Trail Dust

by Clarence E. Mulford

  The gun lifted, steadied, roared: and the hat jerked and flopped from the distant rock. The smoke was still pouring from the barrel when the second cartridge snicked home and the breechblock slid up behind it. Red showed no chagrin at biting on an old trick: he had fired the shot to develop action and succeeded: for an instant the slanting sun flicked on metal, flashing its message, but before the hidden watcher could steady on his mark, Red’s second shot struck the spot of light, knocked the gun from the hands that held it, and smashed the lock. Again the breechblock closed behind a cartridge, and Red sent his horse ahead at better speed. The Bar 20 was becoming known for its forthright action. Brush moved gently over there on the slope, but Red held his fire: he wanted a clean target for the next one. There was movement to the right of the first: a horse moved restlessly in a little thicket. Red grinned and rode straight for it. If he could get between it and its rider there would be no warnings carried to make him trouble later on.

  To the south, Hopalong pushed steadily on. The roar of the Sharps made him change his course a little. He heard the scream of the ricochet and then the second shot. He sent his horse into a run, and through a lane in the brush he caught sight of a running man, dodging from cover to cover. An instant later he saw Red reach the tethered horse and jerk at the cinch strap. He knew that Red would strip off the saddle and turn the animal loose, driving it off into the brush and away from its owner.

  Hopalong pushed on, to head off the running man. Again he saw him as he leaped a rill. The man had no rifle, and this information changed the strategy: it would be six–shooter against six–shooter, now—and on these terms Hopalong dashed forward, his rifle again in its saddle sheath.

  There was a little clearing in the brush on the side of the hill: a natural clearing, and into this the cattle thief stepped, tired from running. He stopped, gun in hand, and watched the trail boss approach. He still had a chance. If he could shoot the rider out of the saddle and get the horse, he would be all right. He slipped back into the brush, moving swiftly, the sounds of the hoofbeats steadily growing louder in his ears. They were heading around to the south of him, to cut him off. He expected this, and he smiled with satisfaction as he cautiously moved forward in that direction. Just one clean shot was all he wanted. He gently moved the branches of a low bush and peered through it—and swore in sudden panic. A riderless horse had stopped to graze, not forty paces distant, and the invitation was too plain to be accepted; but where was the rider? He whirled quickly, gun in his upraised right hand, and saw a slowly moving puncher stepping out into the open. The upraised hand streaked downward, and then its fingers opened and stiffened as the gun fell from them. He saw the flame and smoke, but he never heard the shot.

  Hopalong slid the heavy weapon back into its holster and walked swiftly forward. One glance was sufficient, and he kept on without checking his stride. A few moments later he was again in the saddle and swinging to the north to rejoin his friend.

  Red was waiting for him, looking steadily from under the wide brim of his big hat.

  “We all through here?” he asked, reaching for the reins.

  “Yeah,” answered Hopalong. “We’ll cut that trail ag’in an’ foller it. How come you shot twice?”

  “Smoked him out for you. He was headin’ yore way when he saw he couldn’t make his hoss. You ever see him before?”

  “Yeah; back on’ th’ cattle trail. He won’t cut no more herds. Come on—let’s get goin’.”

  VI

  Noon found them following down the bed of a small, dried creek. They noticed that the sparse growth of trees and brush was thinning out. The tracks of the cattle were plain before them, and they still rode warily, losing time for the sake of safety; but, slowly as they rode, they were making better time than the cattle.

  Night overtook them on a bend of the creek, which now had begun to show occasional pools of stagnant water. At one of these pools they stopped, looking curiously at it. It was clear and had not been disturbed. This told them nothing, for if it had been disturbed by cattle it would have had time in which to settle. Cattle tracks were all around it, but they lacked the appearance of freshness. A few yards ahead of them a little rill slipped along in its bed, feeding the main stream. It made an ideal place for a camp: too ideal.

  “We’ll drink th’ horses an’ make a dry camp,” said Hopalong, his gaze on the rill, “Fill our canteens from that,” he said, “farther up.”

  Red nodded, turned from the little stream, and pushed into the brush, Hopalong following at a distance. Thus they had a van guard and a rear guard: little rills have been known to be treacherous. After scouting until satisfied that there was no ambush, they cautiously reapproached the stream. Filling their canteens and drinking the horses, they left the trickle and rode north, in the general direction whence they came. This was a subtlety characteristic of them. The natural move would have been to keep on riding to the south, continuing their journey and not losing mileage. Anyone finding their tracks and losing them in the darkness would be likely to cast around to the south in hopes of glimpsing their fire.

  There would be no fire because there would be no coals. They came to a place where there was a deal of dead and dried brush, which crackled like miniature rifle shots. In it was a clearing with grass. Hopalong stopped, swung down, and stripped off his saddle. Red did the same. They staked their horses on the grass and went back to their saddles. These served for pillows. The noisy, crackly brush would play sentry for them, and there would be no need to take turns on guard. Eating sparingly of the cook’s cold food in the gathering dusk, they waited for darkness, when they stretched out and were almost instantly asleep.

  Dawn found Red stirring. He opened his eyes and looked at the horses, placidly feeding. He sat up and smiled at his clear–eyed companion.

  “Take yore turn at th’ wash bench, an’ then grub pile,” he chuckled.

  Hopalong grinned and sat up. Wash benches were among the luxuries of civilization. He hitched himself from the ground and jerked the Stetson from beneath his hips, shaped it critically, and placed it on his head. Now that he was dressed he reached out for the bundle of cold food and placed it between them.

  “Better pack in plenty of it, Red,” he suggested, thinking that there might not be a chance for them to eat at noon.

  While Red fastened up the remaining food, his companion saddled the horses. The hackamores went on, and the picket ropes were coiled in place. When they came to the rill they stopped, and found no signs but those made by themselves the night before. They stopped again when the trail came into sight and then, crossing it and the wet creek bed, rode up the slanting western bank and left it behind them on their left. At a suitable distance they followed a course parallel to it, long rifle shot from it.

  “Reckon we’ll catch up to ’em today,” said Hopalong. Red grunted in affirmation.

  The distant creek meandered into a shallow, basin–like valley. The sun was at the meridian, scorching and pitiless. A thin fog of dust drifted slowly across the far end of the valley and both riders stopped.

  “We ain’t seen no signs of any watcher since that feller back near th’ trail,” said Hopalong. “Looks like they figger they’ve got clean away. If that’s so, they’ll mebby be restin’ th’ herd.”

  “Yeah,” replied Red thoughtfully. “Mebby only a couple of riders with it. We better separate?” Red’s gaze was on the distant dust sign.

  “Uh–huh,” answered Hopalong, searching the plain immediately in front of him. His gaze lifted. The face of a bluff could just be made out behind the thin dust. He motioned toward it, and Red nodded. They would meet near there if everything went all right.

  A dry wash, fringed with dying brush, ran down the slope before them toward the creek. Hopalong moved toward it, Red nodding and swinging his horse to the right, going off at an angle. Little mounds, hummocks, and patches of dried brush offered him the screen he wanted. He placed his right hand over the hammer of the Sharps and was soon lost to
sight.

  Hopalong crossed the creek and chose a hollow at right angles to it. Ten minutes later he was on the far side of a little hill which masked him from the trail along the creek. There was no wind here, and perspiration trickled down from the sweatband of the thick Stetson, spread through the stubble on his face, and dripped from the point of his chin. His hands were sweaty and smelled of rawhide. They were too slippery, and he turned the horse in against the high bank of the hill and rubbed both palms with dirt and sand.

  Had the cattle thieves left another guard? They might if they were resting the herd, or if this valley was its destination, for in either case they could spare a man. Hopalong pushed steadily on in the same direction, turning south again after several miles. If there was another sentry, Hopalong would push in between that interesting person and the cattle and take care of him if and when he showed up. Right now it was the cattle that counted. Sixty head, huh? Just like a slap in the face.

  The hills grew smaller, and at last he came to the edge of the little valley, where it thrust farthest east. There was not much grass in it, and in this part of the country well–grassed valleys were the rule rather than the exception. This, then, could not be the destination of the stolen herd; and if this were so, then the cattle were still on the drive, and he doubted if there was a watcher behind him. A quick and cautious glance to the south end of the valley showed him that the dust cloud was dying out, and this told him that the stolen cattle were still being driven and had reached harder soil or grass. He pushed on again, bearing a little away from the edge of the valley, and made better speed.

  Mid–afternoon found him passing the bluff that he had mentioned to Red, and it also found him much closer to the little herd, which once more was sending up dust clouds. Two of the cattle, footsore, were hanging back and spoiling the disposition of the drag man and his companion. The latter had ridden back to argue with the rear rider, and they were talking something over. Hopalong believed that he knew what the question was. One of them wanted to shoot the two animals and push the rest on more rapidly. The thought sent a little trickle of anger through him. If they shot two head, he could not recover the entire herd. He chose better cover and sent his horse on at a lope. Half an hour later he drew rein in the mouth of a dry wash and waited, gun in hand. The main herd was half a mile south of him; the two footsore animals were just coming up even with him, and the arguments of the following riders was now easily heard.

  “Kill ’em or turn ’em loose,” said Number One, with heat.

  “They’re too good to kill, but we might turn ’em loose,” said his companion. “They’ll be all right in a few days, an’ we can pick ’em up ag’in any time. All right, Gawrge: let’s ride.”

  “Just a minute,” said Hopalong loudly, pushing out into sight. His thumbs were hooked to his slanting belts, just above the low–hung holsters.

  Two pairs of staring eyes, over open mouths, were regarding him in stunned surprise. They believed what they saw, the mouths shut swiftly, and two right hands dropped like striking snakes; but as they dropped, Hopalong’s hands were rising, a long–barreled gun in each of them. The double report was deafening. The two horses, suddenly freed of their burdens, surged, ran together, and stopped, their nostrils flaring at the scent of blood. Hopalong peered through the swirling black–powder smoke and grunted. He could rope both horses with one cast, but there was no need to try it: the sounds of the shots must have carried to the riders with the herd. He whirled his horse and raced back into the dry wash, leaped from the saddle onto a rock where the print of his heels would not show, and slapped the moving animal’s rump to send it on. Steal his cattle, would they? Steal his cattle and shoot Billy, huh? He slipped behind the rock, crouching under its shelter, each hand holding a gun.

  Down by the herd there was sudden shouting, gunshots, and more dust. The herd, suddenly left to itself, and frightened by the shooting, promptly stampeded. It would not run far, for it had been pushed hard, and it was tired. The two riders with the cattle wheeled about and galloped up the valley, rifles in their hands. From the west side of the valley there sounded the report of a Sharps, and the first rider rolled from his saddle, to sprawl in the dust. Red had gone into action again.

  The second rider flashed a glance at his prostrate companion and then, panic–stricken, roweled his mount and headed straight for the nearest cover, desperately anxious to get out of range. Again came the report of the Sharps, and his horse went down under him. The rider cleared his stirrups, landed on his feet, and dashed into the brush as a third shot showered him with pebbles.

  He kept on running, his high heels thudding on the hard ground. He bore to his left, following the lower ground between the little rises. He was not a runner, and neither was he in running condition, and his breath whistled in his open mouth. Then reason returned to him, and he stopped. He was now in good cover and could hole up and blow the daylights out of anyone who tracked him. With this thought in mind, he moved slowly around a bend and saw the very thing he needed. It was a big rock and nicely placed to cover both directions of approach. Once behind that bulwark, he would welcome pursuit. He dragged a sleeve across his streaming face and moved toward it; and then blinked at the sudden burst of red which appeared on the top of the rock. A calm, hard face appeared under the red bloom and he knew, then, that the red was hair. He reached for his gun, got it free from the holster, and then let it fall from his palsied hand. He fell across a stunted bush and remained there, prominently humped up in the middle.

  Hopalong pushed out the smelly shell and shoved home a fresh cartridge, its grease soft, slippery, and greenish. He wiped his finger on his chaps, came out from behind the rock, and went after his horse. Perhaps ten minutes later he was again in the saddle.

  The herd was milling, sending up so much dust that Hopalong could not make out the identity of the rider. It might be Red, or it might be someone else. He had to make certain before he blundered up to it, so he again forsook the valley and took to the brush. A faint yell reached him, and he grinned. That was Red, out there rounding up the cattle, and no doubt Red could use some help with the job. Hopalong wheeled his horse and rode at a lope toward the thickest of the dust.

  Red’s language was profane.

  “You scared of eatin’ a little dust?” he demanded.

  “But I didn’t know it was you!” retorted Hopalong, flaring suddenly. “I was ridin’ off to slip up onto you!”

  “Like hell you was!” snapped Red.

  The ensuing argument was not interrupted in the least by the ensuing riding. It died out only as the cattle were bunched up and heading up the trail, back the way they had come. Hopalong rode off and returned with the two footsore animals, with two saddled horses before him.

  “What you doin’ with them hosses?” demanded Red, sharply.

  “Might need ’em to spell our own,” answered Hopalong. “Anyhow, those are two right good saddles.”

  “Might need ’em!” sneered Red. “An’ get ourselves into trouble for hoss–stealin’. We ain’t got their brands onto our list. Strip th’ saddles off an’ turn ’em loose, you damn fool.”

  “Sounds right funny, you callin’ anybody a damn fool!”

  “That so?”

  “You know it is!”

  Ten minutes of silence, and then Hopalong looked quickly at his grouchy friend.

  “Hey, where’s th’ boss trail cutter? We’ve done lost him.”

  “I didn’t lose him,” rejoined Red. “I got th’ cattle. That’s all I want.”

  “You got ’em?”

  “Said so, didn’t I?”

  “You say lots of things,” grunted Hopalong, and then he nodded in sudden decision. “All right; we got th’ cattle. To hell with him.”

  “Now yo’re gettin’ sensible,” said Red. “You musta got a touch of th’ sun.”

  Hopalong made no reply, but just jogged along in the dust of the recovered cattle. There was, he reflected, another fictitious trail cutter who
had not been accounted for: the rider he had shot through the shoulder, out there on the main cattle trail. Oh, well: that was all right. They had the cattle.

  Driving the herd shrewdly, and on the alert for vengeful humans, they went back the way they had come, and without any untoward incident. On the evening of the fifth day, both hungry from a two–day fast, they overtook the main herd, turned their little bunch into it, and loped in to the wagon. Half an hour later, their stomachs pleasantly filled with good food, they leaned back against a wagon wheel and rolled cigarettes.

  “Well,” said Hopalong, exhaling a lungful of smoke, “in about two weeks we’ll turn these cattle into th’ shippin’ pens an’ be shut of ’em. It’ll be a good job well done.”

  “Yeah,” said Red, his gaze on the cattle grazing on the bed ground. He was at peace with the world.

  “Only one thing bothers me,” growled his companion, stirring restlessly.

  “Yeah?” asked Red, lazily regarding him.

  “Yeah. That boss trail cutter,” explained Hopalong. “I shore hate to lose him, an’ I’d like to know how he got them papers.”

  “A damn fool would worry about things like that,” said Red. “You know that he was a fake cutter because he stampeded th’ herd. He didn’t dare call for a showdown of his authority. As for th’ papers, he might have stolen ’em. Anyhow, it ain’t none of our business.”

  “There is blood on ’em,” growled Hopalong.

  “Hell with it!” snapped Red. “We got th’ cattle back, didn’t we?”

  Hopalong nodded, tossed away the cigarette, and rolled another. He arose and moved toward the fresh horse which carried his saddle.

  “Yeah,” he grunted. “We did.”

  VII

  The placid herd plodded on, heads and haunches rising and falling in the thick dust like a huge blanket undulating in a ground mist. Horns occasionally clicked on horns, for on these cattle the spread of horn was prodigious.