BOB rode to Redrock on the day following his conversation with Dick. He looked up Grubb’s deputy and found him a lazy, shifty-eyed fellow eminently fitted by nature to hang over a bar or shoot pool. Bob determined to replace him at the earliest possible moment. The third day saw him back in Lariat, where he found Ace yawning over a game of solitaire. The tall cowboy expressed such an earnest desire to join Deuce at the Tomlinson spread that Bob gave him permission to go.
“By the way,” he asked casually, “have you seen anything of Dick?”
“Nope, and I don’t care if I never do. Bob, that lad’s comin’ to a bad end. Some men are born to be hung, and I reckon Dick’s one of them.”
“Some men are born strong and some weak. Generally the weak ones are the most likable. Dick is one of them. If it hadn’t been for Duke Haslam Dick would still be the happy-go-lucky cowboy we used to know.”
“Well, mebbe you’re right; but I always figgered that when a fella takes the crooked path he does it with his eyes open and deserves what he gets.”
“You speak the way you do because you happen to have been born strong instead of weak. Also you haven’t been as close to Dick as I have. There isn’t a more courageous lad on the range. He dragged me out of an arroyo brimmin’ with flood water after a chunk of driftwood had knocked me unconscious. When he jumped in there didn’t appear to be a Chinaman’s chance for either of us, but he jumped in just the same. A fella doesn’t forget things like that in a hurry, Ace.”
Ace nodded sober agreement. “Reckon it’s the same with me and Deuce.... Well, I’ll be ramblin’. Didn’t find out anything about that fella Vandervort, did you?”
“Not a thing; but I had to be right cautious.”
“Uh-huh. Ask Pop Purvis. If anybody around here knows it’ll be him.”
Bob followed the suggestion within the hour. Pop was seated, as usual, on the veranda of the hotel. Bob dropped into a chair beside him, and after a few interchanges of commonplaces asked him if he had seen Dick lately.
“The joker? Nope, I ain’t. Bob, that fella got me guessin’. If he’s workin’ for you, you shore are playin’ a slick game; if he ain’t, I’d look out for him.”
“Enright or Trumbauer been in town?”
“Both of ’em. That there Dutch is a funny fella, ain’t he?”
“Odd name—Trumbauer.”
“I’ve heard odder ones. There was old man Heffle—Heffledingle. I always have to take two whacks at that name to say it. Good old fella, too.”
“I heard a strange one the other day. Vanderbart, or somethin’ like that.”
“Vanderbart? Reckon you mean Vandervort. He’s from Holland—or his folks are. Owns the Flyin’ V across the line in Texas. Don’t know him personal, but I’ve heard of him.”
Bob talked awhile longer, then got up and went to the office. “So Vandervort is over the line in Texas,” he mused. “That means any stuff they deliver to him must go through the Bottle Neck. And I’ll bet a good horse against a Mex peso they’ll try to deliver some. But they’ll have to handle them like hot pennies; cain’t take the chance of holdin’ any in the hills while worked-over brands heal. Would they drive with the original brands on them? Answer: they would, if they were Tumblin’ T’s. Why? Because the Tumblin’ T is not yet registered in the brand books of this state.”
He sat there for a long time following this train of thought, and when at last the growing dusk warned him that the supper hour was near, he had a pretty clear idea of how the enemy would go about gathering and driving Vandervort’s order. He rode immediately to the Tumbling T. Ace and Deuce had gone out on range patrol, but Tomlinson and his daughter were in the living room.
“Mr. Tomlinson,” he said after greetings had been exchanged, “I sort of figured some things out while I was in the office today. Pop Purvis identified this man Vandervort for me, and I believe I see just how they aim to fill that order of his, you to supply the cows.” He went on to explain.
“Sounds reasonable,” agreed Tomlinson. “What do you aim to do?”
“Furnish the rope to hang them. To begin with, when the boys come in tomorrow send them to town. I’ll ride over to the other side of the valley and round up Joe. We’ll let them while away a few days in McGarvey’s Pool Parlour. You can tell yore crew to be kind of careless about checkin’ up the cattle near that spring which is so close to the Kady.”
“How will you know when they’ve rustled the stock? They’re apt to slip a bunch out on us before we can stop them.”
“We’ll know,” said Bob cryptically, and got up to go.
June walked with him as far as the gallery.
“Have you seen Dick lately?” he asked her.
“Not since a few nights ago. He rode out to tell me of the proposition you made him. Bob, it was splendid of you.”
“I thought I’d sold him on the idea; I’ve been wonderin’ what became of him.”
For a short space June stood beside him pensively gazing into the shadows. Her conversation with Dick had been so intimate that she shrank from relating it to Bob. “I don’t know where he went,” she said at last.
“I see. Well, good-night, Miss June.”
“Good-night, Bob.” She stood watching as he swung into the saddle and vanished into the darkness.
Just a week after this conversation, the north-bound stage, which usually reached Lariat by sundown, pulled in late. Instead of continuing to the stage station, the driver pulled up at the courthouse and Bob, who had just finished his supper, heard his shouted inquiry as to the whereabouts of the sheriff. Bob immediately presented himself.
“What do you want?”
“Holdup,” announced the driver briefly. “Just this side of Redrock. Three masked men. They shot my messenger, took the strong box, and robbed the passengers. I turned back to Redrock with the messenger, then came on through.”
“What time did it happen?”
“This mornin’ around ten.”
“Get a description of the men?”
“They were masked, but one was short and chunky and wore a calfskin vest. Another was tall. Couldn’t see nothin’ much but his eyes. They were gray—and mean. He’s the jasper that shot Simmons. The third was medium height, dark hair—”
“Where did they hold you up and which way did they go?”
“At the four corners this side of Redrock. They was ridin’ the same direction as we were, with their backs to us. As we overtook them, two pulled off to one side of the road and the third one to the other side. We didn’t think a thing of it, but as we were passin’, one of them turned his head and Simmons seen he had a mask on. He raised his shotgun and the fell a plugged him. One covered me and the other two got down the strong box and lined up the passengers. They rode east.”
“I’ll round up my deputies and start after them.”
Bob thought the thing over as he hurried toward the Pool Parlour where the boys had gone after supper. The hour for action had struck; this holdup was the bait which was intended to draw him from Lariat. The short chunky man was Shab Cannon; the tall lean one, Cole Bradshaw. There was no doubt in Bob’s mind as to the identity of the third. It was Dick Markley.
He found his three deputies, curtly summoned them, and spent a precious half hour in purchasing supplies and making up blanket rolls. They rode out of Lariat at a brisk canter, Duke Haslam forming one of the idle crowd which witnessed their hurried departure.
A mile or so outside of town Bob waved farewell, and, in accordance with the prearranged plan, swung across the range. The three deputies continued their way with instructions to attempt to run down the stage bandits. Joe was to ride back later and report.
At the Tumbling T Bob assembled the crew and ordered them to saddle up. He talked the thing over briefly with June, Tomlinson, and the Tumbling T foreman. “We’ll cut across the pass above the Kady and ride to the Bottle Neck. We’ve plenty of time. I figure they won’t start the drive until tomorrow mornin’, aimin’ to drive through the Neck and bed down in the valley tomorrow night. We’ll be there when they come through. Let’s ride.”
He gave June no opportunity to speak with him alone, reluctant to reveal the identity of the third man in the holdup. By the bleak look in her eyes he judged that she had guessed the truth, and the knowledge hurt him.
Midnight found the little posse climbing the grade to the pass; by dawn they had reached the valley on the far side of the hills. Here they spent an hour in eating breakfast and resting their horses. Late in the afternoon they halted at the mouth of the Bottle Neck, a cautious scout by Bob having convinced him that the pass was unguarded.
The foreman and three of his men were dispatched across the mouth of the gap with instructions to find shelter among the rocks with which the place was littered. Bob remained on the near side with the remaining two cowboys. Thus the drive, after emerging from the Bottle Neck, would be forced to pass between the two forces.
Time passed. The sun disappeared and twilight fell swiftly. Bob’s men lounged on the ground, smoking and talking. Bob sat near them, outwardly placid, inwardly restless and apprehensive. The gray of twilight was succeeded by the mauve of approaching darkness; objects became indistinct, then gradually assumed new ghostlike form as the moon came up. With a word to his men, Bob tightened the cinches and, mounting, rode into the Bottle Neck.
On the far side of the passage he halter in the shadow of some rocks and sat listening. At first he could hear nothing but the usual small noises of the night, then came the low muffled thud of hoofs, the faint occasional bawl of a complaining steer. He jerked erect in the saddle and wheeled his horse. The drive was approaching!
The rustlers were behind schedule, and the darkness necessitated a change in plan. Joining the group on the far side of the Neck, Bob tersely instructed them in the part they were to play, then, returning to his two men, he repeated the instructions for their benefit. Tense with expectancy they climbed into their saddles and sat waiting in the shadows.
The noise of the moving cattle reached them, then, looming ghostlike in the moonlight, the vanguard rode out of the pass. Bob counted six men at the head of the column. Once in the open, four of the six left their places, two taking stations on each side of the herd. Here they sat watching as the cattle shuffled by. They were swing riders, and Bob presently saw one of the two on his side turn his horse and ride on the flank of the cattle, leaving his companion to care for the rear half of the herd.
With a whispered word to his companions, Bob reined his horse and, hoofbeats drowned by the noise of the cattle, circled and cut to the edge of the herd behind the first swing man. At the sound of horse’s hoofs behind him the rustler reined in and turned in his saddle.
“Whadda you want?” he called, mistaking Bob for one of his own men.
Bob raised his arm in an indefinite gesture and drew up beside him. Not until then did the other recognize him.
“Pull off to one side,” ordered Bob, his sixgun nudging the other’s ribs. “And don’t make any mistakes. Quick!”
The fellow stared for a moment, then with a curse of astonishment, obediently reined away from the drive. Back among the boulders Bob disarmed him, and, making him dismount, bound and gagged him. The horse was securely tied to a stunted pine.
Without a flank rider to keep them in formation the animals were beginning to leave the column. Bob struck diagonally for the head of the herd, knowing that his two Texans would take care of the other swing man on his side. If the plan was working according to schedule, the four Tumbling T cowboys on the opposite side could be depended upon to seize the flankers there. The two rustlers at the point must be captured before the drag passed through the Bottle Neck.
Bob did not attempt a cautious approach. Cutting swiftly around the edge of the lead steers he called, “Come here!” to one of the men. The fellow reined about and trotted his horse toward Bob.
“What’s the matter with you dudes?” the rustler shouted. “The danged critters are scatterin’ all over the flat.”
Bob jumped his horse forward and as the other pulled up in surprise the threatening sixgun covered him.
“Come along, and not a peep out of you.”
For a brief moment the fellow hesitated; then he raised his voice in a warning shout and reached for his gun. Bob jumped his horse forward again and made two desperate swipes with his gun. The first knocked the other’s weapon from his hand; the second caught him on the side of the head and sent him spinning from the saddle. This man, too, was secured and dragged behind the rocks.
By this time the herd was disintegrating, and since he felt reasonably sure that the second point man had been captured by the boys on the far side of the herd, Bob returned to the place where he had left his own men. He found them cheerfully smoking, the second swing rider lying on the ground· neatly bound.
“I’m goin’ to work in behind the drag,” Bob told them. “Two of the boys on the other side will do the same. You watch this end, and don’t let anybody through.”
They nodded and ground their cigarettes in the dust. Bob started threading among the rocks, keeping to the shadows and as close to the wall of the Neck as was possible. Presently he heard voices and reined in, listening.
“What’s wrong with them flank men! They’ve let the whole danged herd get away from them!” The angry speaker was Kurt Dodd.
A quavering voice answered, pitched high to carry above the noise of the traveling cattle. “It’s a trick, I betcha! That Lee jigger has coppered our bet. Kurt, I told you he would.”
“You’re loco. Lee’s at Redrock. Some lousy son has gone to sleep.”
“I tell you it’s a trick! Kurt, I’m goin’ back.”
“You’re stayin’ right here!” thundered Dodd. “By cripes, if it’s a trick you take yore chances with the rest of us.”
“I won’t! I tell you I’m goin’ back! We was crazy to try this right after what happened. I told you we was. I’m goin’—”
The sullen boom of a sixgun interrupted him. Bob heard a shriek of agony, short, horrible in its significance.
“Served the damned rat right,” came another voice. “He was all primed to squeal. Come on, Kurt; let’s see what’s wrong up front.”
Bob heard the quickened thud of hoofs, caught a brief glance of a half-dozen men riding through the gap. He spurred quickly in the opposite direction, dragging his rifle from its sheath at the same time. Half way through the pass he halted and reined about. The moon, directly above, lighted the passage dimly, but the dust made it impossible to distinguish friend from foe.
The whiplike crack of a rifle sounded to his right, followed by a volley of revolver shots and a chorus of hoarse yells. Another rifle spat—a third—a fourth; then a veritable crash of furious gun fire echoed the length of the pass.
Hoofs thundered, and four men came tearing along the moonlit strip headed back toward the safety of the hills. Bob threw his rifle to his shoulder and fired. A horse stumbled and fell. Rifles cracked on the opposite side, and a rider pitched from the saddle. The remaining two continued their headlong flight. One lay stretched along his horse’s neck; the other rode upright, huge, defiant, unafraid.
Again Bob fired and missed; the two rifles blazed from the far side of the pass and also missed; then the two riders were directly between them and neither party dared fire for fear of hitting the other.
Slipping the rifle back into its boot, Bob spurred out into the pass, angling for a point some distance ahead of the two men. Swift to take the cue, a horseman flashed from the shadows across the pass.
Despite their speed, both pursuers were forced to fall in behind the fleeing rustlers; but Bob’s companion, who still carried his rifle, halted his horse and raised the weapon. He sighted for a moment, then pulled the trigger, and one of the horses fell in a heap, shot through and through. The rider pitched headlong and lay still. Bob raced after the remaining outlaw, who still rode stiffly erect, defiantly presenting a broad back to his pursuer.
Unexpectedly the rustler’s horse slipped, recovered its balance, tried gamely to regain its stride; but the animal limped, and the distance between pursued and pursuer decreased rapidly. Bob was a bare fifty feet behind when the other reined in and wheeled his horse. The moonlight shone full on the heavy, bearded face, and Bob recognized Kurt Dodd. Instantly he slid his own mount to a stop, and for a brief moment the two men gazed at each other less than twenty feet apart.
Dodd’s face was granite hard, his eyes glittered like black beads. Both fired at the same time, guns whipping up and bellowing in unison. Bob heard the angry whine of a slug, and a lock of his hair moved as though disturbed by a puff of wind. He fired again.
Dodd jerked almost imperceptibly, swayed, reached for the saddle horn with his left hand. Bob, tense thumb holding back the hammer of his gun, watched while the outlaw tried vainly to raise his six-shooter for another shot. The will was strong, but strength had gone from the brawny arm. The hammer slipped from beneath Kurt’s thumb and the bullet struck a stone and whined away into the moonlight. Then Dodd’s bearded head drooped, his figure went slack, and he slipped inertly from the saddle to lay in a grotesque position, one foot caught in the stirrup.
Bob dismounted and, releasing the foot, stretched Dodd out on the ground. He had a canteen of water on his saddle and forced some of it between the stricken man’s lips. Another rider came up at a run, but his arm was in the air and Bob finally recognized the foreman of Tomlinson’s men.
“Got him, huh?” the Texan remarked as he swung from the saddle. “I stopped to tie up the fella I ditched.” He bent over and examined Dodd. “Got him through the chest. Well, he won’t rustle no more cows.”
Dodd opened his eyes and looked up at them. Bob knelt beside him.
“Kurt, you’re goin’ to cash,” he said quietly. “Better go out clean. I got a witness here. Tell the truth: who was behind the shootin’ of John Rutherford?”
Kurt gazed steadily up at him, and his eyes, which had dulled, blazed once more. He struggled to speak, and a little bloody froth appeared on his lips. The words came slowly, painfully.
“You go—to hell!”
The big form stiffened, the eyes glazed. Kurt Dodd was dead.
Tomlinson’s foreman sighed. “Some folks are awful contrary.... Well, let’s mosey back and see if they’s any more chores to be done.”
On the way back they met another rider. He proved to be the one who had accompanied the foreman to the middle of the pass. “All over,” he told them laconically. “The boys at the mouth downed two, there’s two more cussin’ their luck in the middle of the Neck, and if you fellas got yores, that accounts for them all.” He flexed his muscles and added cheerfully, “I’d say a nice time was had by all.”
In the middle of the gap they found the body of Pete Grubb. He had been shot while attempting to flee. Tomlinson’s foreman stirred him with the toe of a boot, contemptuously.
“He was just what that fella called him: a rat. Just a common, ord’nary, sneakin’ little rat. And Dodd—well, I reckon you could call him a lion and not miss it by much.”