by J. T. Edson
‘How’d you come to know so much about hound dogs?’ Scobie asked when she mentioned the Plotts’ normal ability on a cold trail.
‘My father was a hound dog man back in Tennessee.’
‘He was?’
‘Sure,’ the girl said and looking squarely at Scobie. ‘All he ever gave us was rags to wear, lean bellies and long, cold winters. That’s why I went to work in a saloon.’
‘Don’t like hound dog men, then?’ he asked.
‘Pappy was kind enough in his way, always happy, but he never did a lick of work when he could be out hunting his hounds. I swore I’d never make maw’s mistake and get tied in with a hound-chasing man.’
‘You’ve sure kept your word,’ grinned Scobie.
‘Look, Scobie,’ she said. ‘You saved my life and for that I’m real grateful. But as soon as this thing’s over, I’m going right back into a saloon again.’
‘It’s your life,’ he answered.
‘It’s nothing to do with your face, Scobie,’ Pauline told him gently. ‘I’m just not going to get mixed up like my maw did.’
‘Can’t say that I blame you, gal,’ Scobie drawled. ‘Way I see it, having a woman around regular’d be nothing but grief.’
‘What kind of dog is Strike?’ the girl asked, suddenly wanting to change the subject.
‘He’s a Rottweiler. Got him from a German butcher down in the Dakotas. The butcher allowed they used dogs like Strike for working cattle and guards back in the old country. I don’t know about that, but for a cattle-dog, he’s got a nose that’s almost hound-keen, can run all day and pitch right in there to fight at the end of the chase.’
Scobie did not know that way back in the breed’s early history, the Rottweiler had been used by the German nobility for hunting wild boar. From one of the old hunting strains, Strike inherited a good nose and even as a butcher’s dog the breed retained its fighting courage. Curiously, at that time in its native Germany the Rottweiler had fallen into unpopularity for some reason and was very scarce – it would later become popular once more as a police and army dog. All Scobie new was that Strike made an ideal leader for the pack and provided a dominant fighting spirit often needed in their work.
Conversation lapsed after discussing the Rottweiler for a time and the girl climbed back into the wagon to check on the welfare of Vixen and the pups. Finding everything to be satisfactory, the girl suddenly became aware of how tired she felt. What with the bitch whelping and everything, Pauline had not slept the previous night. So she sat on the bed, then lay back and went to sleep.
‘Hey!’ said a voice, while a hand gently shook Pauline by the shoulder. ‘Do you reckon you can come up front for a spell?’
Opening her eyes, the girl looked in a dazed manner at Scobie’s face. For a moment she could not think where she might be, then memory returned and she sat up a touch stiffly.
‘How long have I been asleep?’ she asked.
‘Three, four hours I’d say.’
‘Then it’s high time I made Vixen another feed. Can we stop while I do it?’
‘Reckon so. We’ll stop along here a ways. There’s a stream about half a mile ahead but we’ve all we need in the wagon. The last time I came up this way, the stream was up too high for me to cross. Maybe I’d best take the dun and ride ahead to check. If it’s high, we’ll save time and swing down south a ways.’
‘Go to it,’ the girl said.
‘There’s been no sign of anybody on our trail,’ Scobie told her. ‘But you’d best get the shotgun out and load it – happen you know how.’
‘I know enough not to try to stuff the shells in from the muzzle,’ Pauline replied.
‘Happen you see anybody coming, cut loose with one barrel and I’ll come running.’
‘Trust me for that,’ smiled the girl.
While the girl started to make up another meal of slops for the bitch, Scobie saddled the zebra dun, slid his Lightning rifle into the boot and mounted. With the pack following him, he rode away from the wagon. Unlike on his last visit, the stream ran fairly low. A bed of sandy gravel offered a firm footing for the team horses and bearing surface into which the wheels would not sink deep enough to bog down. Allowing the dogs to advance and drink, Scobie looked around him with interest.
Just as he started to turn the dun, he saw something on the other bank which caused him to ride through the water.
On the other bank, he dropped from his saddle and looked down. His eyes had not deceived him. There on the sand, plain to see, were certain marks; a broad, roughly triangular depression, with four oval prints curving in front of it. The absence of any sign of claws told Scobie that he looked at a cougar’s tracks. What caught his eye most about the mountain lion’s sign was the size of the imprint. An average-size cougar left a footmark about four inches long by four and a half wide, but the set he looked at went a good two inches larger. Unless he missed his guess, the tracks had been made not more than three hours ago.
With a bounty of twenty-five dollars on every cougar hide turned in to the Cattlemen’s Association, Scobie could not overlook such an opportunity. In addition to that, Wells Fargo paid him a monthly retainer and gave him certain privileges for his services in hunting predators. Scobie always believed in honoring his obligations. Knowing the amount of damage a cougar could do among domestic stock, often killing for killing’s sake, he did not hesitate. Yet he had the girl to consider.
There had been no sign of pursuit from Braddock, nor would there likely be until Zimmerman realized that the two men already sent had long passed the time when they should have returned. So Scobie figured he could leave the girl while he went after the cougar. From what he had seen, Pauline could keep the wagon moving along the trail with no trouble if he saw her across the stream. All being well, he ought to have run down, or lost, the cougar and be back with her before anybody from Braddock caught up.
Having been reared by a hound dog man, Pauline raised no objections to Scobie going after the cougar. In fact, his request only strengthened her determination never again to become entangled with a man bitten by the love for trailing a pack of hunting hounds. She had already fed the bitch and cleaned Vixen’s comfortable compound in the wagon. So, climbing on to the box, she started the team moving. Staying only long enough to make sure the girl could handle the team, Scobie rode once more towards the river.
The hounds still remained on the Braddock side of the water, but he rode through and called the biggest Bluetick to him. By the time the dog arrived, Scobie had dismounted and stood near the tracks. Taking the dog gently by the scruff of the neck, he pushed its nose down on to the footprint. For a moment nothing happened, then the hound stiffened, its powerful body quivering and its nose thrusting deeper into the sand to suck in more of the familiar, but elusive smell. Scobie released his hold and stepped back. Throwing up its head, the Bluetick let out a bugle-bawl that rang in the still air. Instantly every other dog stopped what it was doing, springing around to face the sound and charging forward. Spray flew and the stream’s surface churned white as the pack crossed.
‘Lay to, Bugle!’ Scobie yelled. Trail him down, boys!’
With heads down, noses snuffling to catch the first hint of their prey, the hounds gathered around Bugle as the big Bluetick followed the scent-picture. Slowly at first, for sand did not hold scent too well, the pack advanced along the cougar’s line. On hitting the grass, much stronger scent awaited them and their pace picked up. Loud rose the sound of the hounds’ trail-bellowing and the finest orchestra in the world never made such lovely music to Scobie’s ears.
Knowing he could rely on the pack to trail nothing but the cougar, Scobie stood by his fiddle-footing and eager horse until the girl reached the stream. Although eager to get after his pack, he waited until Pauline brought the wagon safely across.
‘Hey!’ Pauline called. ‘You may need your horn.’
A grin came to Scobie’s face as he reached up and took the birch-bark horn from the girl. When h
unting it served two purposes, to increase the range his voice would carry should he need to call in the pack and, placed to his ear, amplified the sound of their baying if they built up such a lead that he could not hear them without artificial aid. He had not expected to need the horn for running a cougar on a hot line, but felt pleased that the girl showed sufficient interest to hand it to him.
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘You’re sure you’ll be—’
‘For Tophet’s sake get going!’ Pauline answered with a smile’
‘I know you’re itching to follow those fool hounds.’
‘I’ll see you then, gal,’ Scobie whooped and vaulted astride his horse.
‘Men!’ Pauline shouted back as he sent the eager zebra dun off at a fast trot in the direction of the hounds. A sound from inside the wagon caused the girl to turn and look. She saw Vixen trying to rise, lean head pointing in the direction of the rest of the pack’s trail music. ‘Lord, Vixen. I thought becoming a mammy would have taught you different and better. There’s no fool worse than one that wants to go hunting.’
Even as she spoke, Pauline wondered just who she tried to convince. On more than one occasion her father took her out hunting and she enjoyed every minute of it. Or had she? One’s ideas became blurred recalling only the good times and forgetting the bad. Sure it had been fun to go out with her father, especially when some of the rich fellers from the valley came along with their fancy food and talk of the places they had been, but those times did not make up for cold, hungry winters, bare feet and ragged clothes. A girl would be a fool to take up with any hound dog man, even if he gave a hint of wanting her to do so.
Keeping a watch on her back-trail and seeing nothing to disturb her, Pauline continued to drive the wagon at a reasonable pace. She found little difficulty in controlling the well-trained team and after a time Vixen relaxed, for the sound of the pack died away in the distance.
Two hours went by and Pauline saw that the trail passed through a narrow, sheer-sided gorge. Knowing something of hunting, she did not expect Scobie to return for at least another hour and so kept the team moving. Suddenly Vixen, who had been lying quietly among her struggling, squirming litter, raised her head and gave a low whimper.
‘What is it, gal?’ Pauline asked.
A moment later the girl knew. Faintly at first, but growing louder by the second, came the sound of the hound pack. Pauline guessed that the cougar had swung around, making a looping circle. From what she could hear, the pack pressed it hard.
Then the wagon entered the gorge and its wheels and team’s hooves raised a considerable racket which drowned out the sound of the hounds. Just as she reached the half-way mark in the gorge. Pauline saw something appear at the other end. With a sudden shock, the girl realized that just about the largest cougar she had ever seen was rushing along the gorge towards her.
Nine – The Wisdom of Not Carrying Identification
While riding his blue roan stallion along the trail towards the Witch Creek relay station, Flax Fannon met with a slight disappointment. He had hoped to find the place devoid of customers so that he could waste no time in contacting old George Caffery and having a message sent to Waco. Instead he saw that the place appeared to be doing a fair bit of business. Three horses were tied to the two-story main building’s hitching rack. Down before the barn stood a comfortable-looking buckboard with a canopy over it, tarp-wrapped baggage in the back and a pair of spirited horses harnessed to it.
Riding upon such a dangerous mission made a man develop caution and Flax wondered who Caffery’s customers might be. Of course, in addition to supplying fresh teams for Wells Fargo stagecoaches, the relay station offered food, drinks and accommodation for any travelers who might wish to stay there. Possibly the owners of the buckboard and horses would prove to be harmless and not connected in any way with Flax’s affairs, but he did not aim to take a chance until he knew that for sure. Wyoming had a large outlaw population and many apparently innocent people possessed connections with the criminal element. Let one word or even a strong hint, of Flax’s true status leak out and he stood a better than even chance of winding up dead.
As he approached the barn, Flax studied the buckboard’s team. A man could sometimes learn plenty merely by looking at the brand a horse carried. In this instance he picked up little that helped. The horses bore the brand of a ranch which specialized in raising and selling harness and saddle animals throughout Kansas and Nebraska and even did business in Wyoming.
Hoping to find Caffery inside, Flax rode his horse through the open doors of the barn. Again he met with disappointment, for the station agent was not present. Not knowing how long he might stay, Flax decided to rest his horse. He led the roan into a stall and set about caring for it. While his business might be urgent, he did not aim to neglect the horse. The time might come when he needed his mount’s speed and endurance to save his life or accomplish some task, so he did not intend to neglect its welfare. Stripping off the low-horned, double-girthed saddle which marked him as a Texan, Flax draped it over the inverted V-shaped wooden ‘burro’ by the doors, then he fed and watered the roan. Deciding to leave the bedroll strapped to the cantle and rifle in its boot until he knew whether he would be stopping or not, Flax finished caring for the horse and then walked from the barn. While approaching the station, he looked the three riding horses over. They all used north-country saddles, looked in good condition and fast, but their brands told him nothing significant.
On entering the large combined bar and dining room of the main building, Flax found it to be devoid of customers. George Caffery stood behind the bar, a tall, leathery old-timer with surprisingly young-looking eyes and a cheery smile.
‘Howdy, George,’ Flax greeted. ‘You’re not very busy.’
‘I’ve seen things worse and better,’ Caffery replied, darting a glance at the stairs leading up to the guests bedrooms.
‘Who are they?’ asked Flax, lowering his voice.
‘There you have me,’ the agent replied. ‘Gal and a feller came in first, got here last night and booked under the name of Mr. and Miss Loxton, brother and sister from Kansas City.
‘Are they?’
‘There you’ve got me. Look enough alike to be kin. One thing I do know; they went to separate bedrooms and stayed there all night.’
‘Did you sit up all night peeking?’ grinned Flax.
‘Nope,’ grunted Caffery. ‘I don’t need. Put her in the room over mine. Its floor creaks something fierce. Happen she’d left, or he’d come in, I’d’ve heard ’em no matter how quiet they moved.’
‘How about the other two?’
‘Came in about an hour back. Names’re Elmhurt and Laverick.’
‘What are they?’
‘Not range country stock, that’s for sure. Dressed like drummers but they don’t have any sample-bags along and they’re a couple of hard-lookers.’
‘Where are they now?’ Flax inquired, darting glances around.
‘Went up to the room they took,’ answered Caffery. ‘Claim to have rid over from Braddock to pick up the east-bound stage.’
After throwing another cautious look around, with particular emphasis on the entrance to the stairs leading up to the first floor, Flax saw nothing to disturb or alarm him and so got down to business.
‘How soon can you send word to Waco?’
‘Just about as soon as you give it to me,’ drawled Caffery, face showing no interest even though he knew that Flax was only to contact the U.S. marshal by telegraph should he have vitally important news which could not be sent in any other manner.
Keeping his voice down, Flax told Caffery all that had happened in Braddock and of his meeting with Scobie Dale the previous night. For all the emotion Caffery showed, the young Texan might have been discussing the time of day. However, Flax noticed the old-timer’s slight tensing and knew Caffery did not underestimate the potential value of Pauline’s story.
‘I’d trust Scobie Dale, was I you,’ Caffery commented a
t last. ‘If he reckons the girl speaks true, you can near on count on it.’
‘It could be the start Waco wants,’ Flax replied. ‘I reckon it’s worth sending word to him about it.’
‘Yep,’ agreed the agent. ‘I’ll get the message off. But if Schuster get to know where the g—’
At that moment a sound drifted from upstairs. Feet thudded on bare boards and approached the stair head, while male voices talked. Turning towards the stairs, Flax thought he saw a flicker of something black as if a piece of cloth swung momentarily into sight.
‘What kind of dress was that gal wearing this morning?’ he asked.
‘A black skirt and white blouse,’ Caffery replied, following the direction of the other’s gaze.
The heavy feet slowed down, as if their owners came on a sight which surprised them. One of the men upstairs started to say something and stopped again before he finished or the listening pair in the bar could make out one word from another. Then the feet began to sound again, coming down the stairs.
‘That gal was standing on the stairs just now,’ Flax breathed.
‘Listening?’
‘I’d say trying to. Only she went back up as soon as she heard those two jaspers coming down.’
‘Reckon she heard anything?’
‘We held our voices down and I don’t reckon she heard much. Nothing we’ve said’d mean anything to her, unless—’
‘Yeah,’ said Caffery dryly. ‘Unless her and her brother aren’t what they look to be.’
Before any more could be said, the two men reached the foot of the stairs and entered the barroom. Flax looked the pair over with a quick, all-embracing gaze. Both equaled his height, with heavy builds that hinted of strength. Like Caffery claimed, they wore the style of clothing favored by most traveling salesmen; yet they lacked the air of bonhomie most drummers cultivated as an aid to selling their products. The black-haired jasper carried a Forehand & Wadsworth revolver thrust into his waistband, while his sandy-headed companion wore a shoulder holster or Flax missed his guess.
