Wolves of the Chaparral

by Paul Evan Lehman

  “Deesappear’?” They could not mistake the sudden alarm in her voice.

  “Yes. We got a hunch he’s in trouble.”

  To their surprise she laughed shrilly, adding quickly in a low voice, “Order another dreenk; the bartender he ees watch us.”

  Nip was telling a funny story as the bartender served them. When the fellow was once more out of earshot, Lola spoke softly. “Why do you theenk these?”

  “He’s got enemies: Horace Moley, Steve, Sam Hodge, Hop Finch and Pug Parsons. And he had a mixup with Tug Groody over that Slater jigger.”

  Her laughter rang out as though at something droll he had said. Lola was an excellent little actress. “You mus’ go,” she told them in the next breath. “‘Me, I’m can’t laff moch more. I weel fin’ out and tell you. Go.”

  They went.

  “You reckon we can trust her?” asked Nip.

  Tuck flashed him a shrewd look. “Sure we can. Ain’t you got no eyes? The li’l gal is in love with Barry.”

  For a moment Nip stood staring, complete overwhelmed. “She loves him, huh?” he said dully. “Aw, shucks! I mighta knowed it.” In a low voice he improvised:

  He broke off. “Weston don’t rhyme with Lola, does it? Aw, shucks! Let’s ride.”

  When they returned to the ranch, Chet Lewis had disappeared. It was just as well, for the two cowboys, in examining Barry’s room, found his gun on the chair. Convinced that Chet knew more about the disappearance than he had divulged, they would have resorted to sterner methods than questioning to force the truth from him.

  Around noon they saw a rider approaching at a fast lope.

  “It’s a gal,” announced Tuck. “Must be Barbara.”

  “It ain’t Barbara’s horse, and this gal has black hair. Tuck, as sure as cats are growed-up kittens, it’s Lola.”

  Lola it was. She rode up to them and swung lightly from her horse. Very neat and trim she appeared in her riding habit, but they found no time for compliments. Her dark face was tight, and the black eyes fairly glittered.

  “I’m fin’ out w’ere he ees,” she said tensely. “Tug Groody ’as heem.”

  “Where abouts?”

  She waved toward the south. “I’m not know from sure. We mus’ look.”

  They dashed for their horses and in a moment were speeding over the rangeland. Glancing over his shoulder, Nip saw her following and waved to her to turn back. She did not obey, and he finally halted and turned.

  “You can’t go along,” he said. “This is a man’s job.”

  “Was eet man who tell you w’ere he ees? Come; we are was’ tam.” She spurred by him and took the lead, headed southward.

  At that moment the one for whose safety they feared was seated on the ground beneath a scrub oak under the watchful eyes of six outlaws. For over ten hours they had been in the saddle, and now they were resting.

  Barry had returned to consciousness to find himself tied over a horse like a sack of meal. At his cry they had halted, and he was permitted to ride erect with his feet lashed together beneath the belly of his mount. Shortly before noon they had halted at the place where he now found himself. The horses were watered at a nearby spring and hobbled, a camp was established, and the men, not having stopped for breakfast, attacked the food they had brought with them.

  Barry was not long kept ignorant of his fate. The men talked while they ate, and presently their conversation turned to him.

  “How do you aim to rub him out, Tug?” asked a man with one arm in a sling.

  “Lose him,” replied Tug, who was fishing peaches from a can. “Lose him beneath a couple tons of rock in the gully over there. You know how loose them rocks are on top. Well, Mr. Buttinski is goin’ to have a accident. Him and his horse and rig are goin’ to git buried under a landsdide.”

  “Goin’ to shoot him first, ain’t you?” asked one of them callously.

  “Shootin’ makes too much noise.”

  “Hang him then,” said he with the sling. “Hangin’s quiet.”

  Tug stabbed another peach. “I been thinkin’ some of it.” He turned his baleful gaze on Barry. “Danged jigger beat us outa five thousand bucks.”

  Barry lay back on the ground and closed his eyes. So they had known that Slater had five thousand dollars on his person. Had Tug paid it to him and then murdered him to get it back? He dismissed the thought and concentrated on a plan of escape. His feet were bound, and one end of the rope which secured them was tied to a tree. With his hands free he could work loose, but not in the daylight, and by the way they talked he’d never see another night. He tried to reconcile himself to his fate and found it difficult. He was young and strong and eager for life; to lie here and await his end passively was impossible.

  “We’ll rub him out this evenin’,” announced Tug. “I’m dog tired, and we don’t want to hang around here after it’s over. Turn in and git some shut-eye, boys. Each stand guard one hour.” He named the order in which they were to watch.

  Barry opened his eyes slightly. The men were composing themselves on the ground, and Tug, with a wide yawn, stripped off his gun belt and hung it on a projecting stub of a limb. The man assigned to watch seated himself twenty feet away from Barry and leaned against a tree. A rifle lay across his knees. Barry closed his eyes again, but before them remained the vision of a dangling gun belt with the butt of a big Colt projecting from the holster. It was careless of Tug to hang it there; or did he believe it out of Barry’s reach? Weston determined that, given half a chance, he would have it in his hands. If he must die, it would be on his feet like a man.

  The hours passed without the opportunity he awaited. At the end of each trick his guard would rise and, watching him carefully, would kick an outlaw into wakefulness to take up the vigil. It wasn’t until Tug himself was aroused that Barry had his chance.

  The big outlaw got up sluggishly, his eyes apparently heavy with sleep. Taking the rifle from the guard, he sank down on the ground and rested his head against the tree. Barry, watching him from beneath half closed lids, saw him close his eyes momentarily, then open them with a start. Getting slowly to his feet, Tug shuffled over to where Barry lay, and Weston, feigning sleep, felt the man’s searching gaze bent upon him. Then came the sound of retreating footsteps, and he knew Tug had returned to the tree. The outlaw leader sat down with a grunt, and Barry opened his eyes. Tug was leaning against the tree trunk, head tilted forward, hat brim drawn low.

  For what seemed an eternity Barry lay there motionless. At any moment Tug might arouse himself and call the others; still he dared not make a move until he was sure Tug slept. Presently he ventured moving about a bit. Tug paid no attention. Rolling to his left side, Barry doubled his legs and felt about his ankles for the knot. He found it, began working at the hard rope.

  He made slow progress. In an agony of suspense he clawed at the knot, fingers numb, nails broken and torn. His eyes were fixed on Tug; should the outlaw awake now it would be all over with him. But Tug’s position remained unchanged, and the gentle rise and fall of his shoulders suggested slumber.

  The rope gave slightly, and Barry redoubled his efforts. The knot loosened, dissolved. He moved his legs, disengaged his ankles from the coils. He was free!

  Almost was he tempted to crawl away into the shelter of the woods, but the dangling gun drew him. Its possession might mean the difference between life and death. Quietly he got to his knees, steady gaze fixed on the outlaw leader. Planting one foot firmly on the ground, he rose to his feet. No movement of any kind from the prostrate outlaws. A soft step in the direction of the tree from which hung the belt—another; and still no evidence that he had been observed. Three more swift strides, and his hand was on the walnut butt of the gun. In the act of drawing it he froze. Tug Groody had raised his head and was watching him, and Tug was grinning!

  In that one swift moment Barry saw the trap which had been so skillfully baited. The other outlaws were awake and watching him, and he saw that several of them held their guns. T
hey had never intended to hang him, but, desiring an excuse for shooting him, had hung the gun where they knew he could reach it. As in those other instances when he had stood face to face with death, Barry felt suddenly cold and calm and very sure of himself.

  Tug Groody’s rifle swept around in a short arc, six-guns snapped upward to line themselves on his form. Barry jerked the big Colt from its holster, leaped sideways, and thumbed the hammer. A futile click! He jumped again and snapped the hammer a second time. Another click! Tug Groody’s grin was wider than ever, and Barry suddenly knew the reason for it. Tug had planted the gun there to tempt him, but he had first removed the cartridges!

  Thus far not a shot had been fired. Barry’s two swift leaps had disturbed the aim of the outlaws, who were still lying flat on the ground or resting on an elbow. Tug was the man he had to fear most; Tug, with that deadly rifle which followed his every movement.

  In that instance Barry thought very clearly. His action was the result of a sudden complete comprehension of the situation rather than a logical analysis of it. They had expected him to turn and flee, and their minds were set on shooting him as he ran. Instead of turning, he sprang directly at Tug Groody. One great leap he took, covering half the distance which separated them; and as he landed, he flung the six-gun at the outlaw leader with all the strength he possessed.

  The rifle cracked, and the bullet struck him in the right breast; then the heavy Colt crashed against Tug’s forehead and he sagged down like a pole-axed steer.

  The shock of the bullet stopped Barry momentarily, but even as his mind grew hazy he realized that safety lay in keeping going, although his life blood was welling up in his throat to choke him. Carried on by sheer determination and power of will, he plunged blindly past the prostrate Tug, stumbling over vines, plunging through the brush like some stricken wild animal. Guns roared as outlaws hastily rolled and fired; lead shrieked through the air about him or thudded into the trunks of intervening trees. Two slugs struck him, but he was only dully aware of their impact. A gash in the earth opened before him. He could not have stopped had he wanted to. He plunged over the edge of the gully, fell some twenty feet, struck shale and rolled and slid to the bottom.

  From the lip of the gully came shouts which his dazed mind could not comprehend. They were shouts of triumph and savage glee. They had him where they wanted him; he had obligingly stumbled into the very gully they had marked as his grave. A rock came bounding and leaping down the incline to strike within inches of his head. A small avalanche of stones followed it.

  Consciousness lingered for a moment longer; desperate, pain-stricken eyes flitted about, the desire to live temporarily clearing a mind that was rapidly fogging. There was a projecting ledge some four feet from the bottom of the gully; if he could reach it, lie under the projecting overhang—

  Barry called forth every effort of his will, got his legs and arms in motion, clawed and pushed and fought himself clear of the rubble. Slowly and painfully he worked his way to the ledge, the rocks raining about him like huge hailstones. Under the overhang his strength left him; he heard as in a dream the thud of the stones as they rattled down, but his eyes were closed and he was not conscious of the fading light which told of the closing of the aperture through which he had crawled.

  Tug Groody, the sweat of mighty effort blending with the blood from his cut forehead, looked down on the mass of rock and stone and shale which covered the bottom of the gully and shook a hairy fist in the direction of the body they concealed.

  “Lay there, dang you! Lay there and rot!”

  “Tug!” cried a companion. “Listen!”

  Tug jerked erect, turned his head. From some distant point came a faint but distinct shout: “Barry! Barry!”

  Groody snapped into action. “Git gain’! Catch up the horses. Rustle, I tell you!”

  They scattered. Swiftly they found their mounts, tore off the hobbles, threw on saddles and headstalls. Blankets were swept up deftly rolled, rifles were thrust into scabbards.

  “How about Weston’s horse?” asked the man with the sling.

  Tug swore. “Leave it. Hurry, dang you! Scatter and meet at the hangout. Git goin’.”

  They were none too soon. Hardly had the last hoof-beat faded when Lola and the two cowboys came crashing through the brush. Their horses were lathered and panting, the riders scratched by chaparral and bruised by the branches they had struck in their headlong charge. They drew rein on the trampled ground of the camp, guns poised, keen eyes searching.

  “Too late,” said Nip. “They’re gone. I heard a horse off to the right.”

  “And I heard one to the left. Nip, they’ve scattered. Look! Here’s the rope where Barry was tied.”

  Dios!” came an agonized cry from Lola. Her finger was pointing to the ground, her eyes were wide with horror. “Look! Ees blood!”

  Tuck peered in the direction indicated and spoke gravely. “She’s right. Blood it is. You reckon Barry got loose and shot it out with them?”

  “What’d he use for a gun? His is home on the chair.”

  Lola had swung to the ground and was following the red blotches like a bloodhound. Her face was strained and white; her eyes burned like those of some primeval savage. Wonderingly Nip and Tuck dismounted and followed—followed straight to the edge of the gully. Here everything was plain.

  Nip swore a horrible oath. “They’ve killed him and buried him in the gully! The sons of dogs!”

  Lola was already sliding and leaping down the steep incline. They followed, helped with frantic hands to tear aside the rocks.

  Presently Lola ceased her labor and spoke pantingly. “Eef he ees there,” she pointed to the middle of the gully, “he ees los’. May be he ees crawl to the side.”

  They attacked the rocks closer to the wall of the gully, rolling them to one side, digging the shale away with their hands. It was Lola who finally crawled through the aperture they uncovered, Lola who cried out that she had found him.

  “Is he—dead?” asked Nip anxiously.

  “He ees still breathe! Ah, thank the Blessed Virgin! But we mus’ get heem out—queek!”

  They worked their way to the top of the gully with· the unconscious Barry, gently laid him on the ground. The girl, suddenly calm, worked over him, sending Nip for water, telling Tuck to tear up his shirt for bandages.

  Three wounds there were: pistol wounds in leg and shoulder, and a clean hole through the right lung. The first two were superficial; it was the rifle wound which had taken its toll.

  Lola worked steadily and swiftly, cleansing the hurts, plugging them and applying compresses to stop the bleeding. She was white to the lips, and her eyes glowed like living coals; but her hands were steady, her touch deft.

  “Ees all I can do,” she said at last in a small voice. “He mus’ ’ave the medico and he mus’ be move’ to a bed; but oh, so carefully.”

  “Fine!” said Nip. “We’ll tie him on his horse and take him to the Flyin’ W.”

  “No, no! You weel keel heem! You mus’ tak two poles an’ a blanket an’ mak w’at you call the—the—”

  “Litter?”

  “Yes. An’ you mus’ walk weeth heem to the Cinchbuckle. An’ you mus’ be so careful or he weel bleed to death. Me, I weel ride for the medico.”

  Nip helped her to her feet and stood for a moment holding her hand.

  “Lola,” he said gently, “you’ll sure do to ride the river with!”

  She smiled faintly, the soft eyes misty. “Ees nice compli-ment for dance-hall girl, no?”

  “I mean it. If you ever need an extra arm or laig, or even a head—”

  “Aw, shut up,” said Tuck gruffly. “That head of yours would only be a handicap to her. Come on; let’s fix up that litter.”

  They carried the unconscious man until it was too dark to see, then camped in their tracks, alternating in watching over him. Lola had warned them, and they were careful to keep him well covered during the night. If pneumonia set in, Barry Weston’s slig
ht chance of recovery would vanish like snow before an April sun. In the morning they took up their task, plodding steadily through the chaparral, cursing each other fervently at each misstep. Dusk had again descended when they finally staggered out of the hills to the Cinchbuckle range. Here they found waiting a spring wagon, the Cinchbuckle crew, Lola, Barbara, and the doctor.

  The latter examined the patient carefully, nodding approval of Lola’s handiwork. “Good job,” he commented shortly. “I won’t touch him until we get him to the house. Put him on the mattress, boys.”

  Ike Wetmiller designated three of his men to carry out the order. Nip and Tuck, weary to the point of exhaustion, had sunk to the ground.

  Barbara addressed them quietly. “You will ride in the wagon with him. In the morning you can take two of my horses and go back for your own.”

  Late that night the doctor finally straightened and looked at the two girls who stood at the foot of the bed. “His chance is mighty slim,” he told them gravely. “Somebody must be with him night and day.”

  “I weel stay,” said Lola quietly.

  Barbara’s chin went up. “We will both take care of him.”

  CHAPTER XI

  THE BETRAYAL

  THE news of Barry’s abduction and rescue reached Mescal that same night. It was brought by Ike Wetmiller, who, although not in the deal, had a shrewd suspicion as to who was behind it.

  The crowd in the Palace hung on his words and questioned him closely. Who had shot Weston? Why? Where had it happened? How had Lola been drawn into it? Two within the Palace knew part of the answers, and their eyes instinctively sought each other. One was Steve Moley; the other, Chet Lewis.

  The reaction of the first was disappointment, chagrin, and hot anger, with the latter predominating. It was clear that Lola had betrayed him; the little hussy had led him on, twisting him skillfully about her finger, wheedling from him information that he gave because he thought she cared for him. He was a fool; it was Weston she loved. The knowledge was like raw vinegar on an open sore.