by J. T. Edson
Fanning out, the pack cast with deadly precision. Even as Scobie came into sight, Dick, the second of the Plotts, slammed to a rigid, stiff-legged halt. His tail went up in a sabre curve and as unmoving as if made of steel. Throwing back his head, he shattered the suddenly silent woods with his open bawl to announce the rediscovery of the trail. Gathering fast, the remainder of the pack stuck down their noses; not even needing their master’s exhortation to lay to Dick. Each hound caught the sought-after scent-picture; but with a difference. Before reaching the tree, they followed a line already three hours cold and crossed by other animals. On joining Dick, the pack found a fresh scent-picture which told them that their prey ran only a short distance ahead.
Even had he been some distance away, Scobie would have known that his pack ran a hot scent from the different tone of their voices. Excitement tinged the bugle voices of the blue-ticks, showing also in the baying of the Plotts and Treeing Walker. Only Strike ran mute, not adding his barking as he conserved his wind to enable him to carry his heavy frame along in company with the hounds. Away tore the pack on the cougar’s line; bounding through bushes, over rocks, sliding down slopes and charging gallantly up others. All the time they made the air ring with their wild trail music, a sound which stirred the blood and caused more than one man to neglect his family just to trail the hunting hounds.
Ahead the cougar increased its pace as the sound of the hounds drew nearer. On three other occasions a taste for horse-flesh caused it to be hunted and it escaped the following dogs with little difficulty’ Only this time a highly-trained pack ran on its trail; dogs bred and reared for hunting bear or cougar, wise to every trick their prey might play.
A wide, shallow stream barred the cougar’s way. No obstacle for the mountain lion, like the jaguar to the South, did not fear to enter water. However, on this occasion it did not go in. Instead it left the ground in a smooth leap, covering some twenty-five feet to land on top of the eight-foot high bank at the far side of the stream. Once before it had used such a trick and completely fooled the trailing hounds.
Not more than two minutes later, Scobie’s pack arrived at the spot where the cougar took off from. Only for a moment did the leading hounds hesitate. Then Bugle, oldest and most experienced of the Blueticks, hurled himself into the water, splashing through, gathering himself and leaping up the bank. Fighting his way to the top, Bugle found the cougar’s track and his bawl brought the other hounds over. In only a short time the hounds reached the top of the bank and struck the trail, although the same trick baffled half-trained curs and lost them.
Hotter grew the scent and faster moved the pack, their voices giving Scobie as clear a picture of what happened as if he rode with them instead of a good half a mile behind. Many a foxhunting man – especially if he came from England, where the craze for an even pack led Masters to strive for hounds of equal size, weight and color – might have laughed at Scobie’s collection of hounds; but not for long. While there might be differences in size, color and appearance between the Blueticks, Plotts and Treeing Walker – not to mention the chunky, dock-tailed Rottweiler – the group ran as a pack and held their pace to that of the slowest member. Long experience had taught file pack the folly of one hound pushing on ahead of the rest. While such a trick used against a fox might result in nothing worse than a sharp bite, it could prove fatal when the prey was a bear or cougar.
Not until they came into sight of the cougar did the pack show any signs of breaking its tight formation. Scobie heard the Blueticks’ voices change to a steady chop, as did the Plotts’ ringing tones and the Treeing Walker’s turkey-mouth singing gave final confirmation that the pack now ran their prey instead of needing to use their noses. Beneath his legs, the zebra dun quivered and fiddle-footed in its eagerness to break into a gallop; it too recognized the change in the hounds’ tones.
‘Damned if the gal’s not right,’ Scobie grinned as he patted the horse’s neck. ‘There’s nothing more foolish than man, hoss or hounds that’ll run to hunting. All right, you hound-trailing fool, get moving,’
Given permission, the dun lengthened its stride and broke from a trot to a slow gallop. Despite the increased speed of the horse, the hounds drew ahead. Over that kind of terrain not even the cat-footed, country-bred dun could live with the pack once they started running their prey on vision and breast-high scent.
The cougar’s flight turned from a fast lope to a gallop as the pack once more closed on it. Like all the cat family, a mountain lion was built for highly concentrated bursts of speed rather than a continuous fast pace, yet it could hold a gallop far better than most of the feline species. Hard-pressed by the hounds, it might have taken to a tree, but none of a suitable kind appeared as it ran through more open country than previously.
Ahead of the cougar rose a high, sheer wall of rock; a veritable haven of safety if only the cougar could once reach it. No hound would be able to climb the sheer face, while the cougar was well able to do so. Tensing its powerful body, the cougar prepared to make one of those high, sailing leaps for which its kind were famous.
Bursting ahead of the rest of the pack, with the inborn speed of its fox-hunting ancestors, the Treeing Walker flung itself towards the cougar. The big tom heard the rush of feet and snap of jaws. Putting off its leap, the cougar twisted around and slashed at the approaching hound. Long, sharp claws slid from their sheaths and gave the mountain lion’s feet their deadly armament, reaching forward to tear into flesh.
Desperately the Treeing Walker halted its rush and curved its body aside. It yelped as the claws barely raked its rump, but escaped with only a minor scratch. However, Song had achieved his purpose in breaking off the cougar’s leap for a vital moment. Instead of continuing its attack, the cougar whirled and jumped for the face of the cliff. Hampered as it had been, the mountain lion could not attain its full height and struck the wall well below the limit of safety. Its claws found cracks in which to dig and it began to drag itself upwards, Bursting through the pack, Strike flung himself upwards and his jaws clamped hold of the cougar’s down-hanging tail. Pain and the hundred-pound weight of the Rottweiler hanging on its tail caused the cougar to lose its hold on the wall and it tumbled backwards.
Strike knew better than to hang on once he felt the cougar falling. Opening his jaws, the big dog landed and threw himself to one side as the snarling, spitting cougar came down. Tail lashing from side to side, ears clamped down tight against the sides of its devil’s mask face, the cougar lit down on its feet and slashed savagely at the raging hounds around it. Wisely the dogs kept their distance. Unlike Copson’s Bull Terrier, those hounds knew caution and would close in only to help another member of the pack should it get into difficulties.
Much as the cougar wanted to scale the cliff, it could not do so. Each time it tried to turn, one of the pack sprang forward and forced it back on to the defensive. Letting out a hissing snarl, the cougar charged, built up momentum as the pack scattered and bounded high into the air to sail over the waiting Rottweiler’s head. Strike reared on to his hind legs, chopping savagely but unavailingly and almost fell over backwards in his attempts to twist around and get after the leaping cat.
Urging his horse on at the best possible speed over the rugged country, Scobie could visualize what happened by the sound of his pack’s voices. He knew of the melee at the cliff face and heard the sounds which told him that the cougar ran again. Twice more the cougar turned to fight, as he could hear from the growls, excited yelping and deep-throated barking of the Rottweiler. Only when the prey stood its ground did big Strike give voice.
Turned from the safety of the cliff, the cougar sought for a suitable tree in which it might climb to safety. It failed to find one, or, when the right kind of tree came along, was prevented from climbing by the proximity of the pack. For over two hours the chase went on, from the hounds first striking the trail to when the fleeing cougar approached the Braddock-Desborough trail. Through all that time the hounds and cougar either ran or foug
ht without a pause. Yet the chase had not been exceptionally long as such things went. Harried by the pack, the cougar swung along the trail. Ahead lay the open mouth of a gorge and the cougar headed in that direction with the intention of climbing one side or the other. Too late it found its way blocked by an approaching wagon.
High on a rim a good half-mile behind the pack, Scobie drew the lathered but still eager dun to a halt. He saw the cougar enter the gorge and to his horror noticed the approaching wagon. Finding itself trapped between the wagon and the pack, that big tom cougar would attack the thing it feared least – and it had lived on a steady diet of horse-meat. Even if the cougar did not attack the horses, its appearance before them would throw them into a panic. Either they would bolt, or try to turn back on their tracks, possibly wrecking the wagon and almost certainly crippling themselves.
Even as he started the dim running in a desperate bid to reach the scene in time, Scobie remembered that the girl should be armed. In fact, he saw her reaching down to pick something from the side of the box. Loaded with nine buckshot balls, each .32 in size, the ten-gauge shotgun ought to prove accurate enough to halt the cougar even in unskilled hands. At the worst, the roar of the shot ought to scare the cougar and make it turn even if the spreading missed it. Scobie hoped that the girl would have sense enough to take some kind of aim and not fire blindly, endangering, or maybe killing some of the pack.
While the Colt company made some extravagant claims for the accuracy of their Lightning rifles – although no more so than published by the other fire-arms manufacturers about their products – Scobie knew that he could not dismount, take aim and shoot with any expectancy of hitting the fast-running cougar at such a long range. Luck and skilled sighting might combine to give him a hit; but he did not dare chance that.
Of course all would be well provided the girl showed as much as a slight competence with the shotgun.
Suddenly, and shockingly, Scobie realized that the girl had not brought up the shotgun. Although still a good way off, Scobie could see the thing she held did not have the squat bulk of the twenty-inch twin-barreled Greener shotgun. Instead she held his Winchester carbine; a good gun, accurate at short range provided the one behind it knew how to handle it properly. However, the Winchester fired only one bullet, not a spreading cloud of nine balls.
When telling Pauline to take out his shotgun, Scobie never intended for her to use it. The squat Greener possessed considerable deterrent value when lined at a human being. Anybody who saw the yawning twin barrels would think twice before coming too close to the person behind the gun. Unfortunately, a cougar could not reason in such a manner.
Reaching for his horn, Scobie prepared to yell advice and at the same time kept his horse running at top speed. It seemed to him that the girl panicked, for she rose to her feet and leapt out of the wagon even as the horses became aware of the approaching cougar.
‘Blast and damn all fool wo—!’ he began.
On seeing the cougar charging down in her direction, Pauline did feel scared; but it was the kind of fear which put direction and speed into her movements, not blind panic. She needed only one glance to know that neither hounds nor Scobie could arrive in time to halt the cougar, so everything depended on her. And she wanted badly to succeed. Without her along, Scobie would have left the wagon on the far side of the distant stream, safe from the hunted cougar. She drove his home into the danger, inadvertently but done just the same, and must save the team horses if she could.
Bending down, she lifted the carbine from where it rested against the side of the wagon box. It held a full magazine of bullets, with one in the chamber and safety-catch applied. While raising the little gun, Pauline realized she would not be able to shoot accurately from her present position. Already the two horses sensed their danger and acted restlessly. Swiftly she booted home the brake and looped the reins around its handle. Then she rose and sprang from the box. On reaching the ground, Pauline dropped to her left knee and swung the carbine up. Nestling the butt against her shoulder, she sighted as her father taught her and touched off a shot.
The .44 caliber bullet struck the cougar in the head, somersaulting the big tom over so that its body slid along the ground for some feet before coming to a halt. Having been delayed by the cougar ascending a steep incline which they could not manage, necessitating a detour that took some minutes, the pack had not been pushing the cougar too closely in the latter stages of the chase. By the time they arrived, with Strike in the lead, the cougar lay dead.
As soon as she shot, Pauline rose. Waiting only long enough to see that she did not need a second bullet, she applied the carbine’s safety-catch once more, put the weapon on the ground and sprang to the horses’ heads. She ignored the pack as it swarmed about the cougar and gave her attention to calming the horses. Being steady, reliable animals, the team horses made little fuss once they realized that the danger had passed and the girl found no difficulty in calming them.
‘Are you all right?’ Scobie asked, bringing his horse to a halt and jumping down.
‘Sure,’ she smiled.
‘When I saw the carbine, I thought—’
‘I figured that if I had to shoot, I might as well hit something with the bullet,’ she told him. ‘Which same, I never took to using a shotgun, it’s rough as hell on the shoulder.’
Eleven – Desborough Becomes a Point of Interest
‘How’s it feel now, Flax?’ asked Caffery, removing the wet cloth from around the Texan’s head.
Seated on the edge of the relay station agent’s bed, Flax Fannon reached up his hand to touch the swollen, discolored lump on the side of his forehead. He winced and removed the fingers hurriedly.
‘Hurts like hell,’ he replied.
‘Happen it’d been a mite further back, on the temple, it wouldn’t be hurting you now,’ said the old-timer. ‘That was a hell of a crack she gave you.’
‘Yeah,’ grunted Flax. ‘I felt it for a spell.’ He shook his head in an effort to clear the dizziness which filled it. ‘Where’d they go after she hit me?’
‘I was in the telegraph room and didn’t hear them leave, it being at the back of the house and made so that it keeps noise out. Time I came outside, they were topping that rim about a mile off on the Braddock trail.’
‘Braddock?’
‘That’s the way they headed. Why’d they jump you, boy?’
‘I’m damned if I know.’
‘From what I saw, they’d searched your duffle—’
‘Searched me, too,’ Flax drawled. ‘But it wasn’t to steal anything, they left my money in my pockets. Those two jaspers were in Braddock last night. Maybe they saw me there and thought I’d followed them. Wanted to know who I was, most likely.’
Having some considerable experience as a Wells Fargo employee, an explanation presented itself to Caffery.
‘Could be the gal, her brother and those other two planned to hold up a stage from here and that’s why they got so jumpy when you showed up.’
‘Is there any shipment coming through that’d be worth going to so much trouble to rob?’
‘Not that I know of,’ admitted Caffery. ‘Mind though, the company don’t spread word around when there is. But a feller with eyes and ears gets to know the signs, and I’ve not seen any.’
‘I can’t see those four meeting up here just to pull a stick-up on a stage that might not even give them eating money.’
‘Or me,’ Caffery agreed. ‘A bunch of down-to-the-blanket longriders might, but not folks with as much money as the gal and her brother had.’
‘They were all in it together,’ Flax said’
‘Otherwise, why’d she jump me?’
‘Could’ve thought you was trying to rob the other two,’ suggested Caffery. ‘Which I don’t believe, either.’
‘If she’d thought that, she wouldn’t’ve run,’ Flax answered. ‘And she hit like she’d done it afore. How long is it since they pulled out?’
‘Getting on for an
hour.’
‘Then I can catch up with—’
‘You’ll stay on here for a spell!’ interrupted Caffery. ‘Waco told me to look out for you and I’d be doing it real good happen I let you ride out of here while you’re still as wobbly as a new-born calf.’
‘I feel all right,’ objected Flax.
‘You don’t look it,’ grunted Caffery. ‘It’ll be three to one when you run up against ’em and you can’t handle it the way you’re fixed right now.’
‘You could come along.’
‘Don’t be loco. My place’s here and you know it. I’ve this place to run.’
Flax nodded a reluctant agreement. Before sending him upon the dangerous mission, Waco repeatedly told Flax to follow Caffery’s advice. At that moment, much as he wanted to go after the woman’s party, Flax knew he was in no condition to do so. Clearly the quartet did not want him around them and might make their objections in a more definite manner next time. When a man tangled in a gunfight, especially against possible odds of three to one, he needed to be completely fit and not feeling the effects of a brutal blow to the head.
‘I’ll rest up for a spell,’ he said. ‘That hoss of mine’ll catch up on them easy enough as long as they stick with the buckboard.’
‘That’s the most sensible thing you’ve said since I found you in the barn,’ Caffery replied. ‘Did you stop to think they might not’ve headed for Braddock? Even with the buckboard, they can cut across country out of sight and come back on to the Desborough trail.’
‘Sure they could,’ agreed Flax. ‘When I’m rested up, I’ll head for Braddock, but I’ll watch for signs that they left the trail. Could be whatever they’re doing, they’re going to Braddock to do it.’
‘Sure, and got spooked when they saw you and remembered you from there, not knowing what you wanted.’
‘Or who I might be,’ finished Flax, standing up. ‘I bet they’re sure wondering about that.’
