Wilbur C. Tuttle's Books

The Morgan Trail

By: Wilbur C. Tuttle

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Rex Morgan came back from his mother’s funeral and sat down on the front porch of the little place he had always known as home. He was a slender young man, twenty years of age, with the complexion of a girl, well-moulded features, somber brown eyes, and an unruly mop of black hair. His black suit was slightly threadbare, the cuffs of his shirt rough-edged from many washings. He smoothed back his hair, staring at the skyline of the little city of Northport, California. It had suddenly occurred to him that he was all alone in the world. The death of his mother had been a great shock to him. The doctor had said it was heart failure. The rest of it had been a confusion of neighbors, who wanted to assist with everything, the sympathetic minister, the business-like, solemn-faced undertaker, who had talked with him on the price of caskets. It seemed that there was a difference in price between sterling silver handles and the plated ones, but Rex did not remember which they had selected. Just now he stared at the skyline and wondered who would pay for everything; because he had suddenly remembered that he had no money. As far as he knew he was all alone in the world. There were plenty of Morgans, of course, but he had never heard his mother mention one of them as being a relative. He had never given this a thought before. In fact, he had never given anything of that kind any thought. Mrs. Morgan had always been an enigma to her neighbors. They had seen Rex grow from boyhood to manhood, practically tied to his mother’s apron-strings, as they expressed it. He had no companions. She had never allowed him to go to a public school, but had always employed a tutor. Whence her income was derived, no one knew. But she was not wealthy. On the contrary, Mrs. Morgan practiced the strictest economy in order to make both ends meet. She was a slight little woman, evidently well-bred, who lived solely for her son; shielding him from the world in every way. She had never told any one anything of her past life. Rex was like her in many respects. Now he was twenty years of age, educated from books—as ignorant of the world as a six-year-old. He did not know where his money came from. It had never meant anything to him. In his own dumb sort of way he wondered where this money came from, and if there was any left. Another thing bothered him just a little. A newspaper reporter, writing up the death notice, asked Rex about his father.

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318

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Library of Alexandria

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ISBN 10

1465559612

ISBN 13

9781465559616

Gambler's Dollar

By: Wilbur C. Tuttle

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Gambler's Dollar

By: Wilbur C. Tuttle

Flint Orr, sheriff of Mojave Wells, awoke slowly and painfully. A heavy weight seemed to bear down upon his brain, as his mouth was as dry as ashes. He tried to remember what he had drunk or ate, but his memory was blank as to details. Painfully he rolled over on his side, staring red-eyed at the battered alarm clock on the little table near the bed. “Nine o’clock,” he muttered. He was in his own bedroom, sprawled in all his clothes. Not even his boots had been removed. He lifted a heavy head and looked at the boots. Not for years had he been so drunk that he forgot to undress. But had he been drunk? He rubbed the stubble on his heavy chin. Of course he had not been drunk. Why, he hadn’t been drunk in three years, not since he became sheriff. He had sworn off drinking at that time. But what was wrong with everything? Why was he in bed, fully dressed, at nine o’clock in the morning? He listened closely, but there was not a sound in the house except the ticking of that confounded clock. With a sweep of his big right hand, he knocked it off on the floor, where it ceased to tick. Funny that there should be no noise in the house. Ann should be doing her work. Flint Orr licked his parched lips. Where was Ann? Damn it, he was tired of her whining. Couldn’t she understand that a sheriff must do his duty, even to hanging his own son for murder? Blood didn’t make any difference. Harry Orr had killed, just like any other man might kill, and he must pay the penalty. Women have strange ideas of duty. He managed to swing his feet off the bed, where he sat, holding a throbbing head between his hands. Flint Orr was a huge man, thewed like a bull, with a huge mane of iron-gray hair on his large head, like the roach on a grizzly. His face was heavy, his eyes small and brown, under bushy brows, and he never seemed to laugh. Men hated and respected him—hated him for his bull-headed, ruthless way of serving the law, but respected him for his honesty of purpose. Ann Orr, his wife, barely past thirty, was loved by everyone—except, possibly, Flint Orr. Harry Orr was not her son, but she had fought tooth and nail to save him from the gallows. Flint Orr did not admire her for this. In fact, he resented it. There was no question of Harry’s guilt. Harry worked for the Circle Seven cattle outfit, ten miles north of Mojave Wells. Harry and Ed Belt, the foreman, had quarreled over a girl, and came to blows at the ranch. Harry had followed Belt to Mojave Wells, where they quarreled again over a poker game, but others intervened, stopping possible gunplay.

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Library of Alexandria

ISBN 10

1465580530

ISBN 13

9781465580535

Tumbling River Range

By: Wilbur C. Tuttle

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Tumbling River Range

By: Wilbur C. Tuttle

The ranch-house of Uncle Hozie Wheeler’s Flying H outfit was ablaze with light. Two lanterns were suspended on the wide veranda which almost encircled the rambling old house; lanterns were hanging from the corral fence, where already many saddle-horses and buggy teams were tied. Lanterns hung within the big stable and there was a lantern suspended to the crosstree of the big estate. It was a big night at the Flying H. One of the stalls in the stable was piled full of a miscellaneous collection of empty five-gallon cans, cow-bells, shotguns; in fact, every kind of a noise-maker common to the cattle country was ready for the final words of the minister. For this was to be the biggest shivaree ever pulled off on the Tumbling River range. Inside the living-room was the assembled company, sitting stiffly around the room, more than conscious of the fact that they were all dressed up. Old gray-bearded cattlemen, munching away at their tobacco; old ladies, dressed in all the finery at their limited command; cowboys, uncomfortable in celluloid collars and store clothes; old Uncle Hozie, red of face, grinning at everybody and swearing under his breath at Aunt Emma, who had shamed him into wearing an old Prince Albert coat which had fitted him fifty pounds ago. “Look like you was the groom, Hozie,” chuckled one of the old cattlemen. “Gosh, yo’re shore dudded-up!” “Glad I ain’t,” said Uncle Hozie quickly. “All them wimmin upstairs, blubberin’ over the bride. Haw, haw, haw, haw! She’d ort to have on a swimmin’ suit. Haw, haw, haw, haw!” He winked one eye expressively and jerked his head towards the kitchen. His actions were full of meaning. Curt Bellew got to his feet, stretched his six-foot frame, smoothed his beard and tramped down heavily on one foot.

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235

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Library of Alexandria

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ISBN 10

1465535977

ISBN 13

9781465535979

Shotgun Gold

By: Wilbur C. Tuttle

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Shotgun Gold

By: Wilbur C. Tuttle

A New Hashknife and Sleepy Story “And that’s how it comes that I’m sheriff of Black Horse—and may I be hung with horseshoes and rabbit-feet, et cettery.” Roaring Rigby tilted back in an old swivel chair and looked disconsolately at the white-haired man who sat across the battered desk. The man had a long, deeply-lined face, slightly reddish nose, somber blue eyes beneath white eyebrows. Roaring Rigby himself was long, lean, bony of face and figure, with the pouched eyes of a bloodhound. His nose was long too, and slightly out of line; his cheekbones were almost visible through the tightly stretched skin that covered them. His ears were of the hating variety, and his neutral-colored hair was thin, like foxtail grass on alkali flats. The room in which these two men sat was the sheriff’s office in the town of Turquoise, the county-seat of Black Horse County. It was a small room, unpapered, except for an array of reward notices, a State map and a calendar of the previous year. A desk, several chairs and a gun-cabinet completed the furnishings. The floor was uncarpeted and had been scored deeply by years of high heel scraping. Roaring Rigby lifted his feet and rasped one spurred heel across the top of the desk, as if to express his contempt for such a piece of furniture. “And so Jim Randall, sheriff of this county, went away, did he?” sighed the old man. “He did that.” Roaring Rigby turned his sad-dog eyes upon the old man. “Yea-a-ah, he went away, Jim Randall did. He wrote out his resignation, packed up his fambly, folded his tent, as you might say, and silently stole away. But I don’t blame him, Judge. He’s a married man. You’re as much to blame as he is. You two opined to make Turquoise sanitary. You ought to know better, Judge; you’re an old-timer. Jim Randall was born and raised in a cow-town, and he knew better. ’Sall right to set down upon crime. Oh, I ain’t sayin’ your motives ain’t right. Turquoise needs cleanin’. English Ed’s honkatonk ain’t noways a Sunday School, and that redlight district hadn’t ought to be there, but—” “I know,” nodded Judge Beal. “Yea-a-ah, you know now. You should have knowed before. Jim Randall got his warnin’ twice. They told him he’d get the third one in the dark, and Jim always was scared of the dark. You’ve got your first one, Judge.”

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238

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Library of Alexandria

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ISBN 10

146556702X

ISBN 13

9781465567024

The Valley of Lost Herds and By Order of Buck Brady

By: Wilbur C. Tuttle

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The Valley of Lost Herds and By Order of Buck Brady

By: Wilbur C. Tuttle

A New Kind of Ranch Foreman Deals with Cattle-Rustlers The big Tomahawk—saloon, gambling palace, honkatonk—blazed with lights. Cowboys jostled each other at the long bar, or laughed and made merry with the girls who thronged the rooms. The roulette whirred, poker chips rattled and the voices of the dealers droned above the roar of the crowd. It was the big night of the month in Tomahawk—pay night on the Reber ranches. And pay night on the Reber ranches meant that all the small ranches to the north would also pay off and let their men come to town. There was no limit to anything. Reber owned the Tomahawk Saloon; owned nearly everything else in the town of Tomahawk, as far as that was concerned. And with one exception he owned all of Reber Valley. It had been known as Tomahawk Valley, and was still Tomahawk Valley on the map, but to those who lived there it was Reber Valley. For Park Reber owned the M 33, Half-Wheel, Circle S, Two Bar X and the Lightning. There was really only one ranch he did not own, the S\ Bar\ P. There was another little place twenty miles south of Tomahawk which belonged to Jack Silver, who had never registered any brand. So, outside of the S\ Bar\ P, Park Reber really owned the valley. In an area thirty miles long by about fifteen miles in width Park Reber was supreme—a real cattle baron. And Park Reber sat in his big house in Tomahawk town, all alone except for a Chinese cook, and gloated. He was the big man of the country—big and lonesome. And sometimes he was mad, they said. Men worked for him, spent their money in his saloon and gambling house; but none of them admired him. He was about sixty years of age—white-haired, harsh of feature, his deep-set eyes gloomy. Over his left eye was a white scar like a crescent moon, and he often touched it, as if it annoyed him. He drove his men hard, demanded results and got most of their wages back via the green cloth. It had taken him twenty years to become owner of the valley. His herds, the Diamond R brand, roamed the many hills. While his ranches were all designated by their original brand names, all the stock was branded with the Diamond R. Other ranches shipped from Tomahawk, but the Diamond R was the heavy shipper. They owned the loading corrals—or rather Reber did.

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100

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Library of Alexandria

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ISBN 10

1465564136

ISBN 13

9781465564139

The Ranch of the Tombstones

By: Wilbur C. Tuttle

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The Ranch of the Tombstones

By: Wilbur C. Tuttle

Two men swung their horses through the tumble-down gateway of the Half-Moon Ranch and rode slowly toward the old, rambling ranch-house. The man in the lead was a tall, thin, unshaven cowboy, with a long, sad countenance and a pair of bright, grin-wrinkled eyes. He rode standing straight in his saddle, with the brim of his sombrero pulled down over his eyes. The other man was shorter, heavier, with a heavy-lined face and half-shut eyes. A few strands of roan-colored hair straggled from under the brim of his hat, which rested on the back of his head. They drew rein and looked the place over. The tall one nodded toward the side of the house, and they both rode around to the rear, from whence came the sound of a voice raised in anger. “Cook!” exclaimed the voice scornfully. “You? Huh! Do yuh think the Half-Moon outfit wear steel bills and digests their food through a gizzard? Why, dang yore hide, yuh can’t even burn stuff decently. Set yoreself up to cook fer an outfit, do yuh? Where’d you learn to cook? Cook, ——! Yo’re fired! No, I don’t want to hear yuh explain how yuh got drunk on one li’l drink and forgot which way home was. No sir! Pack yore war-bag and drift. I’ve got enough troubles without annexin’ a lot of bad stummicks around here. Yo’re fired; sabe? If you can’t understand English, I’ll write it out in Swedish and mail it to yuh.” The tall cowboy’s face wrinkled into a grin, and he started to say something to his companion, but just at that moment a woman opened the kitchen-door and looked out at them. She was a tiny wisp of a woman, dressed in faded calico. About fifty years of age, with a mild, sweet face and soft, blue eyes. She stared at the two cowboys for a moment, and a flush crept into her tanned face.

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140

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Library of Alexandria

ISBN 10

146556473X

ISBN 13

9781465564733

Bluffer's Luck

By: Wilbur C. Tuttle

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Bluffer's Luck

By: Wilbur C. Tuttle

Fog and rain, with the spluttering arclights shining like moons out of the drizzle and a mist; the rattle of wheels on cobbles, soughing of fog-horns down on San Francisco Bay; the far-off din of a cable car gong, and always the dismal patter of rain along the gutter. A girl stopped at the entrance of a cheap boarding house, where a single electric bulb partly illuminated the faded sign. Her faded old raincoat glistened in the light, and her cheap felt hat leaked drops of water as she glanced up at the sign. It was not because she was unfamiliar with that sign. Nan Whitlock had passed under it several times a day for a number of months, because it was her home. That is, it was the only home she had, and just now she was wondering how much longer she could call it home. After a short period of reflection she went inside, passed the dining-room door and started up the stairs. Beneath the raincoat was a small parcel, and she quickly slipped it farther out of sight as a step sounded on the stairs above her. It was Mrs. Emmett, the landlady, a short, chubby sort of woman, but with features prematurely hardened from forcing payments. Just now she narrowed her eyes and glanced upon Nan Whitlock as she partly blocked the stairs. “I was just at your room, Miss Whitlock,” she said. “Unless you and Miss Allan pay for that room before breakfast to-morrow, I’ve a new inhabitant for the same.” “Was—was Miss Allan there?” faltered Nan. “She was not. I’m tired of promises, and I just heard that Miss Allan’s show closes to-morrow night.” “Yes, I know that,” said Nan meekly. “Oh, ye do? And I suppose I was to be left holding the sack, as they say, eh? Well, I’m not. I’ve had her trunk put in storage to-day, and she’ll not get it until the rent is all paid.” “Oh, I’m sorry about that, Mrs. Emmett.” “She’ll be sorry, too, I’m thinking. Oh, I don’t mean to be cross about it, but business is business. If I have to, I’ll attach your wages, my dear. With a fly-by-night like Madge Allan, all I can do is take her trunk. You tell her, will ye? And, of course, that means both of ye get out, unless the money is paid. Her with her fine clothes and fur coats, and a taxi at the door almost every night! And she can’t pay twenty dollars rent! Well, you two think it over, my dear. Unless I miss my guess, I’ll have a vacancy after breakfast.” She stepped aside and walked grandly down the stairs, while Nan hurried on to her room, where she lighted the gas jets, threw off her wet coat and sat down rather heavily. Nan was not pretty, but she had an oval face, wistful gray eyes, and a wealth of wavy auburn hair. Twenty-two her last birthday, and out of a job again.

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122

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Library of Alexandria

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ISBN 10

1465530428

ISBN 13

9781465530424

The Taking of Cloudy McGee

By: Wilbur C. Tuttle

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The Taking of Cloudy McGee

By: Wilbur C. Tuttle

A collection of folktales from different regions of the United States.

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1613108761

ISBN 13

9781613108765

Too Much Progress for Piperock

By: Wilbur C. Tuttle

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Too Much Progress for Piperock

By: Wilbur C. Tuttle

There’s Mrs. “Wick” Smith, who jars the hay-scales to two hundred and seventy-five, and wheezes plentiful. Art Wheeler’s better half tasted of life and found it sour, and never got the acid out of her system. Mrs. “Testament” Tilton looks upward for guidance in all matters except when it comes to flattering Testament’s head with a skillet. When Mrs. Pete Gonyer is in sight, Pete’s voice sinks seventeen inches below a whisper. Somebody remarks one day that Pete’s kinda henpecked. “Henpecked, ⸺!” says Pete. “Orstrich—if there ain’t nothin’ bigger what wears feathers.” Mrs. Steele, the wife of our legal light, is six feet two inches tall, and she’s always oratin’ about the sanctity of the home, whatever that is. One cinch, the prize never hands down any decisions in his own home. Mrs. Sam Holt goes through life worrying about somebody alienating the affections of old Sam, who can barely hear himself yell, and has to eat his spuds mashed or miss the taste of ’em. There’s the Mudgett sisters, who must ’a’ been the originals of the first cartoon of “Miss Democracy.” Cupid would have to use a .30-30 if he went to work for them. Scattered around the range is a occasional female, but nothing that you’d bet your money on in a beauty contest. Annie Schmidt is cooking for the Triangle outfit, but the same don’t seem to cause any of the other ranches to go short of help. Henrietta Harrison horns into Piperock. Piperock takes a deep breath. Bad news travels fast, and it ain’t long before there’s a need of another hitch-rack in Piperock. Sam Holt runs the hotel—or thought he did; but Ma Holt got one look at Henrietta and shut up the book.

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1465508554

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9781465508553

Buzzards Know

By: Wilbur C. Tuttle

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Buzzards Know

By: Wilbur C. Tuttle

The Coachella Kid left a plain trail. After killing Deputy Jack Welden with an iron cot leg, he stole a gun and ammunition, saddled one of the sheriff’s horses and headed straight for the desert. It all happened only a few minutes after the jury had been sent to deliberate on the guilt or innocence of the Coachella Kid, who was charged with first degree murder. It was the first time the Kid had ever been tried—his first time to face a judge and jury. Only luck had allowed him to travel his crooked trail this long. Several times he had escaped the clutches of the law by the narrowest of margins. Twice he had killed deputy sheriffs—but no one could prove it. The Coachella Kid was a cold-eyed killer, contemptuous of the law; and for five years he had nursed a bitter hate against Dave Fulton, the sheriff who had finally arrested him. The Coachella Kid was a small man, wiry as a bobcat, soft-spoken; he was not over thirty-five years of age. There was nothing conspicuous about him. He had been very quiet during his trial, until the sheriff, speaking from the witness stand, recited a brief résumé of what he knew about the Coachella Kid’s past. Then the Kid got to his feet. “Me and him loved the same girl five years ago,” he said, barely loud enough for the jury to hear. “He got her by lyin’ to her about me. He’s scared I’m goin’ to make him pay for them lies; so he’s tryin’ to git me hung.” Then the Kid sat down and refused to talk any more. But the Kid was free now, well mounted and armed. Men saw him ride through Yucca City; and they recognized the sheriff’s black horse. Ten miles farther on he rode the length of the Main street at Signal Rock, where he was seen and recognized. It would have been easy for him to circle both towns. At the Smoke Tree ranch he stopped to water his horse and fill an enormous canteen, which he had stolen from the sheriff’s stable. There was only one cowboy at the ranch at the time, and he did not know the rider was an escaped prisoner until the sheriff arrived an hour later.

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146556280X

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9781465562807

Book's by Wilbur C. Tuttle

The Morgan Trail

The Morgan Trail

Gambler's Dollar

Gambler's Dollar

Tumbling River Range

Tumbling River Range

Shotgun Gold

Shotgun Gold

The Valley of Lost Herds and By Order of Buck Brady

The Valley of Lost Herds and By Order of Buck Brady

The Ranch of the Tombstones

The Ranch of the Tombstones

Bluffer's Luck

Bluffer's Luck

The Taking of Cloudy McGee

The Taking of Cloudy McGee

Too Much Progress for Piperock

Too Much Progress for Piperock

Buzzards Know

Buzzards Know

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