"Let's go back to th' wagon," said the sheriff, joining his companion and swinging into the saddle. "There's no need for you to try to crowd four easy days' work into two hard ones. Keep a-goin' just as you have planned. I know who shot th' cows, an' why. I'll just add it onto his score."
"I reckon I know who did it too," said Nueces, thoughtfully. "I'd say it was th' coyote you shot through th' shoulder. Slade."
"Yeah; he's th' coyote."
The cook looked up as the two riders dismounted near the wagon. He was pleasantly surprised. The temper of his boss was sweet again. Why the hell four dead cows should make their owner cheerful was something he could not understand. Not being well grounded in the theory of counter-irritants, and being without knowledge of this present situation which would allow him to apply that theory properly, the matter must, perforce, remain a mystery to him. He reached for the lard can and began to rub of its contents into the flour necessary to build up a biscuit batter, into which to dip the steaks when the time came. And as he worked, he whistled softly. In four more days his job would be over, and he would be free to indulge in a spree long deferred.
George Bludsoe rode in ahead of the others, nodded to Corson and Nueces, and hung around the tailboard of the wagon where the cook had sliced off the steaks.
"What you want?" demanded the boss of the ovens, suspicious eyes on the puncher.
"Little mite of tallow," answered Bludsoe, hopefully. He beamed as the cook grudgingly handed him two fair-sized pieces, took them and got his calf rope from his saddle. The formula for greasing a rawhide rope was tallow plus elbow grease and, having the first, George was not long in applying the other. Suddenly he paused in his work, struck by a happy thought: why hadn't he thought of it before? Up in that little basin on the slope were four dead cows! He turned his head and called to the straw boss.
"Hey, Nueces! Why can't I go up an' skin them cows? They'll make me four green hides to work on. If I'm goin' to make hackamores an' ropes this winter, I got to get me a supply of hide."
"You can, if you want to," replied the straw boss, "but I wouldn't wait much longer. They're beginnin' to grow ripe. Anyhow, you won't need 'em. There'll be plenty of chances for gettin' hides before winter gets here."
"What'll you do with 'em durin' th' next four days?" demanded the cook, ominously.
"Hang 'em on th' wheels of th' wagon, to drain, first," answered Bludsoe, a little dubiously.
"Hang 'em on yore gran'mother's chin!" snorted the cook. "You don't hang no hides on this wagon! Great Gawd!"
Nueces chuckled, glancing from the cook to the puncher.
"I just told you there'd be plenty of chances to get green hides before winter gets here," he said. "Them cows are too old, anyhow; an' you'll have to drain 'em, scrape 'em, peg 'em out on th' ground for th' boys to trip over, an' then pack 'em in to th' ranch. You will unless cook'll let you chuck 'em in th' wagon."
"You just watch anybody chuck any green hides in th' wagon," said the cook, belligerently.
"All right," replied Bludsoe, picking up the lariat. "I'll wait till later."
"Yo're damn' right you will!" muttered the cook, turning back to the work on hand.
Corson and the straw boss were seated on the ground, looking over the tally sheets, discussing the figures and what they might mean. Despite the mildness of the last winter and a range comparatively free from wolves, the figures were not as impressive as they might well have been. Corson stood up as the distant riders left the gather in the care of two men and raced for the wagon. In the forefront was the stray man from the Chain outfit, and the sheriff met him as he swung from the saddle, not far from the wagon. The man had stripped the riding gear and was idly watching the horse roll when he turned his head and saw the sheriff beside him.
"When you get home," said Corson, in a low voice, "you tell yore boss that if anythin' looks wrong with his calf tally, to send me word right away."
"Shore," assented the stray man, looking his companion in the eye. "There's a place over west of our range, outside our round-up assignment, on th' desert. Nice little pond of water down in a basin between th' hills. I've been wonderin' ever since we found them cached yearlin's. What you think about it?"
"Might be well if Rube sent somebody over there to look at it," replied the sheriff, slowly. "Look for cattle tracks an' other signs. If they find any, how fresh are they? I figger it's much too far east, accordin' to th' brands; but it might be used for a water place on a trail drive. That sounds loco, but it seems that anythin's possible."
"You figger they're drivin' 'em out that way?"
"I just told you I don't figger that a-tall. I said anythin' was possible," replied the sheriff.
"Y-e-o-o-w!" yelled a voice from the pickle barrel, holding aloft the two-pronged spear, otherwise known as a fork, tied on a long handle. "First prize to th' Turkey Track! Just lookit that hunk of cauliflower!"
"Match you for it!" shouted the Bar W man, amidst a gale of laughter.
"Yeah?" snorted Turkey Track. "An' what do I get if I win?" he demanded.
"You get th' cauliflower!"
"Man, I got that already. Go spear some yoreself!"
After dinner the sheriff, yielding to his growing restlessness, abruptly arose. He nodded to the smiling circle and went to his horse. In a moment he was making a thin line of dust toward the west, heading straight for the tumbled hills and deep arroyos between him and the Bar W, and totally ignoring such things as trails. It was five miles to the ranch buildings the way he was going, while it was nearer fifteen by the trail. The tracks made by the horse of the man who had killed the four JC cows led southwestwardly, toward Willow Springs. Corson was not following them, although he was remembering them, and was alert enough not to forget what they might mean to a pursuer. He knew the identity of the killer, and for the present that was enough.
When he reached the Bar W he found a scene of great activity. Their round-up work was over, the wagon standing under its shed, but another task made the corral look like an anthill of effort. The outfit was removing the shoes from more than two hundred horses, preparatory to turning them loose on the range, there to roam in peace until the fall round-up should call them in again.
The sheriff had no more than dropped down the last slope before the foreman swung into his saddle and rode off to meet him. The two men met and stopped a quarter of a mile from the buildings and corrals.
"I'm allus prepared to give an' take on tally figgers," said the foreman, abruptly; "but th' figgers I'm talkin' about now are mostly take, an' no give. I'm guessin' we're short near two hundred head. All calves. Don't know nothin' about yearlin's. Won't know till fall. Does that mean anythin' to you?"
Corson swore, and nodded violently.
"It means a hell of a lot," he said. " 'Specially when you hook onto 'em th' two hundred that's makin' Nueces talk rabid, an' a few other things."
"By Gawd, somebody's swingin' a wide loop down here!" snapped the foreman.
"Loop?" echoed the sheriff. "Loop?" he repeated ironically. "Looks to me like he's swingin' two, three corrals! I'm beginnin' to figger they aim to make one grand clean-up an' then quit. You seen Slade in th' last two, three days?"
"Jack Slade?"
"Yeah. Worked for th' BLR. His stampin' ground is over Crooked Creek way. He'll be favorin' his right shoulder."
"I know who you mean," replied the foreman. "No, I ain't seen him. Why?"
"Not nothin' special. I was just curious. Our stray man's left you, I reckon."
"Yeah, pulled his drag th' first thing this mornin'. It'll cut down that missin' two hundred head of yourn to about one fifty. Not countin' th' cows, of course."
"Sorry I missed him," said the sheriff, "but I'm right glad about th' fifty head he's drivin'. Sorry I missed him because I'd like to have him stay here for a while. I might need a man to ride to th' ranch in a hurry, some day or night right soon," he explained.
"Hell, you got one, or two, or six," replied the foreman
quickly. "You get any news that you want to send on to th' JC, you send it to me an' I'll see it's delivered like a bullet out of a gun."
"Thanks. That's good. Say, do I look loco?" demanded the sheriff.
"Not no more than usual," answered the foreman with a grin.
The sheriff sighed with relief.
"Then I'm holdin' my own; but if I ain't plumb crazy within a week or two, then it's only because of my well-known mental strength. Trait of th' family, mental strength. I can see a big herd of stolen cattle. Yearlin' steers and weaners. Th' fellers that are holdin' 'em are so damn' shore of themselves that they're holdin' th' weaners so they will grow up into beef. They can't be so very far away, because of drivin' off th' weaners. An' they can't be so very close because this whole range has just been combed so close that a coyote ain't been overlooked. There you have it: they can't be far, and they can't be close. There can't be no herd of stolen cattle, but there is. Yes, sir: if I ain't plumb locoed inside a couple of weeks, I'll be th' outstandin' marvel of th' age. Now let's ride on in."
"You do seem to be in a hell of a pickle," said the Bar W foreman, trying not to grin. "You want any help?" he asked as they started toward the ranch buildings.
"Not now," replied the sheriff. "There's a kinda personal slant to this thing that's like a burr under my saddle. If I do need help, I'll need a lot of it, an' mebby in a hurry. I'll be ridin' alone for a few days more, anyhow. After that, I don't know. It's one of them things that's right under yore nose, but when you reach out for it, it ain't there a-tall. God bless our family trait!"
CHAPTER XIV
CORSON dropped down the steep slope of Packers Gap, the sounds of the iron-shod hoofs filling the arroyo with ringing hammer blows. He slowed as he came to the shoulder of the wall at the entrance to the draw, and covered the next score yards at a walk; but the closed door did not open. Bewilderment and then slow anger wiped out the look of eagerness on his face, and then was, in turn, banished. He had no right to feel that way about her: she was a Meadows, and it was her right to remain loyal to her own blood.
He kept on down the arroyo, his mind far from the present moment, his present surroundings; but it was ripped back to matters close to hand, a mile farther down, by the spiteful crack of a rifle and a sharp tug at his sombrero. His instant roll took him from the saddle and against the safety side of a mass of fallen rock, while the roan clattered on for a few rods and then stopped to graze.
This was the second time he had escaped rifle fire, and neither time had he expected it. It was just luck, sheer luck, the luck of a fool, for only a fool would ride where he was and not keep his senses about him. Still a man might keep his senses about him and be on the alert and then not know of his danger until a shot was fired.
He wriggled forward to a more secure position and then flattened out on the ground and played dead. His rifle was in its scabbard on the saddle, and he had only his belt guns to oppose a weapon of far greater accuracy and range. He would have to make his man come to him. If he did not come of his own accord, to learn what it was vitally necessary for him to know, then he would have to maneuver the assassin into a vulnerable position. He did not dare leave cover or face the rifleman at a long range. All right: his training gave him promise that he could do this if necessary, if he took the needed time and care.
Half an hour passed, and then three quarters. There was no sound, no movement that his straining senses could catch. He lay flat on his back, his eyelids closed to mere slits, his left arm doubled under him, and long since numb. His other arm lay on the ground, flung out at right angles from his body, and its hand was far from the holstered weapon at his thigh. It lay under a stunted sagebush, a squat, cabbage-looking clump of dusty green, which hugged the earth jealously; and in that right hand was his left-hand gun, the empty holster pressed tightly between his body and a slab of stone, its emptiness hidden from any curious, searching eye.
It took patience, Indian patience, to maintain this posture minute after minute, until more than forty-five of them had slowly trickled into the past; but the sheriff had that Indian patience, for he was, as others had stated, Indian-trained. The assassin must make certain that his shot had killed: it would be very disconcerting and rather dangerous to run unexpectedly into the man he thought he had murdered. He must be sure of his shot.
Early as the hour was, the sheriff's eyes began to ache from the still slanting rays of the sun, and this was one of the things he feared: the keenness of his sight must not be ruined by black sun spots filling the retinas. He closed the lids tightly, trusting in his hearing to give him a cue.
At last it came. The cutting rasp of sand between boot heel and rock. His lids opened to a mere slit, and he tried to breathe so gently and rapidly that the chest movement would not be noticeable at any distance. A pebble rolled and clicked to a stop. The assassin was doubtless clumsy from nervousness. He was not as good a man as his famous namesake. The sound came from straight ahead, from the other side of the sheriff's feet. He let his jaw sag open, and his tongue protrude a little, and tried to lie as limply as possible. He caught the shadow of a movement high in the air, a mere speck against the blue, where a puzzled vulture circled in long swoops without the movement of a wing.
A satisfied grunt almost startled him, although he thought himself to be prepared for anything. He was making a desperate play and thought himself fortified against the unexpected. A head, minus a hat, slowly, cautiously arose from behind a boulder, and then the neck and shoulders. It was Slade.
In order to lire another shot, if one were needed, the assassin would have either to raise the rifle above the intervening rock, or step out from behind it. The distance was, perhaps, six paces. To slant a rifle barrel at the proper downward angle, over the top of a rock so high, would be almost impossible for a man of his stature. He shrank from the thought of another gun kick against that sore shoulder, and drew a Colt. As its black, evil muzzle arose over the rock, there was a swift, almost spasmodic movement from the prone peace officer. The outflung right hand slid toward him, the wrist curling over into a short, swift arc, and the crashing roar of the big, black powder cartridge filled the arroyo with instant clamor. Slade's head dropped from sight as if his legs had been kicked out from under him. His spurred boots, now lying in plain sight of the peace officer, did not move. Corson arose, gun upraised and ready, and moved stiffly forward, his numbed left arm hanging inertly at his side. One glance was enough: Slade's ambushing and cattle-stealing days were over for all time.
To leave Slade here, covered over with rocks, or as he had fallen; or to take him in to Bentley, as he should do in his official capacity as sheriff; or to leave him on the trail, to be found by the first passing rider?
Which one of these three choices would ease his official conscience, without tipping off his hand? The location was the factor which chiefly bothered him: it must not be known, so early in the game, that this tragedy had occurred so close to the JM ranch, or even along the trail in Lucas Arroyo. Still there was a certain obligation he owed to Slade—now.
Corson hastened to his grazing horse, mounted, and sent it as swiftly as the ground would permit straight toward the place whence that first shot had rung out. After a short search he found Slade's horse, secured it without much trouble, and led it back to the boulder near the pile of rocks. By this time his left arm, through dint of rubbing, was normal again, and it was no great task for a man of Corson's strength to get Slade's body across the saddle of the led horse and to tie it there with Slade's own rope. Then he mounted and rode down the arroyo, leading the second horse, and his rifle resting across the pommel of his saddle; and as soon as he could, he sent the animals up the gently sloping outer benches due north in the direction of the Saddlehorn Pass wagon road.
He pushed on steadily, and when he neared the road he dismounted and went forward on foot until he could look down upon it. He could see nearly a mile of it, and there was no sign of anyone riding or driving along it. Hurrying back to
the horses, he mounted and pushed on again at better speed and, finally, at the end of the long descent, found himself on the road. Heading down it at a walk, he plodded toward Crooked Creek; and where the main road swung to the north, he left it and followed the smaller branch trail straight across the rolling hills toward Bentley. And while he rode, he thought out the problem immediately confronting him and, taking his badge of office from a pocket, pinned it on his vest where it would show to the best advantage.
His appearance in Bentley caused quite a stir, but he paid no attention to it, and rode directly to the second building from the end on the west side of the main thoroughfare. Here he dismounted and went inside, and in a moment came out again, followed by the proprietor. It did not take them long to empty the saddle of the second horse, and then Corson led the animal around to the hotel stable. A few moments later he rode down to the marshal's office. He found that person leaning against the door, his eyes on the undertaking establishment.
"Come up to th' Palace," invited the sheriff, "an' I'll buy you a drink." He tossed the reins over the head of the horse and swung down from the saddle. "Save up yore questions, an' ask 'em in there. I got a reason," continued the sheriff, hardly giving his companion time to speak.
"I see you've changed hosses," observed the marshal as he pushed from the door. He was looking at the JC roan with admiring eyes. "You want to sell him?"
"Not unless you can tell me where I can buy a better one," answered the sheriff, smiling. "I don't believe you can do that."
"Reckon not; if I could, I wouldn't want to buy th' roan," replied the marshal, shifting his sagging belt to a more comfortable fit and joining step with his companion.
Heads turned to watch the two peace officers walk up the street, and when they entered the Palace, a fair-sized and very curious crowd followed in after them.
Corson stopped against the bar, waved his hand toward the marshal, and their wants were made known.
The Round-Up Page 14
