by Zane Grey
Owing to the heavy rain, Dann’s wagon had not burned up. The canvas cover was partly destroyed, and some of the contents. Half of the load had evidently been stolen and carried away, but part of Dann’s supplies and effects had been overlooked or rejected. There was no sign of his team or harness.
“Ormiston was kinda rarin’ to leave, huh?” drawled Red. “Wal, I don’t see where a few more miles was so all-fired good for him.”
“Boys, pile off and let’s run the wagon under that shelter,” suggested Sterl. “Lots of stuff worth keeping dry.”
With that accomplished they mounted again to ride out of the timber. Broad wheel tracks curved away to the east.
“Three wagons,” said Red, thinking aloud. “All loaded heavy. Ten or twelve miles a day over good ground is about all they could do. Three drivers, which I reckon will be Ormiston, Jack, an’ Bedford. They’ll drive ahaid of the cattle.”
“Right-o, Red. Say they left camp an hour or so after daybreak,” rejoined Sterl, looking at his watch. “Dog-gone, it’s stopped. Water leaked in. Anybody got the time?”
“Half after nine,” replied Drake.
“They’d be six or seven miles at the most,” pondered Sterl.
“Pard, wait till we see them an’ the lay of the land. Then we’ll deal the cairds. But be shore the deck is stacked against Ormiston, the…fool!”
“Friday, here, climb up behind me,” called Sterl to the black.
“Me tinkit run alonga.”
Sterl and his riders set off at a lope, with the aborigine running along easily. He had a marvelous stride, and he covered ground as smoothly as an Indian. Red followed the wheel tracks for a mile out on the grassy level, until they disappeared under the trampling hoofmarks of the cattle. Presently the broad, heavy track of the herd that had been raided across the river joined the main mob.
“One of them there little ridges ahaid will…. Look heah!” Red leaped out of his saddle to hit the ground with a jingling thud. He bent to pick up something. How curiously he bent over it. And when he held it up for Sterl to see, what blue lightnings flashed from his eyes. The object was one of the handkerchiefs Red had given Beryl for Christmas. Soiled, trampled, it yet was a poignant reminder of the girl who had either run off with the man she still believed in, or had been carried off by him. Sterl made no comment. But he felt deeply, and, when he carefully stowed the handkerchief away inside his leather coat, Sterl thought he would not have been in that bush-ranger’s boots for anything in the whole world.
They rode on to where the mob track curved to the left away from the first ridge. Once beyond that the country opened out much the same as that on the west side of the Forks. It was open bushland, grassy plains, patches of scrub, scattered gum trees all over, with rolling, ridgy country beyond. The rain fell incessantly, sometimes heavily, and again in a more or less light drizzle. This and the dark overcast day made it difficult to see far ahead.
Sterl took note of their three Australian companions. Drake was the only one who was not over-excited. Being a mature man, evidently used to drover life, he had probably seen some hard days. But Larry and Rollie, stalwart and grown, young outdoor men though they were, had certainly never shot at a man in their lives. Sterl knew how they felt, for that had happened to him before he was sixteen. Red Krehl was just the leader to rouse followers to stand up under anything. Sterl himself felt the terrific passion of the cowboy. In any case, Red was one to be cool and provocative in the face of a fight, but here he was fierce and relentless.
With him in the lead they rode at a brisk trot several miles into the bushland before any more words were exchanged. Then Red swerved to ascend the first rather high ridge. Upon arriving at the summit, he said: “Spread out, fellers, an’ see what you can see.”
Sterl rode to the edge of a bluff and peered out over the rolling land. In spite of the rain and leaden sky he could see several miles. Widening valleys and higher ridges indicated an approach to the big, rough range country Sterl had seen clear from their first lookout; he studied it carefully from different angles. In that open timber not even a deer could have eluded his sharp eyes. Meanwhile, Friday caught up with them. The rain had let up to a fine mist. They climbed the rocky ridge, the summit of which was several hundred feet above the valley.
Distance, heights, lowlands preserved their gray-green monotony, but all were magnified. In the center of a long valley the mob of cattle stood out strikingly clear for so dark a day. The variegated patch of color crawled across the green. The pursuers gazed in silence, each occupied with his own thoughts, until Red spoke: “Four or five miles, mebbe. They’re pushin’ the herd. Not grazin’ a-tall.”
“They’re sure covering ground,” replied Sterl.
“I can’t see any wagons,” Larry added.
All of them, except Red, made similar statements. “I ain’t so damn shore I cain’t,” said Red slowly. “On a clear day it’d be duck soup.”
Friday touched Sterl’s arm. He extended his bundle of long spears.
“Wagons. Alonga dere.”
“A-huh! I’d gambled on it! How far, pard?”
Sterl thought surely that was the only instance in Red Krehl’s life when the Texan had called a black man his partner.
“Close up,” replied the black.
“Red, for him that means a few miles, at least,” interposed Sterl. “The wagons are that far in front of the cattle.”
“Jest too bad. Mister Bush-Ranger Ormiston shore figgers things good for us,” returned the cowboy. Then he bent a keen, calculating gaze upon the herd of cattle in its relation to landmarks on each side. “Reckon there’s plenty of cover all along heah to the left. Come on, fellers. It’s gettin’ kinda hot.”
They descended the ridge on its steep side. Here Red told Friday to get up behind Sterl. The black understood. He stared, then shook his head. “Friday, you may be a hell of a runner, but we’re gonna cut loose, an’ we need you.”
“Come, Friday,” called Sterl, and extended his hand. “Look out! For cripe’s sake, don’t stick me with your spears!” He helped the aborigine to a place astride King behind the saddle. “Hang onto me,” concluded Sterl.
Red led off at a gallop, due west from that ridge. They crossed the flat to find a pass between two low ridges, then turned east again. It was thicker bushland, through which the cowboy led in a zigzag course. The ride must have been uncomfortable for Friday, but in Sterl’s opinion he did very well, indeed. King showed no sign that he was carrying double. But the long, slender black man was not much of a burden. Five miles, more or less, of this zigzag gallop, through brush, over logs, under low-branching gums, the cowboy led, and finally halted to the left of another ridge.
“Reckon this heah is ahaid of the herd an’ drovers. You can wait heah, while I take a look-see,” Red said, and took a slanting course up the ridge. Friday had slid off King at once, and, if his dark visage could have expressed distaste, it did so then.
“Me tinkit hoss no good,” he said.
Sterl’s grimness broke to this, but the perturbed drovers did not even crack a smile.
“What will we do next?” asked Larry, his voice not quite natural.
“I don’t know what Red will advise. Depends on the lay of the land. But if there’s any chance for a fight, he’ll have us in it pronto.”
“We…we’ll attack them?” added Rollie.
“I rather think so.”
Red appeared, riding down in what seemed a surprisingly brief time. Sterl watched the cowboy, as he came on at a lope, seemingly a part of the horse, and tried to imagine what the sensations of Larry and Rollie might be. Drake wore a reassuringly stern and resolute expression. Red reined Duke in, and, as was characteristic of the cowboy, he lighted a cigarette before he spoke.
“Jest couldn’t be better. Herd about a coupla miles below us, close to this side of the valley. Bunch of hosses behind. All the sly drovers ridin’ behind, bunched close, as if they had lots to talk about, an’ they’re goin�
�� to pass less’n a hundred yards from a patch of brush right around this corner of ridge.” He paused, puffed clouds of smoke that obscured his lean, red face and fire-blue eyes, and presently resumed, this time cooler and sharper. “Heah’s the deal. This set-up will be duck soup. It’s jest a shame to take the money. Sterl an’ me, with Friday, will ride ahaid, hellbent for election, an’ get in front of the wagons. They’re about three or four miles up from heah. Drake, you take Larry an’ Rollie, ride around this corner, then lead yore hosses back of the thicket you’ll see. Keep out of sight. Crawl through thet brush to the edge, wait for the herd to pass by, an’ the drovers to come up even with you. I reckon thet’s about all.”
“All right, Krehl. We’ll do it,” Drake declared firmly. “Looks a great deal luckier than I hoped for.”
“You’ll have to give us the time it takes for the herd an’ drovers to come up. Thet’ll be between a quarter an’ a half. But we gotta rustle. Let’s don’t argue. I’ve had a deal of such work. An’ thet’s my idee of what’s best. Sterl, what say?”
“Made to order for us,” returned Sterl darkly.
Larry burst out: “Let’s not waste time. We’ll do it, Krehl!” This young man had not the least recklessness in his make-up. He had never shot at more than a kangaroo in his life. But he realized that he was going out to shoot at his fellow men, and be shot at, perhaps killed. He was pale, trembling, but courageous to a degree.
“Wait!” ejaculated Rollie hoarsely. “What will we do?”
Red eyed the big drover in supreme disdain. Then he spoke with a deadly softness. “Wal, Rollie, you might wave yore scarf an’ call woo-hoo!”
“Don’t cast aspersions upon me, you cowboy blighter!” Rollie retorted angrily.
“Hell’s fire, then! Come out of yore trance. This is a manhunt. These drovers you’ve hobnobbed with mebbe air traitors…cattle an’ hoss thieves! I’ve had to help hang more’n one cowboy friend thet I reckoned was a clean, honest chap, when he’d come to be a low-down rustler. Same, mebbe, between you boys an’ Dann’s drovers. It’ll be tough. But it’s gotta be done.”
“Krehl, I can take orders. Stop ranting in your lingo, and give orders.”
“Short an’ sweet. Think of yore pard Cedric. Think of Beryl Dann, who’s in Ormiston’s hands. An’ they’re dirty, bloody hands! Cut loose with yore rifles an’ kill them drovers. If you cain’t down ’em pronto, fork yore hosses an’ ride them down.”
“Thanks. I understand you a little better,” returned Rollie, gray of face.
Without another word the three drovers rode toward the brushy slope.
“Sterl, I had to rake them, but I reckon now they’ll give a good account of themselves. But Drake is no tenderfoot,” said Red, as he watched them ride away. “Rustle now. Get Friday up an’ hang onto him.”
Unwilling or not, the black had to get up behind Sterl. “Hold those spears low, like that,” shouted Sterl, and he reached around with right arm to clasp Friday. “OK, pard, see if you can run away from King.”
The cowboy led off, and Sterl knew what he had suspected would be a fact—that he and Friday were in for a ride. Another hard downpour, right in their faces, made accurate vision difficult. It was not possible to bend heads low to shield faces behind broad-brimmed sombreros. But that did not deter Red Krehl. He ran Duke on the open stretches, galloped him through the brush, jumped him over logs, and cut a zigzag course over uncertain and rougher ground. Friday had a bear-clutch on Sterl, yet, even with Sterl’s iron hand holding him, the black all but fell off several times. The slapping of wet branches and the cracking of saplings added to the pain and discomfort, if no more. At the end of what was a hard five-mile run Red pulled Duke to a slower gait and headed to the right. Evidently they had reached beyond the head of the long, open flat and had come into bushland again. Red did not halt until he got to the edge of the timber. The three wagons were in plain sight out upon the open, the first about a mile distant, and the other two farther out, but still separated.
“Haidin’ almost straight for us,” soliloquized Red.
Friday laboriously fell off from behind Sterl, undoubtedly pretty much knocked up. He rubbed his lean, wet legs. His great black orbs, unfathomable as they were, appeared to hold contempt for the horse.
“Tinkit hoss damn’ bad!” he cursed for the first time in Sterl’s presence. At any other time that would have earned a hearty laugh.
“Pard, we’ll get farther back in the bush, an’ make our plan as the wagons come up.”
Friday took a long look at the three wagons. Then he pointed. “Ormiston wagon dere farder. Hosses alonga ’imm,” he said.
“Thet hombre last, huh? Wal, I guess I recognize him, but I cain’t quite make out the hosses. Come on, Sterl.”
Red rode over to line up with the wagons, then turned back into the bush, keeping out of bare ground and away somewhat from the course he decided the first wagon driver would take. The rain lessened again. The clouds at one point lightened and appeared about to break. Perhaps two miles back from the open Red halted again.
“Far enough, I reckon, pard,” he said, “now…. Say, where in the hell did Friday go to?”
“By thunder! He’s gone. I never noticed. But he won’t cramp us, Red. Don’t worry.”
“All I’m worryin’ about is thet he’ll get to Ormiston before I do,” ground out Red.
“If he does, that’s to the good. It’ll save your killing him.”
“Ha! Then I’d never rest in my grave.”
“Spring your plan. We’ve got the line up.”
“Wal, simple enough. If I wasn’t so…mad, I’d laugh at this set-up. We shore never had nothin’ so easy back in Texas.”
“Right-o. But let’s take it on as if it was as tough as any rustlers ever put up to us. Hurry. What’s your plan?”
“I’ll ride back a ways. Let the first wagon go by me, onless it should happen to be Ormiston. You wait about heah someplace. An’ when thet wagon comes up, introduce yourself either to Jack or Bedford. Then you rustle back after me.”
“You’ll time it to meet that second wagon just about when the first one gets up to me?”
“I reckon. But it’s all over ’cept the fireworks.”
Red rode off under the dripping gums, keeping to the left of the expected wagon line, and soon disappeared in the gray-green bush. Sterl searched about for a suitable cover where he could hide until the leading wagon reached him. There did not happen to be a thick clump of brush near at hand. And he did not want to go far aside from that imaginary line. At length he chose some gum saplings, close together and leafy enough to make a comparatively safe shelter. Any sharp-eyed man, however, on the lookout, could have espied the horse through them. Sterl dismounted, and, drawing his rifle from its saddle sheath, he removed the oilskin cover and put it in his pocket. Then he leaned the rifle against the largest sapling, and, with a quieting hand on King, he peered back through the drenched bushland.
With a tense wait like this involved, it was almost impossible not to think. Sterl preferred quick meetings, if he were ready, to ones of prolonged suspense. But even confronted by the introspective habit of his mind, he had no dislike for this job and no compunction. In any case, he would not shoot a man from an ambush, although he had retaliated upon Indians by that very act. Here he wanted to face Jack or Bedford.
Naturally, however, he had concern for his comrade. Red could be trusted, especially in this case, to be really superhuman. But Sterl would have preferred to be with Red, for more than one reason. Beryl’s life might be at stake. Because of that Red could be capable of any rash act, even to a sacrifice of himself. Then again, Sterl wanted powerfully to see Ormiston meet the cowboy. It would be something to experience.
The minutes dragged by with Sterl’s mind active, and his senses of sight and hearing strained. After what seemed a long time, King suddenly vibrated slightly and shot up his ears. He had heard something.
“Quiet, you son-of-a-gun!” exclaime
d Sterl in a loud whisper, and he patted the wet neck. “What you want to do…spoil the party?”
More moments passed before Sterl’s alert ear caught a creaking of wheels. King threw up his head. The sagacious animal had been well trained, but not to stand still and keep silent. Sterl stepped to his head and held him. A thud of hoofs sounded through the silent bush. At last a sight of four horses, plodding along, then a canvas-topped wagon, then a burly driver, reins and whip in hands. It was the drover, Jack. A slight cold chill quivered over Sterl. But he thought fast. He would wait until the drover had reached an angle almost even with him, then step out, confront him, and force him to draw.
A distant gunshot rang out, spiteful, ripping asunder the bush-land silence. Red’s .45 Colt speaking. Almost at once a duller, heavier shot boomed.
The drover, Jack, hauled his four horses to a dead stop and dropped the reins. He was in the clear, with the wagon on level and bare ground. Sterl saw the man sweep out a hand to grasp a rifle, then peer all around with black, wild eyes.
At this instant King let out a loud neigh, and the other horses answered. Jack’s gaze fixed upon King. Sterl should have shot the drover then. Quick as thought Jack leaped out of the wagon. As Sterl plunged to get low down behind a log, the drover fired from behind the left front wheel. The bullet whistled closer to King than it did to Sterl. Fearful that Jack might kill the horse, Sterl took a snap shot at the only part of that wheel he could see—the under rim and a section of spokes. His bullet struck with a thud, to spang away into the bush. It must have stung the drover’s foot, or come too close, for he leapt away to the rear end of the wagon. Evidently the wagon was so fully loaded that he could not lean upon it. His boots were in plain sight down between the two right wheels. Sterl’s second shot hit one of them. The drover flopped down like a crippled chicken, bawling frightfully, and he crawled behind the only gum tree near. The trunk was not wide enough wholly to protect his body. But he knelt low, risking that. He had Sterl located but could not see him. Sterl tried an old ruse, common on the frontier. He stuck up his sombrero. Jack fired, and then again. His second shot knocked Sterl’s sombrero flat. Then the drover rashly stood up and stuck his rifle, his shoulder, and half of his head out from the tree. Probably he believed that he had shot this adversary. Sterl drew a careful bead on the one baleful eye visible, like a hole in a mask, and shot. Jack pitched to one side of the tree, and his rifle flew to the other.
