Gunsight Pass

by Raine, William MacLeod

  "Oh, well, that's different. I'll put it up to the boys."

  Three hours later the wheels were once more moving eastward. Dave had had the calves roped down to the feed-racks above the cars.

  CHAPTER XI

  THE NIGHT CLERK GETS BUSY PRONTO

  The stars were out long before Dave's train drew into the suburbs of Denver. It crawled interminably through squalid residence sections, warehouses, and small manufactories, coming to a halt at last in a wilderness of tracks on the border of a small, narrow stream flowing sluggishly between wide banks cut in the clay.

  Dave swung down from the caboose and looked round in the dim light for the stockyards engine that was to pick up his cars and run them to the unloading pens. He moved forward through the mud, searching the semi-darkness for the switch engine. It was nowhere to be seen.

  He returned to the caboose. The conductor and brakemen were just leaving.

  "My engine's not here. Some one must 'a' slipped up on his job, looks like. Where are the stockyards?" Sanders asked.

  The conductor was a small, middle-aged man who made it his business to get along with everybody he could. He had distinctly refused to pick up his predecessor's quarrel with Dave. Now he stopped and scratched his head.

  "Too bad. Can't you go uptown and 'phone out to the stockyards? Or if you want to take a street-car out there you'll have time to hop one at Stout Street. Last one goes about midnight."

  In those days the telephone was not a universal necessity. Dave had never used one and did not know how to get his connection. He spent several minutes ringing up, shouting at the operator, and trying to understand what she told him. He did not shout at the girl because he was annoyed. His idea was that he would have to speak loud to have his voice carry. At last he gave up, hot and perspiring from the mental exertion.

  Outside the drug-store he just had time to catch the last stockyards car.

  His watch told him that it was two minutes past twelve.

  He stepped forty-five minutes later into an office in which sat two men with their feet on a desk. The one in his shirt-sleeves was a smug, baldish young man with clothes cut in the latest mode. He was rather heavy-set and looked flabby. The other man appeared to be a visitor.

  "This the office of the Denver Terminal Stockyards Company?" asked Dave.

  The clerk looked the raw Arizonan over from head to foot and back again.

  The judgment that he passed was indicated by the tone of his voice.

  "Name's on the door, ain't it?" he asked superciliously.

  "You in charge here?"

  The clerk was amused, or at least took the trouble to seem so. "You might think so, mightn't you?"

  "Are you in charge?" asked Dave evenly.

  "Maybeso. What you want?"

  "I asked you if you was runnin' this office."

  "Hell, yes! What're your eyes for?"

  The clerk's visitor sniggered.

  "I've got a train of cattle on the edge of town," explained Dave. "The stockyards engine didn't show up."

  "Consigned to us?"

  "To the Denver Terminal Stockyards Company."

  "Name of shipper?"

  "West Cattle Company and Henry B. West."

  "All right. I'll take care of 'em." The clerk turned back to his friend. His manner dismissed the cowpuncher. "And she says to me, 'I'd love to go with you, Mr. Edmonds; you dance like an angel.' Then I says—"

  "When?" interrupted Dave calmly, but those who knew him might have guessed his voice was a little too gentle.

  "I says, 'You're some little kidder,' and—"

  "When?"

  The man who danced like an angel turned halfway round, and looked at the cowboy over his shoulder. He was irritated.

  "When what?" he snapped.

  "When you goin' to onload my stock?"

  "In the morning."

  "No, sir. You'll have it done right now. That stock has been more'n two days without water."

  "I'm not responsible for that."

  "No, but you'll be responsible if the train ain't onloaded now," said

  Dave.

  "It won't hurt 'em to wait till morning."

  "That's where you're wrong. They're sufferin'. All of 'em are alive now, but they won't all be by mo'nin' if they ain't 'tended to."

  "Guess I'll take a chance on that, since you say it's my responsibility," replied the clerk impudently.

  "Not none," announced the man from Arizona. "You'll get busy pronto."

  "Say, is this my business or yours?"

  "Mine and yours both."

  "I guess I can run it. If I need any help from you I'll ask for it. Watch me worry about your old cows. I have guys coming in here every day with hurry-up tales about how their cattle won't live unless I get a wiggle on me. I notice they all are able to take a little nourishment next day all right, all right."

  Dave caught at the gate of the railing which was between him and the night clerk. He could not find the combination to open it and therefore vaulted over. He caught the clerk back of the neck by the collar and jounced him up and down hard in his chair.

  "You're asleep," he explained. "I got to waken you up before you can sabe plain talk."

  The clerk looked up out of a white, frightened face. "Say, don't do that.

  I got heart trouble," he said in a voice dry as a whisper.

  "What about that onloadin' proposition?" asked the Arizonan.

  "I'll see to it right away."

  Presently the clerk, with a lantern in his hand, was going across to the railroad tracks in front of Dave. He had quite got over the idea that this lank youth was a safe person to make sport of.

  They found the switch crew in the engine of the cab playing seven-up.

  "Got a job for you. Train of cattle out at the junction," the clerk said, swinging up to the cab.

  The men finished the hand and settled up, but within a few minutes the engine was running out to the freight train.

  Day was breaking before Dave tumbled into bed. He had left a call with the clerk to be wakened at noon. When the bell rang, it seemed to him that he had not been asleep five minutes.

  After he had eaten at the stockyards hotel he went out to have a look at his stock. He found that on the whole the cattle had stood the trip well. While he was still inspecting them a voice boomed at him a question.

  "Well, young fellow, are you satisfied with all the trouble you've made me?"

  He turned, to see standing before him the owner of the Fifty-Four Quarter

  Circle brand. The boy's surprise fairly leaped from his eyes.

  "Didn't expect to see me here, I reckon," the cattleman went on. "Well, I hopped a train soon as I got yore first wire. Spill yore story, young man."

  Dave told his tale, while the ranchman listened in grim silence. When Sanders had finished, the owner of the stock brought a heavy hand down on his shoulder approvingly.

  "You can ship cattle for me long as you've a mind to, boy. You fought for that stock like as if it had been yore own. You'll do to take along."

  Dave flushed with boyish pleasure. He had not known whether the cattleman would approve what he had done, and after the long strain of the trip this endorsement of his actions was more to him than food or drink.

  "They say I'm kinda stubborn. I didn't aim to lie down and let those guys run one over me," he said.

  "Yore stubbornness is money in my pocket. Do you want to go back and ride for the Fifty-Four Quarter Circle?"

  "Maybe, after a while, Mr. West. I got business in Denver for a few days."

  The cattleman smiled. "Most of my boys have when they hit town, I notice."

  "Mine ain't that kind. I reckon it's some more stubbornness," explained

  Dave.

  "All right. When you've finished that business I can use you."

  If Dave could have looked into the future he would have known that the days would stretch into months and the months to years before his face would turn toward ranch life again.


  CHAPTER XII

  THE LAW PUZZLES DAVE

  Dave knew he was stubborn. Not many men would have come on such a wild-goose chase to Denver in the hope of getting back a favorite horse worth so little in actual cash. But he meant to move to his end intelligently.

  If Miller and Doble were in the city they would be hanging out at some saloon or gambling-house. Once or twice Dave dropped in to Chuck Weaver's place, where the sporting men from all over the continent inevitably drifted when in Denver. But he had little expectation of finding the men he wanted there. These two rats of the underworld would not attempt to fleece keen-eyed professionals. They would prey on the unsophisticated.

  His knowledge of their habits took him to that part of town below Lawrence Street. While he chatted with his foot on the rail, a glass of beer in front of him, he made inconspicuous inquiries of bartenders. It did not take him long to strike the trail.

  "Two fellows I knew in the cattle country said they were comin' to

  Denver. Wonder if they did. One of 'em's a big fat guy name o'

  Miller—kinda rolls when he walks. Other's small and has a glass eye.

  Called himself George Doble when I knew him."

  "Come in here 'most every day—both of 'em. Waitin' for the Festival of Mountain and Plain to open up. Got some kinda concession. They look to yours truly like—"

  The bartender pulled himself up short and began polishing the top of the bar vigorously. He was a gossipy soul, and more than once his tongue had got him into trouble.

  "You was sayin'—" suggested the cowboy.

  "—that they're good spenders, as the fellow says," amended the bartender, to be on the safe side.

  "When I usta know 'em they had a mighty cute little trick pony—name was

  Chiquito, seems to me. Ever hear 'em mention it?"

  "They was fussin' about that horse to-day. Seems they got an offer for him and Doble wants to sell. Miller he says no."

  "Yes?"

  "I'll tell 'em a friend asked for 'em. What name?"

  "Yes, do. Jim Smith."

  "The fat old gobbler's liable to drop in any time now."

  This seemed a good reason to Mr. Jim Smith, alias David Sanders, for dropping out. He did not care to have Miller know just yet who the kind friend was that had inquired for him.

  But just as he was turning away a word held him for a moment. The discretion of the man in the apron was not quite proof against his habit of talk.

  "They been quarrelin' a good deal together. I expect the combination is about ready to bust up," he whispered confidentially.

  "Quarrelin'? What about?"

  "Oh, I dunno. They act like they're sore as a boil at each other. Honest, I thought they was goin' to mix it yesterday. I breezed up wit' a bottle an' they kinda cooled off."

  "Doble drunk?"

  "Nope. Fact is, they'd trimmed a Greeley boob and was rowin' about the split. Miller he claimed Doble held out on him. I'll bet he did too."

  Dave did not care how much they quarreled or how soon they parted after he had got back his horse. Until that time he preferred that they would give him only one trail to follow instead of two.

  The cowpuncher made it his business to loaf on Larimer Street for the rest of the day. His beat was between Fifteenth and Sixteenth Streets, usually on the other side of the road from the Klondike Saloon.

  About four o'clock his patience was rewarded. Miller came rolling along in a sort of sailor fashion characteristic of him. Dave had just time to dive into a pawnbroker's shop unnoticed.

  A black-haired, black-eyed salesman came forward to wait on him. The puncher cast an eye helplessly about him. It fell on a suitcase.

  "How much?" he asked.

  "Seven dollars. Dirt sheap, my frient."

  "Got any telescope grips?"

  The salesman produced one. Dave bought it because he did not know how to escape without.

  He carried it with him while he lounged up and down the sidewalk waiting for Miller to come out of the Klondike. When the fat gambler reappeared, the range-rider fell in behind him unobserved and followed uptown past the Tabor Opera House as far as California Street. Here they swung to the left to Fourteenth, where Miller disappeared into a rooming-house.

  The amateur detective turned back toward the business section. On the way he dropped guiltily the telescope grip into a delivery wagon standing in front of a grocery. He had no use for it, and he had already come to feel it a white elephant on his hands.

  With the aid of a city directory Dave located the livery stables within walking distance of the house where Miller was staying. Inspired perhaps by the nickel detective stories he had read, the cowboy bought a pair of blue goggles and a "store" collar. In this last, substituted for the handkerchief he usually wore loosely round his throat, the sleuth nearly strangled himself for lack of air. His inquiries at such stables as he found brought no satisfaction. Neither Miller nor the pinto had been seen at any of them.

  Later in the evening he met Henry B. West at the St. James Hotel.

  "How's that business of yore's gettin' along, boy?" asked the cattleman with a smile.

  "Don' know yet. Say, Mr. West, if I find a hawss that's been stole from me, how can I get it back?"

  "Some one steal a hawss from you?"

  Dave told his story. West listened to a finish.

  "I know a lawyer here. We'll ask him what to do," the ranchman said.

  They found the lawyer at the Athletic Club. West stated the case.

  "Your remedy is to replevin. If they fight, you'll have to bring witnesses to prove ownership."

  "Bring witnesses from Malapi! Why, I can't do that," said Dave, staggered. "I ain't got the money. Why can't I just take the hawss? It's mine."

  "The law doesn't know it's yours."

  Dave left much depressed. Of course the thieves would go to a lawyer, and of course he would tell them to fight. The law was a darned queer thing. It made the recovery of his property so costly that the crooks who stole it could laugh at him.

  "Looks like the law's made to protect scalawags instead of honest folks,"

  Dave told West.

  "I don't reckon it is, but it acts that way sometimes," admitted the cattleman. "You can see yoreself it wouldn't do for the law to say a fellow could get property from another man by just sayin' it was his. Sorry, Sanders. After all, a bronc's only a bronc. I'll give you yore pick of two hundred if you come back with me to the ranch."

  "Much obliged, seh. Maybe I will later."

  The cowpuncher walked the streets while he thought it over. He had no intention whatever of giving up Chiquito if he could find the horse. So far as the law went he was in a blind alley. He was tied hand and foot. That possession was nine points before the courts he had heard before.

  The way to recover flashed to his brain like a wave of light. He must get possession. All he had to do was to steal his own horse and make for the hills. If the thieves found him later—and the chances were that they would not even attempt pursuit if he let them know who he was—he would force them to the expense of going to law for Chiquito. What was sauce for the goose must be for the gander too.

  Dave's tramp had carried him across the Platte into North Denver. On his way back he passed a corral close to the railroad tracks. He turned in to look over the horses.

  The first one his eyes fell on was Chiquito.

  CHAPTER XIII

  FOR MURDER

  Dave whistled. The pony pricked up its ears, looked round, and came straight to him. The young man laid his face against the soft, silky nose, fondled it, whispered endearments to his pet. He put the bronco through its tricks for the benefit of the corral attendant.

  "Well, I'll be doggoned," that youth commented. "The little pinto sure is a wonder. Acts like he knows you mighty well."

  "Ought to. I trained him. Had him before Miller got him."

  "Bet you hated to sell him."

  "You know it." Dave moved forward to his end, th
e intention to get possession of the horse. He spoke in a voice easy and casual. "Saw Miller a while ago. They're talkin' about sellin' the paint hawss, him and his pardner Doble. I'm to saddle up and show what Chiquito can do."

  "Say, that's a good notion. If I was a buyer I'd pay ten bucks more after you'd put him through that circus stuff."

  "Which is Miller's saddle?" When it was pointed out to him, Dave examined it and pretended to disapprove. "Too heavy. Lend me a lighter one, can't you?"

  "Sure. Here's three or four. Help yourself."

  The wrangler moved into the stable to attend to his work.

  Dave cinched, swung to the saddle, and rode to the gate of the corral.

  Two men were coming in, and by the sound of their voices were quarreling.

  They stepped aside to let him pass, one on each side of the gate, so

  that it was necessary to ride between them.

  They recognized the pinto at the same moment Dave did them. On the heels of that recognition came another.

  Doble ripped out an oath and a shout of warning. "It's Sanders!"

  A gun flashed as the pony jumped to a gallop. The silent night grew noisy with shots, voices, the clatter of hoofs. Twice Dave fired answers to the challenges which leaped out of the darkness at him. He raced across the bridge spanning the Platte and for a moment drew up on the other side to listen for sounds which might tell him whether he would be pursued. One last solitary revolver shot disturbed the stillness.

  The rider grinned. "Think he'd know better than to shoot at me this far."

  He broke his revolver, extracted the empty shells, and dropped them to the street. Then he rode up the long hill toward Highlands, passed through that suburb of the city, and went along the dark and dusty road to the shadows of the Rockies silhouetted in the night sky.