The two riders were near enough by now to distinguish details, and the low sun flicked intermittent glints from a narrow band of steel on the left–hand rider’s wrists. A closer look, as his horse swerved sideways, showed that his legs were tied together under the animal’s belly. He was riding a little in the lead, and the bandage around his head, partly covered by his big hat, showed a spot of red. Hopalong stood up and took a few steps toward the newcomers and slowly raised his hand in answer to the sheriff’s gestured greeting.
The two riders pulled up near the edge of the camp, and the sheriff slowly swung from his saddle, his leathery face devoid of expression.
“Howdy, Cassidy,” he said. “Glad we’re in time to eat without makin’ no trouble for th’ cook.” He turned to his prisoner, untied the ropes from the man’s feet, and then stepped back to let him dismount. The sheriff pointed a finger at a spot on the ground, not far from the fire.
“You set down right there,” ordered the peace officer in a friendly voice, “while I get you some grub.”
“I can’t eat with these damn cuffs on,” growled the horse thief sullenly as he slowly obeyed.
“I ain’t asked you to try it, yet,” retorted the peace officer, striding toward the wagon. He filled a tin plate with food and a tin cup with coffee, carried them to the prisoner and placed them on the ground at his side.
“There: that’s yore fodder,” said the sheriff. “You wait till I get mine an’ then we’ll eat.” Again he strode off toward the wagon and in a moment was back with his own plate and cup. Removing the prisoner’s handcuffs, the sheriff dropped them into a pocket and seated himself a few feet away; far enough away so that a sudden reach would miss the gun in his holster.
Red watched the two visitors stowing away their supper, and after a moment he spoke, looking at the busy sheriff.
“So they fought it out with you, huh?” he asked, as an explanation of the one man taken prisoner.
“Yep: they did,” grunted the peace officer, gulping down a mouthful of food.
“Put up much of a fight?” persisted Red, his glance flicking at the sullen captive, who was hardly more than a boy.
“Hot an’ short,” answered the sheriff. “One of ’em was dead when we started in, an’ two others had their eyes so full of ’dobe they couldn’t hardly see. We thought this feller was dead, too; but he was only creased.” He stuffed in another mouthful with keen relish.
“If I hadn’t been, I’d–a fought it out,” growled the prisoner with a show of anger.
“You done well enough, I reckon, as it was,” replied the sheriff.
“If I only knowed who it was that drove us inside that damn ’dobe in th’ first place——” mumbled the prisoner and left the sentence unfinished. He reached for the coffee cup.
Red’s gaze was direct and unwavering.
“It might come in handy for you to know that, some day, in case you get away,” said Red slowly. “Seein’ that I know what you look like, it’s mebby only fair to let you know what that feller looks like. I’m th’ hombre that drove you all inside an’ blew half th’ head off one of yore friends. Take a good look at me, so you’ll know me ag’in.”
“I’ll know you, you —— ——,” growled the horse thief and fell to eating again.
Hopalong looked thoughtfully at Red and then at the prisoner and cleared his throat. He did not intend to let Red bear the brunt of any future trouble which might grow out of this incident.
“Red, here, did only what he was told to do,” he said. “I ran th’ whole thing, from start to finish. You better take a good look at me.”
“An’ I stampeded th’ hosses!” said Johnny, eagerly claiming some responsibility.
“Hell you did!” sneered the prisoner. “Any damn fool could do that. Th’ feller that I’d really like to see is th’ coyote that killed my brother.”
“Where was he?” asked Hopalong quietly. “In th’ house?”
“Up on th’ ridge behind th’ house, keepin’ watch for us.”
“Sorry,” said the trail boss, shaking his head. “Sorry he was yore brother. I gave him an even break, an’ he lost.”
“Nobody could give Tom an even play an’ beat him to it!” snapped the prisoner angrily.
“I gave him one, an’ he lost out,” repeated Hopalong evenly.
“Well,” snarled the prisoner, “I’ll shore know you if I ever see you ag’in—an’ I’ll know you for a liar!”
“Have it yore own way,” replied Hopalong without anger, “if it’ll make you feel any better. I’m sorry he was kin of yourn.”
“Sorry?” sneered the prisoner. “Like hell you are!”
“Time to talk about somethin’ else,” said the sheriff. “We’ve done played out this here subject. After all, if you don’t want to lose kin an’ get into trouble, let other folks’ hosses alone. Jake, you sleep on yore right side?”
“Yes,” growled the prisoner sullenly. “Why?”
“Want you to rest as comfortable as you can when we turn in. I’ll cuff you to a wagon wheel so you’ll lay on yore easy side.”
Hopalong looked at the placid peace officer.
“You takin’ him in to Bulltown?” he asked curiously.
“No. They only got a plank jail there, an’ I ain’t figgerin’ on shootin’ up any of my friends to keep ’em from lynchin’ a damn hoss thief. He’s goin’ wide around Bulltown an’ then straight on to th’ county seat, where th’ bars are set in stone walls, an’ th’ doors are faced with iron.”
Hopalong looked at Pete and Johnny and gestured toward the distant herd, whereupon the two men reluctantly got to their feet and started for their night horses. After a moment they rode off to relieve Lanky and Billy, who soon rode in. As the two hungry riders dismounted at the camp, they were just in time to see the sheriff snap the cuffs on his prisoner’s wrists and sit down again. Both of the newcomers stared for a moment, and then, turning toward the tailboard, got their plates and loaded them generously. They ate in silence, and silence seemed to be the fashion. It was finally broken by the handcuffed man.
“Who’s got th’ makin’s?” he asked, looking around the little circle of faces.
Hopalong handed him tobacco and papers and absent–mindedly watched the shackled captive roll a cigarette without spilling a flake of tobacco. As the prisoner glanced up, the trail boss struck a match and held it for him.
“Thanks,” grunted the other and inhaled deeply.
The trail boss glanced at the quiet sheriff.
“Halliday round up his cavvy yet, you reckon?”
“Figger so. They all went right to work in th’ brush as soon as th’ fight was over. Some of them hosses was right well scattered.”
“They’ve got a mixed herd to cut out an’ separate when they get back to it,” said Red, thinking of trail progress. “Take ’em some time, too.”
The atmosphere of restraint eased up a little, and the talking became general and less forced, the prisoner taking part in it at times; and then, when darkness settled down, Hopalong and Red got to their feet and moved to the wagon to get their blankets. As they returned, the sheriff glanced at his prisoner.
“Well, Jake,” he said, somewhat apologetically, “reckon it’s time for us to roll up. I’ll make yore bed near th’ front wheel of th’ wagon, an’ cuff one hand to it. We’ll get an early start in th’ mornin’ an’ strike straight for town. There ain’t no use for us to foller th’ trail.”
“No, there ain’t. Much obliged,” said Jake, glad to know that he was going to escape the hostile eyes of the outfits strung along the cattle highway.
The night passed uneventfully, but dawn brought a sky with a different color, and air with a different feel. Breakfast was soon out of the way, and the sheriff and his prisoner, once again in the saddle, nodded farewell and left the camp. Skinny turned from watching their departure, glanced at the sky and looked at his boss.
“Reckon th’ weather’s been too good to last,” he sa
id.
“Reckon so. Looks like it’s makin’ bad weather for trail herds,” admitted Hopalong, studying the sky. “We’ll high–tail it as long as we can without gettin’ too close to anythin’ ahead. Th’ tireder these animals are tonight, th’ better I’ll like it.”
Skinny nodded, mounted his horse, and drove off the cavvy.
The trail boss turned to the busy cook.
“Make a noon camp,” he ordered. “If we keep on goin’ past you, pull out ag’in; but while yo’re camped, get somethin’ cooked an’ see that you’ve got plenty of coffee all ready to heat up in case th’ storm breaks.”
“She’ll shore bust, an’ she’ll be a hellbender,” said the cook, with the traditional trail cook’s pessimism.
“If I was as cheerful as you I’d shore blow my head off,” retorted Hopalong.
“Why not do it anyway?” growled the cook, and then he grinned. “Wonder how that feller feels with them steel cuffs on his wrists.”
“Why didn’t you ask him?” retorted the trail boss. “You usually ask fool questions.”
Hopalong turned on his heel, swung into the saddle, and rode off after the moving herd. For the third time since breakfast he turned in the saddle and looked back along the trail, searching for the dust sign against the southern horizon which would tell him of a nearing herd. There was no such sign. Then another thought came to him to add to his worries: Big Muddy Creek was not so many miles ahead now, and if a heavy rain fell its boggy bed and bottoms would be a bottomless mire to hold up everything on the south of it. Nothing on four legs could cross that slough after a hard fall of rain, and it would take days to drive up around its head, by which time it would be passable at the regular crossing. The herds to the south of him would have plenty of time to overtake him. He swore gently under his breath and sent the horse on at a faster gait. Damn any man who did not have sense enough to keep from trailing cattle: there were so many easier jobs in the world.
Noon came, and as the herd topped a rise the riders could see the cook’s wagon off to the right. The cook had timed it nicely. He was watching the moving cattle, and he knew they would not stop, for the storm was still far off. He was so certain of it that he had the team hitched to the wagon, ready to roll on again; and he was right, for he caught the hat–waved signal of the trail boss and almost instantly was on his way again. Having cooked supper while he waited, he now held to a pace even with that of the cattle, to be close at hand if the storm broke before dark.
The gray day had not lightened, but, if anything, had grown grayer. Gusty currents of wind swept here and there, bending the grass and brush, tearing rifts in the soaring dust clouds and sending yellow–white streamers aloft in fantastic shapes. Here was occurring one of the things which made trails endure, which made them lay nakedly across the prairies years after they had been abandoned: the wind scouring of the loose dust which lifted the light particles of earth and carried them away, leaving the hard–beaten soil exposed and below the level of the surrounding ground. Here in turn poured the infrequent heavy rains, scouring anew and cutting ever deeper, to carve a mark across the plains to endure for generations. And as the wind increased, it flung up a wall of dust which stretched as far as the eye could see and tinted the daylight with its faint color.
Well down the back trail there now appeared a small dust cloud, and the trail boss slowed his horse to investigate it. It was rolling so swiftly forward that it could not be made by cattle traveling at ordinary trail speed; and it was too small, despite the efforts of the wind, to be caused by a herd of trail size.
The answer popped into Hopalong’s mind, and he pushed on to rejoin the herd. It must be Halliday and his outfit, driving up their recovered cavvy. They had taken longer than he thought they would. They were coming up rapidly, as rapidly as they could, urged on by the threat of the impending storm. They swung wide as they approached the Circle 4 herd and went past on the leeward side with every animal at a run. Halliday, silhouetted against the dense dust curtain behind him, raised his arm in salutation and then gave his attention to the job in hand. A twisting cross current swept the dust over him, and he was instantly lost to sight.
The cook’s wagon stopped shortly after mid–afternoon as the herd was swung to the right and driven off the trail. The wind was dying out, only fitful gusts toying with the lessening dust as the first riders left the cattle and rode in to the wagon. Two of them went off at a tangent to give Skinny a hand with the cavvy, and soon the saddle stock was held near the wagon for the selection and cutting out of the night horses. Skinny waved his hand, and his helpers swung away toward camp.
The trail boss met them as they rode in, and frowned in the face of their broad smiles.
“What’s so funny?” he asked them, his face lined by worry.
“All this worryin’ about th’ storm,” said Billy, the smile growing. “It’s headin’ off th’ other way.”
“Is it?” snapped Hopalong. “I know how much it’s headin’ off th’ other way. We can’t hobble th’ whole damn cavvy, an’ if we could we’d only cripple near every hoss in it; but we’ve got to have double mounts tonight an’ have ’em handy. You an’ Lanky stuff yore faces, dig out some tie ropes, an’ limber up yore rope arms. Soon as we cut out our night hosses, you fellers rope, throw an’ hog–tie an extra hoss all round. Throw ’em an’ tie ’em close to th’ wagon, south of it, where they mebby won’t get trompled flat, an’ where we can find ’em in th’ dark. You savvy?”
“Nobody ever heard of any such fool thing as that,” protested Billy in surprise, although Billy had roped, thrown, and hog–tied many head of cattle in the chaparral country of the south.
“I’ll mebby do a lot of fool things before I die, so I might just as well start now an’ get my hand in,” retorted the trail boss; “but, shore as hell, we’re all goin’ to have a change of hosses tonight if we need ’em.”
“That’s a new play to me,” said Lanky, scratching his head; “but damn if it don’t sound good! Come on, Billy: fill up that big belly of yourn. Hoppy, I don’t know if yo’re real smart or just plumb loco; but I’ll find out, I reckon.”
“If I was plumb loco you couldn’t tell me from anybody else in this left–handed outfit,” retorted the trail boss, with the trace of a smile. “We’ll either need them saddle hosses or we won’t. If we need ’em, they’ll be there.”
“But, hell,” said Billy, “there ain’t no storm comin’! Lookit how th’ wind’s died down! There’s hardly a breath stirrin’.”
“I’ve seen it die down before, on th’ prairies,” said Hopalong, heading for the tailboard, with Lanky at his heels.
“Yeah,” said Lanky reflectively. “Yeah, so’ve I!” He looked over his shoulder at the reluctant Billy and jerked his head impatiently. “Come on, you fathead: hell will pop before mornin’!”
“So’ll yore gran’father!” snorted Billy, but he joined the little line–up.
Cook looked at the sky and the earth and the cavvy and then at the trail boss.
“An’ yore mother an’ father was proud when you was borned!” he said in great disgust. “Storm? Hell!”
XXI
The night horses cut out and impounded in the little rope corral, Billy and Lanky went to work with ropes and tie strings, and soon seven good, extra saddle horses were lying on their sides just south of the wagon, its bulk interposing between them and any wild–eyed cattle coming down from the direction of the herd. This done, the two riders went off to join the men with the cattle, following their boss, to relieve and send in the riders with the herd. These four ate hurriedly and in silence, and as they were about through they saw a well–known figure riding toward them in the failing light, and his appearance brought smiles to strained faces. The grinning trail cutter, back from a ride up the line, swung down near the tailboard, his astonished gaze on the prostrate horses. After studying them for a moment he looked curiously at the seated figures around the fire, helped himself to eating utensils and food,
and dropped down beside the nearest man.
“Idear of th’ boss’, them hosses,” explained Skinny, with a broad grin. “He figgers we’ll need fresh saddle hosses tonight, an’ he wants ’em to stay put.”
“I reckon they will,” said the trail cutter, uneasily looking at the threatening sky.
“He shoulda hobbled ’em,” said the cook, looking wise.
“Anythin’ on four laigs will shore go crazy tonight,” said the trail cutter; “so crazy that they’d cripple themselves with hobbles.”
“Huh,” said the cook, scratching his head. He chanced to be looking at Pete, and a slow grin spread across his face.
“We got a bummer in th’ herd,” said the cook to the man whose job it was to trim range cattle out of passing trail herds. “Range stray, an’ a pet of Pete’s.”
“They shore will get in,” said the trail cutter, stuffing his capable mouth. “If it wasn’t for that I wouldn’t have my job.”
“Kinda funny thing, that is, strayin’ in with a herd, like that,” said the cook.
“Plumb nat’ral. Cattle are gre–garious,” explained the trail cutter, trying not to look self–conscious. It was his pet word, and he liked to spring it on the unwary.
“Oh,” said the cook, his eyebrows going up. “Huh,” he muttered reflectively. “An’—an’ what’s good for that?”
The trail cutter flashed him a sidewise glance and kept his expression unchanged.
“Why, cuttin’,” he said and stuffed his mouth again.
“Uh–huh,” said the cook, thinking in terms of surgery. “Cuttin’ what?”
“Strays,” answered the trail cutter, reaching for another biscuit.
The cook pondered this statement and scratched his head again. He felt that it called for some kind of comment and tried to play safe.
“Well,” he said, “cattle ain’t got no brains, but shore as hell they get notions, just th’ same.”
“Like you,” said Red, getting up to saddle his night horse.
“Oh, that so?” snapped the cook. “Too bad there ain’t somethin’ gre–garious th’ matter with you!”
Trail Dust Page 16
