Wayne was jubilant. In his subtle way, without committing himself or giving any tangible information about Hunter, the liveryman had, nevertheless, given him an excellent tip. He had not mentioned the second trail idly, and Wayne felt sure that was the trail Hunter had taken. By pushing his horse he should overtake his man before noon, perhaps by midmorning.
He led his horse to the front of the barn and paid his bill. “Who’ll I tell dad I saw over here knowing him?” he asked.
“It’s right in plain sight on the sign outside,” was the answer. “Fred Hastings. He cussed me out once as the worst rep ever on his range, so I guess he’ll remember me.”
“Dad doesn’t always mean what he says, but he never forgets a man,” said Wayne, extending his hand. “I’ll tell him I saw you over here.”
“So long,” said Hastings. “If you take that trail to the right, you’ll find it damp going before you hit the real breaks. I’d try to catch up with my man before I hit the broken country, if I was trailin’ anybody up there.”
“Thanks,” said Wayne gratefully, swinging into the saddle. “So long.”
He cut around the outskirts of the little town and made the main trail north almost at the bridge. He had seen very few people about and didn’t believe his exit had been witnessed by anyone except the liveryman. He felt sure Hastings would keep his own counsel. North of the bridge he checked his horse and leaned from the saddle to scrutinize the trail. Sure enough, the sign was there—fresh imprints of a horse’s hoofs, and its rider was heading north.
Wayne tickled his big gray with the spurs and raced along the trail. It had been so dark when he had arrived the night before that he had seen no trail intersection, but this morning he was watching carefully for the trail Hastings had said led off to the right, toward the northeast. The sun had climbed above the rim in the east and the plain spread out like a sheet of gold, with the green band of timber along the creek to the left, and the pink and purple outline of Rainbow Butte far ahead. A deeper shadow lay about the butte than clothed its lower slopes, and Wayne knew this marked the badlands country that he might have to penetrate—the stronghold of the outlaw, Darling, and his nefarious band. There was no sign of a horseman ahead, no telltale spiral of dust. But Hunter had an hour’s start, and Wayne did not expect to catch sight of him for two hours at least, despite his own fast pace.
He came upon the intersection of the northeast trail so suddenly that he wondered that he could have made the distance so quickly. He dismounted and found the tracks he was following did, indeed, turn off on this branch trail. But there was another set of tracks that appeared just as fresh. He mounted and rode back a short distance, and found there had been two sets of tracks for some time during his ride. He had no mind to trace the second set back to where they joined the main trail, for the element of time was too important. He galloped back and swung into the northeast trail, conscious that there were two men ahead of him.
He shook out his reins and rode like the wind, with the sun mounting steadily. However, though the big butte and the tumbled land about it marched steadily toward him as he sped along the thin ribbon of trail, he caught no glimpse of dust or riders ahead. If Hunter was maintaining a similar pace, he must be racing to the breaks on an important matter. As to the other rider, Ted could only conjecture. He was unable to tell by the sign in the trail if one rider had preceded the other, or if they were together. It might be that one of Jake Barry’s companions was on his way to Darling’s headquarters. Probably Hunter was hurrying there, too. But Wayne had no desire to run into any of the Darling band.
Wayne had rode so hard from the start that he had to ease his pace. The trail had veered to the east, and now he came to the rolling plain, with gullies and coulées, leading up to the fantastic ridges of the badlands country. He swung over the first of these and seemed to drop from a clear sky into the shadows of the breaks. There was a cool lane, with poplars on either side that led to a fragrant meadow in which Wayne found the first of the famous Rainbow Butte springs. It was the wild surroundings, the marshy ground, the deadly quicksand soap holes, which made it impossible for stockmen to take advantage of these springs. And, indeed, it was not necessary, for they fed two small streams that didn’t dry up save in an exceptional year of drought.
Wayne stopped at the spring to refresh himself and water his horse. He found fresh tracks, but only one of the riders had stopped here. He pushed on, renewing his fast pace when the trail permitted. It wound about ridges and over them, through shadowy ravines, about the ghostly soap holes, across patches of dry gravel that no horse could negotiate noiselessly.
Noon found Wayne in what he thought must be the wildest part of that wild section—the heart of the breaks. The ridges were higher and rock-ribbed with gnarled pines struggling to maintain their hold with talon roots. The trail was very narrow, but as hard from use as an old buffalo trail. The telltale sign still was in it, but Wayne had seen no one ahead and realized that he had had too late a start. Caution now was necessary to the utmost degree. If he were approaching the rendezvous of the Darling gang, there most certainly would be lookouts stationed at points of vantage to forestall an unexpected arrival of strangers. Wayne kept on, although he was beset with misgivings. It would be foolish to turn back, perhaps foolhardy to push on. He wondered if he actually had anything to fear from Darling. An explanation of his presence in that section would be the awkward part of it if he were taken into camp. Shortly afterward his dilemma seemingly solved itself.
He came into a ravine so short and wide that it was practically a basin. The skirts of the ridges sloped gently down and were green with a growth of fir. From the slopes on either side he could have a good view of the trail and anyone riding in either direction. There was a spring and a trickle of water on the lower slope to the left. Wayne decided to wait here until dusk.
He watered his horse and led the animal through the trees up the left slope until he reached a shoulder of the ridge. Here was a grassy knoll above the trees that would serve as an excellent lookout station. It likely had been used as such more than once, for he found the cold ashes of dead fires.
He unsaddled and hobbled his horse, although he felt sure the gray would not stray from him. While the animal grazed, he ate his lunch. Then he lay down on the knoll in the shade of a single fir that grew upon it, and smoked a cigarette. The sun began its slant to westward, and Wayne dozed. He roused himself time after time, then dozed again.
The wind whined in the firs, and the soft grass deadened the sound of footfalls as Wayne finally slept.
Chapter Eight
Wayne opened his eyes, but instead of the sun, and the blue sky, and the green of the fir branches, he saw only the black bore of a rifle covering him. The soft drowsiness of the warm afternoon had betrayed him and lured him to dreamland. Here he was, sprawled out under a tree, covered by a rifle, of all weapons. There were two shadows, one on either side of him, and so he knew his captors numbered three. The man who covered him with the rifle was bulky, with a thick stubble of beard that prevented Wayne from identifying him as one he might have seen before.
“Well,” said Wayne pleasantly, “what’re you going to do? Stand there and pose, or shoot, or what?”
“Get up!” came the sharp order from behind the rifle.
“Just what I was going to do,” said Wayne, “if you’ll move that thing so I won’t bump my head on it. Seems like close quarters for a Thirty-Thirty, but we learn something every day.”
“You’ll learn something before you get any smarter,” said the man with the gun as Wayne got to his feet. “Tie him up.”
Wayne now took notice of the other two men. They were younger than their companion. He could not remember ever having seen either of them before. The question uppermost in his mind was whether he was in the hands of the Darling band proper, or a captive of Jake Barry’s crowd. This he hoped to learn by adroit queries, if he could taunt the men into talking.
After securing his hands
behind him with thongs tightly bound about his wrists, Wayne’s captors caught up his horse, took off the hobbles, and saddled him.
“Much of a ride ahead?” asked Wayne casually. “You’ve got my gun, and there are three of you, and my hands are tied. Maybe you better tie me in the saddle, too. That horse is trained for emergencies like this.”
“Don’t worry,” the bearded man snapped out. “You’re not goin’ to ride. You’re goin’ to walk for a change.” He gave an order to the other two in a low voice, aside.
“As easy as all that?” said Wayne. “Then we’re not going far. Cow boots aren’t made for walking, and we’re all wearing ’em.”
“Keep that smart tongue in your mouth,” said the leader angrily, “or I’ll knock it down your throat.”
“Oh, no, you won’t,” Wayne taunted. “You’re not a big stick. You’ve got your orders. Why don’t you gag me if you can’t stand conversation? A man who has to shoot from the shoulder instead of the hip isn’t so much.”
“I’ll put you where you can talk to yourself,” was the big man’s comment. “You’re just fresh and covering up your scare with bluff.” Then, to the others: “All right, we’ll go.”
“Why not,” sang Wayne. “We want to get there before sunset.”
No attention was paid to this remark. One of the men tied the reins of his bridle to the saddle and caught up the reins of Wayne’s horse to lead it. Another took the reins of his own horse. The horses of the trio had been left at the edge of the tree growth. The man with the rifle evidently had carried it to cover Wayne from a distance or shoot down his horse.
The big man turned to the captive. “We’re goin’ up a slick trail,” he said. “You can jump off any time, or try to make it into the woods, just as you please. Or you can walk along peaceful-like, and not get hurt. Fall in and follow that lead horse.”
“That won’t be hard,” drawled Wayne. “It’s bony enough.”
This touched a raw spot, for the leader swore and took a step toward Wayne. But he thought better of whatever intention he had. “That’s a horse for this kind of business,” he blurted wrathfully. “If yours slips over the edge, it’ll be because it don’t know its business. Move along. I’ll be right behind you to take up the slack if you start anything.”
“You’re a brave man, I can see that,” was Wayne’s sarcastic comment as they started.
One of the younger men of the trio led the first horse. The big man followed directly behind Wayne, leading his own horse. The third man brought up the rear, leading Wayne’s horse with his own following.
The queer procession proceeded up the knoll to the rocky spine of the ridge above. In a few minutes Wayne learned why they were afoot. He had expected a bad trail, but the trail they came to was the most perilous he ever had negotiated.
The ridge twisted off to the left and appeared to divide. At this fork there was a precipice, a sheer drop of three or four hundred feet. They turned to the left, upon a narrow shelf of rock with a rock wall rising from the shelf. A misstep here, and man or horse would plunge down upon the massed boulders hundreds of feet below. It was the famous Devil’s Hole of which Wayne had heard rumors. Few had seen it. None who he had ever met had been there. One thing he had ascertained before they came to this dangerous trail was that the trail they followed was little used. It was not probable that this trail led to the rendezvous of Darling. He was being taken to a place to be held a captive until … Jake Barry! He felt sure that the man he had whipped in Riverdale was behind this business. He had tried to take him in town and had lost out through Green, the gambler. Wayne recalled the tracks of the two riders. One was Hunter. The other might easily have been a messenger for Barry. They knew he was following Hunter, and Barry had sent a man ahead in event that he followed his man into the badlands country. A man might have been watching from the very knoll where Wayne had decided to await the coming of dusk.
Now the dangerous going demanded his closest attention. He was not so much concerned about himself, for the trail was comparatively safe for a man afoot, but not so for a horse. And Wayne’s horse was larger than the mounts of the trio, range bred and ridden, and unaccustomed to trails such as the one he was on. Wayne felt if he lost his horse he could kill whoever was responsible with a clean conscience. But such a trail could not continue any great distance. Wayne sighed with relief when he saw the end across a perilous slope of fine shale. He recognized this as the most dangerous point and held his breath as they crossed it on a hard-packed ribbon of path made by elk and deer, providing those wild animals were in this tumbled wilderness. They came out upon a wide cut between mounds of boulders.
“All right, we’ll ride on in,” said the leader. “Put him on his horse.”
Wayne’s hands were untied and he was told to mount. “You won’t be goin’ out of here fast enough but what we can stop you with a club,” said the big man with a sneering grin. “How’s the scenery?”
“Wouldn’t be bad if it wasn’t spoiled by that dirty mug of yours,” returned Wayne, patting the neck of his horse.
“You’ll sing a different tune before long,” the other said savagely.
“Watch out you don’t join in the chorus,” Wayne flashed grimly.
“Cut it out, Boyd,” said one of the others. “If you’re goin’ to smash him one, smash him, but this talk won’t get us anywhere.”
Boyd turned on the speaker. “I’m runnin’ this business,” he snarled. “No young whippersnapper is goin’ to tell me what to do. He’ll get smashed enough when the time comes, so don’t worry. Now we’ll get goin’.”
“What do you think of that, whippersnapper?” Wayne put in.
The young fellow was uncertain whether to be angry at Wayne, as well as with Boyd, until he caught Wayne’s guarded smile. “It ain’t up to you to go around callin’ people names,” he shot at Boyd as he mounted. “If you don’t like what I say, you can lump it!”
The big man’s face darkened, but he held back the sharp retort that was on his tongue. Wayne saw he didn’t want dissension among his companions.
“Ride ahead,” he ordered the youth. “You follow him,” he told Wayne, “and don’t forget I’m still behind you.”
“That’s where you belong,” said Wayne, falling in.
They rode through the cut and into a forest trail. On the left, Wayne could see the wall of rock still towering above them. Once the trail climbed high enough for him to see over the tops of the firs on his right, and beyond them was nothing save the distant rim of Devil’s Hole. He assumed that the dangerous trail by which they had come was the only exit from whatever place they might be going.
This proved to be the case, for they came out of the tree growth into a circular meadow, hemmed in by the rock wall, except on the side where they had entered it and on the side toward the Hole. There were two cabins here and a small corral. Water trickled from a spring at the base of the wall on the left. The meadow was carpeted with luscious grass. Wayne felt a concern he didn’t show. The whole Whippoorwill outfit could comb the badlands about the butte and fail to find this place.
“This is it,” Boyd called to Wayne as they drew rein at the corral. “Hop down and turn your horse in. There’s the way out, any time you want to try to make it.” He pointed to the opening in the trees across the meadow where the trail entered the timber, drew his rifle from the scabbard on his saddle, and signaled to a companion to look after his horse.
“Oh, I’ll stay for supper, anyway,” drawled Wayne.
He noted, as he attended to his mount, that the place was to all appearances deserted, save for himself and his captors. Heavy padlocks secured the doors of the cabins. Why the locks? Wayne wondered. He was convinced that, if Darling had ordered him taken, or if he had merely been captured by lookouts for the band, he would have been taken to a place near the outlaw’s headquarters, perhaps to the headquarters itself. He couldn’t be sure, but more than ever the conviction seized him that Jake Barry was responsible.
A glance about the room showed two bunks on opposite sides with a table between. On the table were some candles and a pile of tattered magazines. There were two small benches. The single window, facing the trail, was barred with two thick saplings. On a shelf over the window was a greasy pack of cards.
Wayne sat down on one of the bunks, on which was a straw tick and a blanket, and rolled a cigarette. The sunlight was fading rapidly. Wayne surmised he was high on the eastern shoulder of Rainbow Butte. One thing was certain: any visitors would have to arrive before dark, because the narrow trail above the Hole could hardly be negotiated except in good light. A bright moon might be all right; starlight would be too dim. Barry could hardly be expected until next day—if it was Barry who was to come.
The gathering twilight brought the faint odor of frying bacon and strong coffee. Wayne wondered who would bring his supper. If Boyd came … But Wayne put aside the thought of a sudden onslaught and possible escape. He would wait for a break.
When the supper came, it was the young fellow who had defied Boyd who brought it.
Chapter Nine
Wayne surveyed the young fellow with frank interest. He merely glanced at the bacon, biscuits, boiled potatoes, and coffee that were put on the table with salt and pepper and sugar. It was a good enough supper for a hungry man. He caught the other looking at him repeatedly with that gleam of curiosity in his eyes.
“Boyd outside?” he asked, careful to speak in an undertone.
“Nope, and I’m not supposed to talk,” was the guarded answer.
“Maybe you’ll answer one question,” Wayne suggested. “I’m entitled to know, and nobody’ll ever get wise that you told me. When is Jake coming?”
Rainbow Range Page 6
