indicated by the words of
the two. Dire punishment for the first man was imminent.

Sanderson had no sympathy for the first rider. He felt, though, a slight
curiosity over the probable outcome of the affair, and so, working
rapidly, he broke camp, threw saddle and bridle on the white horse,
strapped his slicker to the cantle of the saddle, and rode the brown
horse up the slope of the arroyo, taking the direction in which the three
men had disappeared.

CHAPTER II

A MAN'S CURIOSITY

By the time Sanderson urged the brown horse up the crest of the slope,
the men he had determined to follow were far out in the desert.
Sanderson could see them, though the distance was considerable, riding
the crest of a ridge, directly northeastward. As that was following
the general direction in which Sanderson wanted to travel he was highly
pleased.

"They're company," he told himself as he rode; "an' I've been a heap
lonesome."

The men were not traveling fast. At times, when the first rider was
compelled to traverse high ground, Sanderson could see him--horse and
rider faintly outlined against the sky. Sanderson would note the
figure of the first rider, then watch the point at which the first
rider appeared until the others reached that point. Then, noting the
elapsed time, he could estimate the distance at which the pursuers
followed.

"I reckon they're gainin' on him," was Sanderson's mental comment when
an hour later he saw the first rider appear for a moment on the sky
line, vanish, reappear for an instant, only to be followed within a few
minutes by the figures of the other men.

Sanderson was closing up the space that separated him from the two men,
and by that medium he knew they were not traveling rapidly, for the
brown horse was loping slowly. Thus he knew that the first man was not
yet aware that he was being followed.

But some time later to Sanderson's ears was borne the faint, muffled
report of a firearm, and he smiled solemnly.

"That first guy will know, now," he told himself. Sanderson kept
steadily on. In half an hour he heard half a dozen rifle reports in
quick succession, He could see the smoke puffs of the weapons, and he
knew the pursuit was over.

The second riders had brought the first to bay in a section of broken
country featured by small, rock-strewn hills. By watching the smoke
balloon upward, Sanderson could determine the location of the men.

It seemed to Sanderson that the two had separated, one swinging
westward and the other eastward, in an endeavor to render hazardous any
concealment the other might find. It was the old game of getting an
enemy between two fires, and Sanderson's lips curved with an
appreciative grin as he noted the fact.

"Old-timers," he said.

It was not Sanderson's affair. He told himself that many times as he
rode slowly forward. To his knowledge the country was cursed with too
many men of the type the two appeared to be; and as he had no doubt
that the other man was of that type also, they would be doing the
country a service were they to annihilate one another.

Sanderson, though, despite his conviction, felt a pulse of sympathy for
the first rider. It was that emotion which impelled him to keep going
cautiously forward when, by all the rules of life in that country, he
should have stood at a distance to allow the men to fight it out among
themselves.

Sanderson's interest grew as the fight progressed. When he had
approached as far as he safely could without endangering his own life
and that of Streak, he dismounted at the bottom of a small hill,
trailed the reins over Streak's head and, carrying his rifle, made his
way stealthily to the crest of the hill. There, concealed behind an
irregularly shaped boulder, he peered at the combatants.

He had heard several reports while dismounting and ascending the hill,
and by the time he looked over the crest he saw that the battle was
over. He saw the three men grouped about a cluster of rocks on a hill
not more than a hundred yards distant. Two of the men were bending
over the third, who was stretched out on his back, motionless. It
appeared to Sanderson that the two men were searching the pockets of
the other, for they were fumbling at the other's clothing and,
seemingly, putting something into their own pockets.

Sanderson scowled. Now that the fight was over, he was at liberty to
investigate; the ethics of life in the country did not forbid
that--though many men had found it as dangerous as interference.

Sanderson stood up, within full view of the two men, and hailed them.

"What's bitin' you guys?" he said.

The two men wheeled, facing Sanderson. The latter's answer came in the
shape of a rifle bullet, the weapon fired from the hip of one of the
men--a snapshot.

Sanderson had observed the movement almost as soon as it had begun, and
he threw himself head-long behind the shelter of the rock at his side
as the bullet droned over his head.

If Sanderson had entertained any thought of the two men being
representatives of the law, trailing a wrongdoer, that thought would
have been dispelled by the action of the men in shooting at him. He
was now certain the men were what he had taken them to be, and he
grinned felinely as he squirmed around until he got into a position
from which he could see them. But when he did get into position the
men had vanished.

However, Sanderson was not misled. He knew they had secreted
themselves behind some of the rocks in the vicinity, no doubt to wait a
reasonable time before endeavoring to discover whether the bullet had
accomplished its sinister object.

Sanderson's grin grew broader. He had the men at a disadvantage.
Their horses, he had observed before calling to them, were in a little
depression at the right--and entirely out of reach of the men.

To get to them they would have to expose themselves on an open stretch
between the spot where the horses were concealed and the hill on which
they were secreted, and on the open stretch they would be fair targets
for Sanderson.

The men had brought Sanderson into the fight, and he no longer had any
scruples. He was grimly enjoying himself, and he laid for an hour,
flat on his stomach behind the rock, his rifle muzzle projecting
between two medium-sized stones near the base of the large rock, his
eye trained along the barrel, watching the crest of the hill on which
the men were concealed.

The first man was dead. Sanderson could see him, prone, motionless,
rigid.

Evidently the two men were doubtful. Certainly they were cautious.
But at the end of an hour their curiosity must have conquered them, for
Sanderson, still alert and watchful, saw a dark blot slowly appear from
around the bulging side of a rock.

The blot grew slowly larger, until Sanderson saw that it appeared to be
the crown of a hat. That it was a hat he made certain after a few
seconds of intent scrutiny; and that it was a hat without any head in
it he was also convinced, for he held his fire. An instant later the
hat was withdrawn. Then it came out again, and was held there for
several seconds.

Sanderson grinned. "I reckon they think I'm a yearlin'," was his
mental comment.

There was another long wait. Sanderson could picture the two men
arguing the question that must deeply concern them: "Which shall be the
first to show himself?"

"I'd bet a million they're drawin' straws," grinned Sanderson.

Whether that method decided the question Sanderson never knew. He
knew, however, that a hat was slowly coming into view around a side of
the rock, and he was positive that this time there was a head in the
hat. He could not have told now he knew there was a head in the hat,
but that was his conviction.

The hat appeared slowly, gradually taking on definite shape in
Sanderson's eyes, until, with a cold grin, he noted some brown flesh
beneath it, and a section of dark beard.

Sanderson did not fire, then. The full head followed the hat, then
came a man's shoulders. Nothing happened. The man stepped from behind
the rock and stood out in full view. Still nothing happened.

The man grinned.

"I reckon we got him, Cal," he said. His voice was gloating. "I
reckoned I'd got him; he tumbled sorta offish--like it had got him in
the guts. That's what I aimed for, anyway. I reckon he done suffered
some, eh?" He guffawed, loudly.

Then the other man appeared. He, too, was grinning.

"I reckon we'll go see. If you got him where you said you got him, I
reckon he done a lot of squirmin'. Been followin' us--you reckon?"

They descended the slope of the hill, still talking. Evidently,
Sanderson's silence had completely convinced them that they had killed
him.

But halfway down the hill, one of the men, watching the rock near
Sanderson as he walked, saw the muzzle of Sanderson's rifle projecting
from between the two rocks.

For the second time since the appearance of Sanderson on the scene the
man discharged his rifle from the hip, and for the second time he
missed the target.

Sanderson, however, did not miss. His rifle went off, and the man fell
without a sound. The other, paralyzed from the shock, stood for an
instant, irresolute, then, seeming to discover from where Sanderson's
bullet had come, he raised his rifle.

Sanderson's weapon crashed again. The second man shuddered, spun
violently around, and pitched headlong down the slope.

Sanderson came from behind the rock, grinning mirthlessly. He knew
where his bullets had gone, and he took no precautions when he emerged
from his hiding place and approached the men.

"That's all, for you, I reckon," he said.

Leaving them, he went to the top of the hill and bent over the other
man. A bullet fairly in the center of the man's forehead told
eloquently of the manner of his death.

The man's face was not of so villainous a cast as the others. There
were marks of a past refinement on it; as there were also lines of
dissipation.

"I reckon this guy was all wool an' a yard wide, in his time," said
Sanderson; "but from the looks of him he was tryin' to live it down.
Now, we'll see what them other guys was goin' through his clothes for."

Sanderson knelt beside the man. From an inner pocket of the latter's
coat he drew a letter--faded and soiled, as though it had been read
much. There was another letter--a more recent one, undoubtedly, for
the paper was in much better condition.

Sanderson looked at both envelopes, and finally selected the most
soiled one. He hesitated an instant, and then withdrew the contents
and read:

MR. WILLIAM BRANSFORD,

Tucson, Arizona.

DEAR BROTHER WILL: The last time I heard from you, you were in Tucson.
That was ten years ago, and it seems an awful long time. I suppose it
is too much to hope that you are still there, but it is that hope which
is making me write this letter.

Will, father is dead. He died yesterday, right after I got here. He
asked for you. Do you know what that means? It means he wanted you to
come back, Will. Poor father, he didn't really mean to be obstinate,
you know.

I shall not write any more, for I am not sure that you will ever read
it. But if you do read it, you'll come back, won't you--or write?
Please.

Your loving sister,

MARY BRANSFORD.

The Double A Ranch.

Union County, New Mexico.

Sanderson finished reading the letter. Then folding it, he shoved it
back into the envelope and gravely drew out the other letter. It bore
a later date and was in the same handwriting:

MR. WILLIAM BRANSFORD,

Tucson, Arizona.

DEAR BROTHER WILL: I was so delighted to get your letter. And I am so
eager to see you. It has been such a long, long time, hasn't it?
Fifteen years, isn't it? And ten years since I even got a letter from
you!

I won't remember you, I am sure, for I am only nineteen now, and you
were only fifteen when you left home. And I suppose you have grown big
and strong, and have a deep, booming voice and a fierce-looking
mustache. Well, I shall love you, anyway. So hurry and come home.

I am sending you a telegraph money order for one thousand dollars, for
from the tone of your letter it seems things are not going right with
you. Hurry home, won't you?

With love,

Your sister,

MARY.

Sanderson finished reading the letter. He meditated silently, turning
it over and over in his hands. The last letter was dated a month
before. Evidently Bransford had not hurried.

Sanderson searched all the other pockets, and discovered nothing of
further interest. Then he stood for a long time, looking down at the
man's face, studying it, his own face expressing disapproval.

"Mebbe it's just as well that he didn't get to the Double A," he
thought, noting the coarse, brutal features of the other.

"If a girl's got ideals it's sometimes a mighty good thing the real guy
don't come along to disabuse them. William ain't never goin' to get to
the Double A."

He buried the body in a gully, then he returned to the other men.

Upon their persons he found about nine hundred dollars in bills of
small denomination. It made a bulky package, and Sanderson stored it
in his slicker. Then he mounted Streak, turned the animal's head
toward the northeast, and rode into the glaring sunshine of the morning.

CHAPTER III

"SQUARE" DEAL SANDERSON

Three days later, still traveling northeastward, Sanderson felt he must
be close to the Double A. Various signs and conclusions were
convincing.

In the first place, he had been a week on the trail, and estimating his
pace conservatively, that time should bring him within easy riding
distance of the place he had set out to seek. There were so many miles
to be covered in so many days, and Streak was a prince of steady
travelers.

Besides, yesterday at dusk, Sanderson had passed through Las Vegas.
Careful inquiry in the latter town had brought forth the intelligence
that the Double A was a hundred and seventy-five miles northeastward.

"Country's short of cow-hands," said Sanderson's informer. "If you're
needin' work, an' forty a month looks good to you, why, I'd admire to
take you on. I'm German, of the Flyin' U, down the Cimarron a piece."

"Me an' work has disagreed," grinned Sanderson; and he rode on,
meditating humorously over the lie.

Work and Sanderson had never disagreed. Indeed, Sanderson had always
been convinced that work and he had agreed too well in the past.
Except for the few brief holidays that are the inevitable portion of
the average puncher who is human enough to yearn for the relaxation of
a trip to "town" once or twice a year, Sanderson and work had been
inseparable for half a dozen years.

Sanderson's application had earned him the reputation of being
"reliable" and "trustworthy"--two terms that, in the lexicon of the
cow-country, were descriptive of virtues not at all common. In
Sanderson's case they were deserved--more, to them might have been
added another, "straight."

Sanderson's trip northeastward had resulted partly from a desire to
escape the monotony of old scenes and familiar faces; and partly
because one day while in "town" he had listened attentively to a desert
nomad, or "drifter," who had told a tale of a country where water was
to be the magic which would open the gates of fortune to the eager and
serious-minded.

"That country's goin' to blossom!" declared the Drifter. "An' the guy
which gets in on the ground floor is goin' to make a clean-up! They's
a range there--the Double A--which is right in the middle of things. A
guy named Bransford owns her--an' Bransford's on his last legs. He's
due to pass out _pronto_, or I'm a gopher! He's got a daughter
there--Mary--which is a pippin, an' no mistake! But she's sure got a
job on her hands, if the ol' man croaks.

"They's a boy, somewheres, which ain't no good I've heard, an' if the
girl hangs on she's due for an uphill climb. She'll have a fight on
her hands too, with Alva Dale--a big rough devil of a man with a greedy
eye on the whole country--an' the girl, too, I reckon--if my eyes is
any good. I've seen him look at her--oh, man! If she was any relation
to me I'd climb Dale's frame sure as shootin'!"

There had been more--the Drifter told a complete story. And Sanderson
had assimilated it without letting the other know he had been affected.

Nor had he mentioned to Burroughs--his employer--a word concerning the
real reason for his desire to make a change. Not until he had written
to Bransford, and received a reply, did he acquaint Burroughs with his
decision to leave. As a matter of fact, Sanderson had delayed his
leave-taking for more than a month after receiving Bransford's letter,
being reluctant, now that his opportunity had come, to sever those
relations that, he now realized, had been decidedly pleasant.

"I'm sure next to what's eatin' you," Burroughs told him on the day
Sanderson asked for his "time." "You're yearnin' for a change. It's a
thing that gets hold of a man's soul--if he's got one. They ain't no
fightin' it. I'm sure appreciatin' what you've done for me, an' if you
decide to come back any time, you'll find me a-welcomin' you with open
arms, as the sayin' is. You've got a bunch of coin comin'--three
thousand. I'm addin' a thousand to that--makin' her good measure.
That'll help you to start something."

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