The two of them rode around the herd and across the pasture. It didn’t take long at all for Wilbur to spot the trail, even in the gray predawn light. They hurried back to where Malone was waiting.
“The trail’s there, boss,” Callahan said. “We can get started whenever you want.”
“Let the horses rest a couple more minutes. Once we start, I don’t aim to stop until we’ve got them cows back. Pick out a couple of the boys to stay here and keep an eye on this bunch until we get back.”
The two men Callahan selected for that task grumbled about being left behind and missing all the action, but they didn’t disobey. They sat there disconsolately in their saddles as the rest of the bunch rode off a short time later.
* * *
As the sun rose, Stovepipe spotted the dust haze hanging in the air north and pointed it out to the young cowboy. “They’re on the move . . . and not more than a few miles ahead of us. They must’ve got to feelin’ confident last night and decided they could afford to rest for a longer spell than I expected.”
“They probably figured we’d go back to the ranch headquarters for help, so it would be a while before we were able to get on their trail.” Vance grinned. “They probably didn’t count on you being able to track them in the dark, either.”
Stovepipe reined in and pulled his field glasses out of his saddlebags. He lifted the lenses to his eyes and studied the ridge that marked the ranch’s northern boundary. “There’s a gap in the ridge that looks big enough to drive cattle through,” he said after a moment. “It likely leads up to what I’m bettin’ is a stretch of tableland beyond the ridge.”
“Where’s the Rafter M from here?”
Stovepipe lowered the glasses and hipped around in the saddle to point to their right. “Yonder a ways.”
“How far does that ridge run?”
“Not far enough to border Cabot’s range. It peters out somewhere before it gets there, and so does the higher ground.”
“So if the rustlers are from the Rafter M, they could drive the cattle up into that high country and then swing east until they were able to drop down onto Cabot’s range.”
“They could,” Stovepipe said. “Ain’t nothin’ in that direction to stop ’em, as far as I know.”
Vance frowned in thought as he rubbed his chin. “Seems like an awfully long way around, unless they’re just trying to throw us off their scent. And if they are, it’s not working very well, is it? Rafter M is still the first bunch we suspect.”
“Keenan Malone will be even more convinced Cabot’s bunch is behind it. I figure when Wilbur got there, the boss’s first impulse was to ride on Rafter M with all guns blazin’.”
“Without any proof?”
“Out here folks mostly act on what they believe is true accordin’ to their hearts and their guts. They don’t worry overmuch about proof that would stand up in a court of law. That’s changin’, slow but sure, but it ain’t completely there yet.
“I wouldn’t worry, though. Wilbur will have convinced him it’s better to come after those stolen cows than it would be to raid Cabot’s place.”
“You seem pretty sure of that.”
“Wilbur’s a mighty persuasive little cuss when he wants to be. Besides, he’s sneaky. He can generally talk a fella around to doin’ whatever he wants, and he’ll make the gent believe it was all his own idea to start with.”
“I’ll bet he can’t do that with you.”
“Well . . . not too often.” Stovepipe chuckled. “Or maybe he’s just so good at it I don’t know when he’s doin’ it.” He stored the field glasses back in his saddlebag and they continued riding on the trail of the stolen herd as they talked.
After a few minutes, Stovepipe said, “You know, I got an idea percolatin’ in my brain.”
“If Wilbur was here, he’d probably say that was something to worry about.”
“He might, at that. But I’m thinkin’ we can move faster, just the two of us on horseback, than a hundred head of cattle can.”
“I should hope so, but why does that matter? If you’re thinking we ought to go ahead and catch up to them, the odds would be really heavy against us, wouldn’t they?” Vance needed some clarification.
“Sure, if we came up on ’em from behind and they knew we were comin’. But if we took ’em by surprise and held the high ground, too . . .”
Vance’s face lit up with understanding. “You think we can beat them to that gap in the ridge!”
“I think there’s a good enough chance we ought to give it a try. If we can hold ’em at the gap, that’ll give Wilbur, Malone, and the rest of the boys time to catch up. Once we do that, we’ve got those rustlers smack-dab where we want ’em, right in the jaws of a bear trap.”
“I’m all for it,” Vance said with an emphatic nod. “They’re liable to give us quite a fight, though.”
“And we’ll hand it right back to ’em,” Stovepipe said. “Come on!”
CHAPTER TEN
Wilbur, Malone, and Callahan were in the lead. The tracks left by the stolen cattle were easy to see, especially once the sun came up and light flooded over the landscape. Here and there the trail led into a rockier patch where it was more difficult to follow, but on each of those occasions Wilbur spotted a broken branch on a bush and knew Stovepipe was sending them in the right direction.
* * *
Stovepipe and Vance swung to the west, deeper into the hills that eventually turned into a range of small mountains. The rugged terrain gave them plenty of cover as long as they were careful not to let themselves be skylighted on higher ground. Stovepipe’s uncanny instincts seemed able to tell them exactly where they needed to go in order to cover the ground quickly and yet remain out of sight of the rustlers.
They pushed their mounts as hard as they dared, and gradually came abreast of the dust cloud marking the location of the stolen herd.
Stovepipe pointed it out. “We’re fixin’ to be ahead of them.”
“And not any too soon,” Vance said. “Seems like the ridge is getting closer a lot faster than it was before.”
“Distances are deceptive out here. But unless somethin’ happens to slow us down, we ought to make it to the pass a good quarter of an hour before they do.”
Once they were well past the herd, they were able to turn back to the east, toward the gap in the ridge. Stovepipe kept his eyes open. It was possible the rustlers had sent scouts out ahead, and he didn’t want to run into them without any warning.
It was late in the morning when they reached the ridge without seeing anyone. The rocky bluff was taller and more rugged than it had appeared from a distance. Its steep surface was riven with cracks that would make it impossible for a horse or cow to climb it.
The only way up was through the gap, a sloping passage twenty yards wide and about seventy yards from bottom to top. The walls were irregular, and slabs of rock lay here and there along the base where they had landed when they’d sheared off sometime in the distant past.
“Wonder what sort of geological event carved this out,” Vance said as he gazed up the slanting trail.
“Not much tellin’, ’cept that it was a long time ago.” Stovepipe nudged the paint into motion and rode slowly through the gap with Vance following him.
When they reached the top and turned around, they could see a long way out onto the flats in front of the ridge. From that perspective, the hills were to the right. To the left were the plains that stretched out seemingly to infinity. The stolen herd was visible as a dark blotch moving slowly toward them.
* * *
“Looks like they’re headed toward Massey Plateau,” Callahan said after a while.
“What’s that?” Wilbur asked.
“That’s right. You haven’t been around here long enough to know all the landmarks yet.” Callahan pointed to a dark line on the horizon. “That’s Buzzard Ridge.”
“Mighty appealing name for a place,” Wilbur muttered.
“People started callin
g it that because buzzards would sit on the edge of it and watch for something dying out here where we are.”
“Oh. Well, that’s nice.”
Callahan grinned. “The name stuck. The ridge is the northern boundary of Three Rivers range.”
“Yeah, I seem to remember Stovepipe saying something about that. He’s a wonder for learning all he can about whatever place he happens to be. I’ve seen him sit and study maps for hours. Just for the sheer fun of it, he says!”
“The Massey Plateau is the tableland on the other side of the ridge,” Callahan went on. “Named after an old fur trapper who decided to get out of that business and start raising cows instead. One of the first cattlemen in this whole part of the country.”
“How did he do at it?”
“Oh, not good.” Callahan grinned. “The Blackfeet killed and scalped him less than a year later.”
Wilbur shuddered. “I’m glad those days are over and done with. Stovepipe and I have had a few run-ins with hostile Indians over the years, but most of ’em are peaceable now.”
Malone grunted. “Less than ten years since Little Bighorn.”
“Well . . . that can be a lifetime out here,” Wilbur said.
* * *
Stovepipe and Vance dismounted. Following Stovepipe’s order, Vance led both horses away from the upper end of the gap and picketed them where they could graze but still be out of the line of fire from any bullets that came flying up the trail.
Stovepipe took his field glasses from the saddlebags and found himself a patch of deep shade where there was no chance of sunlight glinting off the lenses to warn the rustlers someone was up there. He studied their quarry as the men drove the stolen stock closer.
“Looks like ten men pushin’ ’em along,” Stovepipe said when Vance rejoined him, carrying both rifles.
“I think there were at least a couple more of them when they hit the herd.”
“Could be the others are back there somewhere in shallow graves . . . or no graves at all. If they didn’t make it, their pards could’ve just let them lay where they fell.”
“That would be a terrible thing to do.”
“These ain’t exactly choirboys we’re talkin’ about. They’re more interested in gettin’ those cows wherever they’re goin’ than in anything else.”
“But we’re not going to let them do that, are we?”
Stovepipe grinned and reached for his rifle. “Nope, we sure ain’t.”
* * *
Riding between Malone and Wilbur, Callahan had heard enough storytelling and changed the subject. “Do you think they’re takin’ those cows up on the plateau, boss?”
“Yes, and then they’ll drive east and drop back down onto Cabot’s range. Mark my words, boys, that’s where they’re headed!”
* * *
“We’ll get behind these boulders,” Stovepipe said, pointing out two of the huge rock slabs to Vance, “and stay outta sight until they’ve got those cows inside the gap. Once they do, we’ll throw down on ’em and call on ’em to surrender. If they don’t . . .” His shoulders rose and fell in an eloquent shrug.
“With a pair of rifles, we ought to be able to close up this gap pretty effectively,” Vance said. “They won’t have much room to maneuver or retreat, caught between stone walls like that. It’s like a military tactic.”
“Know somethin’ about military tactics, do you?”
“I’ve studied them some . . . when it was too long between paydays and I didn’t have any money for whiskey or dance hall gals or bucking the tiger. Got to pass the time somehow, you know.”
“Sure,” Stovepipe said. “I’ve poked into plenty of odd things myself. Now, better fill your pockets with cartridges and find a comfortable spot to wait behind that rock. If you listen close, you can hear horns clackin’ together out there. They’ll be here soon.”
Each man made sure he had plenty of ammunition for his Winchester, then they retreated behind the stone slabs, making sure they could see each other from where they waited. Stovepipe nodded to Vance to let the young man know he was in good position.
Stovepipe could see through the gap all the way down to the bottom of the trail. He waited patiently as the sun neared its zenith and the heat grew. A vagrant breeze swirled past him, and on it he could smell the leading edge of the dust kicked up by the plodding hooves.
The rustlers riding point came into view, followed a few yards behind by the same old bull that had tried to trample Rosaleen Malone. Stovepipe wasn’t surprised to see that the grizzled critter had taken the first position. The bull was plenty ornery enough for that.
Surrounding the herd were the two rustlers at point, three pairs of flankers, and two riding drag.
Stovepipe waited. As soon as the two dust-eaters had entered the passage, he stepped out into the open next to the boulder, leveled his rifle, and shouted in a clear powerful voice that carried over the rumble of hooves, “Elevate, you dirty sons! You’ve wide-looped your last cow! Throw down your guns and hoist your hands, or—”
He didn’t really expect the rustlers to surrender, but giving them a chance to was the decent thing to do. That didn’t mean he was foolhardy about it. The Winchester already had a round in the chamber, and Stovepipe had lined the sights on the chest of one of the rustlers as soon as he called out.
When the man howled a curse and clawed at the gun on his hip, clearly not intending to throw it down and give up, all Stovepipe had to do was squeeze the trigger and blow the varmint right out of the saddle . . . which was exactly what he did.
The next instant, a wave of gun-thunder and its resounding echoes filled the gap.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Wilbur came up in his stirrups. “Stovepipe and Vance may not have a chance to get to that plateau you were just talking about.”
“What do you mean?” Callahan asked.
“Listen!”
They all heard it then—the faint popping of distant gunshots drifting through the midday air.
“What in blazes!” Malone said.
“My guess is that Stovepipe arranged a little reception for ’em!” Wilbur said. “Let’s go!”
He spurred his horse forward and the others followed.
* * *
Stovepipe and Vance hadn’t discussed which of the rustlers each of them was going to target, but it played out just as efficiently as if they had. As Stovepipe had blasted one point man off his horse, Vance fired at the other and drilled him through the right arm. From the way the man screamed and the arm flopped around, Vance’s bullet had shattered the elbow.
Vance grimaced. He’d been shooting to kill, not wound. But with such a serious injury, the rustler was out of the fight anyway, so he supposed that was all that mattered.
The cows had spread out nearly from one side of the gap to the other, which made it difficult for the flankers to get past and rush forward to help their friends. The rustlers fired their revolvers over the heads of the stock, throwing a lot of lead at Stovepipe and Vance, but the bullets all splattered harmlessly against the boulders as the two cowboys had ducked behind the massive rocks.
The gunfire had an unintended effect. With each shot that slammed out and rebounded from the gap’s walls, adding to the thunderous racket, the cattle became more panic-stricken. They lunged back and forth, running into each other, and pressed steadily forward. The rustler Vance had wounded looked back over his shoulder and let out a frightened shout as he realized the herd was moving faster . . . and heading toward him.
The man tried to wheel his horse around and gallop out of the way, but the injured arm made his movements slow and awkward. The old bull crashed into the horse, making it leap wildly in fear. Unable to hold on, the rustler screamed as he flew out of the saddle.
The horse bounded clear and ran for the top of the trail, outdistancing the steers. Its rider wasn’t so lucky. He disappeared under the mass of horns and hooves and tails.
Vance shuddered at the man’s fate.
Me
anwhile, the other rustlers were still shooting at the men behind the boulders. Stovepipe edged his rifle barrel around the rock and squeezed off a shot that broke a man’s shoulder.
Vance fired as well, and although he didn’t hit flesh and bone, his bullet came close enough to send a startled rustler’s hat flying off his head.
That was enough to break their nerve. As the cattle stampeded through the gap, the men who had stolen them the night before turned and fled. The flankers pressed their mounts close to the walls to avoid being trampled as they worked their way back along the fringes of the herd.
Stovepipe and Vance sent a few more shots in their direction, but they couldn’t tell if the bullets found their targets. The gap was filled with too much chaos.
The spooked herd rumbled between the boulders where Stovepipe and Vance had taken cover, safe from the stampede.
The panicky charge didn’t last long. It began to dissipate as soon as the cattle reached the top of the trail and started to spread out on the bench beyond. The brutes forgot they were scared and went right back to grazing.
Stovepipe and Vance kept an eye on the gap, which was empty except for the grisly remains of the two men who had died.
“Where did the others go?” Vance asked.
“Took off for the tall and uncut, would be my guess,” Stovepipe said. “They figured out we had ’em penned up in here and decided a hundred head of stock just wasn’t worth it.”
“I thought we could keep them bottled up and wait for Wilbur and the others so we could catch them.”
“That was my plan, all right . . . but where cows are concerned, it don’t take much to ruin a fella’s plans. They ain’t always predictable critters.” Stovepipe came out from behind the boulder with the rifle held at a slant across his chest. “I’m gonna walk down there and have a look around.”
“The rest of those rustlers could still be lurking around.”
“They could be, but it ain’t likely. They had no way of knowin’ how many men we had up here.” Stovepipe grinned. “If they’d knowed there was just two of us, they might’ve been more stubborn about not lightin’ a shuck.”
Hang Them Slowly Page 7
