Bob galloped along the edge and tried to head the animals back by firing his revolver in front from above. In this he was not successful. The gulch was narrow, and the pressure behind drove the foremost cattle on to the river.
The dogies waded in to drink. The push of the rear still impelled the ones in advance to move deeper into the water. Presently the leaders were swimming out into the stream. Those behind followed at heel.
Dillon flung his horse down into the ravine in the headlong fashion he had learned from months of hill riding. He cantered along it, splashing through shallow pools and ploughing into tangled brush. When he came within sight of the river the cattle were emerging from it upon a sandy bar that formed an island in midstream.
He kicked off his chaps, remounted, and headed into the water. The current was strong and Powder River already tired. But the bronco breasted the rushing waters gamely. It was swept downstream, fighting every inch of the way. When at last the Wyoming horse touched bottom, it was at the lower edge of the long bar.
Bob swung down into the water and led his mount ashore.
From the bank he had just left, Hawks called to him. “Want I should come over, or can you handle ’em?”
“Better stay there till I see if I can start ’em back,” Bob shouted.
On Powder River he rounded up the cattle, a score or more of them, and drove them back into the stream. They went reluctantly, for they too were tired and the swim across had been a hard one. But after one or two had started the others followed.
The young cowpuncher did not like the look of the black rushing waters. He had known one horrible moment of terror while he was crossing, that moment during which he had been afraid Powder River would be swept beyond the point of the sand spit. Now he cringed at the thought of venturing into that flood again. He postponed the hazard, trying two or three starting-places tentatively before he selected one at the extreme upper point of the island.
His choice was a bad one. The bronco was carried down into a swirl of deep, angry water. So swift was the undertow that Powder River was dragged from beneath its rider. Bob caught at the mane of the horse and clung desperately to it with one hand. A second or two, and this was torn from his clutch.
Dillon was washed downstream. He went under, tried to cry for help, and swallowed several gulps of water. When he came to the surface again he was still close to the island, buffeted by the boiling torrent. It swept him to a bar of willow bushes. To these he clung with the frenzy of a drowning man.
After a time he let go one hand-hold and found another. Gradually he worked into the shallows and to land. He could see Powder River, far downstream, still fighting impotently against the pressure of the current.
Bob shuddered. If he lived a hundred years he would never have a closer escape from drowning. It gave him a dreadful sinking at the stomach even to look at the plunging Blanco. The river was like some fearful monster furiously seeking to devour.
The voice of Hawks came to him. “Stay there while I get the boss.”
The dismounted cowboy watched Hawks ride away, then lay down in the hot sand and let the sun bake him. He felt sick and weak, as helpless as a blind and wobbly pup.
It may have been an hour later that he heard voices and looked across to the mouth of the ravine. Harshaw and Big Bill and Dud were there with Hawks. They were in a group working with ropes.
Harshaw rode into the river. He carried a coil of rope. Evidently two or more lariats had been tied together.
“Come out far as you can and catch this rope when I throw it,” Harshaw told the marooned cowboy.
Bob ventured out among the willows, wading very carefully to make sure of his footing. The current swirled around his thighs and tugged at him.
The cattleman flung the rope. It fell short. He pulled it in and rewound the coil. This time he drove his horse into deeper water. The animal was swimming when the loop sailed across to the willows.
Dillon caught it, slipped it over his body, and drew the noose tight. A moment later he was being tossed about by the cross-currents. The lariat tightened. He was dragged under as the force of the torrent flung him into midstream. His body was racked by conflicting forces tugging at it. He was being torn in two, the victim of a raging battle going on to possess him. Now he was on his face, now on his back. For an instant he caught a glimpse of blue sunlit sky before he plunged down again into the black waters and was engulfed by them....
He opened his eyes. Dud’s voice came from a long way.
“Comin’ to all right. Didn’t I tell you this bird couldn’t drown?”
The mists cleared. Bob saw Dud’s cheerful smile, and back of it the faces of Harshaw, Hawks, and Big Bill.
“You got me out,” he murmured.
“Sure did, Bob. You’re some drookit, but I reckon we can dry you like we did the grub,” his riding mate said.
“Who got me?”
“Blame the boss.”
“We all took a hand, boy,” Harshaw explained. “It was quite some job. You were headed for Utah right swift. The boys rode in and claimed ownership. How you feelin’?”
“Fine,” Bob answered, and he tried to demonstrate by rising.
“Hold on. What’s yore rush?” Harshaw interrupted. “You’re right dizzy, I expect. A fellow can’t swallow the Blanco and feel like kickin’ a hole in the sky right away. Take yore time, boy.”
Bob remembered his mount. “Powder River got away from me—in the water.” He said it apologetically.
“I’m not blamin’ you for that,” the boss said, and laid a kindly hand on Dillon’s shoulder.
“Was it drowned?”
“I reckon we’ll find that out later. Lucky you wasn’t. That’s a heap more important.”
Bob was riding behind Dud fifteen minutes later in the wake of the herd. Hawks had gone back to learn what had become of Powder River.
Supper was ready when Buck reached camp. He was just in time to hear the cook’s “Come an’ get it.” He reported to Harshaw.
“Horse got outa the river about a mile below the island. I scouted around some for it, but couldn’t trail in the dark.”
“All right, Buck. To-morrow Dud and Bob can ride back and get the bronc. We’ll loaf along the trail and make a short day of it.”
He sat down on his heels, reached for a tin plate and cup, and began one of the important duties of the day.
* * *
CHAPTER XXVI
CUTTING SIGN
Dud’s observation, when he and Bob took the back trail along the river to find the missing bronco, confirmed that of Buck Hawks. He found the place where a horse had clawed its way out of the stream to the clay bank. From here it had wandered into the sage and turned toward the home ranch. The tracks showed that Powder River was moving slowly, grazing as it went.
“I reckon by noon we can say ‘Hello!’ to yore bronc,” Dud prophesied. “No need to trail it. All we got to do is follow the river.”
An hour later he drew up and swung from the saddle. “Now I wonder who we’ve had with us this glad mawnin’.”
Dud stooped and examined carefully tracks in the mud. Bob joined him.
“Powder River ain’t so lonesome now. Met up with friends, looks like. Takin’ a li’l’ journey north.” The cowpuncher’s blue eyes sparkled. The prosaic pursuit of a stray mount had of a sudden become Adventure.
“You mean—?”
“What do you read from this sign we’ve cut?”
Bob told his deductions. “Powder River met some one on horseback. The man got off. Here’s his tracks.”
“Fellow, use yore haid,” admonished his friend. “Likewise yore eyes. You wouldn’t say this track was made by the same man as this one, would you?”
“No. It’s bigger.”
“An’ here’s another, all wore off at the heel. We got three men anyhow. Which means also three horses. Point of fact there are four mounts, one to carry the pack.”
“How do you know there are four?”
“They had four when they camped close to us night ’fore last.”
Dillon felt a sinking at the pit of his stomach. “You think this is Houck’s outfit?”
“That’d be my guess.”
“An’ that they’ve taken Powder River with them?”
“I’m doing better than guessin’ about that. One of the party saw a bronc with an empty saddle an’ tried to rope it. First time he missed, but he made good when he tried again.”
“If I had yore imagination, Dud—”
“Straight goods. See here where the loop of the rope dragged along the top of the mud after the fellow missed his throw.”
Bob saw the evidence after it had been pointed out to him. “But that don’t prove he got Powder River next time he threw,” he protested.
“Here’s where that’s proved.” Dud showed him the impressions of two hoofs dug deep into the ground. “Powder River bucked after he was roped an’ tried to break away. The other horse, like any good cowpony does, leaned back on the rope an’ dug a toe-hold.”
“Where’s Houck going?”
“Brown’s Park likely, from the way they’re headed.”
“What’ll we do?”
“Why, drap in on them to-night kinda casual an’ say ‘Much obliged for roundin’ up our stray bronc for us.’”
This programme did not appeal to Bob. In that camp were two enemies of his. Both of them also hated Dud. Houck and Walker were vindictive. It was not likely either of them would forget what they owed these two young fellows.
“Maybe we’d better ride back an’ tell the boss first,” he suggested.
“Maybe we’d better not,” Hollister dissented. “By that time they’d be so far ahead we’d never catch ’em. No, sir. We’ll leave a note here for the boss. Tack it to this cottonwood. If we don’t show up in a reasonable time he’ll trail back an’ find out what for not.”
“That’d do us a lot of good if Houck had dry-gulched us.”
Dud laughed. “You’re the lad with the imagination. Far as Houck goes, an’ Bandy Walker, too, for that matter, I’ll make you a present of the pair of ’em as two sure-enough bad eggs. But they’ve got to play the hands dealt ’em without knowin’ what we’re holdin’.”
“They’ve prob’ly got rifles, an’ we haven’t.”
“It’s a cinch they’ve got rifles. But they won’t dare use ’em. How do they know we’re playin’ this alone? First off, I’ll mention that I sent Buck back to tell the boss we’d taken the trail after them. That puts it up to them to act reasonable whether they want to or not. Another thing. We surprise ’em. Give the birds no chance to talk it over. Not knowin’ what to do, they do nothing. Ain’t that good psycho-ology, as Blister says when he calls a busted flush?”
“Trouble is we’re holdin’ the busted flush.”
“Sure, an’ Houck’ll figure we wouldn’t ’a’ trailed him unless we’d fixed the play right beforehand. His horse sense will tell him we wouldn’t go that strong unless our cards was all blue. We’re sittin’ in the golden chair. O’ course we’ll give the birds a chance to save their faces—make it plain that we’re a whole lot obliged to ’em for lookin’ after Powder River for us.”
Bob’s sagging head went up. He had remembered Blister’s injunction. “All right, Dud. Turn yore wolf loose. I’ll ride along an’ back the bluff.”
They left the river and climbed to the mesa. The trail took them through a rough country of sagebrush into the hills of greasewood and piñon. In mid-afternoon they shot a couple of grouse scuttling through the bunch grass. Now and again they started deer, but they were not looking for meat. A brown bear peered at them from a thicket and went crashing away with an awkward gait that carried it over the ground fast.
From a summit they saw before them a thin spiral of smoke rising out of an arroyo.
“I reckon that’s the end of the trail,” Dud drawled. “We’re real pleased to meet up with you, Mr. Houck. Last time I had the pleasure was a sorta special picnic in yore honor. You was ridin’ a rail outa Bear Cat an’ being jounced up considerable.”
“If he thinks of that—”
“He’ll think of it,” Dud cut in cheerfully. “He’s gritted his teeth a lot of times over that happenstance, Mr. Houck has. It tastes right bitter in his mouth every time he recollects it. First off, soon as he sees us, he’ll figure that his enemies have been delivered into his hand. It’ll be up to us to change his mind. If you’re all set, Sure-Shot, we’ll drift down an’ start the peace talk.”
Bob moistened his dry lips. “All set.”
They rode down the hillside, topped another rise, and descended into the draw where a camp was pitched.
A young fellow chopping firewood moved forward to meet them.
“There’s Powder River with the broncs,” Bob said in a low voice to his friend.
“Yes,” said Dud, and he swung from the saddle.
“’Lo, fellows. Where you headed for?” the wood-chopper asked amiably.
Two men were sitting by the fire. They waited, in an attitude of listening. Dusk had fallen. The glow of the fire lighted their faces, but the men who had just ridden up were in the gathering darkness beyond the circle lit by the flames.
“We came to get Powder River, the bronc you rounded up for us,” Hollister said evenly. “Harshaw sent us ahead. We’re sure much obliged to you for yore trouble.”
The larger of the two men by the fire rose and straddled forward. He looked at Dud and he looked at Bob. His face was a map of conflicting emotions.
“Harshaw sent you, did he?”
“Yes, sir. Bob had bad luck in the river an’ the horse got away from him. I reckon the pony was lightin’ out for home when yore rope stopped the journey.” The voice of Dud was cheerful and genial. It ignored any little differences of the past with this hook-nosed individual whose eyes were so sultry and passionate.
“So he sent you two fellows, did he? I’ll say he’s a good picker. I been wantin’ to meet you,” he said harshly.
“Same here, Houck.” Bandy Walker pushed to the front, jerking a forty-five from its scabbard.
Houck’s hand shot forward and caught the cowpuncher by the wrist. “What’s bitin’ you, Bandy? Time enough for that when I give the word.”
The yellow teeth of the bow-legged man showed in a snarl of rage and pain. “I’d ’a’ got Dillon if you’d let me be.”
“Didn’t you hear this guy say Harshaw sent them here? Use yore horse sense, man.” Houck turned to Hollister. “Yore bronc’s with the others. The saddle’s over by that rock. Take ’em an’ hit the trail.”
In sullen rage Houck watched Dud saddle and cinch. Not till the Slash Lazy D riders were ready to go did he speak again.
“Tell you what I’ll do,” he proposed. “Get down off’n yore horses, both o’ you, an’ I’ll whale the daylight outa the pair of you. Bandy’ll stay where he’s at an’ not mix in.”
Hollister looked at Bandy, and he knew the fellow’s trigger finger itched. There was not a chance in the world that he would stand back and play fair. But that was not the reason why Dud declined the invitation. He had not come to get into trouble. He meant to keep out of it if he could.
“Last fellow that licked me hauled me down off’n my bronc, Mr. Houck,” Dud answered, laughing. “No, sir. We got to turn down that invite to a whalin’. The boss gave us our orders straight. No trouble a-tall. I expect if it was our own say-so we might accommodate you. But not the way things are.”
“No guts, either of you. Ain’t two to one good enough?” jeered Houck angrily.
“Not good enough right now. Maybe some other time, Mr. Houck,” Dud replied, his temper unruffled.
“You want it to be twelve to one, like it was last time, eh?”
“Harshaw will be lookin’ for us, so we’ll be sayin’ good-evenin’,” the rider for the Slash Lazy D said quietly.
He turned his horse to go, as did his companion. Houck cursed them both bitterly. Whil
e they rode into the gloom Bob’s heart lifted to his throat. Goosequills ran up and down his spine. Would one of his enemies shoot him in the back? He could hardly keep from swinging his head to make sure they were not aiming at him. He wanted to touch his mount with a spur to quicken the pace.
But Dud, riding by his side, held his bronco to the slow even road gait of the traveler who has many miles to cover. Apparently he had forgotten the existence of the furious, bitter men who were watching their exit from the scene. Bob set his teeth and jogged along beside him.
Not till they were over the hill did either of them speak.
“Wow!” grunted Dud as he wiped the sweat from his face. “I’m sure enough glad to have that job done with. My back aches right between the shoulder blades where a bullet might ’a’ hit it.”
Bob relaxed in the saddle. He felt suddenly faint. Even now he found himself looking round apprehensively to make sure that a man carrying a rifle was not silhouetted on the hilltop against the sky-line.
* * *
CHAPTER XXVII
PARTNERS IN PERIL
Into the office of Blister Haines, J. P., a young man walked. He was a berry-brown youth, in the trappings of the range-rider, a little thin and stringy, perhaps, but well-poised and light-stepping.
With one swift glance the fat man swept his visitor from head to foot and liked what he saw. The lean face was tanned, the jaw firm, the eye direct and steady. There was no need to tell this man to snap up his head. Eight months astride a saddle in the sun and wind had wrought a change in Robert Dillon.
“’Lo, Red Haid,” the justice sang out squeakily. “How’s yore good health? I heerd you was d-drowned. Is you is, or is you ain’t? Sit down an’ rest yore weary bones.”
“I took a swim,” admitted Bob. “The boys fished me out while I was still kickin’.”
“Rivers all high?”
“Not so high as they were. We noticed quite a difference on the way back.”
The Fighting Edge Page 14
