by Jackson cole
“Stand by to steady her,” he told Miguel hoarsely. “Don’t let it fall over on me or hit the floor. The less noise we make the better. No telling but some of those sidewinders are hanging around in the tunnel somewhere. It sort of had the look of a hangout.”
Miguel braced himself against the door. Hatfield put forth his strength, lifting the barrier and at the same time dragging inward. The door moved. The padlock hasp creaked. Shaking with effort, Hatfield back away, hauling the sagging door from between the jambs. He quickly had an opening large enough for them to slide through. The door, secured by the hasp, sagged crazily but did not fall.
“Out you go,” he told Miguel. “Take it easy and don’t make a noise. Wait for me when you get outside.”
Miguel wriggled through the opening. His whisper came back to Hatfield. Another moment and they were standing side by side in the main tunnel of the old mine. A faint draft of air fanned their sweating faces.
“Air pulls in,” Hatfield murmured. “We go against the draft.”
Exercising the utmost caution, they slipped along the corridor, pausing from time to time to peer and listen.
They had covered perhaps two hundred yards when Miguel suddenly exclaimed:
“Capitan, I see light!”
It was but the faint glimmer of starlight seeping into the mine entrance, but after the hours of pitch blackness, it seemed bright enough. A few seconds later they were breathing the sweet outer air. The east was graying with approaching dawn.
“We were in that darn hole a long time,” Hatfield said. “Which way, Miguel?”
“Toward the sunrise,” the Mexican replied without hesitation. “The town is to the east. I know the old mine is west of the town a considerable distance.”
“Something like a trail running in that direction, too,” Hatfield observed. “Let’s go. I can use some grease for my scorched hands and wrists, and some carbolic for those infernal rat nips is in order. No telling what venom those beasts have in their devilish jaws.”
As they neared Vega, Hatfield suddenly asked a question —
“Miguel, who in this section hires Apaches?”
“I know of none except the lumber camp,” said the Mexican. “The Apaches are excellent lumber workers. They are experts with axe and saw.”
“Which camp?” Hatfield asked.
“The camp of Senor Haynes.”
CHAPTER VIII
THREE DAYS LATER Clyde Cranley rode up to his ranch house in a state of excitement.
“Just closed the best deal I’ve made in years,” he told Jim Hatfield exultantly. “Stand to make a heap by it, and can I use every dollar — especially if I have to drag out of the valley, as I’m scared I will. I got a letter from Wes Johnson, the general superintendent of the H & E Railroad. You know they’re building a whopping big yard and shops over to McCarney, to the west and north of here? He asked for every cow I could bring him, and he offered considerable over the present market price. I’ll save shipping costs, too. We’ll just drive to McCarney. They have slaughtering facilities. I promised to get ‘em there within two weeks or bust a gallus trying. It’s nigh onto roundup time, and I got in touch with the other boys and they agreed to shove the date up a bit. We should get started in a day or two.”
“Fine!” Hatfield put in. “That’s sure good news, Boss. Anything else?”
“No — yes, damn it!” Cranley snorted. “Some horned toad stole my coat!”
“Stole your coat? How’d it happen?”
“Right after I wrote an answer to Johnson, I went into that damned Anytime saloon to get a bite to eat. Met Nelson Haynes there and told him about Johnson’s offer. Took my wallet out of my coat pocket to get the letter Johnson wrote, and showed it to him. Then we set down to eat. I was hotter’n hell in the damn place, so I took off my coat and hung it on a hook. Well, after I’d finished eating and Haynes had left, I went to get my coat. It wasn’t where I hung it. Nobody knowed anything about it. Some hellion must have seen me put my wallet back in the pocket. It was a big one and looked fat. Buzzard must have figured I packed dinero in it. Had nothing but that letter and some private papers in it. Nothing of any value. Nothing I can’t replace.”
“Well,” Hatfield smiled, “he must have been sort of riled when he found out there was nothing in it he could use. Chances are he threw it and the coat away somewhere. You’re liable to get it back.”
“Hope so,” growled Cranley. “It was a good coat, almost new. I bought it in McCarney not over five years back. And the wallet was a good one. Made by a feller who wears his hair short and dresses mighty loud. Got himself a room over in the penitentiary ‘cause calfs wearin’ his brand followed the wrong cows. He’s a nice feller, though, even if other folks are payin’ his board. Never stole from anybody he knowed well.”
Hatfield chuckled, and the conversation turned to the serious business of the roundup.
• • •
Two days later, the roundup got under way. Through Cranley’s influence, Jim Hatfield was elected roundup boss with absolute authority. Not even the owners would question the orders of a duly elected roundup boss. Not that they wanted to question him, for the owners quickly discovered that Hatfield knew more about the cow business than all of them put together.
After giving orders to the riders, Hatfield sent them out in troops. Each troop spread out over the range, dividing into smaller parties which scattered until the men were separated by distances that varied according to the topography of the country. Each man had to hunt out all the cattle on the ground over which he rode, and on the more broken sections near the hills, careful searching for small herds or isolated animals was necessary.
The cows were then driven to a designated holding spot, and held in a close herd.
Fresh horses were mounted and the business of cutting out the various brands began. Into the milling, bawling mass went the riders. After much dodging on the part of the cow in question, and an equal amount of swearing by the rider, the protesting critter was hied to where the cut was being formed.
The whiz of a rope would snake out through the cloud of yellow dust, followed by the bawl of the frightened calf, a bellow of protest from the mother, the drumming of hoofs and finally the calf would be brought to the nearest fire where the irons of the various brands were heated.
The calf would bawl and struggle while a puncher went down the rope, hand over hand, to the jumping animal, catch it under the flank and the neck and throw it. Another cowboy would run forward and catch the animal’s leg while the red hot iron was applied.
“Best handled workin’ I ever saw,” Clyde Cranley declared when they were finished. Other owners congratulated Hatfield and expressed their satisfaction.
The cattle were herded home under heavy guard. Without mishap they reached the pasture where they were held for a few days before taking the trail north to McCarney.
Jim Hatfield was in charge of the drive. As an additional precaution against a possible raid, he had outriders fanning out from the herd and inspecting the country ahead.
The first day, Hatfield moved the herd along quickly in order to get the cows off their home range where they evinced a greater tendency to stray, and thus he covered about twenty-five miles. After that he cut the speed in half, for he did not want to push the heavier cattle too fast. To do so would mean to run valuable weight off them. He figured on taking three days to cover the remaining forty miles to McCarney.
The first and second day on the trail the going was good over the open rangeland. Then the trail entered the hills.
In the beginning the canyon was wide, with steeply sloping sides. Then it began to narrow and in many places the side walls were tall, vertical cliffs, often with overhangs that shut out much of the light.
The canyon was not a straight channel through the hills. It turned and twisted as it followed the tortuous course of Horsehead Creek which had, over the years, cut the gorge to its present depth.
Soon the point, swing and fla
nk riders were forced to drop back and follow with the drag, for there was no room for them between the herd and the encroaching sides of the gorge.
Finally they reached the narrowest section of the canyon, where the slopes were long and fairly steep, consisting of a series of benches rising tier on tier to the distant skyline. A sharp bend marked the end of the vertical cliffs and the beginning of the slopes.
The herd jostled and bleated around the bend. Ahead, an open stretch of land extended for nearly a mile, flanked by terraces on either side. The lowest bench was not much more than twenty feet above the level of the rocky, brush-spotted floor.
Hatfield’s keen eyes were trained on the trail. Suddenly he raised his voice in a shout of warning, but his words were soon drowned out by a roar of gunfire. Smoke spurted from the lowest bench. Slugs hissed through the air. Two of the cowhands spun from their saddles and toppled to the canyon floor. Another yelled with pain as a bullet burned his ribs.
“Back!” thundered Hatfield, wheeling his horse. “Back around the bulge! It’s a trap!”
With lead whining and screeching about their ears, the cowboys turned their mounts and raced for the protection of the bulge.
Without further casualties they whisked around the bend and jerked their cayuses to a slithering, jostling halt. Guns drawn and ready, they whirled about.
“Hold it,” Hatfield ordered. “The hellions are holed up on the bench in the brush. They’ve got the bend covered. We can’t ride out there without getting plugged. Wait a minute.”
He dismounted and drew his rifle from the saddle boot. He perched his hat on the end of the barrel and, moving forward and hugging the cliff wall, cautiously thrust his rifle past a jut of stone.
A gun cracked, the hat spun through the air. Hatfield picked it up and pointed to the ragged holes in the crown.
“Good shots up there,” he remarked composedly. “See what I mean?”
Old Clyde Cranley swore. “What about the two boys they downed?” he demanded. “We got to help them.”
“From the way they went down, I’m afraid they’re beyond needing help,” Hatfield said grimly. “And anyhow, we can’t get to them.”
“What the hell is this all about?” a bewildered puncher wanted to know.
“Listen,” Hatfield replied. “The cows are moving up the canyon.”
The cowboys strained their ears. Hatfield was right. The bleating of the cattle and the click of their hoofs were fading into the distance.
“We can’t let them get away with it,” stormed Cranley, his eyes glaring.
“They’re getting away with it now,” Hatfield replied. “Keep back from that bend. They’ve left a couple of jiggers holed up there on the bench to keep us right here. Two men could hold that bench against fifty coming around the bend. Maybe we can rush ‘em when it gets dark, but we’ll pay heavy for it if we do. This will take some thinking out.”
“They can’t get away with it,” declared Cranley. “I know this country, know it like the palm of my hand. To the north a couple of miles they’ll turn west by way of a canyon that leads to the open country beyond the hills. But after they get through, they’ll have miles and miles of open country to cover before they’re in the clear. Come on, we’re headin’ back down this crack. We’ll show the buzzards. There’s a way through the hills just south of Horsehead. We’ll scoot through there and land on ‘em west of the hills. They can’t make speed with that herd. This time the sidewinders outsmarted themselves.”
“It’s us who are being outsmarted,” Hatfield said quietly.
“What’s that? What do you mean?” bawled old Clyde.
“Do you think fellers who know the country well enough to plant their ambush where they did, don’t know about that pass you mention?” Hatfield asked. “Of course they do. Cranley, those cows aren’t going through the hills to the west. They’re going right on up Horsehead Canyon.”
“Up Horsehead Canyon!” roared Cranley. “Why, damn it, that canyon opens out less than eight miles below McCarney, and the railroad builders are darn nigh far south as the mouth. They couldn’t turn west there. It’s miles and miles around the hills, through a section where folks live. And where else could they take the herd?”
“To McCarney!” Hatfield answered.
“To McCarney!” Cranley repeated. “What in heck would they do with them cows in McCarney?”
“Sell them to the railroad,” Hatfield replied.
“S-sell them to the railroad?” Cranley stuttered.
“Don’t you see it?” Hatfield urged. “It’s a natural. The railroad people don’t know you, and even if they did, what would it matter? An owner doesn’t always ride with his trail herd. Very often he sends it in with his range boss. I’m your range boss right now, and who in McCarney has ever seen me? If I had taken the herd in by myself, I’d be packing along credentials from you and have the authority to transact business. Who would question me? A big outfit like yours is always hiring new hands, as everybody knows.”
“But the hellions ain’t got no credentials from me!” Cranley stormed.
“Haven’t they?” Hatfield countered grimly. “That’s just what they have got, and plenty.”
Again Cranley looked utterly bewildered.
“Your stolen wallet,” Hatfield explained. “Now I see why it was stolen. That wasn’t any ordinary sneak thief, Cranley. That was one of a bunch that knew just what he was doing. That wallet contained private papers belonging to you — identification. It even contained the letter from Superintendent Johnson of the railroad requesting that the cows be sent along pronto. That letter presented to the railroad officials would be plenty. They’d never question it. Why should they? While we’re skalleyhooting around over west of the hills, trying to run down the herd, those jiggers will be checking the cows in at McCarney and collecting for them. The road will pay in cash, as it always does in this section. They’ll pocket the dinero and hightail. Maybe the road would take the loss and give back your cows. I don’t know. It’s a whacking big heap of money. But even if that happened, the horned toads would have put it over.”
“I’d rather lose the whole damned herd than have that happen,” Cranley swore, his mustache bristling on his scarlet face. “But what in blazes — ”
“Listen,” Hatfield interrupted, “is there another way north across the hills, beside Horsehead Canyon?”
“Yes, there’s a way, over to the east a few miles,” Cranley replied. “It’s tough goin’, but horses could make it, though cows couldn’t.”
“Okay,” Hatfield said with finality. “We’re heading over the hills. Those heavy beefs can’t move over fast, and maybe we can catch ‘em before they have a chance to scatter. Just north of the canyon mouth would be perfect. With luck, we’ll bag the whole bunch.”
“You done convinced me,” said Cranley. “All right, I’ll follow your lead. Hope you ain’t makin’ no mistake.”
“I’m not,” Hatfield replied briefly. “There’s the canyon mouth, right ahead. Now you lead the way to that trail over the hills. We haven’t any time to spare if we’re to catch ‘em before dark.”
The trail over the hills proved to be all Cranley claimed it to be, and worse. It was but a faint track winding amid growth and over ledges. It was studded with boulders and washed out by the rains.
“Nobody ever used this trail but Injuns, prospectors and hunters,” said Cranley. “Reckon nobody ever uses it now. In fact, only oldtimers like myself remember it being here.”
“That’s all to the good,” replied Hatfield. “Chances are that bunch we’re after don’t know about it. Chances are they’ll figure so long as they hold Horsehead Canyon, they’re safe, no matter what we decide to do. We ought to be able to take ‘em plumb by surprise.”
The horses were blowing hard by the time they reached the crest of the hills, and it was necessary to call a halt for a while to enable them to catch their breath.
The descent to the north was hazardous. The sun was l
ow in the west, now, and Hatfield was growing anxious. The ride was consuming much more time than he had anticipated. But he counted on the owlhoots thinking they had nothing to worry about. Playing the part of honest ranchers delivering their herd, they would try to avoid rousing suspicion. They would know that an owner would not push his herd fast and would act accordingly. They would also realize the advantage of arriving in McCarney around nightfall, when scant attention would be paid to details and fewer persons would be around who might suspect that something was wrong.
Cranley was growing anxious, too. He was beginning to wonder if he had not been too hasty in agreeing to Hatfield’s plan. The notion did seem preposterous and a mite daring even for a salty bunch of owlhoots.
“Sure hope you ain’t makin’ no mistake,” he said as they slipped and slithered down the mountainside.
“I’m not,” Hatfield replied with emphasis that did much to restore the ranchowner’s confidence.
The hills on either side began to fall away. After ten minutes’ ride the rangeland ahead was clearly visible. Ten minutes more and they could see, on the left, the winding trail flowing from the dark gorge of Horsehead Canyon.
To the north along the trail, about a mile distant, they saw a shimmer of steel and a mass of moving dots. These, Hatfield knew, were the railroad builders driving south.
He scanned the northern skyline. Nowhere could he see the tell-tale smudge of dust that would mark the passage of the great herd.
“They haven’t cleared the canyon yet,” he told Cranley. “Maybe we’ll get a break and catch them as they come out. That would be perfect. Let’s go!”
But between the Box C riders and the trail was a long and steep slope devoid of vegetation. It was shaley and boulder strewn. The only practical route of descent was the rugged and winding trail they were on.
