Trumbauer beamed on him. “Py golly, it was a close shave, ain’t it?”
“As close as I want. Did the robbers get anything?”
Enright answered. “No they didn’t—thanks to you. They had a gunny sack filled, but the jigger that was totin’ it dropped it just outside the bank. If you hadn’t busted up the party there would ‘a’ been a lot of punchers without pay. Bob, I reckon it’s about time I turned my wolf loose, ain’t it?”
“Not yet, Frank. Wait until I’m up. I want you to realize that this cleanup will be something other than a mad dash into the hills. It’s got to be planned, and every detail thought out in advance. And furthermore, we must not let a word of it get around until we’re ready to spring the trap. Don’t talk, not even to your own men.”
Enright sighed resignedly. “Well, hurry up and get well then.”
“Sure!” echoed Trumbauer. “And in the meanwhile, ve our guns vill be bolishing, not?”
His visitors finally left and June removed the pillows from behind him. Bob’s eyes closed wearily. “I shore am a bother to you.”
“You’re no such thing!” June was still protesting when he fell asleep.
The sun had gone down when he awoke again, to find little Doc Witherspoon in the room. From the kitchen came various savory aromas.
“Hello, Doc,” said Bob. “When are you goin’ to let me eat a real meal?”
The other eyed him keenly, took his temperature, felt his pulse.
“You have the constitution of a mule,” the little doctor said almost complainingly. “I’ll have to let you eat or you’ll go on a rampage. Sit up now and I’ll dress that wound.”
“How long will I be laid up?”
“At the present rate of mend you’ll be on your feet in two days. I know now why they use so many forty-fives out here. They have to put a hole as big as a rabbit burrow in you cowboys to keep you down.”
June brought Bob his supper—quite a substantial one after the broth—and when he had finished eating he felt so strong that he cautiously sat up, dropped his feet to the floor, and attempted to stand. The effort was a failure, and he reluctantly sank back on the bed. He concluded that he had lost a lot of blood, but knew that rest and the proper food would soon remedy that.
June returned for the dishes, straightened his covers, and, bidding him good-night, extinguished the light and left the room. Bob lay there in the dark, thinking. Dick had put him here, but he felt no resentment. Friendship tested over a period of years is not so easily destroyed. This had been the act of a Dick temporarily irresponsible, a youth crazed with fear and remorse and the shame of having had his wrong-doing discovered by the girl he loved. Bob liked to think that even in such desperate straits Dick had not tried to kill him. It would have been simple at that short range to place a bullet between his eyes or in some other vital spot.
His thin blood burned hotly at thought of the men behind Dick’s criminal act. He remembered the conversations between Markley and the suave Duke Haslam. Had Duke let the boy alone, he would now be riding on the side of the law instead of against it. Just as surely as Haslem controlled the trigger finger which had sent John Rutherford to eternity, did he direct the shot that had nearly made Dick a murderer. There in the darkness Bob swore again to stamp out forever Duke Haslam, Kurt Dodd, and the whole wicked gang they dominated.
A slight sound at one of the windows caught his attention. The sash had been raised, and through the opening came a sharp whisper. “Bob!”
“Who is it?” Unconsciously Bob lowered his own voice.
“Dick. I’m comin’ in.”
Bob heard the scrape of Dick’s boots against the window casing, followed by soft footfalls. The next moment, Markley was kneeling beside the bed, a vague shape in the darkness. His eager hands found Bob’s arm, gripped it with crushing, nervous intensity.
“Bob, old son! How you makin’ it?”
“Fine, Dick.” Bob’s voice was light and he was grinning in the darkness. “You’re a hell of a shot.”
“Bob, I never meant to do it. I swear that hammer slipped from under my thumb! It was a new gun, and the spring was stiff. I slewed it off to one side, but when I saw you fall I thought shore I’d killed you.”
“Nobody but you and June and I know,” said Bob quietly. “I was unconscious and couldn’t give you away, and June wouldn’t.”
He heard the young fellow utter a gasp of glad surprise. “Nobody knows it? She didn’t tell?”
“No.”
He could feel Dick trembling. Markley got to his feet and stood by the bed, taut in every muscle. “She shielded me! Even after—after—! Bob, do you know what that means?” His voice was vibrant with emotion.
“I reckon it means that she—cares for you.” Bob winced as he said it, but in the darkness Dick could not see.
“It cain’t mean anything else! Bob, I’m nearly crazy! Ever since I saw her that day I’ve loved her. And I doubted, Bob. Even though I played the game like I was shore of myself, I doubted. But she must love me. She must!”
Bob spoke almost fiercely. “Dick, you’ve got to quit this thing! Now! Before it’s too late. For her sake you got to quit.”
Dick stiffened. A crack of light had appeared at the bottom of the closed door. “Somebody’s comin’,” he said.
“Take it easy. Remember, nobody knows. You’re in the clear, boy.”
“That’s right.” Markley seated himself on the edge of the bed. Soft footfalls sounded in the hall.
“Who is it?” asked Bob.
The door opened and June Tomlinson, a lighted lamp in her hand, entered. Her gaze fell on Dick and for a moment she stood regarding him, eyes wide with surprise; then she softly closed the door.
“I had to come,” Dick told her simply. “I wanted to tell Bob that it was an accident. He jumped toward me, and the hammer slipped from under my thumb. I’ve been waitin’ outside ever since dark for a chance to slip in and tell him about it.”
“I’m glad, Dick,” she said quietly. “I felt that it must have been unintentional. I didn’t see how it could be otherwise, after the years—”
“Yes, I know. I reckon you think I’m a skunk, June. But I’ll make up for it! I swear I will!”
June placed the lamp on a table and seated herself by him on the edge of the bed. “Then you must begin at once, Dick. Quit this bunch you are running with. Become a deputy under Bob, or take a place on our spread. Both of us want to help you.”
Dick’s shoulders drooped and he stared moodily at the floor. “Sometimes a fella gets in so deep—”
“Never too deep to pull out, Dick.” She placed an encouraging hand on his arm. “Especially with friends who want to help.”
He slowly straightened and a look of determination came into his face.
“You’re right. It’s not too late.” He got to his feet. “Take care of yoreself, Bob. June, look after him. I’m leavin’.” He started toward the window, but June stopped him.
“You can go out the regular way, Dick. Father is in bed, and he doesn’t know anyhow.”
Dick followed her from the room. When she entered the living room she placed the lamp on the table and followed him to the gallery. There he turned and gripped her hand almost fiercely.
“June, I shore cain’t tell you what I think of you for shieldin’ me. But I’ll never forget it; never!”
“Prove it to me, Dick.”
He nodded somberly. “I will. Good-night, June girl.”
Descending the steps, he circled the house to where he had left his horse. He was elated, lifted above himself, enthralled. June must love him, he told himself; unbelievable as it seemed, she must care for him. If he only had enough money! He dismissed the subject with a sharp frown and turned his horse toward Lariat. At the moment he felt very confident, entirely sure of himself.
It was late when he reached town, but lights still shone in the Paris. Dick dismounted outside the place and pushed through the swing doors. He saw Duke Hasla
m lounging at the end of the bar, a cigar between his thick lips. Dick went directly to him.
“Want to talk with you, Duke,” he said shortly.
Haslam frowned. “This isn’t the wisest thing to do,” he complained. “Go into the office through the diningroom, and be sure nobody sees you.”
Dick sauntered out and through the deserted lobby and dining-room. He stood in the dark office until Haslam arrived and lighted the lamp.
“Duke, I’m through.”
Haslam straightened and eyed him coldly. “So?” he said. “Sit down.”
“I don’t want to sit down. I’m through. You heard me. It’s no use tryin’ to talk me out of it.”
“So you don’t want that ten thousand after all?”
“I want it bad enough, but I’m goin’ to get along without it.” Dick spoke fiercely. “Haslam, I shot Bob Lee last night; left him for dead. That he’s livin’ is no fault of mine. But he refused to tell who did it; he protected me, and so did Miss June.”
“And for that reason you’ve decided to quit.”
“Yes.”
Haslam’s face went hard. “You’re crazy as hell! Through? You’re just beginning! You took my money and you contracted to take more of it. Well, you’re living up to your agreement.”
“Yeah?” Dick’s face went ugly too. “I’d like to see you make me.”
“I intend to.” Haslam eyed him scornfully. “I told you I’m running this show. You’re taking orders, not giving them. Remember that pay-roll messenger of Rutherford’s—old Charley Boggs, who was shot on the trail and robbed? Well, I hold your signed confession to that job.”
Dick stared at him. “Are you loco?”
“No; just cautious. That receipt you signed—remember? The paper was folded so that you read only a part of it. The part you didn’t read consists of your confession.”
“Why damn yore soul, Haslam! I’ll kill you for that!”
Duke’s voice was contemptuous. “No you won’t. That paper will come to light if anything happens to me. They’d string you higher than a kite. What chance would you have with June Tomlinson then?”
Dick glared at him. “You keep her name out of it!”
“Sure.” Haslam quite suddenly changed. He laughed. “Forget it, kid. Sit down; I want to talk with you. No use bucking against the snubbing post; you’re thrown and hog-tied and may as well make the most of it. I got some plans that will earn you and me both some money. And that’s the keynote of success, Dick—money. With it you can buy anything from a pair of socks to a woman’s honor. Believe me, they don’t say no when you wave a bundle of banknotes under their noses, or shake a poke of gold pieces at them!
“What chance do you stand with any girl as long as you are poor? Get the dough! Feather your nest while you’re young and healthy, and live long to enjoy it afterwards! Come on; sit down. Try some of that whisky. It’s a special brand guaranteed to brighten your outlook on life.”
Dick, still scowling uncertainly, sat down. He drank, and he drank again. Haslam saw to it that the special brand which so improved one’s outlook was not spared. And under the mellowing influence of the liquor and the persuasive, oily tongue of Duke Haslam, Dick’s good resolutions melted away to nothingness, and when at last he walked unsteadily from the office, one arm was about Haslam’s shoulders and he was more deeply involved than ever.
CHAPTER X
THE FIRST LINK
ONE week later, Bob and his three deputies rode from the Tumbling T and headed for the hills behind the Kady. Each carried a Winchester in the saddle boot and a blanket roll behind the cantle. Preparations for the big drive were under way.
They swung across the rangeland at a smart foxtrot, passing in time the north corner of the Tumbling T and that part of the Kady lying between them and their destination. Presently they entered the arroyo which served as an entrance to the hills, and pulled their mounts to a walk.
“Haven’t seen Dick lately,” said Ace suddenly. “Wonder where he’s keepin’ himself.”
“Haven’t seen Kurt Dodd either, or Bradshaw,” said Deuce. “Funny how they never show up in town when things are quiet.”
“They ees not need w’at you call the abblebi,” offered Joe.
“Apple pie?”
“No, no! W’at you say w’en you are some place where you ain’t?”
“Oh; you mean alibi!”
“Funny about Dick,” persisted Ace. “He might have dropped in at the Tumblin’ T to see how Bob was gettin’ along.” He slanted a sidelong glance at their leader. Ace remembered Bob’s evasion when asked who had wounded him.
“He did stop in,” Bob told them. “The night after I was shot. You and Joe had gone. Reckon I forgot to mention it.... Well, let’s get down to business. When we reach the rock basin Ace and I found, we’ll separate and each take a set of tracks and run them down. If you come across a park with stock in it, draw a map locatin’ it, together with landmarks. Then find the way out of the hills from that park.”
“Suppose we draw a blank?” asked Deuce.
“When you’re sure it is a blank, return to the basin and take another set. There must be a dozen leadin’ from that place. When they’re all run down, go to Lariat and wait for the rest of us.”
“Speakin’ about not bein’ in town,” said Deuce, “I noticed that Pete Grubb has vamosed. If he’s joined up with Dodd and we catch him, we might squeeze some information out of him. He’s a weak sister.”
Bob nodded his agreement, and they rode on. Presently they came to the little park where Bob and Ace had found the branding fire, scouted it, and continued their way to the rocky basin. Here they separated, each taking to one of the diverging gullies. Bob turned into the draw he had previously followed, remembering that the red-headed man and his companion had left the park where he had surprised them by a trail which as yet he had not explored.
He finally reached the place, to discover that the cattle had been moved. Further investigation showed the cabin to be deserted and the pole corral empty. Here was ample grazing and a spring of good water, so Bob picketed his horse and ate a cold lunch. Finished, he produced paper and pencil and carefully mapped his progress to this point, then repacked and resaddled and continued his course.
He found the trail over which the red-head and his companion had left the park: a wide path now liberally marked with cattle sign. Bob soon discovered that the usual procedure of cutting out some of the bunch at each intersecting lateral had been followed, but refused to be diverted from the main trail. Even after all tracks had vanished, he stuck to his course, bringing up finally in a box canyon from which there was no outlet. He wasted the rest of the afternoon searching for a hidden exit, being forced in the end to camp for the night.
At daybreak he retraced his course to the last turning off point, and followed the dim tracks into an arroyo. After many turnings and twistings, each of which he marked on the map, he came, abruptly as was usual, to another park.
Like the first, this was bare of man or beast; but with ample evidence of recent occupation by both. Here, too, was a crudely built shack and a pole stock corral. A fresh cattle trail led through another draw. Bob judged that he was now in the very heart of the hills.
He had not gone very far when he received the distinct impression that he was being followed. Coming to a bend in the trail, he rounded it and pulled his horse to a stop behind a clump of bowlders. Nobody appeared, and at last he resumed his way.
The uneasy feeling persisted, however, and when at last he heard the sharp report of a rifle somewhere behind him he instinctively ducked. There came a second shot, and then a third, but no accompanying whine of lead.
Bob returned to the bowlders where he had waited, and, dismounting, proceeded on foot to the bend in the trail. Peering cautiously from behind a rock he saw four horsemen approaching at a slow walk. Bob returned to his horse, mounted, and rode rapidly onward.
For some time past he had noticed the absence of lateral passag
es. The cattle trail extended in a broad, plainly marked, hoof-scarred path which no amount of ingenuity could conceal. The lack of branching ravines permitted Bob no opportunity to escape his pursuers by leaving the main trail. The sides of the gorge were too steep for a horse to negotiate, and all he could do was press onward in the hope of eventually striking an intersecting arroyo.
The path began a gradual descent, twisting with the convolutions of the hills and narrowing until cattle must have traveled through it no more than four abreast. A final turn and Bob involuntarily reined in.
Before him spread still another of these hidden parks, but many times larger than any of those he had previously encountered. Cattle by the hundreds browsed contentedly, and off to the right of the entrance was a long log cabin from the chimney of which smoke issued. Bob wheeled his horse intending to jump him back into the security of the passage he had just left.
He never reached his goal. A rope swished, and its noose circled his body, binding his arms to his sides. Desperately he strained against the hemp, managing to get his fingers on his gun, half drawing it from the holster. Then another rope settled over the first and he was almost jerked from the saddle as the slack was taken up.
“All right, Pete; git his gun,” came the command, and when Bob turned his head to eye the speaker he recognized the short, stocky red-headed man with the dirty calfskin vest. He was standing atop a bowlder at one side of the entrance. Near him, holding an end of one of the ropes, was a long-faced melancholy appearing man. Glancing in the opposite direction, Bob saw two more. One was the stoop-shouldered ex-sheriff, Pete Grubb.
The latter shuffled forward a bit sheepishly at the red-head’s command and jerked the sixgun from Bob’s holster.
“Hello, Mouldy,” said Bob coolly. “Looks like you got mixed up with bad company. Or have you belonged to this outfit right along?”
“Shut yore mouth, you!” ordered the red-head. “Go ahead, Pete; git that rifle too.” Then, when his command had been obeyed, “Give him some slack. Pete, held that hawss of his’n.”
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