After they tracked down those rustlers, then maybe they could find out who was running guns to the Indians…
CHAPTER 23
Rawhide wouldn’t hear of going back to Whiskey Flats until Bo pointed out that the marshal’s office was sitting there unattended. “I know we don’t have any prisoners right now…” he began.
Rawhide gave an unladylike snort and jerked a thumb at Chesterfield Pike. “Only because you let this big varmint out, which I never would’ve done.”
“I helped, Miss Rawhide,” Pike said, tugging his hat off and holding it in front of his massive chest as he spoke to her. “I showed the marshal and Bo and Scratch how to find this place.”
“And stove up half a dozen or more o’ my men once you got here,” Steve North said. “Those boys may not be able to do a full day’s work for a week. By all rights, I ought to get you as a hand until they’re all back on their feet.”
Pike shook his head. “No, sir. I don’t do no cowboyin’. My pa said that cowboys was often unwholesome individuals and that he didn’t want me growin’ up to be one of ’em.”
Bo said, “Chesterfield, you ought to go back to town with Miss Rawhide. Technically, you’re still under arrest, even though the marshal did appoint you as a temporary deputy.”
“If you’re goin’ up in them hills to look for rustlers,” Pike said with a frown, “you’d best take me along. Nobody around here knows that country better’n I do. I’ve been roamin’ all over ’em since I was just a little sprout.”
Bo found it hard to believe that Chesterfield Pike had ever been a little anything, but Chet Bascomb said, “He’s right, Deputy. Pike hunts and traps for a living, and he knows those hills.”
“See? I told you,” Pike said with a triumphant grin.
Bo thought it over and nodded. “That’s actually a pretty good idea. If you want to keep on helping us, Chesterfield…”
The giant nodded eagerly. “I do. Bein’ a deputy’s the most fun I had in a coon’s age.”
“Let’s go, then,” Reilly said. “Rawhide, we’ll see you back in town. Hold down the fort while we’re gone.”
The redhead rode off grumbling, heading for Whiskey Flats. Bo, Scratch, Reilly, and Pike headed for the Star Ranch, accompanied by Steve North and the men who had come with him to attack the Rocking B. The ones who had tangled with Pike had regained consciousness and were able to ride, but they looked plenty the worse for wear.
North’s spread was deeper in the foothills of the mountains than the Rocking B, and so the terrain was rougher. The grass wasn’t as good either, and Bo wondered if jealousy on North’s part had contributed to the ill feelings between the two men.
On the other hand, it was still good cattle country, and judging by the number and quality of the grazing stock they passed once they were on Star range, North had done all right for himself. His ranch was probably the second most successful one in these parts.
It was a two-hour ride from the Rocking B to the high pasture where a hundred head of North’s cattle had been grazing until the night before. Along the way, most of North’s men veered off and headed for the ranch headquarters at North’s orders, the rancher saying that after they had been bounced around by Pike like that, they wouldn’t be worth anything in a fight anyway. Three of the Star hands accompanied them, making the party number eight.
When they reached the pasture, North pointed out the line shack where the puncher who had been shot, Teddy Arrington, normally stayed.
“He was out checking on the cows because he heard a commotion,” North explained as they rode on past the shack. “We get wolves around here from time to time, and that’s what he thought it was, some old lobo after a calf or something. But when he got out there, he saw riders pushing the herd toward that canyon over yonder. He knew he couldn’t stand up to six-to-one odds and tried to get turned around and go for help, but one o’ the bastards spotted him and opened fire. Teddy caught a slug, but got away and made it back to the ranch house.” Emotion roughened North’s already gravelly voice. “Kid ain’t but eighteen years old.”
By the time Bo and Scratch were eighteen years old, they had helped free Texas from the Mexican dictator Santa Anna and had had other adventures, too, some of them pretty harrowing. But the Texans didn’t point that out to North, figuring that he wouldn’t appreciate it at the moment.
They rode toward the canyon where the rustlers had taken the stolen stock. “Where does that go?” Scratch asked. “Can’t be a box canyon since them cows had to go somewhere.”
“It cuts through that ridge to some malpais breaks on the other side,” North explained. “The ridge is the boundary line for my property. Nobody claims the breaks, since they ain’t really good for anything. Hell, it’s such a maze over there that nobody could find his way through it.”
Pike spoke up. “I know my way through the breaks. Tramped over every foot of ’em, many’s the time.”
“Then maybe you can follow the trail,” North said. “That’s where we lost it, a mile or two into those badlands. To tell you the truth, I was just glad we were able to find our way back out without strayin’ into that damn lava. Stuff’ll cut a horse’s hooves to ribbons and leave a man afoot.”
Bo and Scratch had seen the black malpais before—hardened lava left over from volcanic eruptions many, many years earlier, possibly before the dawn of recorded history. They knew that it was indeed treacherous and that the razor-sharp edges of the lava deposits were dangerous to man and horse alike and had to be avoided.
The men rode into the canyon, which was about a hundred yards wide in most places, with sheer walls that rose between twenty-five and thirty feet to the rimrock. They could plainly see the tracks of the stolen cattle on the dusty floor of the canyon.
“Easy enough trail to follow,” Scratch commented.
“Yeah, a Texan’d think so,” North said.
Pike said, “It’ll get harder later once we get into the malpais. But I reckon I can find them cows.”
North snorted. “I hope you’re right, big boy.”
It was late afternoon by the time the men reached the far end of the canyon. The breaks that lay beyond looked dark and forbidding in the shadows cast by the mountains. As they reined in, Pike said, “It’d be easier to follow the trail in the mornin’.”
“That would mean leaving Rawhide on her own back in Whiskey Flats overnight,” Reilly pointed out. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”
Bo said, “That girl’s got a good head on her shoulders. She’ll be all right.”
“I don’t know. Maybe I’d better go back, too. I couldn’t get there by dark, but it wouldn’t be too late.”
Bo frowned. He didn’t like the idea of Reilly and Rawhide being alone together in town. Reilly still had romantic notions about the girl, more than likely, but Bo wasn’t worried too much about that. From what he had seen of Rawhide’s handiness with both fist and gun, she could take care of herself. But she was smart, too, and Reilly might do or say something to give away the fact that he wasn’t really John Henry Braddock.
On the other hand, he and Scratch wouldn’t be around forever to look after Reilly and help him maintain the masquerade. The day would come when they had to ride on and resume their wandering ways. And Reilly would have to decide if he wanted to reveal to the townspeople who he really was…or continue being John Henry Braddock from now on.
So maybe it would be a good thing for Reilly to go back to the settlement. Let him get started now seeing what it would be like to the marshal of Whiskey Flats without his two “deputies” around.
“Sounds like a good idea, Marshal,” Bo said, well aware that Scratch gave him a quick glance that asked if he had gone plumb loco. “We can track these rustlers, can’t we, Scratch?”
“Uh, sure,” the silver-haired Texan replied. “We’ll handle this little chore, Marshal. Don’t you worry none about us.”
Reilly nodded. “It’s settled then. Mr. North, since I’m new in these
parts, how about sending one of your men with me to make sure I find the trail to Whiskey Flats all right?”
The rancher nodded. “I reckon I can do that.” He gestured to one of his punchers. “Max, you go with the marshal as far as he needs you to.”
“Sure, Boss,” the cowboy responded. “To tell you the truth, I wasn’t much lookin’ forward to ridin’ into that hellhole tomorrow anyway.”
“I don’t reckon none of us are,” North said. “But it’ll be worth it if we can find them damn wideloopers.”
And not get shot to pieces in the process, Bo added to himself.
During the night, the wind blew through the pinnacles and spires of the breaks with an eerie howling sound that made a shiver go through a man if he listened to it for too long. Because of that, the members of the group camped on the edge of the badlands didn’t sleep too well as they waited for morning. They didn’t build a fire, and their supper had been a skimpy one because they didn’t have many supplies with them. Pairs of men stood guard in turn, just in case the rustlers who used this route came along again.
Bo and Scratch took the same shift on watch, and as they hunkered beside a boulder that blocked the chilly night wind, Scratch said in a low voice that only his trail partner could hear, “I hope it wasn’t a mistake sendin’ that boy back to Whiskey Flats by himself.”
“He’ll do all right,” Bo predicted. “He’s got to start standing on his own two feet sometime.”
“You really think he’ll do that?” Scratch shook his head. “I figure he’ll cut and run if any real trouble comes at him.”
“He hasn’t so far. He handled himself all right during that shoot-out in town and at the Thompson ranch.”
Scratch snorted. “Pure luck.”
“I don’t think so,” Bo said. “I think there’s a good man in there. I’ve felt like that all along. It’s just a matter of bringing the good man out.”
“We’ll see,” Scratch said, but he didn’t sound convinced. He changed the subject. “North should’ve known better than to accuse Bascomb o’ bein’ behind the rustlin’. This trail is a long way from the Rockin’ B.”
“Maybe so, but Bascomb could still be involved. I don’t think he is, mind you, but just because the rustlers came through the canyon doesn’t clear Bascomb.”
“Hide and watch. You’ll see that there’s some bunch o’ scruffy owlhoots up in the hills who’ve been doin’ the wideloopin’ all along.”
Bo nodded. “Chances are that you’re right. But if Pike can really follow the trail through the breaks like he says, maybe we can prove it.”
Both Texans were quiet for a while. Then Scratch chuckled and said, “We get mixed up in some o’ the damnedest messes, don’t we?”
Bo smiled in the moonlight. “We do for a fact.”
When morning came, the men ate a quick, cold breakfast and then hit the saddle. Pike led the way into the breaks on his mule with the rest of the group strung out behind him.
The temperature climbed quickly as the sun rose, and by mid-morning it was sweltering in the haunted badlands. The riders followed a twisting, turning course that never ran straight for more than fifty yards or so. That was because there was always some obstacle to avoid: a lava flow, a spiny ridge, a huge boulder. It must have been hard work taking those stolen cattle through here. In most places, the trail was so narrow that no more than two or three of the animals could have walked abreast. On the other hand, there was no place for them to spread out and scatter. Once they started through the breaks, they sort of had to keep going. All the rustlers had to do was prevent them from trying to turn back.
“We’ve already come a lot farther in here than we got yesterday,” Steve North told Bo and Scratch. “I was gettin’ so turned around I was afraid we’d never find our way out, and then we’d die o’ thirst or starvation in here. Anyway, we couldn’t see the tracks of those stolen cows anymore, so we didn’t know if we were on the right trail or not.” North nodded toward Pike. “That big hombre must have eyes like a hawk.”
Several times during the morning, Pike had paused, dismounted, and hunkered down to study the rocky ground before straightening and pointing to the sign he’d been looking for that told him which way the cattle had gone. Once Pike pointed out the tiny indications, Bo and Scratch could see them, too, but even though they were both good trackers, they knew they would have lost the trail without having Pike’s almost supernatural abilities at their service.
“What’s on the other side of these breaks?” Bo asked.
North shrugged. “Hell if I know. We’re well off my range now, and I never rode over there. Never had any reason to until now. From the looks of it, though, they may run right up to the foot of the mountains.”
That looked possible to Bo, too, but he supposed they would find out when they got there.
That happened around midday, when Pike led them around another flow of the black malpais and up a long slope. When they reached the crest, instead of the gray and brown and tan of the rocky badlands through which they had been riding, the verdant green of a grassy hillside fell away before them. It dropped down into a pocket valley, thickly grassed, dotted with trees, and watered by a small stream that twisted through it. The pastures at one end of the valley were packed with grazing cattle. There had to be more than a thousand head, Bo estimated.
“Son of a bitch!” North burst out. “So this is where they’ve been goin!”
Bo said, “And I’ll lay you odds that if you check the brands on those cattle, you’ll find just as many Rocking B animals as you do Star. Like I said, they’ve been looting both ranches and counting on the fact that you and Bascomb would blame each other rather than looking for the real thieves.”
“Well, I feel like a damn-blasted fool.” North rested his hand on the butt of this gun. “But I’ll feel better once we’ve rode down there and cleaned out that rat’s nest!”
“It won’t be that easy,” Bo warned. “They’ve probably got sentries out watching this approach.”
As if to confirm his words, at that moment a shot blasted out, and Chesterfield Pike’s battered old hat leaped from his head as if slapped off by a giant hand.
CHAPTER 24
Pike let out a yelp of surprise and anger as he made a futile grab for his hat, which was already well out of reach. More shots continued to roar, shattering the midday stillness, and as a slug whipped past Bo’s head, he realized where some of them were coming from.
“They’re behind us, too!” he shouted. Probably those sentries he had mentioned to North.
A dozen riders burst out of some trees down the slope and charged toward the group, guns blazing. Bo, Scratch, and the others were caught in a deadly cross fire. If they stayed where they were, they would be shot to pieces in a matter of minutes.
“Fall back!” Bo called. “Back into the breaks!”
North had already unleathered his gun and begun firing at the men charging toward them. He paused and said, “I don’t like runnin’ from trouble!”
“Neither do I, but this ain’t runnin’,” Scratch said. “It’s what you call a strategic retreat! Ain’t that right, Bo?”
Bo didn’t answer directly. He just wheeled his horse around and called, “Come on!”
Twisting in their saddles to fire behind them at the group giving chase, the men turned their horses and galloped back into the breaks. Pike, who had been in the lead, now brought up the rear. Since he was unarmed, he couldn’t fight back. All he could do was lean forward over the neck of his mule to make himself a smaller target, but he was so big to start with that that didn’t help much.
Bo spotted a puff of powder smoke from the corner of his eye and realized that one of the gunmen in the breaks was hidden behind a boulder on a ledge about twenty feet up a rock wall. He swung his Colt in that direction and squeezed off three fast shots, aiming not at the boulder or the narrow slice of bushwhacker he could see, but rather at the wall near the concealed rifleman. Those slugs bounced off, ric
ocheting wildly from the almost sheer rock, and Bo was rewarded by the sight of the man reeling out from behind the boulder, clutching his belly where a flying chunk of lead had struck him. That deformed ricochet had probably done even more damage than a regular bullet would have. The man pitched off the ledge and plummeted to the ground as Bo and the others flashed by.
Even though Pike had had to lead them through the breaks, once Bo and Scratch had been over a trail once, they had no trouble backtracking along it. The Texans led the way now, keeping their horses moving at a near gallop as they weaved around the lava flows and the towering spires. One good thing about the twisting trail was that the pursuers had trouble getting a clear shot at them. Rocks were always in the way.
Scratch pulled alongside Bo and shouted over the pounding hoofbeats, “Those hombres will keep chasin’ us! They can’t afford to let us get away now that we know where this place is!”
“I know!” Bo replied. “I’m hoping we can turn the tables on them!”
Since he and his companions were outnumbered, they couldn’t make a straight-up, head-on fight of it. Instead, they had to find someplace where they could fort up and hold off the rustlers. Bo pulled his horse to the side and waved North and his men on past. Scratch did likewise.
Chesterfield Pike was still bringing up the rear on his mule. Bo and Scratch fell in with him, one on either side of the giant. “Chesterfield!” Bo said. “Do you know of any place around here where we could make a stand?”
“Hornpipe Rock!” Pike replied. “It ain’t far!”
“Lead the way!” Bo told him.
Pike urged his mule to a harder run. Bo and Scratch yelled for North’s men to move over and let them past. In a moment, Pike was in the lead again, veering off from the trail they had followed through the breaks onto an even more narrow, twisting trace with black lava flows on either side. If a man fell off his horse and landed in the malpais, the razor-sharp stuff might cut him up badly.
Sidewinders#2 Massacre At Whiskey Flats Page 20
