Land Grab: Jim Hatfield takes a hand in a range war! (Prologue Western)

by Jackson cole

  Hatfield smiled.

  “When jiggers get itchy feet all of a sudden, or figure they have some good reason for shovin’ on, a little thing like that doesn’t stop ‘em,” he said.

  “That’s right,” Cranley agreed. “I’ve seen it before now. I did learn in town that them two hellions were playin’ poker with some of Haynes’ loggers when last seen. Maybe they made a killin’ and felt so well-heeled they wouldn’t bother to stop for their pay.”

  “Could be,” Hatfield admitted. “How’s the drilling coming on? You stopped by over there, didn’t you?”

  Cranley gave vent to a disgusted snort.

  “Was goin’ along fine till today,” he replied. “Late this afternoon they hit another damn rock ledge, a hard one, and it’s slowin’ ‘em up. Different rock from the first ledge we went through. Sort of close-grained sandstone.”

  Hatfield looked extremely interested.

  “Keep on drilling,” he advised. “That kind of stone is very often cap rock over a reservoir. Likely to cover something worth while.”

  “I hope so,” grunted Cranley. “Judging from the depth we’re gettin’ down to, it’s likely to be the roof over a Chinese laundry!”

  Hatfield, on his way to town the next day, paused at the site of the rig. He examined with interest the latest cuttings bailed out of the bore, and rode on to Vega in a very thoughtful mood.

  In town he found the foremost topic of discussion was the contemplated move of Clyde Cranley and his associate spread owners.

  “We’ll miss ‘em,” Sunset Bowles, the owner of the Anytime declared regretfully. “They’re all nice fellers. But if the water is givin’ out in the valley, what else can they do? You can’t raise beef without water.

  “I’ve a notion Nelson Haynes feels mighty bad about it,” he added. “Him and Cranley are friendly. By the way, I notice he’s took to shinin’ up to that pretty redheaded gal of Flint’s. They was havin’ dinner together at Chinky Joe’s yesterday evening. Woudn’t be surprised if it ended up in Flint and Haynes gettin’ together. Haynes is a handsome feller and he’s got raisin’. Educated, and everythin’. Reckon he could give Flint some valuable pointers about runnin’ that irrigation canal from Sinkin’ Creek, if Flint really does buy the spreads and cuts ‘em up into farms. Haynes is a smart feller.”

  “Yes,” Hatfield agreed, “mighty smart!”

  Something in the tone of Hatfield’s voice caused Bowles to shoot him a quick and slightly puzzled glance. However, Hatfield did not add anything to what he had already said.

  • • •

  Hatfield was busy in the office, working on the books when Cranley came in early the following afternoon, after a ride to town. He nodded to Hatfield, sat down and stuffed tobacco into his pipe.

  The rancher sat in silence for some moments, tugging his mustache and eyeing Hatfield contemplatively. As he seemed about to speak, Miguel, the old Mexican cook, entered the office and submitted a list of needed supplies.

  “Why in hell didn’t you tell me last night?” Cranley demanded with irritation. “I could have taken care of it this morning. Damn it! I don’t feel like another ride today, it’s getting late.”

  He glanced out the window at the sinking sun, and tugged his mustache.

  “Hatfield,” he said, “suppose you let that book work hang over till tomorrow. You and Miguel can head for town and get together the truck he wants. Take a wagon along — Miguel can drive — and stay overnight. You been stickin’ mighty close to the job. A mite of diversion won’t do any harm.”

  “Got my orders,” Hatfield smiled as he stood up and stretched his long arms above his head. “Do feel a bit cramped; been sitting here most of the morning. Okay, Miguel, hitch up a wagon. I’ll fork Goldy.”

  A little later, Goldy was pacing alongside the light wagon driven by the wizened old cook.

  In town the necessary supplies were purchased and stored in the wagon which was placed in a locked shed back of the livery stable. The stable was on an alley near the straggling outskirts of town.

  Miguel wandered off to a place frequented by his countrymen, promising to meet Hatfield in Sunset Bowles’ place around midnight.

  Hatfield enjoyed a few drinks and a session of poker with an amiable group of punchers until Miguel put in an appearance. They had engaged rooms for the night at the livery stable, over the stalls, and after a drink together, headed for bed.

  As they passed between a straggle of dark houses, neither saw the sinister shadows traling them on either side. Their first warning was a rush of feet from the darkness.

  Hatfield’s hand streaked to his guns, but before he could grip them, the attackers were upon him. He grappled with one man and hurled him sideways over his shoulder. His fist swept a second to the ground. Another slashing blow to the mouth brought a bubbling scream of pain from a third. Then a gun barrel crunched solidly against Hatfield’s head and a wave of blackness swept over him.

  CHAPTER VII

  WHEN HATFIELD REGAINED consciousness, he was dimly aware of a jerking, jolting motion. By degrees his brain cleared and he realized that he was being carried on the shoulders of three men. He tried to move his hands and found they were securely bound behind his back. His ankles were also lashed together. Behind him somewhere he could hear a sound of spitting, with moans and mumbled curses. Apparently the man he hit in the mouth was losing his teeth. Hatfield realized that nothing would be gained by struggling; he remained quiet, simulating unconsciousness.

  His bearers trudged on for what seemed a considerable distance. He became aware that another form was being carried along also. Doubtless it was old Miguel.

  “Darn shame I had to get the old jigger into this mess,” he regretted. “The hellions outsmarted me. I figured I had them fooled, but they were onto me all the time. And paying for my mistake is likely not to be nice.”

  After a long time the bearers halted. Hatfield could make out, through slitted eyes, the dim bulk of a hill or rise directly ahead. They moved on once more, then halted again in the shadow of the hill. A flash of light glimmered ahead. The bearers moved on. Another moment and their footsteps began to echo hollowly from the rocky walls close at hand. By the light of several torches that flared up one by one, Hatfield saw that they were in a narrow tunnel or corridor. Moldy beams, ponderous and square, ribbed the rock walls. Overhead were transverse timbers spanning the uprights.

  “An old mine tunnel, sure as shootin’,” the Lone Wolf muttered. “Now what?”

  For some distance the little troop followed the course of the tunnel, which apparently ran straight into the face of the cliff. Then abruptly they turned into a side tunnel. A hundred feet in they paused before a stout wooden door. Keys rattled. A heavy padlock swung on its hasp. The door creaked open on rusty hinges. Hatfield’s bearers passed through. He was lowered roughly to the ground. Through his squinted lids he saw that he was in what appeared to be a square room, rockwalled and timbered. He decided that it was no longer time for deception.

  He opened his eyes and gazed dazedly about, as would a man just recovering his senses. Miguel lay on the floor beside him. The torch light revealed several dozen dark-faced men standing about.

  They were a salty-looking lot. Hatfield read cruelty and passion in the swarthy features. Beady black eyes glittered as they rested on the prostrate forms.

  “Close to pure-blood Apaches, all of ‘em,” he told himself.

  Standing in the background was a tall man whose face was all but hidden by a low-drawn hatbrim and a serape muffled up above his chin. He appeared to be directing operations.

  “Put those guns and belts down, Pedro,” Hatfield heard him say in a voice that was obviously disguised. “No, you’re not keeping them. Guns can be recognized, especially good irons like those. Leave ‘em here. He isn’t going to use them anymore.”

  The speaker moved a step nearer, gazing down at Hatfield, his eyes glinting under his hatbrim.

  “As for you,” he said, “you played a
losing game. I take the stakes. Think about it when the teeth come to keep you company in the dark.”

  Hatfield did not answer, although he wondered what the devil the hellion meant by his last remark. He heard his holstered guns thud on the ground almost within hand’s reach. If he could only get hold of those guns! Damn small chance, though. Otherwise they wouldn’t have been left behind. His captors entertained not the slightest doubt of what was going to happen to him. Well, it takes a while to die of thirst or starvation. Something might work out.

  “Let’s go,” the tall leader said.

  He turned on his heel and strode from the room. The torch bearers filed after him. The heavy door thudded shut. Thick darkness blanketed the room. Hatfield heard the rattle of the padlock, the creak of the turning key, then the diminishing pad of departing footsteps.

  Miguel was chattering alternate prayers and curses. “Take it easy,” Hatfield told him. “Maybe we can figure a way out of this.”

  “Capitan,” Miguel quavered, his voice stony with conviction, “we die! And such a death! Sangre de Cristo!”

  “What do you mean, amigo?” Hatfield asked.

  “Teeth!” Miguel chattered in thin and reedy tones. “Little teeth, sharp in the dark!”

  “What in blazes are you talking about?” Hatfield demanded.

  “Capitan, I have heard of this place,” Miguel panted. “It is called the Cave of the Rats! It is an ancient mine tunnel, worked perhaps by the Conquistadores or those who were here before them. It swarms with starving rats. They will eat us alive!”

  “Shucks!” Hatfield scoffed. “Rats don’t attack a live man.”

  “They will,” declared Miguel. “Made bold by hunger, they will attack anything that is helpless, as we are helpless. Dios! already they come.”

  Hatfield was conscious of a soft slithering on the rock floor, of tiny scratchings. Sweat suddenly popped out on his face. The crawling sounds were packed with a horrible menace. Something touched his bound hands. A sudden sharp pang stabbed his wrist. He swore under his breath, thrashed about. The small sounds retreated, then drew near again.

  Old Miguel began to scream, cracked, horrible screams, intermingled with weird mouthings and unintelligible gibberings.

  “Going plumb loco!” Hatfield muttered. “I’ve got to stop this.” He writhed over onto his face, rolled again, until he brought up hard against his companion’s body. Miguel gave a louder yell of terror.

  “Listen!” Hatfield thundered in his ear. “Shut up and listen to me!”

  Miguel’s howls died to gasps and pants. “I listen, Capitan,” he whimpered.

  “We’ve got to get out of this,” Hatfield told him. “Wonder if I can chew the rope that holds your wrists?”

  “It is hair rope,” quavered Miguel “It would take days to sever it.”

  “That’s out, then,” Hatfield muttered, thrashing about as something soft and furry brushed his cheek. His mind raced at lightning speed. If he could only get hold of a gun. The knife in his belt had been removed. He jerked as needle-like teeth stabbed his hand. The famished rodents were closing in. Let them once get the smell of fresh blood and they would swarm over the helpless captives in a tearing, rending cloud.

  Hatfield’s mouth was dry and parched. He swallowed convulsively. Over him swept a terrible longing for a deep draught of soothing tobacco smoke. If he could only fish the makin’s from his breast pocket!

  Abruptly a thrill of reborn hope stabbed his brain. Alongside the papers and tobacco, he knew, was a small box of matches. Matches! Fire! Fire that would frighten the rats and send them scurrying back into their holes; fire that would burn — that — God Almighty! — would burn the rope that bound his wrists!

  Again his thoughts raced, formulating a plan. Pain shot through a bound hand. He rolled desperately onto his back. There was a squalling squeak as his weight crushed one of the voracious little beasts to pulp. He rolled away from the squirming horror and bumped into Miguel again.

  “Listen!” he shouted to the babbling Mexican. “Get your head over against the front of my shirt. Rip the pocket loose with your teeth. There’s a box of matches in the pocket. Get hold of it with your teeth, if you can. Hustle, before those hellions gnaw the flesh off our bones!”

  Sobbing and panting, old Miguel obeyed. Hatfield felt the pocket rip free. Miguel nuzzled about. His mumbling told Hatfield that he had secured the matchbox with his teeth.

  “Shove it over this way, careful,” Hatfield told him. “Be sure I’ve got hold of it with my teeth before you let go. Then sink your teeth into the handkerchief around my neck. Jerk it over my head and drop it on the ground. Hustle! Here they come again!”

  After considerable fumbling, Hatfield got the matchbox between his teeth. Miguel, snuffling and gulping, hauled and twisted at the handkerchief until it slid over Hatfield’s head and fell to the rock floor. Hatfield kicked out with all his strength as vicious teeth raked his thigh. The high-pitched squeal of a dying rat echoed the muffled thud of his boot heels on yielding bodies. He hunched his head-over the rumpled silk of the handkerchief, which was large, and chewed frantically at the wooden matchbox. Splinters raked his gums. The acrid taste of sulphur stung his tongue. He fumbled with his lips, got a matchhead squarely between his teeth. He bit down on it with a grating, sideways motion. There was a burst of flame, a blinding glare that dazzled his eyes, a searing agony as the whole box of matches caught fire. He dropped the crackling, sputtering mass upon the handkerchief. Instantly the silk caught fire. Old Miguel gave a mingled howl of pain and exultation. The rats fled, squealing their terror.

  Hatfield writhed over on his side. With desperate haste he wriggled his body across the floor until his wrists were squarely against the blazing silk. More sweat dampened his face. His teeth ground together with the excruciating pain of the flame lancing his wrists and hands. There was a stench of burning hair mingled with the even more horrible smell of scorched flesh. For what seemed an eternity of crawling agony, the flame licked and stabbed against his wrists and the rope that bound them. Gradually the fire died down. Hatfield grimly shoved his wrists against it while a spark remained. He relaxed an instant, his body shivering with the torture, then surged his wrists outward with every ounce of strength he possessed.

  The bite of the charred rope against the raw flesh was frightful, but even as he felt he could endure the terrible punishment no longer, the nearly burned-through rope snapped. In another instant, his hands were free. He gasped with the relief the cessation of the terrible strain afforded his muscles. Without an instant’s delay he began plucking at the cords that fettered his ankles. The knots were stubborn, but finally they yielded. He kicked the rope aside and began the work of freeing Miguel.

  Scratchings and squeakings told him the rats were returning to the attack, but he no longer had any fear of them. A few well-directed kicks through the darkness crushed some and sent the others flying. Miguel got to his feet, chafing his wrists, stamping his numbed feet.

  “Got a match on you?” Hatfield asked. “I used all of mine.”

  “Never did el fosforo serve so well!” Miguel declared with conviction. He fumbled in his pockets, struck a light. Hatfield glanced about, spotted the stub of a torch lying on the ground nearby. He secured it and soon had a flame flickering that gave them a chance to examine their prison.

  The room was nothing but the barricaded end of an ancient drift. Three sides were of naked rock, representing the sides and end of the tunnel. The fourth side, the barrier crossing the width of the tunnel, was of ponderous timbers into which was set a door of heavy wooden planks.

  The timbers Hatfield instantly dismissed from consideration. They were a foot square and little affected by the years or centuries they had endured. He concentrated his attention on the door, shoving against it, butting it tentatively with his shoulder.

  “If the lock was just on this side, I’d shoot the darn thing to pieces,” he told Miguel, caressing the butts of his recovered guns and der
iving a comforting feeling from the cool steel and checkered grip. “But it’s on the other side, and, to make matters worse, the door opens in. Not a chance to shove it down. The harder you hit it, the tighter it closes.”

  Absently he passed his fingers over the rough planks and the rusty iron of the hinges, inserting a thumbnail into the slot in the head of the screw. Suddenly he uttered a sharp exclamation. He ran his thumbnail back and forth through the slot. Then he slid a gun from its sheath and tentatively inserted the heavy front sight into the slot. It was a snug fit.

  “Feller, I believe we’ve got it!” he exclaimed. “If I can just get these screws out! They’re rusted in, but the wood looks sort of crumbly. Maybe I can move them.”

  “Perhaps the rats don’t eat us after all,” Miguel remarked hopefully.

  “You’re darn right they won’t, if this sight doesn’t bust off,” Hatfield muttered.

  With the utmost care he put pressure on the gun barrel. The screw resisted his efforts, then moved a trifle. Steadily, carefully he put forth his strength. The screw moved a little more, then turned freely. In another moment it was free of the wood.

  “One out and five more to go, up here,” Hatfield said.

  It was far from an easy task. Before the upper hinge sagged away from the jamb, Hatfield was drenched with perspiration and was trembling in every limb. The torch butt had burned down to a fitful smoulder that sent grotesque shadows dancing over the rock walls. The squeals of the rats, encouraged by the gathering darkness, were a grisly reminder of what awaited them if the attempt to remove the door was unsuccessful.

  Hatfield rested a while, then set to work on the lower hinge, working now in pitch darkness, to the accompaniment of squeals and scufflings and Miguel’s muttered prayers. Screw after screw was removed. After what seemed an eternity of exhausting effort, the hinges flapped free. The door sagged against the jamb. Hunkering down, Hatfield was able to thrust his fingers between the bottom of the door and the rock floor.