ONE week later, Bob and his three deputies rode from the Tumbling T and headed for the hills behind the Kady. Each carried a Winchester in the saddle boot and a blanket roll behind the cantle. Preparations for the big drive were under way.
They swung across the rangeland at a smart foxtrot, passing in time the north corner of the Tumbling T and that part of the Kady lying between them and their destination. Presently they entered the arroyo which served as an entrance to the hills, and pulled their mounts to a walk.
“Haven’t seen Dick lately,” said Ace suddenly. “Wonder where he’s keepin’ himself.”
“Haven’t seen Kurt Dodd either, or Bradshaw,” said Deuce. “Funny how they never show up in town when things are quiet.”
“They ees not need w’at you call the abblebi,” offered Joe.
“Apple pie?”
“No, no! W’at you say w’en you are some place where you ain’t?”
“Oh; you mean alibi!”
“Funny about Dick,” persisted Ace. “He might have dropped in at the Tumblin’ T to see how Bob was gettin’ along.” He slanted a sidelong glance at their leader. Ace remembered Bob’s evasion when asked who had wounded him.
“He did stop in,” Bob told them. “The night after I was shot. You and Joe had gone. Reckon I forgot to mention it.... Well, let’s get down to business. When we reach the rock basin Ace and I found, we’ll separate and each take a set of tracks and run them down. If you come across a park with stock in it, draw a map locatin’ it, together with landmarks. Then find the way out of the hills from that park.”
“Suppose we draw a blank?” asked Deuce.
“When you’re sure it is a blank, return to the basin and take another set. There must be a dozen leadin’ from that place. When they’re all run down, go to Lariat and wait for the rest of us.”
“Speakin’ about not bein’ in town,” said Deuce, “I noticed that Pete Grubb has vamosed. If he’s joined up with Dodd and we catch him, we might squeeze some information out of him. He’s a weak sister.”
Bob nodded his agreement, and they rode on. Presently they came to the little park where Bob and Ace had found the branding fire, scouted it, and continued their way to the rocky basin. Here they separated, each taking to one of the diverging gullies. Bob turned into the draw he had previously followed, remembering that the red-headed man and his companion had left the park where he had surprised them by a trail which as yet he had not explored.
He finally reached the place, to discover that the cattle had been moved. Further investigation showed the cabin to be deserted and the pole corral empty. Here was ample grazing and a spring of good water, so Bob picketed his horse and ate a cold lunch. Finished, he produced paper and pencil and carefully mapped his progress to this point, then repacked and resaddled and continued his course.
He found the trail over which the red-head and his companion had left the park: a wide path now liberally marked with cattle sign. Bob soon discovered that the usual procedure of cutting out some of the bunch at each intersecting lateral had been followed, but refused to be diverted from the main trail. Even after all tracks had vanished, he stuck to his course, bringing up finally in a box canyon from which there was no outlet. He wasted the rest of the afternoon searching for a hidden exit, being forced in the end to camp for the night.
At daybreak he retraced his course to the last turning off point, and followed the dim tracks into an arroyo. After many turnings and twistings, each of which he marked on the map, he came, abruptly as was usual, to another park.
Like the first, this was bare of man or beast; but with ample evidence of recent occupation by both. Here, too, was a crudely built shack and a pole stock corral. A fresh cattle trail led through another draw. Bob judged that he was now in the very heart of the hills.
He had not gone very far when he received the distinct impression that he was being followed. Coming to a bend in the trail, he rounded it and pulled his horse to a stop behind a clump of bowlders. Nobody appeared, and at last he resumed his way.
The uneasy feeling persisted, however, and when at last he heard the sharp report of a rifle somewhere behind him he instinctively ducked. There came a second shot, and then a third, but no accompanying whine of lead.
Bob returned to the bowlders where he had waited, and, dismounting, proceeded on foot to the bend in the trail. Peering cautiously from behind a rock he saw four horsemen approaching at a slow walk. Bob returned to his horse, mounted, and rode rapidly onward.
For some time past he had noticed the absence of lateral passages. The cattle trail extended in a broad, plainly marked, hoof-scarred path which no amount of ingenuity could conceal. The lack of branching ravines permitted Bob no opportunity to escape his pursuers by leaving the main trail. The sides of the gorge were too steep for a horse to negotiate, and all he could do was press onward in the hope of eventually striking an intersecting arroyo.
The path began a gradual descent, twisting with the convolutions of the hills and narrowing until cattle must have traveled through it no more than four abreast. A final turn and Bob involuntarily reined in.
Before him spread still another of these hidden parks, but many times larger than any of those he had previously encountered. Cattle by the hundreds browsed contentedly, and off to the right of the entrance was a long log cabin from the chimney of which smoke issued. Bob wheeled his horse intending to jump him back into the security of the passage he had just left.
He never reached his goal. A rope swished, and its noose circled his body, binding his arms to his sides. Desperately he strained against the hemp, managing to get his fingers on his gun, half drawing it from the holster. Then another rope settled over the first and he was almost jerked from the saddle as the slack was taken up.
“All right, Pete; git his gun,” came the command, and when Bob turned his head to eye the speaker he recognized the short, stocky red-headed man with the dirty calfskin vest. He was standing atop a bowlder at one side of the entrance. Near him, holding an end of one of the ropes, was a long-faced melancholy appearing man. Glancing in the opposite direction, Bob saw two more. One was the stoop-shouldered ex-sheriff, Pete Grubb.
The latter shuffled forward a bit sheepishly at the red-head’s command and jerked the sixgun from Bob’s holster.
“Hello, Mouldy,” said Bob coolly. “Looks like you got mixed up with bad company. Or have you belonged to this outfit right along?”
“Shut yore mouth, you!” ordered the red-head. “Go ahead, Pete; git that rifle too.” Then, when his command had been obeyed, “Give him some slack. Pete, held that hawss of his’n.”
He dropped from sight behind the bowlder, only to reappear mounted on a powerful bay horse. A rifle slanted across the saddle menacingly. “Take the ropes off’n him, and git yore animals. Lee, you’d better set powerful quiet. By cripes, I’m honin’ to fill you with lead to pay you for them irons you put on me.”
“Work yoreself into a rage,” Bob suggested. “It’ll help make you forget the rope necktie that you’re goin’ to wear as sure as I’m alive.”
“You won’t be alive long, fella. If it wasn’t plumb against orders I’d drop you right now.”
“Whose orders?”
“None of yore business! Shut yore trap. All right, you two; don’t be all day gettin’ them hawsses. One of you on each side, and if he makes a break plug him. By cripes, I hope he tries it!”
Pete Grubb walked ahead leading Bob’s horse; the two rope throwers flanked him alertly, and the redhead brought up in the rear. Bob could almost feel the hot intensity of the red-lidded eyes that were focused on a spot between his shoulders.
Several men came from the cabin as they approached, to stand staring curiously at the captive sheriff. They were hard-faced men, of varied sizes and ages; but all wore guns, and all appeared quite ready to use them.
“This all you got, Shab?” asked one of them. Bob mentally noted the name—Shabo It seemed to fit.
“Enough, ain’t it? It’s the second time the danged fool come nosin’ around the hills. It’ll be his last too! Git off yore hawss, Lee.”
Bob dropped to the ground. Shab poked his rifle in its scabbard, dismounted, and came shuffling over to him with that peculiar gait Bob had noticed. He stood before Lee and let his evil eyes roam over him slowly.
“I reckon you know what you’re lettin’ yoreself in for,” Bob reminded him. “I’m the law, and I have three deputies that are hell-on-wheels when they get started. They’ll shore make you hard to find.”
Shab spat. “I don’t scare worth a damn. A fat chance they got to trail you back here. We know you come in alone. Four of the boys picked you up back there in the park where you—where you—”
“Put the cuffs on you. Wrestled you down and put ’em on you, Red. Handled you just like a sack of oats, didn’t I?”
“Dang you!” blazed Shab, and struck him viciously in the face.
Bob reeled from the blow, his head snapping back and tearing open the half-healed wound. Swift as a flash his right leg came up, straightened, and a powerful boot-clad foot caught Shab in the pit of the stomach. As the red-head doubled in agony, Bob leaped forward and his right fist came up in a blow that lifted Shab from his feet and hurled him flat on the ground.
They were on him then, fully a half-dozen of them. Bob flailed about with fist and foot, elbow and knee; but they swarmed over him like bees on a honey comb, kicking, striking, gouging. He could feel the warm blood from his wound trickling down his shoulder and soaking his shirt.
Pete Grubb, little eyes alight with anticipation, danced about the milling knot of men, sixgun balanced and ready. For an instant Bob’s head showed above those of his assailants. Pete brought the barrel of the heavy Colt down on his skull, and Bob wilted like a boiled rag.
When he recovered consciousness he was in complete darkness and bound hand and foot. His neck was throbbing and his head felt as though it had been mashed to a pulp. For some minutes he lay fighting the pain and nausea; then he became aware of the drone of voices, audible above the intolerable buzzing in his ears. Slowly he worked to a sitting position, his back against a wall. He concluded that he was in a leanto built against the cabin. The walls were of logs and the door was closed, probably padlocked.
Now that he had shifted his position the voices came to him less clearly. He lay flat again, moved about until the words became distinguishable. A bit of the chinking between the logs had dropped from its place, leaving an opening about an inch wide and two or three inches long. Bob peered through it, but could see nothing, and judged that the hole was beneath a bunk. The voices were those of several men playing poker, and for a while the conversation was confined strictly to the game.
Presently Bob heard the thud of hoofs outside the cabin, then the door slammed and a voice said, “Hello, gang. How’s chances of sittin’ in?”
It was Dick Markley.
One of the players answered. “Shore. Pull up a box.” For a moment there was silence while the cards were riffled, then: “Got a friend of yores in the leanto. Bob Lee.”
“Bob Lee!”
“Yeah. Come traipsin’ in here followin’ cattle sign. Gloomy and Sam roped him while he was settin’ his horse admirin’ our layout.”
“Did he put up a scrap?”
“I’ll tell a man he did! The son-of-a-gun dang near busted my jaw. Holy bobcats, but he can fight! And Shab was fit to be tied. Lee rubbed it into Shab about wrasslin’ him down and puttin’ irons on him, and Shab hit him square on the jaw. Lee ups and kicks Shab in the belly and socked him so hard on the chin he come near to knockin’ him into Cactus County. Shab took the count—five or six of ’em in fact. We jumped Lee, and Pete Grubb beaned him with a pistol bar’l. I reckon he’s still asleep.”
“What does Shab aim to do with him?”
“Well, he cain’t do nothin’ until we hear from the boss. But if Shab had his ruthers he’d likely stake him out on a ant hill for a day or two, then hang him in a tree, soak him with kerosene, and flip burnin’ matches at him.”
“For Pete’s sake!” came an impatient voice. “Is this a poker game or a sewin’ circle? Who can open this danged pot?”
“I’ll open her,” said somebody, and from then on the conversation reverted to poker.
The thin streak of light beneath the leanto door became dimmer, the surrounding objects less distinguishable. A man, evidently the cook, quit the game and started rattling pots and pans. Some time later, a number of horses circled the lean to, and from the sounds Bob judged that they were being stripped and turned into a corral. Presently the riders clumped by his prison and entered the cabin.
“Well, we hazed our bunch in,” said one of them. “The last of ’em will get in tomorrow. Then we can drive as soon as we get the word.”
“Where’s Shab?” somebody asked.
“He’s comin’. Say, that Texas fella musta busted him cock-eyed. His chin is blue and he shore is hard to get along with.... Hey, Doc, ain’t that chow ready yet?”
“Comin’ right up,” answered the cook.
Another horse passed the leanto, and after awhile its rider entered the cabin. Bob was not left in doubt as to his identity. He had hardly stepped inside the room before his rough voice was berating the players.
“What in time do you hairpins mean by sittin’ around like this? Ain’t there nothin’ to be done in this camp? Put up them cards and git this table outa the way. Dick, yore hawss is standin’ outside. Turn him into the corral. Doc, dish up the grub.”
“Comin’, Shabo How about Lee; you goin’ to feed him?”
Shab uttered a string of oaths. “If I catch you feedin’ that lousy son I’ll bust you wide open! Let him go hungry; he won’t be needin’ food when I git the word to go ahead with him.”
Bob’s lips tightened and he rolled away from the opening. Dick was passing the lean to on his way to the corral and Bob thought he had detected an inclination on Markley’s part to loiter. Bob continued rolling until he brought up against the outer wall. Presently he heard Dick’s returning footsteps, and kicked lightly against the logs. The footsteps halted, then came a cautious voice: “Bob!”
“Right here,” answered Lee softly. “Against the wall.”
“Bob, I cain’t do a danged thing for you now. Shab would drill me if he even thought I was talkin’ to you.”
“There’s a hole in the chinkin’ about opposite where I am now and close to the floor,” Bob told him. “Reckon it’s under a bunk.”
“Keno,” whispered Dick, and moved on.
Time passed. To Bob’s ears came the clink of knife and fork, the rattle of plate and tin cup. He judged that there were at least a dozen men in the cabin. At last the scrape of chair and box announced the conclusion of the meal. Some of the men went outside; others started another game.
“Where’s the lantern?” came the harsh voice of the red-headed man.
“Hangin’ behind the stove,” the cook answered. “I’ll get it for you.”
Bob rolled away from the wall and lay staring at the darkness overhead. A crack of light appeared under the leanto door, somebody fumbled with the lock, then the door swung open and Shab Cannon came in. Holding the lantern high, he peered through the gloom, red-lidded eyes glinting.
“Awake, huh?” he grunted. “Well, pretty soon you’re goin’ to sleep for a long, long while. The jack is shore goin’ to be missin’ from that seven-up combination. By cripes, I’d like to plug you right here and watch you squirm!”
Bob eyed him contemptuously. “You’re yellow enough to do it. Maybe you’d better wrap some more rope around me, though, before you start.”
Shab leaped forward and kicked him in the ribs. “Shut yore trap! I ain’t takin’ no lip from you!”
Bob threw caution to the winds. Doubling up his bound legs, he pivoted on his back and lashed out at Shabo Only Cannon’s quick backward leap prevented the wicked blow from landing. The red-head was furious.
“Why, you dam’ wildcat!” he yelled, and leaped forward again. Bob rolled away to avoid the booted feet, and before Shab could catch up with him Dick Markley ran through the doorway and grabbed his arms.
“Cut that out, Shab! What kind of man do you call yoreself, actin’ that-away?”
“You keep outa this!”
Dick tightened his grip. “Hush up and listen to me! You’re wanted in the cabin. Somebody’s comin’. You hear me?”
Shab growled a profane protest, but Dick remained steadfastly between him and Bob, and the red-head finally slouched from the leanto. Dick followed closely, and the door was slammed. In the hope that Markley had contrived to leave the lock unfastened, Bob got to his feet and hopped over to the door. His hope was in vain; the padlock had been properly replaced.
At the approach of hoofbeats, he hopped back to his place by the wall. Lying down on the ground he placed his ear to the crack. The door opened and voices were raised in greeting.
“Howdy, boys,” greeted the newcomer.
Bob stiffened and pressed his ear closer to the opening. One of the connecting links had been found. The man who had spoken was Kurt Dodd.