The Range Detectives

by William W. Johnstone

  Bradley, the puncher who had started the ruckus with Stovepipe the night before, pointed and said to Ridgewell, “There’s a mess of hoofprints over there, Bob, like a good-sized group of riders left out of here in a hurry. Could’ve been the bunch Stewart and Coleman were talkin’ about.”

  Stovepipe was a little surprised that Bradley would say anything to help their cause, but just because the cowboy had acted proddy, that didn’t mean he was less than fair. And any puncher worth his salt got his dander up in a hurry when it came to rustlers.

  Ridgewell inspected the tracks, then said, “Can’t tell much from them, but I suppose we could try following them for a while. Meeker, you take the body back to the ranch. The rest of you, come with me.”

  Hawkins handed the reins of the dead man’s horse to one of the other cowboys, who didn’t look happy about being sent back to headquarters. He didn’t raise any objections, though, instead riding off leading the scratched-up horse.

  “And take care of that mount,” Ridgewell called after him. Meeker waved a hand in acknowledgment of the order.

  The rest of the group, led by Ridgewell, Stovepipe, and Wilbur, followed the trail of the rustlers. Stovepipe was convinced they were the ones who had left the tracks, even if Ridgewell wasn’t.

  The trail followed the base of the rim until it reached a large, rocky slope where slides had taken place in the past. The incline angled upward between sheer walls. Clearly, the riders had gone up that slope because their tracks ended here.

  “We’ll go up to the rim and pick up their trail there,” Ridgewell said. The horses had to pick their way along carefully to avoid slipping. Small rocks clattered down the slope behind them.

  When they reached the top, the men reined in and studied the ground. Only a moment passed before the HS Bar foreman ripped out a curse.

  “They split up,” he said. “They rode out one at a time in all different directions.”

  “That appears to be the size of it,” said Stovepipe as he rested his hands on his saddle horn. “Reckon they must have a rendezvous somewhere else, maybe up here, maybe back down in the basin.” He turned his head to sweep his gaze over the vast area around them. “Not much tellin’ where, though.”

  “I’ll be damned if I’m going to let them get away with killing one of my men,” declared Ridgewell.

  “Does that mean you believe us now about what happened?”

  “My gut says you’re telling the truth,” the foreman replied. “I’ve learned over the years to play my hunches.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. Because we want to round up the varmints responsible for all this trouble just as much as you do. Ain’t that right, Wilbur?”

  “It sure is,” said the redhead. “We’ll do it, too.”

  “How do you know that?” asked Ridgewell.

  “Because I know Stovepipe,” Wilbur said.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Henry Stafford was laid to rest in the little cemetery on a hill about half a mile from the ranch headquarters. The place was shaded by trees and surrounded by a black, wrought-iron fence. Stafford’s first wife was buried there, along with the couple’s two children, neither of whom had survived infancy. After that, there had been no more children. Several of the ranch’s longtime employees had been interred on the hill as well.

  Every member of the HS Bar crew attended Stafford’s funeral, which was conducted by the Methodist minister from Hat Creek. Many of the settlement’s citizens had made the trip out to the ranch for the service, including Sheriff Frank Olsen and Deputy Warren Purdue.

  Stovepipe and Wilbur stood with the other cowboys, hats in hands, as the buggy carrying Jessica Stafford approached. Bob Ridgewell, dressed in a dusty black suit, was at the reins. A string tie was knotted tightly at Ridgewell’s throat and appeared to be a source of discomfort for the foreman, although he ignored it as best he could.

  Jessica was dressed in black as well, of course. The veil that hung from her hat was thicker today, so little of her face was visible as Ridgewell helped her down from the buggy and linked his arm with hers as they walked to the graveside.

  The preacher was long-winded, as sky pilots tended to be, and the day was oppressively warm, especially with so many of those in attendance dressed in dark clothing. Stovepipe was glad when it was over. He had never liked funerals. They were inevitable, of course, and he and Wilbur knew that fact better than some because they had seen so much death in the course of their careers.

  But Stovepipe was annoyed because funerals reminded him there were some mysteries he just couldn’t solve, including what lay in store on the other side of the divide.

  When the service was over at last, a lot of the folks from town lined up to shake hands with Mrs. Stafford and pay their respects. Stovepipe waited under a tree off to one side until Sheriff Olsen had shaken Jessica’s hand. He caught the lawman’s eye as Olsen put on his hat and started toward the horses that were tied to the buggies and wagons parked outside the cemetery.

  Olsen changed his course and stalked toward Stovepipe. When the star packer was close enough to hear, Stovepipe told him, “Say somethin’ that makes it sound like comin’ over here was your idea, Sheriff.”

  Olsen frowned in surprise but played along. He raised his voice slightly and said, “By God, you and Coleman had better be keeping your noses clean out here, Stewart. I’m still not sure I did the right thing letting you two go, no matter what the judge said.”

  Keeping his voice low, Stovepipe nodded and said, “That’s mighty fine. Won’t nobody suspect anything about us talkin’ if they think you’re just checkin’ up on me and Wilbur.”

  “What do you want, Stewart?” growled Olsen. The unfriendliness was at least partially genuine, rather than an act. The sheriff probably hadn’t forgotten how Stovepipe and Wilbur had concealed their true identities from him. He had to feel at least a little like he’d been played for a fool.

  “I’m gonna shake hands with you in a minute,” said Stovepipe. “When I do, there’ll be a note in my hand you need to take. It’s a telegraph message, and I’d be mighty obliged if you’d send it for me.”

  “What kind of message?”

  “You’ll see that when you send it. It’s all right for you to read it. Mostly it’s to find out more about a fella whose name cropped up: Rawson.”

  Olsen’s bushy white brows drew down.

  “Rawson,” he repeated. “Sounds familiar, but I don’t place it.”

  “Wilbur and me feel the same way. Reckon he’s bound to be a desperado of sorts, but I’d like to know more about him. From what I can tell, he’s the ringleader of that bunch of rustlers and owlhoots.”

  Olsen was interested in spite of his hostility toward Stovepipe and Wilbur. He said, “Anything else?”

  “How are Dan and Laura doin’?”

  “They’re in jail,” Olsen snapped. “How do you think they’re doing?”

  “Pretty miserable, I expect. When’s the trial?”

  “Hartford goes on trial next week. Judge Snow hasn’t set a trial date yet for Mrs. Dempsey. I think he’s waiting to see how things turn out with Hartford.”

  “Is that fella McGilvray still representin’ Dan?”

  “He’s representing both of them.”

  Stovepipe shook his head and asked, “Is he sober, at least?”

  “I think so. I haven’t seen him in the Blue Oasis in several days.” Olsen shrugged. “Of course, he could be nipping from a flask and I wouldn’t know.”

  Stovepipe tugged on his earlobe and said, “Seems to me like the best thing to do would be to clear Dan’s name before the trial ever starts, just to make sure there’s no chance of him bein’ convicted.”

  “How are you going to do that?”

  “Round up the real rapscallions, of course. Maybe that wire you’re gonna send for me will help with that.”

  Olsen grunted and said, “Does this tie in with that mysterious theory you’ve got? Or did you just make that up?”


  “Oh, it’s real enough,” Stovepipe assured him.

  “But you don’t care to share it yet.”

  “Not just yet,” Stovepipe said. He stuck out his hand. “Thanks for believin’ in us, Sheriff, and givin’ us a chance.”

  Olsen snorted again, but he gripped Stovepipe’s hand. They transferred the small, folded piece of paper. Olsen stuck it in his pocket, then turned away.

  When Olsen was gone, Wilbur wandered over and said, “What were you and the sheriff jawing about, Stovepipe?”

  “I gave him a telegraph message to send for me, to that deputy U.S. marshal amigo o’ mine. I figure he can tell us more about that fella Rawson.”

  “We’re pretty sure he’s the boss rustler. What else do we need to know?”

  “I’ve felt from the first that there’s more to all this trouble than just wide-loopin’ some cows,” said Stovepipe. “I’ve got a hunch it all adds up to a heap more. And you know how my hunches usually play out.”

  “Yeah,” responded Wilbur. “With hot lead buzzing all around our heads.”

  * * *

  Jonas Powell was buried in the ranch cemetery as well, late in the afternoon of the day that Henry Stafford was laid to rest. The other members of the crew were on hand for this service, too, but everyone from Hat Creek had gone home, including the minister. Bob Ridgewell read from the Bible instead, and he was about to conduct a prayer when he was interrupted by the sound of hoofbeats.

  The men all turned around to see Jessica Stafford approaching on horseback. She no longer wore mourning dress, hat, and veil, but the riding skirt she had on was black, and her shirt was made of dark blue silk. Her golden hair was pulled back and tied with a black ribbon, so she still had a somber appearance.

  She reined in at the fence, dismounted, and looped her horse’s reins around one of the sections of wrought iron.

  “Bob, you should have told me you and the men were laying poor Jonas to rest,” she said.

  “Well, ma’am,” Ridgewell began, “since he was just a member of the crew—”

  “He rode for the HS Bar,” Jessica broke in. “As far as I’m concerned, that’s as close to being family as you can get without being blood.”

  “It’s mighty kind of you to say that, ma’am.”

  “It’s the way I feel,” said Jessica. She walked through the open gate and took her place among the men standing around Powell’s grave. “Go ahead.”

  “We were just about to say a prayer . . .”

  Ridgewell lowered his head, as did all the others. The prayer was short, simple, and heartfelt, asking the Lord to have mercy on the soul of Jonas Powell, a good, hardworking cowboy, and when Ridgewell was done, Jessica murmured, “Amen,” along with everyone else there.

  With the service over, the men began to drift away, except for Gene Hawkins and Bill Cunningham, who had requested the job of filling in the grave since Powell had been their riding partner most of the time. Stovepipe and Wilbur had just stepped out of the cemetery when Jessica came up to them and said, “Mr. Stewart, I’d like to talk with you for a moment, if I may.”

  “Why, sure, ma’am,” said Stovepipe as he held his black Stetson in front of him. “What can I do for you?”

  “I saw you talking to Sheriff Olsen this morning, after . . .” Her voice caught a little. “After Henry’s funeral. What did he want?”

  “Oh, he was just checkin’ up on Wilbur and me,” Stovepipe replied easily. “Makin’ sure we weren’t up to any mischief.”

  “Did he say anything about Dan and . . . Laura?” Stovepipe’s voice was gentle as he said, “Well, they’re still locked up. Dan’s trial is set for next week. They don’t know yet when Miz Dempsey’s trial will be.”

  “It’s selfish of me, I know, but I wish Laura could have been here today. She’s my best friend out here, and I could have used her strength.”

  Wilbur said, “It appeared to me that you were plenty strong, ma’am. I didn’t know your husband at all, but I’ll bet he would have been proud of you.”

  Jessica smiled faintly as she said, “Yes, I believe he would have.” She squared her shoulders and went on, “How’s the search going for the rustlers?”

  “Beg your pardon, ma’am?” said Stovepipe.

  “Rustlers have invaded this ranch and killed one of our own. I may have been in the West for only a few years, but I think I know cowboys well enough to be aware that you and the rest of the crew have been looking for those criminals while you’re doing your other work.”

  “We’re keepin’ our eyes open, that’s for sure, but huntin’ down owlhoots, that’s the sheriff’s job, ma’am.” Stovepipe rubbed his chin and added, “But I got to admit, none of us cotton to the idea of those varmints still bein’ on the loose.”

  “So if you come across any clues . . .”

  “We’ll make certain sure those sidewinders get what they’ve got comin’,” said Stovepipe. “Ever’ blasted one of ’em.”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Unfortunately, several days went by with no further progress in the case. In the brush-choked canyon where they had found the body of the dead outlaw, Wilbur had come close to spilling the fact that he and Stovepipe had an agenda of their own for wanting to bring the gang of rustlers and killers to justice, other than being employed by the HS Bar. Bob Ridgewell didn’t seem to have noticed that near slip, however, so they were able to continue their pose as drifting cowpokes.

  In order to do that, they had to ride the range every day, carrying out whatever tasks Ridgewell assigned to them. They did that with all the skill as top hands they had developed in their younger years.

  But at the same time, they continued their search whenever they could, looking for any clues that might lead them to the gang’s hideout.

  So far, that search had proven unsuccessful.

  Although Ridgewell no longer seemed suspicious of them, he usually had them working with some of the other hands since they were new to the ranch. This made it more difficult for Stovepipe and Wilbur to wander off on their own and conduct any sort of investigation.

  Today, however, when the foreman assigned the day’s tasks after breakfast, he had told Stovepipe and Wilbur, “There’s a water hole way up north, where the rim curves around and blocks the basin. That’s as far as you can go and still be on the HS Bar, but the water hole is still on our range and somebody needs to check it out. Sometimes it tries to dry up this time of year.”

  “What do we do if it has?” asked Wilbur.

  Ridgewell grunted and said, “Take a couple of shovels with you. You may have to dig it out some. It’ll fill up. It always has in the past.”

  Stovepipe could tell from the expression on Wilbur’s face that his old friend wasn’t too happy to hear that. Wilbur never had cared much for digging. Post holes were the worst, though. Enlarging a water hole wasn’t too bad compared to that.

  While Wilbur grumbled, they fetched shovels from the tool shed next to the blacksmith shop and tied them onto their saddles, along with bags containing enough supplies to last them until the next day. It would take quite a while to ride to the water hole, and if they needed to dig it out more, they wouldn’t have time to do that and still get back to the ranch headquarters before nightfall. In that case, they would camp until the next day, finish the work then if necessary, and return to ranch headquarters after that.

  The prospect of spending a night on the range meant nothing to the two men. Sometimes Stovepipe thought they had spent more nights sleeping under the stars than they had under a roof. They set out, following the directions Ridgewell had given them for finding the water hole.

  They had chewed over everything they had discovered about the rustlers, the murders, and the other events in the basin until there was nothing left to say, but they didn’t mind riding along in companionable silence, either. They had done that plenty of times over the years as their work carried them from place to place.

  Lunch was the usual jerky and biscuits, eaten in the saddle an
d washed down with water from their canteens. They were following the rim, and it was a couple of hours after they had eaten when they saw the looming escarpment twisting more to the west, marking the basin’s northern boundary.

  “We must be getting close to that water hole,” said Wilbur. “It can’t be much farther. We’re running out of basin.”

  “I reckon,” agreed Stovepipe. He pointed. “Look at those three pines growin’ on top of that little bluff. That was one o’ the landmarks Bob mentioned, wasn’t it?”

  “Yep. And over yonder the other way is a clump of rocks that looks like a sleeping buffalo.”

  “It sure enough does,” said Stovepipe with a grin. “We’re almost there.”

  A short time later, they came in sight of the water hole, which lay about half a mile south of the rim. Wilbur let out an oath as he looked at the sandy bottom of the depression.

  “I thought Ridgewell said the water hole sometimes started to go dry at this time of year,” the redhead complained. “That blamed thing is dry as a bone!”

  “Yeah, but you can tell there’s been water in it in the past,” said Stovepipe. “There’s still a little dried-up moss on the rocks down there that would’ve been layin’ on the bottom.”

  “What do you think happened?”

  “Dunno, but the cows grazin’ up this way are gonna get mighty thirsty if we don’t do somethin’ about this.”

  “We’ll have to dig clear to China to come up with any water,” grumbled Wilbur.

  “Maybe not. Let’s get to work and see what we can do.”

  They dismounted, picketed their horses where there was a little stretch of hardy grass, and took the shovels off their saddles. They slid down into what had been the water hole, walked out to the center, and began digging. It wasn’t long before the shirts of both men were soaked with sweat.

  As he dug, Stovepipe looked around. Something was nagging at his brain, but he couldn’t figure out what it was.

  He and Wilbur had a hole about a foot deep and a yard in diameter, working on opposite sides of it, when the sand started getting a little damp on the north side of the hole, where Stovepipe was digging.