Two men crouched at the edge of the cliff gazing into the valley below. Behind them, in a clump of bushes, stood their horses; farther beyond, a dozen hard-faced, unkempt riders lounged in their saddles, talking gruffly.
In the valley, three wagons were drawn up near a spring, and a cooking fire crackled cheerfully. Beyond, on the flats, several hundred head of cattle, having been watered, were being bunched by six weary cowpunchers.
One of the kneeling men, a shaggy-browed, black-bearded giant, spoke to his companion. “Nice bunch of beef, Shab. A little trail ga’nted, but they will fatten up fine. Only seven men, not countin’ the cook and the kid.”
His companion grunted. “That ain’t no kid; that’s a girl.”
Kurt Dodd thrust his big head forward and squinted against the dying sun. “Danged if you ain’t right! Must be Tomlinson’s daughter. Well, it makes no difference. I’m danged glad Bob Lee and his outfit ain’t located them yet. Duke Haslam sent word that they rode out of Lariat aimin’ to help Tomlinson with the drive. They’re salty gents, and might make it hot for us.”
“Who’s with Lee?”
“The bunch that rode for him before he sold out to Tomlinson: Ace Talbot, Deuce Lowery, that Mexican of his, and Dick.”
The other grunted again and shifted his position. He was squat and powerful, with a shock of red hair and numerous freckles. His rough garb was that of the range, and included a once ornate but now dis-reputable calfskin vest. “Reckon you can count on Dick keepin’ ’em out of our way?”
“Duke’s been talkin’ to him,” Dodd answered cryptically. “Well, Tomlinson is goin’ to bed down here. We might as well pull out.”
He inched away from the edge of the cliff, got to his feet, and strode to his waiting horse. The man called Shab followed. They mounted and joined their men. The little group had stiffened expectantly.
“Like takin’ candy from a kid,” Kurt Dodd told them shortly. “Come dark we’ll circle and strike on the west side. Stampede the cows into those gullies over here. Let’s go.”
The men turned their horses. It was an old story to them. A swift dash through the night, flaming guns, the thunder of hoofs; then when the animals had run the fright out of their systems, the hurried cutting out of the likeliest ones and the drive by devious trails into the hills. To them cattle rustling was a business and they went about it in a businesslike way.
Some two miles north of the valley’s head, bacon sizzled and coffee gurgled over another camp fire. About it were gathered four men, cowmen by their attire. Three were Americans: Ace Talbot, six feet five; Deuce Lowery, five feet six; Bob Lee, half way between. The fourth was a Mexican of average height, lithe as a cougar, almost effeminate in his languid appearance. Bob Lee was sitting on his heels poking at the bacon; the other three sprawled on the ground amiably quarreling.
“It’s about time we was meetin’ up with Tomlinson,” said Deuce. “First thing you know we’ll be clear down in Texas.”
“You won’t,” drawled Ace. “Not with that sheriff waitin’ for you.”
“He’s waitin’ for you, too. It was yore fault to begin with. If you hadn’t horned into my private war and started bustin’ mirrors and bottles we wouldn’t ’a’ had to leave by the window head first.”
“Yeah, and if I hadn’t horned in you’d ’a’ left by the door feet first.”
“Señores!” protested José Villegas. “No quarrel, pliz. I’m theenk of new song I’m hear in Santone. Eef I had my guitar I would play heem.”
Bob Lee got up quickly and raised a hand for silence. The snap of breaking brush, the thud of hoofs came to them, and a moment later a horseman rode up and dropped from the saddle.
Bob addressed him. “Any sign of Tomlinson, Dick?”
Dick Markley answered without looking up. “No. Didn’t go far; just to the head of the valley.” He slipped the bridle and dragged the saddle from his horse’s back. Ropes stretched from tree to tree formed a rude corral, and into this he drove the animal. Presently he joined them at the fire and proceeded to roll a cigarette. As yet he had not looked directly at Bob or his companions.
A handsome young man was Dick Markley, smaller than Bob but well built and sturdy. His hair was a cluster of dark curls, his cheeks as smooth and delicately carved as those of a girl. White teeth flashed in a smile that seemed ever a part of him, and his grey eyes glinted with a reckless, devil-may-care light. Bob had known him long and loved him as a brother.
They ate their suppers, cleaned up, rolled the inevitable cigarettes.
“Strange that Tomlinson isn’t here yet,” mused Bob. “Reckon I’ll ride south a bit and try to pick up his camp fire. He cain’t be far away.”
Dick spoke quickly. “You’ll be wastin’ time, Bob. Let’s have a game of stud. I got twenty dollars that’s cravin’ to multiply itself.”
Bob ruffled the boy’s hair good-naturedly. “If I sit in a game with you that twenty dollars would become a victim of division instead of multiplication. No, son, I’ll ride. It won’t do any harm, and I can spot Tomlinson’s fire farther than you could see his drive in the dusk.”
Leisurely saddling, he mounted and rode along the dim trail which threaded among the junipers and pines. Presently he reached the pass which led to the valley, and reined in to scan the floor below him. Instantly his eyes found the twinkle of a fire against the hills to the west, although Dick had reported no sign of Tomlinson and his cattle.
Bob urged his horse down the sloping trail to a point where his view of the camp site was unrestricted. Within the circle of light he could discern the outlines of three wagons; and, as if to clinch the matter, there came to him the soft lowing of cattle.
Bob turned and headed up the trail. For some reason Dick had missed the drive. In all likelihood the young man had not even scouted the valley, Bob concluded. “Dog-goned little slacker,” he mused.
Pushing back through the pass, he descended into a dark hollow through which trickled a tiny stream. His horse stopped and lowered his head to drink, and Bob, slacking the reins, set to fashioning a cigarette. On the verge of striking a match he paused and stiffened. To his alert ears came the solid rhythmic thud of hoofs—many of them. And then, across the top of a ridge ahead of him, swept a band of horsemen, riding swiftly and in close formation. They showed against the sky for ten brief seconds, then were swallowed in the blackness of the hills to his left.
Bob thoughtfully returned the match to his pocket, tightened the reins, and sent his horse up the slight incline, then down the far grade at a fast lope. The four about the camp fire stared curiously as he pulled up.
“Get yore horses,” he ordered briefly. “Tomlinson is camped in the valley two miles south, and I saw a dozen or more riders circlin’ around to the west. They were in the hills and ridin’ hard.”
“What’s the rush?” complained Dick.
“I don’t know of any considerable bunch of riders that go tearin’ through the hills at night except Kurt Dodd’s rustlers. I figure they aim to jump Tomlinson, and unless we hurry we won’t be a bit of good to him.”
Ace, Deuce, and the Mexican ran toward the corral. For a moment Dick eyed his friend, then he smiled and shrugged.
“How many times I got to tell you Kurt ain’t mixed up with that rustlin’ outfit? I know him, and he’s a square-shooter. Just because somebody is operatin’ in the hills back of his spread—” He broke off and got to his feet. “Well, the game’s busted up; might as well mosey along.”
By this time the raiders had traversed the northern hills and had cut to the southeast. They rode swiftly, for the trail was well marked and comparatively easy of negotiation. Presently their leader slowed the pace of his horse and swung to the left, beginning the ascent of a steep trail which bore steadily toward a cleft in the hills above them. The darkness was thick, but the moon had risen and the pass stood out boldly against the sky.
They threaded the cleft and started down the trail which led to the valley below. On the grassy flats vigilant cowboys circled sleeping steers. Their faces tightened avidly. A little trail ga’nted, Dodd had said, but they would fatten easily!
At the foot of the incline Kurt spoke shortly. “Look to yore guns.”
The moon topped the eastern range and the whole valley was flooded with its mellow light. They could see the bedded-down cattle now, occasionally’they glimpsed the vague form of a rider. Borne on the gentle breeze came snatches of a range song, the words muffled by distance, the tune plaintive. Off to one side of them glowed the camp fire, a half-dozen blanketed figures surrounding it. Dodd nodded his satisfaction.
“One of them is the cook,” he told Shab in a low voice. “Likely the girl sleeps in the wagon. That means only two of them are night-hawkin’ at a time. It’ll be easy.” He turned to the men. “You boys know what to do. Start spreadin’ as soon as you hit the flat. Shoot and yell from the first jump. If anybody gits in yore way, drop him. All set? Let’s ride!”
Into the open they spurred, no longer careful of the sounds they made. Kurt Dodd raised his arm in a signal. Hoofs churned the earth, yells and sixgun blasts shattered the peaceful quiet; then they were sweeping in a gradually spreading line toward the herd on the valley flats.
The figures about the fire came to their feet reaching instinctively for weapons. Dodd, a watchful eye on them, dropped back from his position, and, halting his horse, drew the carbine from its boot beneath his leg. Tomlinson was running toward the freighter, calling to the girl inside. An arm holding a rifle appeared from beneath the wagon cover, followed by the head of his daughter. Kurt caught the glint of the firelight on her yellow hair.
The carbine in his hands leaped upward, followed the figure of the running man, stiffened, then spat viciously. Tomlinson went down as though his legs had been knocked from beneath him. Kurt flung another shot into the embers of the fire, then raced after his men.
The frightened cattle had come to their feet. The clash of horns and thud of bodies mingled with their bawls. Around one flank spurred a night guard, his sixgun spitting. Kurt, sighting him instantly, again raised his carbine and fired. The horse plunged into the dirt, throwing the cowboy hard. He was lying where he had fallen when Dodd rode past the place.
The panic of the foremost steers was transmitted to those farther in; they, too, turned and fought to win clear. Then the whole herd was in headlong flight, running blindly, terror-stricken. The guard on the far side was hard put to get out of their path. He drove his spurs deep and angled for the head of the valley. Once free of the threat of death beneath frantic hoofs he swung in an arc across the valley, circling for the camp fire. Near the center of the flat he jerked up his gun and fired, cursing his short-sightedness in not arming himself with a rifle.
Five men were sweeping across the valley flat from the north, and he naturally mistook them for another body of raiders. Then he caught the flash of their rifles and saw to his surprise that they were shooting at the thin line of rustlers.
In the moonlight everything was quite clear. He saw the raiders swing their horses to meet this menace, abandoning the flying cattle to converge in a little group. One of them, evidently their leader, spurred out to the front and leveled his carbine. The five rode straight on without slacking their pace, erect in their saddles, rifles flaming. One of the horses in the raiding party went down, and the rider, springing clear, seized the hand of a comrade and swung up behind him. The leader turned and made a sweeping gesture with his arm; then, while his men headed for the gullies and ravines in precipitate retreat, he fired at the approaching five until his rifle was empty, shook a futile fist, and turned to make his own escape.
“Ride that man down!” came Bob Lee’s terse command. “Get him and the whole thievin’ gang is broken up!”
The main body of rustlers had separated in units of two or three, all heading for the eastern hills where the gully and ravine mouths were swallowed in the gloom of the hills. The leader, however, struck obliquely across the valley in order to reach the hills at a point where he would not be impeded by the stampeding cattle.
Quite abruptly he swung his horse to the west and headed directly toward a debouching ravine. It meant lessening the distance between himself and his pursuers, but it permitted him to use the full speed of his horse clear to the mouth of the ravine.
Dick’s voice sounded above the noise of their horses’ hoofs. “If I can climb that cliff I can head him!” Without waiting for Bob’s permission, he swung to the right and sent his horse toward the steep slant of a bluff which rose abruptly from the valley floor.
At the foot of the cliff Dick swerved his mount and started the ascent at an angle. Lunge after lunge the horse made, his momentum carrying him far up the side of the cliff before he faltered. At precisely the right moment Dick pivoted him and sent him up on the opposite tack. The animal reached the very edge of the solid ground above, pawed frantically with his front feet.
Markley slipped from the saddle, sprang for the top, reached it; then literally dragged the horse after him. In an instant he had sprung to the saddle, waved a hand at them, and disappeared.
The rustler leader had reached the mouth of the ravine. Bob swung up his rifle and fired three swift shots which apparently missed their target. The next moment man and horse were swallowed by the gloom.
“No more shootin’,” ordered Bob. “Dick’s up ahead somewhere.”
The footing in the ravine was treacherous and with the moonlight walled out it was inconceivably dark. They were forced to slow their pace to a walk. From some point ahead of them came a sudden shot—the boom of a sixgun.
“Got him!” exclaimed Deuce.
“Maybe,” said Joe, the Mexican. “Thees other man, she have gon too.”
“Hit it up,” ordered Bob. The Mexican was right; this outlaw leader, as desperate as he was fearless, was also armed, and he would shoot to kill.
Five minutes later they rounded a bend in the ravine and pulled up sharply. Ahead of them gleamed a pinpoint of light, the glow of a cigarette.
Dick’s voice came to them out of the darkness. “It’s me.”
They rode forward a dozen paces and dismounted. Bob struck a match. Dick was seated on a rock beside the body of a horse.
“Where’s the rider?” asked Ace. “And where’s yore cayuse?”
“Both gone,” answered Dick calmly. “I saw him foggin’ along the ravine and shot his horse. Rider went down hard and I thought he was stunned. It’s so danged dark that I couldn’t find him, and he jumped me from behind. Took my horse and vamosed.”
“Who was he?” asked Deuce.
“I don’t know. Too dark to see.”
Bob slapped him on the back. “Good old Dick! You took a chance, boy; he might have got you.... Well, no use followin’. Reckon we’d better join Tomlinson and see what damage was done. You can ride behind me, Dick.”
Ace was on his haunches examining the dead horse. He looked up to find Deuce and the Mexican standing beside him. Bob and Dick were already on their way out of the ravine.
“What did you find?” asked Deuce in a low voice.
“Shot plumb between the eyes.”
“Huh! Must ’a’ been a accident, to put a slug there in the dark.”
“It was a accident all right.” Ace struck another match and, grasping the right foreleg of the horse, moved it gently. “The accident came when the horse fell and broke his leg. He was shot afterwards.”
The three exchanged glances. “And Dick said Tomlinson wasn’t in the valley,” mused Deuce. “I’d shore like to take this critter’s upper works apart and examine that slug. Dick shoots a forty-one, and my in-too-ition tells me this horse was plugged with a forty-five.”
The Mexican swore softly. “Madre de Dios! And Bob ees call heem ’Good ol’ Deek!’”