“What about Harvey?”
“A tinhorn. When shootin’ started, he run up the white flag.”
Murray tightened the rope and took another turn around him. “You nailed both Hess an’ Kaspar, huh? You must be pretty handy. Can’t say I mind about Bob Hess. He was troublesome.
“Bout as comfortable to be around as an irritated porcupine. But I better not tell the boss. He’d be apt to give you a gun so’s he could kill you proper.”
“Queen?”
“He’s a hand, Bowdrie. Don’t you forget it. To my thinkin’, he’s faster than Hardin or any of that bunch.”
The route took them down through a rocky gorge into a long valley in the hills. At the far end there was a cabin, corrals, and a barn.
John Queen came to the door with a sleepy-eyed man in a cowhide vest. “Got him, did you? What happened to Kaspar an’ Hess?”
Briefly Murray replied, and John Queen looked over at Bowdrie. “You should have killed him, I guess, but I needed to talk to him. Bring him inside.”
Jeanne Buck looked up as he came through the door with his hands tied behind him. Her lips tightened a little but she said nothing.
John Queen glanced at her. “Might as well settle down, miss. This here Ranger was tryin’ to play the hero, but he stubbed his toe.”
“Kill him,” the man in the cowhide vest said. “No use to feed him.”
“Ain’t always a good idea to kill a Ranger. Them other Rangers don’t take to it. They’ll hunt a man down if it takes a lifetime.”
“There ain’t none of them this side of Texas!” the other man protested.
“Are you sure?” Bowdrie said.
“Are you suggestin’ you weren’t over here alone?” John Queen demanded.
“Figure it out for yourself,” Bowdrie said.
“If you were a judge in Texas and your favorite niece was kidnapped, would you send only one Ranger?”
“If there’s more, why ain’t they with you?” Murray demanded.
Bowdrie shrugged. “I got here first, that was all. I picked up your trail pretty easy, but that gunplay in Flagstaff will draw them like flies. They’ll be all over this country, with all the local law helping them.”
He looked over at Queen. “It was a fool play, John. You should have read the record a little. Judge Whiting wears a brand anybody can read, and he wouldn’t ease up on a convicted man if you had his whole family. You’ve wasted your time.
“Also,” he added, “you’ve made enemies of a lot of folks who might have been sympathetic until you kidnapped this girl. You know yourself there’s mighty few outlaws will touch a woman, because they know what will happen. Well, you’ve got them down on you. There isn’t an outlaw hideout in the West would let you in on a bet.”
“Shut up, damn you!” Queen shouted, yet Bowdrie could see he was disturbed. He had acted in haste and now was repenting, although not at leisure. Queen had no way of knowing Bowdrie was acting alone and that he was the only Ranger who could be spared at the time.
“John?” he persisted. “Why don’t you take this rope off, give us our horses, and turn Miss Buck and me loose? This is a game you can’t win, so, being a good poker player, why don’t you chuck in your hand now, while you can?”
“Do you think I’m crazy?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out, John. Why buck a stacked deck?”
John Queen made no reply, although Murray looked at him, a question in his eyes.
Bowdrie looked around the room from the chair where they had tied him. A huge fireplace covered the north wall, flanked by a cupboard on each side. There were bunks against both the east and west walls. Navajo rugs lay on the floor, Navajo blankets on the bunks. A rifle stood near the door, another on nails over the fireplace.
Jeanne sat on a bunk near the fireplace and Jake Murray sprawled on a bunk across from her. John Queen sat in a chair where he could watch the door, a big man, sullen now, in a black-and-gray-plaid shirt, staring into the distance.
The messenger from town was outside somewhere with Eberhardt and Peters, the man in the cowhide vest.
Murray sat up. “Seen a buck down by the stream when I rode in. I’m hungry for venison, so I’ll have a try for him before it gets dark.”
Queen made no reply. That he was worried was obvious. He did not like the thought that more Rangers might be coming, and he recognized the truth of what Bowdrie had said. Even outlaws were wary of annoying women, and in kidnapping Jeanne Buck he had transgressed an unwritten law. At the moment, he had thought only of saving Damon.
Jeanne’s eye caught that of Bowdrie. Her hand was toying with the poker and she lifted it, showing a red-hot tip. Then she took her handkerchief from her pocket and threw it into the fire. At the smell of burning cloth, Queen looked around irritably.
“It’s just my handkerchief. It was too dirty to keep. Next time one of your boys goes into town, he can buy some for me.”
“You think that’s all we got to do? Run errands for you?”
“You asked for it!” Jeanne replied. Queen gave her an angry glance, then resumed staring out the door.
Bowdrie’s heart was pounding heavily. Her strategy was shrewd and evident enough now. With the smell of burning cloth in the room, Queen might not notice burning rope. Lifting the poker, she held it at arm’s length to burn the ropes that bound Bowdrie’s hands.
The smell of burning rope was in the room mingled with that of the handkerchief, but Queen, in a brown study, was unaware.
Desperately Chick worked at the ropes.
Queen suddenly shifted on his chair and glanced at them, but Jeanne had the poker back in the fire.
“Light a lamp,” he said to her.
“It’s getting’ dark in here.”
Jeanne got to her feet and had just lighted the lamp and was still holding it when Eberhardt loomed in the doorway. He sniffed suspiciously.
“Smells like burnt rope,” he said. “What’s goin’ on?”
“Rope?” John Queen was suddenly alert. “Rope!”
Jeanne turned and threw the lamp at Eberhardt. He threw up a protecting arm, and the lamp shattered and he was drenched with blazing oil. He sprang back, cursing, and Chick lunged to his feet. How much the ropes had burned, he had no idea, but it was now, if ever. With a tremendous heave he felt the ropes give way as Queen turned on him.
With a quick motion of his foot he kicked the chair against Queen’s legs, and the big man went down with a crash. Ripping the burned ropes from his hands, he sprang for his guns, but Queen grabbed his ankle and he fell against the bunk. Queen leaped at him, but he rolled away and came to his feet.
The big man was just as quick. As he struggled erect, he swung a powerful right that knocked Bowdrie back against the cupboard, but as he followed it in, Bowdrie kicked him in the stomach and drove him into the corner. They both came to their feet, and Bowdrie swung a left and right into the big man’s midsection as they came together, then hooked a right to his ear.
There was a yell from outside, and Jeanne caught up the rifle near the door. She fired, and there was a cry of pain and shock from outside. Chick smashed Queen back with driving rights and lefts, taking a wicked blow on the cheekbone that staggered him, but he slashed a cut under Queen’s eye with a lancing left.
Queen lunged at him, but Chick toed the chair in his path again and the big man went over it to the floor.
But the big gunman was tough; he came up off the floor.
Bowdrie’s knee flattened his nose, and he went down again.
Grabbing for his guns. Chick swung them about his hips and drew the buckle together. He sprang to the side of the door.
“Where are they?” he asked.
“Eberhardt’s in the barn, but he’s burned pretty bad. Peters is out there with a rifle. I either wounded him or scared him.”
It was dark now. Edging to the side of the door, Bowdrie ducked out the door, pulling Jeanne after him. They ran around the corner of the house. It
was only a few feet to the corral where the horses were.
“You run for it,” Chick whispered. “I’ll cover you!”
Jeanne dashed for the pole corral, out of the line of fire from either the barn window or door. Chick took a quick shot through each as the girl dashed, then thumbed shells into his gun. He heard John Queen moving inside, and ducked for the corral himself.
The roan was standing ready, and he threw his saddle on the horse, then saddled the gray for Jeanne. Somebody fired from the barn, but the bullet did not reach them. As he saddled the gray, he heard Queen trip and fall and heard him swear. They had a moment, at best.
As he led the horses out of the back gate, the man in the cowhide vest sprinted for the cabin. Letting him take two steps to get into the open, Bowdrie cut him down.
“We’ve got to circle around,” Jeanne said as they swung into their saddles.
“No, we’re going over the rim!”
“It can’t be done! I heard Murray say so!”
“That’s what they think!” He led the way into the trees. Ever since he had sat against the rock studying the country, he had begun to think there was something familiar about it. The trouble was, he had never seen it from that side before.
Winding through a maze of crag like rocks, he led the way to a rocky shelf, then rode straight at the edge. It dropped away into a black chasm.
“You’ll have to lead your horse and feel your way. I’m goin’ ahead. Once on this ledge, I think my horse will remember. He used to run wild in this country. I was here four years ago.”
Leading the roan, he started down the trail. The roan snorted a couple of times but followed along, stepping carefully like the true mountain horse he was. Keeping one hand on the rock beside her, Jeanne followed.
They were halfway down when from above they heard somebody stumble and swear, then say, “Where d’you suppose they got to?”
For two days they rode steadily east, and Bowdrie kept an eye on his back trail. John Queen was not a man to take a licking and like it.
They were making camp on the Pecos when the time came. Jeanne was bending over the fire and Bowdrie was rigging a crude shelter. It thundered, and Bowdrie glanced at the sky.
“Better get inside,” he suggested.
“Let her wait and see this.” John Queen stepped from the dark.
Chick Bowdrie walked away from the shelter. The drops were falling now, falling faster.
“You came a long way, John,” he said. “You’d better call it off and ride back. I’ve got Jeanne Buck and I am taking her home. Damon Queen will be sentenced no matter what you do.”
“I’ll kill you,” Queen said, “at the next crack of thunder.”
Lightning flashed and thunder followed. Chick had been noticing the interval. Which of them drew faster, he never knew. He fired and saw Queen start toward him, but Chick Bowdrie fired his gun in a steady roll of sound, then did a border switch, tossing the right and empty gun to the left hand, the left-hand gun to the right.
Lightning flashed again, and Queen seemed to be no more than fifteen feet away. Bowdrie fired, and the big man went to his knees, struggled to rise, and went down again, sprawling on his face against the grassy slope.
Chick stared down at him, astonished. In a flash of lightning he saw five holes in the big man’s vest. Five through the body, and he had kept on coming!
Turning, Bowdrie started back to the shelter, then slipped and fell. That was odd. Puzzled, he stared at the ground, then pushed himself up and staggered erect. He managed two staggering steps, then fell on his face.
When he opened his eyes, it was light. He blinked at the brightness of the light, then turned his head.
“Chick? Are you all right?”
He stared at the worried eyes. “I guess so. What happened?”
“You killed John Queen, then you passed out. You have a hole through your thigh and another through the muscles atop your shoulder. You’ve lost quite a lot of blood.”
“And you’ve been caring for me?”
“Not exactly,” she confessed, “although I helped.”
“You mean that lazy Ranger has finally got himself awake?” Rip Coker thrust his head into the shelter.
“McNelly was afraid you might need help, so when I finished that job in Tascosa, he sent me to look after you.
“Bowdrie, you disappoint me. Only five men? You must be losin’ your grip!”
“Shucks,” Bowdrie said lazily, “if I’d had another girl like Jeanne along, there wouldn’t have been anything for me to do!”
He frowned suddenly. “Whatever happened to Jake Murray?”
“He went after that deer,” Jeanne said, “and he never came back.”
“It was him told me where you’d be,” Coker said.
“I met him down the trail and he spotted me for a Ranger. He said you wouldn’t need any help, but I’d find you up here.”
“That all he said?”
“He just said, “Enough is enough, and I’ve never been to Oregon.”
There was a silence, and then Bowdrie smiled. “Rip, I’m glad you came along. Somebody has to take our horses back to Texas, and me being wounded like I am, I’ll just have to ride back to Texas on the train, with Jeanne.”
“That’s just like him,” Coker said, pretending disgust.
“He’s ridin’ the cushions while I hit the saddle! He’s nothin’ but a red-plush Ranger, after all!”
THE OUTLAWS OF POPLAR CREEK
Moby Fosdick kept the trading post at Lee’s Canyon, and Moby was a hard man. It took a man with a cold eye and a ready hand to do business in the Poplar Creek country, and Moby had been there a long time. The store was a low-roofed building built in a hollow of the hills just below the falls of Poplar Creek. Lee’s Canyon, narrow and rockwalled, was mostly uphill until within two hundred yards of the trading post. Then it topped a rise and the trail slid down into the hollow with a creek to the north. From the store you could hear the roar of the falls, perhaps a quarter of a mile away.
If you just rode up to the post, did your buying and then rode away, you would believe there was only one way in and one way out, both along the Lee’s Canyon trail. A knowing man could tell you there were at least two other trails out of the hollow and into the badlands. One led through a crevice in the rock wall, invisible until close up, an opening that barely allowed room for a man on a horse. If it were a heavy horse, the rider might have to push one stirrup well forward to slip through.
Across the wide spread of Poplar Creek the rock wall reared up for about three hundred feet, but downstream there was a gravel beach perhaps ten feet long. Moby had often wondered about that beach. He was an old Indian fighter with an eye for terrain, and it looked like water had been running down through some crack in the wall after heavy rains, but no opening could be seen. Moby planned to someday build a boat and have a look over there. If there was an opening it would be another way out. Busy around the place and with occasional customers, he just never found the time, but it lingered there, in the back of his mind.
The second of the unseen paths was up the face of the cliff itself, the trail beginning among some poplars across the hollow and maybe a half-mile from the post. It wound up the cliff, always hidden behind juniper and ponderosa pine. Fosdick knew the trails, and the wild bunch knew them. At the head of the cliff trail on a little plateau there was a cave. Once, during an Indian attack when Jerry and Lily Fosdick were youngsters, they had holed up there with Moby and two other men until the attack was over. Moby had windows overlooking the trail from either side, and nobody could enter the hollow without being seen.
So when the rider on the strawberry roan topped the rise from Del Rio, he saw him. His hard old eyes narrowed with speculation as they watched the shambling, loose-gaited stride of the roan. The rider was a stranger. Few travelers came by way of Lee’s Canyon, and most sought to avoid it. Nobody knew where the Tucker gang holed up, but there were rumors. Fosdick knew the wild bunch but
he also knew most of the hands who worked on ranches west of him. The rider wearing the black fiat-crowned hat was nobody he remembered seeing before.
Fosdick strode to the door and shaded his eyes against the setting sun. The trail was empty. He looked off to the south and the hidden road. Nobody there, either. The stranger was drawing near. Moby took in the dark, Indian-like face and the two guns. Not many men carried two guns in sight. A lot of them had a hideout. He glanced at the rider’s face as he stepped down from the saddle. There was something about that still, emotionless face that gave him a little chill.
He had known this time would come and now he had a decision to make. He had expected it would come with a dozen hard-riding men, not a lone horseman on a wicked-looking hammerhead roan. He looked again. That was probably the ugliest, meanest-looking horse he had ever seen. “Howdy! How about some grub?”
“Come in! Come in! Lily, set another place. We’ve got company!” Fosdick turned back to the rider. “You can wash up right outside the door there. Fresh towel an’ soap. Put it out m’self, not an hour ago.” He glanced at the roan. “I’ll take your hoss around an’ give him some hay.” He paused. “Shall I take the hull off him or will you be ridin’ on?”
“If you’ve room, I’ll stay the night.” The rider looked at Moby. “Treat that horse gentle-like, and be careful. He both kicks and bites on occasion. Give him the hay first so he’ll know you’re friendly.”
Fosdick walked to the barn with the roan. Well, that settled it. Hell would break loose now and Jerry would be caught right in the middle. To protect his son he would have to warn the whole Tucker gang.
Jake Rasch in the shadows of the stable. His standing was ,greasy, unshaved face was suspicious. “Who’s that in yonder? I seen him ride up an’ figured I’d better play possum.”
“Hit the trail, Jake. You get to Shad Tucker as quick as you can make it. Tell him there’s a traveler down here who looks like a Ranger, and he looks pretty salty.”
“One man?” Rasch sneered. “What’s one Ranger goin’ to do with all of us? Even with one of us?”
“You ain’t seen him,” Fosdick said dryly. “This gent’s got the bark on! Rough! I can tell! You look into those black eyes and it’s like lookin’ into two six-shooters with the hammers drawed back.”
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