The Fighting Edge

by Raine, William MacLeod

  “Sure,” he answered. “We’re humpin’ along right lively. Be there in time, I expect. Too bad if we have to chase ’em again all over the map.”

  Box Cañon is a sword slash cut through the hills. From wall to wall it is scarcely forty feet across. One looks up to a slit of blue sky above.

  Harshaw halted close to the entrance. “Let’s make sure where Mr. Ute is before we ride in, boys. He might be up on the bluffs layin’ for us. Dud, you an’ Tom an’ Big Bill go take a look-see an’ make sure. We’ll come a-runnin’ if we hear yore guns pop.”

  Two men in uniform rode out of the gulch. At the sight of the rangers they cantered forward. One was a sergeant.

  “Too late,” said he. “They done slipped away from us. We took shelter from the hail under a cutbank where the cañon widens. They musta slipped by us then. We found their tracks in the wet ground. They’re headin’ west again, looks like.”

  “We’ve got a warm trail,” Harshaw said to Blister Haines. “We better go right after ’em.”

  “Hot foot,” agreed Blister.

  “Major Sheahan’s followin’ them now. He said for you to come right along.”

  The cavalcade moved at once.

  * * *

  CHAPTER XXXI

  “DON’T YOU LIKE ME ANY MORE?”

  Harshaw’s rangers caught up with the militia an hour later. The valley men were big, tanned, outdoor fellows, whereas the militia company was composed of young lads from Colorado towns, most of them slight and not yet fully developed. The state troopers were, however, brisk, alert, and soldierly. Some of them were not used to riding, but they made the best of it with the cheerful adaptability of American youth.

  The trail of the Indians cut back across the mesa toward Utah. Evidently they were making for their home country again. Bob began to hope that the Utes would reach the reservation without a fight. In this desire the owner of the Slash Lazy D heartily joined. He had no impulses toward the slaughter of the tribal remnants.

  Others of the party did not share this feeling. Without going into the causes of the Indian troubles, it can safely be said that the frontiersmen generally believed that the tribes were dangerous and not to be trusted. In any difficulty between a white and a red man they assumed the latter was to blame. Many old-timers held that the only way to settle the Indian question was to exterminate the tribes or at least reduce them to impotence.

  The pursuers followed a hot trail. Twice they had a brush with the rear guard of the flying Utes, during which Bob heard bullets singing above his head. He felt a very unpleasant sinking in the pit of his stomach, and could hardly resist the temptation to slip out of the saddle and take refuge behind the horse he was riding.

  The rangers and the soldiers reached Bear Cat long after dark. Dud and Reeves had ridden into town ahead of their companions, so that when the rest came in they found a hot supper waiting for them on the plaza.

  June helped serve the weary men. Big fires had been built on the square and by the light of the flames Bob could see her slim figure flitting to and fro. Afterward, when the meal was at an end, he saw Dud Hollister walking beside her to the hotel. The cowpuncher was carrying a load of dishes and supplies. It would have surprised Bob to learn that he was the subject of their conversation.

  For the first time Dud had heard that day from Blister the story of the mad dog episode. He made June tell it to him again from her viewpoint. When she had finished he asked her a question.

  “Anybody ever tell you about the fight Bob had with Bandy Walker?”

  The light in her dark eyes quickened. “Did they have a fight?” she asked evenly, with not too great a show of interest.

  “I dunno as you could rightly call it a fight,” Dud drawled. “Bob he hammered Bandy, tromped on him, chewed him up, an’ spit him out. He was plumb active for about five minutes.”

  “What was the trouble?”

  “Bandy’s one o’ these mean bullies. He figured he could run on Bob. The boy took it meek an’ humble for a week or so before he settled with Bandy generous an’ handsome. The bow-legged guy might have got away with it if he hadn’t made a mistake.”

  “A mistake?” repeated June.

  “He had a few remarks to make about a young lady Bob knew.”

  June said nothing. In the darkness Dud made out only the dusky outline of her profile. He could not tell what she was thinking, had no guess that her blood was racing tumultuously, that a lump was swelling in the soft round throat.

  Presently she asked her companion a question as to how Jake Houck came to be with the rangers. Dud understood that the subject was changed.

  The soldiers found beds wherever they could. Some rolled up in their blankets near the fires. Others burrowed into haystacks on the meadow. Before daybreak they expected to be on the march again.

  The bugle wakened them at dawn, but a good many of the cowpunchers were already up. Big Bill went to one of the haystacks to get feed for his horse. He gathered a great armful of hay and started away with it. A muffled voice inside wailed protest.

  “Lemme out, doggone it.”

  Bill dropped the hay, and from it emerged a short and slender youth in uniform. He bristled up to the huge puncher.

  “What d’you think you’re doing, fellow?”

  The cowpuncher sat down on a feed-rack and laughed till he was weak. “Drinks are on me, son,” he gasped at last. “I ’most fed you to my hawss.”

  “Mebbe you think because I ain’t as big as a house you can sit there an’ laugh at me. I’ll have you know you can’t,” the boy snapped.

  “Fellow, I’m not laughin’ at you. Napoleon was a runt, I’ve heard tell. But it was comical, you stickin’ yore head up through the hay thataway. I’ll stand pat on that, an’ I ain’t a-going to fight about it either.”

  The soldier’s dignity melted to a grin. “Did you say drinks was on you, Jumbo?”

  After Big Bill had fed his horse they went away arm in arm to see what Dolan could do for them in the way of liquid refreshment.

  Just before the rangers and soldiers saddled for the start, Dud jingled over to his friend who was helping to pack the supply-wagons.

  “Lady wants to see you, Bob. I’ll take yore place here,” Dud said.

  Dillon lifted a barrel half full of flour into the nearest wagon and straightened a body cramped from stooping. “What lady?” he asked.

  “Listen to the fellow,” derided Hollister. “How many ladies has he got on the string, do you reckon?” The fair-haired cowpuncher grinned. “You meander round to the back of the hotel an’ I expect you’ll meet up with the lady. Mollie Larson she—”

  “Oh, Mrs. Larson.” For a moment a wild hope had flamed in Bob’s heart. His thoughts had flashed to another woman in the hotel.

  “Why, yes. Mollie runs the hotel, don’t she? Was you lookin’ for some other lady to send for you?” Dud asked innocently.

  Bob did not answer this. He was already striding toward the hotel.

  Out of the darkness of the adobe wall shadow a slim figure moved to meet the ranger. The young fellow’s heart lost a beat.

  “I—wanted to see you before you left,” a low voice said.

  A kind of palsy came over Dillon. He stood motionless, no life in him except for the eloquent eyes. No words came to help him.

  “I thought—maybe—” June stopped, hesitated, and came out impetuously with what was in her mind. “Aren’t we ever going to be friends again, Bob?”

  A warm glow suffused him. The back of his eyes smarted with tears. He started to speak, but stopped. For he was boyishly ashamed to discover that he could not trust his voice.

  “Don’t you like me any more?” she asked. “Have I done something to make you mad?”

  “No, you haven’t.” There was a rough edge to the words, put there by suppressed emotion. “You know better ’n that. I keep away from you because—because I acted like a yellow dog.”

  “When you fought Bandy Walker to keep clean my good na
me?” she asked in a murmur.

  “Oh, that!” He waved her question aside as of no importance.

  “Or when you fought the mad dog in the street with yore bare hands?”

  “You know when, June,” he answered bitterly. “When I let Jake Houck walk off with you to save my worthless hide.”

  “I’ve forgotten that, Bob,” she said gently. “So much has happened since. That was foolishness anyhow, what—what we did in Blister’s office. But I hate to give up the boy on Piceance Creek who was kinda like a brother to me. Do I have to lose him?”

  There was no need for her big dark eyes to plead with him. His face was working. He bit his lip to keep from breaking down. This was what he wanted more than anything else in the world, but he was embarrassed and irritated at the display of emotion he could not wholly control.

  “’S all right with me,” he said gruffly.

  “Then we’ll be friends again, won’t we?”

  “Ump-ha!” he grunted. “I—I’d just as lief.” He recognized this as cavalier and added: “I mean it’s awful good of you.”

  “When you come back you won’t forget to ask for me if I’m not where you see me. I’ll want to hear all about what you do.”

  “Yes,” he promised; and in a burst of gratitude cried: “You’re a dandy girl, June. If you treated me like I deserved you’d never speak to me again.”

  She flushed. “That’s silly. I never did feel thataway. Lots of times I’ve wanted to tell you that—that it needn’t make any difference. But I couldn’t, ’count of—what we did in Blister’s office. A girl has to be awful careful, you know. If we hadn’t done that foolish thing—”

  “A judge’ll fix you up with papers settin’ you free, June,” he told her. “I’ll do anything to help that you want.”

  “Well, when you come back,” she postponed. Talk on that subject distressed and humiliated her.

  “I got to go,” he said. “Good-bye.”

  “Good-bye.”

  She gave him her hand shyly. Their eyes met and fell away.

  He stood a moment, trying to find an effective line of exit. He had missed his cue to leave, as thousands of lovers have before and since.

  “Got to hit the trail,” he murmured in anticlimax.

  “Yes,” she agreed.

  Bob drew back one foot and ducked his head in a bow. A moment later he was hurrying toward the remuda.

  * * *

  CHAPTER XXXII

  A CUP OF COLD WATER

  The pursuers caught up with the Utes the third day out from Bear Cat. It was in the morning, shortly after they had broken camp, that Houck and Big Bill while scouting in advance of the troop jumped up an Indian out of the sagebrush.

  He made across the mesa toward the river. Houck fired at him twice as he ran, but the sentinel disappeared from sight apparently unhit. The sound of the firing brought up rapidly the main body of the troopers. Before Major Sheahan and Harshaw could work out a programme another Indian sentry could be seen running through the sage.

  The sight of him was like that of a red rag to a bull. Not waiting for orders, a dozen punchers instantly gave chase. The rest of the party followed. Houck was in the lead. Not far behind was Bob Dillon.

  The mesa bench dropped sharply down a bare shale scarp to the willows growing near the river. The Indian camp below could be seen from the edge of the bluff. But the rush to cut off the Ute was so impetuous that the first riders could not check their horses. They plunged down the bare slope at a headlong gallop.

  Bob heard the ping of bullets as they sang past him. He saw little spatters of sand flung up where they struck. As his horse slithered down on its haunches through the rubble, the man just in front of him dived headlong from his horse. Bob caught one horrified glimpse of him rolling over and clutching at his breast. Next moment Dillon, too, was down. His mount had been shot under him.

  He jumped up and ran for the willows, crouching low as he sped through the sage. Into the bushes he flung himself and lay panting. He quaked with fear. Every instant he expected to see the Utes rushing toward him. His rifle was gone, lost in the fall. The hand that drew the revolver from his belt trembled as with an ague.

  Only a few of the riders had been unable to check themselves on the edge of the bluff. The others had now drawn back out of sight. A wounded horse lay kicking on the slope. It was the one upon which Bob had been mounted. The huddled figure of a man, with head grotesquely twisted, sat astride a clump of brush. Another sprawled on the hillside, arms and legs outflung.

  Below, in the sage not far from the willows, another body lay in the sand. This one moved. Bob could see the man trying to hitch himself toward the shelter of the river bushes. Evidently he was badly wounded, for he made practically no progress. For a few minutes he would lie still, then try once more to crawl forward.

  The popping of guns had shifted farther to the right. Bob judged that the rangers and soldiers were engaged with the Indians somewhere on the ridge. Only a few desultory shots came from the camp. But he knew it would be only a question of time till some Ute caught sight of the wounded man and picked him off as he lay helpless in the open.

  Bob did not know who the wounded man was. He might be Dud Hollister or Tom Reeves. Or perhaps Blister Haines. Young Dillon sweated in agony. His throat was parched. He felt horribly sick and weak, was still shaking in a palsy of fear.

  It was every man for himself now, he reasoned in his terror. Perhaps he could creep through the willows and escape up the river without being seen. He began to edge slowly back.

  But that man crouched in the sunshine, tied by his wound to a spot where the Utes would certainly find him sooner or later, fascinated Bob’s eyes and thoughts. Suppose he left him there—and found out too late that he had deserted Dud, abandoning him to almost certain death. He could not do that. It would not be human. What Dud would do in his place was not open to question. He would go out and get the man and drag him to the willows. But the danger of this appalled the cowpuncher. The Utes would get him sure if he did. Even if they did not hit him, he would be seen and later stalked by the redskins.

  After all there was no sense in throwing away another life. Probably the wounded man would die anyhow. Every fellow had to think of himself at a time like this. It was not his fault the ranger was cut off and helpless. He was no more responsible for him than were any of the rest of the boys.

  But it would not do. Bob could not by any sophistry escape the duty thrust on him. The other boys were not here. He was.

  He groaned in desperation of spirit. He had to go and get the ranger who had been shot. That was all there was to it. If he did not, he would be a yellow coyote.

  Out of the precarious safety of the willows he crept on hands and knees, still shaking in an ague of trepidation. Of such cover as there was he availed himself. From one sagebush to another he ran, head and body crouched low. His last halt was back of some greasewood a dozen yards from the ranger.

  “I’ll get you into the willows if I can,” he called in a sibilant whisper. “You bad hurt?”

  The wounded man turned. “My laig’s busted—two places. Plugged in the side too.”

  Bob’s heart sank. The face into which he looked was that of Jake Houck. If he had only known in time! But it was too late now. He had to finish what he had begun. He could not leave the fellow lying there.

  He crawled to Houck. The big man gave directions. “Better drag me, I reckon. Go as easy as you can on that busted laig.”

  Dillon took him beneath the arms and hauled him through the sand. The wounded man set his teeth to keep back a groan. Very slowly and carefully, an inch here, a foot there, Bob worked Houck’s heavy body backward. It was a long business. A dozen times he stopped to select the next leg of the journey.

  Beads of perspiration stood on Houck’s forehead. He was in great pain, but he clenched his teeth and said nothing. Bob could not deny him gameness. Not a sound escaped his lips. He clung to his rifle even though a free hand would
greatly ease the jarring of the hurt leg.

  Back of a scrub cottonwood Bob rested for a moment. “Not far now,” he said.

  Houck’s eyes measured the distance to the willows. “No,” he agreed. “Not far.”

  “Think maybe I could carry you,” Bob suggested. “Get you on my shoulder.”

  “Might try,” the wounded man assented. “Laig hurts like sixty.”

  Bob helped him to his feet and from there to his shoulder. He staggered over the rough ground to the willows. Into these he pushed, still carrying Houck. As gently as he could he lowered the big fellow.

  “Got me as I came over the bluff,” the Brown’s Park man explained. “I was lucky at that. The Utes made a good gather that time. Outa four of us they collected two an’ put me out of business. Howcome they not to get you?”

  “Shot my horse,” explained Bob. “I ducked into the willows.”

  It was hot in the willows. They were a young growth and the trees were close. The sun beat down on the thicket of saplings and no breeze penetrated it.

  Houck panted. Already fever was beginning to burn him up.

  “Hotter’n hell with the lid on,” he grumbled. “Wisht I had some water.” He drew out a flask that still had two fingers of whiskey in it, but he had resolution enough not to drink. This would not help him. “Reckon I better not take it,” he said regretfully.

  Bob took the bandanna handkerchief from his throat and soaked one end of it in the liquor. “Bathe yore head,” he advised. “It’ll cool it fine.”

  As the day grew older and the sun climbed the sky vault the heat increased. No breath of air stirred. The wounded man had moments of delirium in which he moaned for water.

  There was water, cool and fresh, not fifty yards from them. He could hear the rushing river plunging toward the Pacific, the gurgling of the stream as it dashed against boulders and swept into whirlpools. But between Bob and that precious water lay a stretch of sandy wash which the Blanco covered when it was high. One venturing to cross this would be an easy mark for sharpshooters from the camp.