Gunsight Pass

by Raine, William MacLeod

  "What if the hold-ups knew the ditch was going to be filled before the pursuit got started?"

  "You mean—?"

  "I mean they might have arranged to have the water turned into the lateral to wipe out their tracks."

  "I'll be dawged if you ain't on a warm trail, son," murmured Crawford. "And if they knew that, why wouldn't they ride either up or down the ditch and leave no tracks a-tall?"

  "They would—for a way, anyhow. Up or down, which?"

  "Down, so as to reach Malapi and get into the Gusher before word came of the hold-up," guessed Crawford.

  "Up, because in the hills there's less chance of being seen," differed Dave. "Crooks like them can fix up an alibi when they need one. They had to get away unseen, in a hurry, and to get rid of the gold soon in case they should be seen."

  "You've rung the bell, son. Up it is. It's an instinct of an outlaw to make for the hills where he can hole up when in trouble."

  The prospector had been out of the conversation long enough.

  "Depends who did this," he said. "If they come from the town, they'd want to get back there in a hurry. If not, they'd steer clear of folks. Onct, when I was in Oklahoma, a nigger went into a house and shot a white man he claimed owed him money. He made his getaway, looked like, and the whole town hunted for him for fifty miles. They found him two days later in the cellar of the man he had killed."

  "Well, you can go look in Tim Harrigan's cellar if you've a mind to. Dave and I are goin' up the ditch," said the old cattleman, smiling.

  "I'll tag along, seein' as I've been drug in this far. All I'll say is that when we get to the bottom of this, we'll find it was done by fellows you'd never suspect. I know human nature. My guess is no drunken cowboy pulled this off. No, sir. I'd look higher for the men."

  "How about Parson Brown and the school superintendent?" asked Crawford.

  "You can laugh. All right. Wait and see. Somehow I don't make mistakes. I'm lucky that way. Use my judgment, I reckon. Anyhow, I always guess right on presidential elections and prize fights. You got to know men, in my line of business. I study 'em. Hardly ever peg 'em wrong. Fellow said to me one day, 'How's it come, Thomas, you most always call the turn?' I give him an answer in one word—psycho-ology."

  The trailers scanned closely the edge of the irrigation ditch. Here, too, they failed to get results. There were tracks enough close to the lateral, but apparently none of them led down into the bed of it. The outlaws no doubt had carefully obliterated their tracks at this place in order to give no starting-point for the pursuit.

  "I'll go up on the left-hand side, you take the right, Dave," said

  Crawford. "We've got to find where they left the ditch."

  The prospector took the sandy bed of the dry canal as his path. He chose it for two reasons. There was less brush to obstruct his progress, and he could reach the ears of both his auditors better as he burbled his comments on affairs in general and the wisdom of Mr. Thomas in particular.

  The ditch was climbing into the hills, zigzagging up draws in order to find the most even grade. The three men traveled slowly, for Sanders and Crawford had to read sign on every foot of the way.

  "Chances are they didn't leave the ditch till they heard the water comin'," the cattleman said. "These fellows knew their business, and they were playin' safe."

  Dave pulled up. He went down on his knees and studied the ground, then jumped down into the ditch and examined the bank.

  "Here's where they got out," he announced.

  Thomas pressed forward. With one outstretched hand the young man held him back.

  "Just a minute. I want Mr. Crawford to see this before it's touched."

  The old cattleman examined the side of the canal. The clay showed where a sharp hoof had reached for a footing, missed, and pawed down the bank. Higher up was the faint mark of a shoe on the loose rubble at the edge.

  "Looks like," he assented.

  Study of the ground above showed the trail of two horses striking off at a right angle from the ditch toward the mouth of a box cañon about a mile distant. The horses were both larger than broncos. One of them was shod. One of the front shoes, badly worn, was broken and part of it gone on the left side. The riders were taking no pains apparently to hide their course. No doubt they relied on the full ditch to blot out pursuit.

  The trail led through the cañon, over a divide beyond, and down into a small grassy valley.

  At the summit Crawford gave strict orders. "No talkin', Mr. Thomas. This is serious business now. We're in enemy country and have got to soft-foot it."

  The foothills were bristling with chaparral. Behind any scrub oak or cedar, under cover of an aspen thicket or even of a clump of gray sage, an enemy with murder in his heart might be lurking. Here an ambush was much more likely than in the sun-scorched plain they had left.

  The three men left the footpath where it dipped down into the park and followed the rim to the left, passing through a heavy growth of manzanita to a bare hill dotted with scrubby sage, at the other side of which was a small gulch of aspens straggling down into the valley. Back of these a log cabin squatted on the slope. One had to be almost upon it before it could be seen. Its back door looked down upon the entrance to a cañon. This was fenced across to make a corral.

  The cattleman and the cowpuncher looked at each other without verbal comment. A message better not put into words flashed from one to the other. This looked like the haunt of rustlers. Here they could pursue their nefarious calling unmolested. Not once a year would anybody except one of themselves enter this valley, and if a stranger did so he would know better than to push his way into the cañon.

  Horses were drowsing sleepily in the corral. Dave slid from the saddle and spoke to Crawford in a low voice.

  "I'm going down to have a look at those horses," he said, unfastening his rope from the tientos.

  The cattleman nodded. He drew from its case beneath his leg a rifle and held it across the pommel. It was not necessary for Sanders to ask, nor for him to promise, protection while the younger man was making his trip of inspection. Both were men who knew the frontier code and each other. At a time of action speech, beyond the curtest of monosyllables, was surplusage.

  Dave walked and slid down the rubble of the steep hillside, clambered down a rough face of rock, and dropped into the corral: He wore a revolver, but he did not draw it. He did not want to give anybody in the house an excuse to shoot at him without warning.

  His glance swept over the horses, searched the hoofs of each. It found one shod, a rangy roan gelding.

  The cowpuncher's rope whined through the air and settled down upon the shoulders of the animal. The gelding went sun-fishing as a formal protest against the lariat, then surrendered tamely. Dave patted it gently, stroked the neck, and spoke softly reassuring words. He picked up one of the front feet and examined the shoe. This was badly worn, and on the left side part of it had broken off.

  A man came to the back door of the cabin and stretched in a long and luxuriant yawn. Carelessly and casually his eyes wandered over the aspens and into the corral. For a moment he stood frozen, his arms still flung wide.

  From the aspens came down Crawford's voice, cool and ironic. "Much obliged, Shorty. Leave 'em right up and save trouble."

  The squat cowpuncher's eyes moved back to the aspens and found there the owner of the D Bar Lazy R. "Wha'dya want?" he growled sullenly.

  "You—just now. Step right out from the house, Shorty. Tha's right.

  Anybody else in the house?"

  "No."

  "You'll be luckier if you tell the truth."

  "I'm tellin' it."

  "Hope so. Dave, step forward and get his six-shooter. Keep him between you and the house. If anything happens to you I'm goin' to kill him right now."

  Shorty shivered, hardy villain though he was. There had been nobody in the house when he left it, but he had been expecting some one shortly. If his partner arrived and began shooting, he knew that Crawford w
ould drop him in his tracks. His throat went dry as a lime kiln. He wanted to shout out to the man who might be inside not to shoot at any cost. But he was a game and loyal ruffian. He would not spoil his confederate's chance by betraying him. If he said nothing, the man might come, realize the situation, and slip away unobserved.

  Sanders took the man's gun and ran his hand over his thick body to make sure he had no concealed weapon.

  "I'm going to back away. You come after me, step by step, so close I could touch you with the gun," ordered Dave.

  The man followed him as directed, his hands still in the air. His captor kept him in a line between him and the house door. Crawford rode down to join them. The man who claimed not to be foolhardy stayed up in the timber. This was no business of his. He did not want to be the target of any shots from the cabin.

  The cattleman swung down from the saddle. "Sure we'll 'light and come in, Shorty. No, you first. I'm right at yore heels with this gun pokin' into yore ribs. Don't make any mistake. You'd never have time to explain it."

  The cabin had only one room. The bunks were over at one side, the stove and table at the other. Two six-pane windows flanked the front door.

  The room was empty, except for the three men now entering.

  "You live here, Shorty?" asked Crawford curtly.

  "Yes." The answer was sulky and reluctant.

  "Alone?"

  "Yes."

  "Why?" snapped the cattleman.

  Shorty's defiant eyes met his. "My business."

  "Mine, too, I'll bet a dollar. If you're nestin' in these hills you cayn't have but one business."

  "Prove it! Prove it!" retorted Shorty angrily.

  "Some day—not now." Crawford turned to Sanders. "What about the horse you looked at, Dave?"

  "Same one we've been trailing. The one with the broken shoe."

  "That yore horse, Shorty?"

  "Maybeso. Maybe not."

  "You've been havin' company here lately," Crawford went on. "Who's yore guest?"

  "You seem to be right now. You and yore friend the convict," sneered the short cowpuncher.

  "Don't use that word again, Shorty," advised the ranchman in a voice gently ominous.

  "Why not? True, ain't it? Doesn't deny it none, does he?"

  "We'll not discuss that. Where were you yesterday?"

  "Here, part o' the day. Where was you?" demanded Shorty impudently.

  "Seems to me I heard you was right busy."

  "What part of the day? Begin at the beginnin' and tell us what you did.

  You may put yore hands down."

  "Why, I got up in the mo'nin' and put on my pants an' my boots," jeered

  Shorty. "I don't recolleck whether I put on my hat or not. Maybe I did. I

  cooked breakfast and et it. I chawed tobacco. I cooked dinner and et it.

  Smoked and chawed some more. Cooked supper and et it. Went to bed."

  "That all?"

  "Why, no, I fed the critters and fixed up a busted stirrup."

  "Who was with you?"

  "I was plumb lonesome yesterday. This any business of yours, by the way,

  Em?"

  "Think again, Shorty. Who was with you?"

  The heavy-set cowpuncher helped himself to a chew of tobacco. "I told you onct I was alone. Ain't seen anybody but you for a week."

  "Then how did you hear yesterday was my busy day?" Crawford thrust at him.

  For a moment Shorty was taken aback. Before he could answer Dave spoke.

  "Man coming up from the creek."

  Crawford took crisp command. "Back in that corner, Shorty. Dave, you stand back, too. Cover him soon as he shows up."

  Dave nodded.

  CHAPTER XXV

  MILLER TALKS

  A man stood in the doorway, big, fat, swaggering. In his younger days his deep chest and broad shoulders had accompanied great strength. But fat had accumulated in layers. He was a mountain of sagging flesh. His breath came in wheezy puffs.

  "Next time you get your own—"

  The voice faltered, died away. The protuberant eyes, still cold and fishy, passed fearfully from one to another of those in the room. It was plain that the bottom had dropped out of his heart. One moment he had straddled the world a Colossus, the next he was collapsing like a punctured balloon.

  "Goddlemighty!" he gasped. "Don't shoot! I—I give up."

  He was carrying a bucket of water. It dropped from his nerveless fingers and spilt over the floor.

  Like a bullet out of a gun Crawford shot a question at him. "Where have you hidden the money you got from the stage?"

  The loose mouth of the convict opened. "Why, we—I—we—"

  "Keep yore trap shut, you durn fool," ordered Shorty.

  Crawford jabbed his rifle into the ribs of the rustler. "Yours, too,

  Shorty."

  But the damage had been done. Miller's flabby will had been braced by a stronger one. He had been given time to recover from his dismay. He moistened his lips with his tongue and framed his lie.

  "I was gonna say you must be mistaken, Mr. Crawford," he whined.

  Shorty laughed hardily, spat tobacco juice at a knot in the floor, and spoke again. "Third degree stuff, eh? It won't buy you a thing, Crawford. Miller wasn't in that hold-up any more'n I—"

  "Let Miller do his own talkin', Shorty. He don't need any lead from you."

  Shorty looked hard at the cattleman with unflinching eyes. "Don't get on the peck, Em. You got no business coverin' me with that gun. I know you got reasons a-plenty for tryin' to bluff us into sayin' we held up the stage. But we don't bluff worth a cent. See?"

  Crawford saw. He had failed to surprise a confession out of Miller by the narrowest of margins. If he had had time to get Shorty out of the room before the convict's appearance, the fellow would have come through. As it was, he had missed his opportunity.

  A head followed by a round barrel body came in cautiously from the lean-to at the rear.

  "Everything all right, Mr. Crawford? Thought I'd drap on down to see if you didn't need any help."

  "None, thanks, Mr. Thomas," the cattleman answered dryly.

  "Well, you never can tell." The prospector nodded genially to Shorty, then spoke again to the man with the rifle. "Found any clue to the hold-up yet?"

  "We've found the men who did it," replied Crawford.

  "Knew 'em all the time, I reckon," scoffed Shorty with a harsh laugh.

  Dave drew his chief aside, still keeping a vigilant eye on the prisoners. "We've got to play our hand different. Shorty is game. He can't be bluffed. But Miller can. I found out years ago he squeals at physical pain. We'll start for home. After a while we'll give Shorty a chance to make a getaway. Then we'll turn the screws on Miller."

  "All right, Dave. You run it. I'll back yore play," his friend said.

  They disarmed Miller, made him saddle two of the horses in the corral, and took the back trail across the valley to the divide. It was here they gave Shorty his chance of escape. Miller was leading the way up the trail, with Crawford, Thomas, Shorty, and Dave in the order named. Dave rode forward to confer with the owner of the D Bar Lazy R. For three seconds his back was turned to the squat cowpuncher.

  Shorty whirled his horse and flung it wildly down the precipitous slope. Sanders galloped after him, fired his revolver three times, and after a short chase gave up the pursuit. He rode back to the party on the summit.

  Crawford glanced around at the heavy chaparral. "How about off here a bit, Dave?"

  The younger man agreed. He turned to Miller. "We're going to hang you," he said quietly.

  The pasty color of the fat man ebbed till his face seemed entirely bloodless. "My God! You wouldn't do that!" he moaned.

  He clung feebly to the horn of his saddle as Sanders led the horse into the brush. He whimpered, snuffling an appeal for mercy repeated over and over. The party had not left the road a hundred yards behind when a man jogged past on his way into the valley. He did not see them, nor did the
y see him.

  Underneath a rather scrubby cedar Dave drew up. He glanced it over critically. "Think it'll do?" he asked Crawford in a voice the prisoner could just hear.

  "Yep. That big limb'll hold him," the old cattleman answered in the same low voice. "Better let him stay right on the horse, then we'll lead it out from under him."

  Miller pleaded for his life abjectly. His blood had turned to water. "Honest, I didn't shoot Harrigan. Why, I'm that tender-hearted I wouldn't hurt a kitten. I—I—Oh, don't do that, for God's sake."

  Thomas was almost as white as the outlaw. "You don't aim to—you wouldn't—"

  Crawford's face was as cold and as hard as steel. "Why not? He's a murderer. He tried to gun Dave here when the boy didn't have a six-shooter. We'll jes' get rid of him now." He threw a rope over the convict's head and adjusted it to the folds of his fat throat.

  The man under condemnation could hardly speak. His throat was dry as the desert dust below. "I—I done Mr. Sanders a meanness. I'm sorry. I was drunk."

  "You lied about him and sent him to the penitentiary."

  "I'll fix that. Lemme go an' I'll make that right."

  "How will you make it right?" asked Crawford grimly, and the weight of his arm drew the rope so tight that Miller winced. "Can you give him back the years he's lost?"

  "No, sir, no," the man whispered eagerly. "But I can tell how it was—that we fired first at him. Doble did that, an' then—accidental—I killed Doble whilst I was shootin' at Mr. Sanders."

  Dave strode forward, his eyes like great live coals. "What? Say that again!" he cried.

  "Yessir. I did it—accidental—when Doble run forward in front of me. Tha's right. I'm plumb sorry I didn't tell the cou't so when you was on trial, Mr. Sanders. I reckon I was scairt to."

  "Will you tell this of yore own free will to the sheriff down at Malapi?" asked Crawford.

  "I sure will. Yessir, Mr. Crawford." The man's terror had swept away all thought of anything but the present peril. His color was a seasick green. His great body trembled like a jelly shaken from a mould.