by Jackson cole
“Trail, Goldy! Trail!”
The great golden horse shot forward. With Hatfield’s iron grip on his bit, Flint’s black had to follow. The thunder of his hoofs on the trail was drowned in a mighty crackling and a rushing roar as a great tree almost opposite them, on the upper edge of the trail, crashed down.
The plunging horses cleared the deadly sweep of the vast trunk and the huge main branches that would have crushed them and their riders to pulp, but one thrashing limb struck the black and hurled him into the brush like a plugged rabbit. Flint flew from the saddle to crash into a thicket that broke his fall. Goldy escaped save for a stinging shower of cones and twigs and needles that caused him to scream outraged protest.
With Goldy still careening forward, Hatfield flung himself from the saddle, rocked back on his heels and kept his balance. Then he scuttled into the brush, weaving and ducking, worming his way parallel to the wide swath of crushed growth the great tree had flattened in its fall.
He passed the widespread top, stooping low to peer between the stems of the chaparral, sensed a sudden flicker of movement ahead and flung himself sideways and down.
There was a flash of flame, the crack of a report, and the vicious whine of a bullet so close that the air of its passing fanned his face. His hands streaked down and up. Both his Colts let go with a crashing roar. He rolled behind a jut of rock, crouched and waited.
There was silence save for the sputtering curses of Justin Flint, who was extracting himself from the thicket, and the snorts of the frightened horses.
Then Hatfield heard, some distance down the slope, a sudden crashing, and the click of swift hoofs quickly fading into the distance. He stood up, replacing the empty shells with fresh cartridges. Then he sheathed his guns and clambered back up the slope.
He found Flint scratched and bleeding, but otherwise little the worse for his fall.
“What’s the meaning of this? What brought that tree down? And what was all that shooting?” the lumberman bawled.
Hatfield paused to examine the black horse before replying. The animal had regained its footing and stood shivering nervously, its eyes rolling in a frightened manner.
“Haunch pretty badly bruised and a long cut, not very deep, on his hip, but nothing broken or out of place, I reckon,” he reported. He walked the horse forward a few steps.
“Limps a mite in that hind leg, but figure there’s nothing wrong that some liniment and a little plaster won’t fix up,” he added.
Flint was staring at the splintered stump of the fallen tree.
“It’s hollow, but it hadn’t ought to come down like that with no wind blowing,” he said.
Hatfield walked to the stump.
“Take a look,” he told Flint.
“Why — why, it’s been sawed almost through,” the lumberman exclaimed. “Now what the — ”
“Let’s take a look at the top,” Hatfield interrupted.
Together they scrambled down the slope. Hatfield peered and searched amid the tangle of broken branches.
“Uh-huh, I thought so,” he remarked, lifting a strand of thin but strong steel cable amid the welter. “Come on, let’s see where the other end is.”
He followed the strand down the slope, Flint growling and rumbling after him. Some distance beyond the farthest reaching branches of the fallen top they found the other end of the cable. It was securely fastened to a stout trunk. Lying on the ground nearby were two strong lengths of sapling, about which the cable was wound, so that they formed a lop-sided cross, one arm of which was much longer than the other.
“That’s how they pulled her down,” Hatfield remarked, nodding at the cable.
“You mean to say somebody pulled that tree down across the trail?” Flint demanded. “Why it would have taken a dozen strong men to do it.”
“Not with that contraption,” Hatfield demurred, nodding again at the crossed beams. “That’s a Spanish windlass, sir. They fastened one end of the cable around the trunk, high up in the branches, and fastened the other end down here to this trunk, letting the cable sag free. Then they made a loop in the slack and stuck the end of that longer beam through it. They stood the other beam on end and wound the cable around it, using the beam in the loop, set at right-angles to the vertical one, as a lever. With a ten-foot lever, two men walking around the vertical beam wouldn’t have a bit of trouble pulling the nearly sawed trunk over. They had it already tightened up, and when they heard us coming along the trail, they started walking around the beam and winding up the cable. Mighty nigh got away with it. Reckon there wouldn’t have been anything much but a couple grease spots left of us if we’d got caught under that trunk or one of the big branches.”
“How in blazes did you catch on to it?” Flint demanded.
“Well,” Hatfield smiled, “I thought it was funny that a tree top should be swaying back and forth when there wasn’t a mite of wind blowing. I came mighty nigh not getting on to just what was happening until too late. Another jog or two and I wouldn’t have been able to get the cayuses turned around and siftin’ sand away from there in time.”
Justin Flint shook his head in wordless admiration.
“Hatfield,” he said, his voice shaking a trifle with emotion, “I guess you saved my life. I won’t forget it.”
Hatfield smiled down at him. “Reckon I was sort of anxious to save my own skin, too,” he chuckled.
“Yes,” Flint replied, “perhaps you were, but just the same you risked it to take time to turn my horse around and get me in the clear. If ever I can do anything for you, Hatfield, don’t hesitate to ask. Anything I’ve got is yours for the asking — half my holdings here, if you want it.”
The Lone Wolf smilingly shook his head. “Wouldn’t know what to do with it if I had it,” he declined.
Flint stared at the fallen tree, his face abruptly working with anger.
“This settles it,” he declared wrathfully. “This is too damn much. Those scoundrels were spying on us, figured out we were riding up to the top of the mountain and would have to come back this way, and laid this trap to murder us. It’s more than I’ll stand for. I’m going to hire guards, and arm them, to protect my property.”
Hatfield gravely shook his head. “I’d rather you wouldn’t, sir — not yet, anyhow. To do that would be to irritate and antagonize the cattlemen more than ever. Suppose you let me see what I can do first.”
Flint stared at him.
“But what can a wandering cowboy hope to do to remedy such a condition as exists in this section?” he asked. “You certainly show yourself to be capable, Hatfield, but I’m afraid this is beyond you.”
Hatfield again smiled down at him, fumbling with a cunningly concealed secret pocket in his broad leather belt. He held out a slim hand, on the sinewy palm of which something glittered in the fading light.
Justin Flint started. With widening eyes he stared at the gleaming object — a silver star set on a silver circle — the feared and honored and respected badge of the Texas Rangers.
“A — a Ranger!” he stuttered at length. “You — you’re a Texas Ranger!”
“Yes,” Hatfield told him. “Of McDowell’s company. I was in the office at Franklin that day you talked with Captain Bill, sir. He sent me up here to look the situation over.”
Flint started at him, his eyes suddenly glowing. “By George!” he exclaimed. “I’ve got you placed. I’ve heard of you! Hatfield! You’re the Lone Wolf!”
“Been called that,” Hatfield admitted.
Flint continued to stare, almost in awe, at the tall Ranger whose exploits were legendary.
“The Lone Wolf!” he repeated. “Well, if anybody can handle the situation, I guess you can,” he chuckled suddenly.
“Know why I asked you up here to see me?” Flint asked. Without waiting for an answer, he continued. “I was going to ask you to take over the job of getting my guard force organized. Well, I reckon I can do without the guards for a while. And,” he added grimly, “I’ve a not
ion those damn cattlemen will learn a thing or two before long, now.”
Hatfield smiled, but refrained from commenting on the prediction.
“Mr. Flint,” he asked suddenly as they made their way back to the horses, “where is your sawmill located? I noticed a number of carloads of sawed boards as I passed by the Vega railroad yards.”
“I don’t do any sawing in this section,” Flint replied. “I only ship logs. I have no mills in Texas. That sawed lumber you saw belongs to Nelson Haynes. He has a mill over on the south side of the mountain.”
Hatfield nodded thoughtfully, and changed the subject.
CHAPTER IV
DESPITE THE FACT that it was almost dark when they reached the main logging camp, Hatfield refused Flint’s invitation to spend the night with him.
“Sort of want to get back to town,” he told the lumberman. “Got a chore or two on hand. But I’ll be seeing you soon. By the way, I’ve a motion I’ll sign up with Clyde Cranley’s spread.”
“That’s a smart notion,” Flint applauded heartily. “That’ll give you a chance to keep a close eye on the hellions. But be careful, son,” he added “That’s a bad crowd. Anybody who would attempt what they did today will stop at nothing.”
“Yes, gents with those kind of notions ride with a loose rein,” Hatfield agreed. “Well, so long. Be seein’ you, sir.”
Justin Flint watched the tall Ranger ride out of sight, and on his face was the look of a man who had had a considerable burden unexpectedly lifted from his shoulders.
Where the trail forked at the base of the mountain, Hatfield pulled Goldy to a halt. For some moments he lounged comfortably in the saddle, gazing with brooding eyes into the great hollow that lay between the flank of the mountain and the cliffs that walled Montuoso Valley.
A full moon was rising in the east, and the vast valley was filled with ghostly light and strange purple shadows. The tall stumps on the ravished mountainside above fanged up from the welter of cuttings like broken bones, thrusting through gangrenous flesh.
There was something sinister and menacing about the deep scar in the earth, crushed between the torn and despoiled mountainside and the grim cliffs to the south.
Hatfield felt this as he gazed through the curdled moonlight. A chill from the dark shadow seemed to blow over him and he shuddered slightly despite the warmth of the night. Almost with an effort he turned Goldy’s head south once more.
“Not tonight,” he told the sorrel, “but I figure we’ll ride that trail before long, feller. Looks like we been chasin’ our tails around in a circle for a spell, but I’m beginning to make out a brand under all the hair that’s covering it. June along, horse, it’s getting late.”
It was very late when Hatfield, after seeing to it that Goldy was cared for, entered the Anytime. Seated at a table near the lunch counter was Clyde Cranley. With him was Nelson Haynes and a third man — a rangy, rawboned man with sunken cheeks, a thin-lipped mouth and cold, watchful eyes.
Cranley waved a greeting when he saw the Ranger enter.
“Take a load off your feet and feed your tapeworm,” he said as Hatfield neared the table. “We’re just going to put on the nosebag. Meet Mr. Nelson Haynes, the lumberman, and Mort Quimby, Mr. Haynes’ superintendent.”
Haynes shook hands with a firm grip, his white, slender fingers like rods of nickel steel. Quimby took Hatfield’s hand limply. His own was very moist. But there was a feel of latent power in his thick palm.
“My drillin’ machinery hit town today,” Cranley announced, as Hatfield sat down. “I aim to start settin’ up the rig tomorrow. Would like to have you help me with it, Hatfield, if you’ve decided to sign up.”
“Where do you figure on drilling?” the Ranger asked, buttering a piece of bread.
“Recollect that dry watercourse I showed you yesterday, the one that was fed by that big spring at the base of the slope?” Cranley replied. “I calc’late that is as good a place as any. There was a good volume of water there, and I figure it had ought to still be somewhere around. Got a notion we can tap it without havin’ to go down too far. That’s where I’m goin’ to set up the rig.”
“Could do worse, I reckon,” Hatfield agreed. “Yes, I’ll lend you a hand with it.”
“Know something about rigs?” Nelson Haynes asked in his softly drawling voice.
“We did quite a bit of drilling on my father’s spread, over in Pecos County,” Hatfield replied, which was true. He did not mention that he had had extensive experience with many rigs, not all of which were used to tap artesian wells.
“To my notion it’s all damn nonsense,” Quimby growled. “I’ve had considerable experience sinkin’ artesians, and I tell you, Cranley, you won’t have luck in a section as full of limestone faults as this one is. In this sort of country, when water sinks, it drops so damn deep there ain’t no reachin’ it again.”
“Remains to be seen,” Cranley replied imperturbably. “Got to try somethin’. If the springs keep dryin’ up like they been in the past year, this valley won’t be worth a damn for raisin’ anything except cactus.”
“It sure is a mystery to me where that water goes to,”
Haynes remarked. “But then I’ve never encountered anything like this. I come from a granite country where we never have such trouble.”
Hatfield dropped his level gaze to the other’s face.
“Where’s that, Mr. Haynes?” he asked casually.
“Vermont,” Haynes replied. “I’ve always operated in Vermont and New Hampshire and Maine. This is my first business venture in the Southwest.”
Hatfield nodded, and buttered another piece of bread.
“I certainly wish I could do something to help,” Haynes added. “Cranley, have you ever thought about running an irrigation line from Sinking Creek to the north of here? You know, the creek that cuts through that canyon just northeast of Flint’s holdings?”
Cranley snorted in good-humored derision. “If we had a barrel of money, like Flint has, we might be able to consider it,” he replied. “It could be done, but it would cost like hell — cost more than us fellers could afford.”
“But it would be better than losing your property,” Haynes insisted. “Couldn’t you borrow the money, with the property as security?”
“Things can’t happen in a section like this without everybody knowin’ about it,” Cranley pointed out. “The banks know the conditions prevailing in this valley, and they’re leary of loanin’ money on expectations. They know that without water this valley is worthless as range land. They know, too, that such a project as that irrigation business is mighty uncertain. If it worked out all right, their investment would be secured. If it didn’t work out, the security on which they loaned the money wouldn’t be security. Cow country banks don’t take chances like that. Nope, the only thing is to drill wells, that is, if the water continues to fail. I’m hopin’ for a few good rains to get the springs back to normal condition. I believe a few good rains may be all we need, a regular sockdollager or two like we get in this section every now and then.”
Nelson Haynes smiled thinly, a peculiar light in his brilliant eyes.
“I’m countin’ heavy on my drillin’, too,” Cranley added. “I’m plumb certain that water’s around somewhere, and I’ll find it or know the reason why.”
Haynes smiled again, but did not comment.
• • •
The following morning heavy wagons trundled out of Vega, loaded with the drilling machinery Cranley had had shipped in. Under Hatfield’s supervision, the rig was quickly set up at the head of the dry wash designated by Cranley. A steam boiler provided power to operate the rig.
Within a very few days the ponderous walking beam of the derrick was jigging the heavy steel bit that bored deeper and deeper into the hard ground. Cranley watched its operation with prideful satisfaction.
“Son, you’re a find!” he told Hatfield. “You know plenty about other things besides the cow business.”
Hat
field nodded, but did not smile. He was considering the peculiar terrain that surrounded the wash. At a little distance, one of the unexpected mound-like hills started up from the level floor. Over to one side was an extremely deep and wide hollow that was there for no apparent reason.
The Ranger measured the distance from the wash to the hollow with his eyes, taking in the ground contours. He nodded with satisfaction. Then he studied the hill again, his brow furrowed with concentration.
“I’ve always acted as my own foreman,” Cranley said, “but I ain’t as young any more as I used to be. My boy, Rance, is sort of young to handle a bunch of hellions like I got workin’ for me. He’s a good cowhand and is learnin’ the business, but I figure he ain’t quite heavy enough for the job just yet. Uh-huh, I need a foreman. That’s the job I’m offering you, if you can see your way to take it, Hatfield.”
The Ranger was thoughtful. “Okay, on one condition,” he replied at length.
“What’s that?” Cranley wanted to know.
“If I run a job, I run it, and run it my own way,” Hatfield replied. “I expect my orders to be obeyed without any interference from the Bull’s Manse.”
Cranley stared at him a moment, then shrugged his heavy shoulders.
“If I hire a man to do a job, I expect him to do it,” he replied. “I don’t aim to do his work for him, and if I didn’t figure he knowed the work in the first place, I wouldn’t hire him. You won’t have to worry about the Box C ranch house hornin’ in on your holdin’, Hatfield.”
“Okay.” The Ranger left-handedly accepted employment. “You give the orders as to what you want done, and they’ll be followed.”
The drilling progressed steadily, and then one morning several days later, Clyde Cranley rode to the Box C ranch house in a black rage.
“Burned to the ground!” he roared to his new foreman, who was busy with some accounts.
