Raking the chestnut hard, Lockett surged alongside the racing herd. If he could draw abreast the leaders, he might be able to turn them into the break in the arroyo wall and up onto the flat. The rest of the steers would follow. Pistol ready, he veered the gelding toward the big wall-eyed dun that was slightly ahead of the others. Pointing the weapon down, he triggered two quick shots. The blast, so near the straining animal, caused him to swerve against the steer at his flank. The opening in the bank of the wash lay a dozen strides farther on. Without hesitation the rangy old dun headed into it, buck-jumped his way through the low brush, and clambered out onto the level ground above. The remainder of the herd, in a crowding, heaving mass of noise and color, poured in behind him.
Lockett holstered his gun and pulled to a halt a short distance away. When the last steer had made it to the higher ground, he rode up onto the flat and, putting the chestnut to a good lope, set out after the cattle. They would not run for long in the closing darkness; it was immaterial anyway since they were bearing west.
A half hour later he caught up with the steers. They had stopped in a swale deep in the pocket of a cluster of low hills. Having run themselves out, they were now ready to settle down for the night. Lockett glanced over his shoulder. It would have been better if he could have put more distance between the herd and the arroyo where the outlaws had corralled them. He had what could hardly be called a generous lead should they decide to follow and make an effort to recover the herd.
He swung his eyes then to the west, wondering just where and how far away Bern Pogue’s ranch was. He had been thrown off course by the outlaws and now had no idea whether he was far south or well north of the spread. It would be foolish, of course, to double back to the arroyo where the raid had occurred and head out from there. That would only be a waste of time. He could do nothing but continue on westward, he decided, and rode on in close to the herd. Some of the steers had already bedded down but the majority was still on their feet, heads low and swinging back and forth, tails whipping nervously. They had gone all that day without water and their natural thirst had been further heightened by two short, if fast, stampedes; he could expect to find them hard to handle, but it had to be done.
Working the chestnut into the herd, he began to swing his folded rope as a whip, got several of the steers into motion again. Despite the bright moonlight that was now flooding the land, they were reluctant to move, but he kept at them, fighting the stubborn ones that held back, hurrying to cut off the would-be strays that spurted from the main body in the hope of escaping into a brushy draw. Near exhaustion, sweat blanketing his body despite the coolness that had closed in, Dade continued the drive for a good hour and then, when they dropped into a deep sink, waterless but with a good stand of grass, he let the herd come to a halt.
By daylight he was up and had the cattle on the trail once again, following the same westward course. As he rode, he maintained a watch to the east. Late in the morning such care paid off. Four riders appeared in the distance, coming abreast over the tracks left by the herd. At once Dade began to urge the cattle to a faster gait.
Strangely the riders did not close in, simply maintained their position, neither gaining nor losing ground. And then abruptly, a short time later, they disappeared. Lockett puzzled over their behavior. He was certain they were the remaining members of the gang that had jumped him and taken the herd, yet they made no effort to recover the steers, or seek revenge for their two lost partners. He was at a loss as to what it was all about.
The answer came minutes later. The herd, crossing a rolling plateau sparsely covered with bunchgrass, snakeweed, and clumps of prickly-pear cactus, topped out the last rise and started down a long slope into a wide, green valley. A scatter of ranch buildings lay at its upper end, and strung out for miles below were cattle, bunched and ready for the drive to the shipping point. Riders drifted slowly about the fringes of the herd, keeping it closely knit.
Lockett grinned bleakly, brushed at his sweaty face. He had reached Pogue’s. The outlaws had backed off, fearing to attack since gunshots would have been heard by the men working the cattle. He’d made it.
Riding to the front of the herd, Dade hazed the old dun leader into the general direction of the house. He supposed he could drive the cattle directly downgrade and turn them over to Pogue’s cowhands, but it seemed best to report in to the rancher himself first. As he came off the slope and quartered into the yard, two cowpunchers rode out to meet him, their dusty faces registering surprise and wonder when they drew near.
“Steers from the Rakers,” Dade said, waving at the herd now crowding up to one of the watering ponds. “Fifty head. Be obliged if you’ll count them.”
One of the riders, a slim, elderly man wearing scarred leather chaps and a hat that had lost half its brim, bobbed. “Sure thing, mister. You have yourself a spot of trouble?”
“Some,” Lockett admitted. “Where’ll I find Pogue?”
The cowpuncher pointed to a small, whitewashed cabin set a short distance from the main house. “That there’s his office. Reckon it’s where he’ll be.”
Dade nodded his thanks, rode across the hardpan, and halted at the rack fronting the rancher’s business quarters. Dismounting, he stood for a minute looking off down the valley while the ache in his relieved muscles ebbed, and, then turning, strode to the entrance of Pogue’s office, noting only casually the strained features of several women peering at him from nearby windows. The rancher was sitting at a roll-top desk. Several piles of coins, mostly gold, were stacked before him along with a considerable amount of paper money. Evidently he was paying off some of his help and preparing for the trail drive. He glanced up as Dade entered, drew back sharply, his small, dark eyes registering shock.
“Who the hell are …?”
“Name’s Lockett,” Dade answered the half-finished question. “Drove in those fifty steers you bought from the Rakers.”
Pogue, a gray, nervous sort of man, ran a hand over his balding head, frowned. Only then did Lockett realize that it was his appearance, blood-crusted, dusty, and haggard, that was creating a stir. “Sorry I ain’t much to look at,” he said. “Never had a chance to clean myself up. Be obliged if you’ll ask my pardon to your womenfolk. Reckon I gave them quite a start.”
The rancher nodded. “Rustlers?”
“Good a name as any for them,” Dade replied, and half turned as the old cowpuncher with the ragged hat clomped noisily into the office. He raked Lockett again with a curious look, shifted his attention to Pogue.
“Fifty head’s what he brung, boss. All prime stuff. You want me to …?”
“Deal’s off,” the rancher said in a low voice. “I ain’t buying them.”
Lockett drew himself up stiffly. The cowpuncher stared, pushed his hat to the back of his head. “Ain’t buying? I remember you saying …”
“Forget it, Joe. Deal’s off, like I said.”
Dade stepped closer to the desk. Anger was sweeping through him in a hot wave. “Why?”
“Got my reasons,” Pogue said doggedly.
“Well, that ain’t no reason far as I’m concerned,” Lockett snarled. “You made a bargain with the Rakers. The beef’s here … in time and in good shape. I’m holding you to your word.”
Bern Pogue squirmed in his chair. “It ain’t that I wouldn’t like to. It’s only, well, I mean …”
Dade’s eyes narrowed. “What you mean is that somebody told you not to buy them, that it?”
“Not saying that,” the rancher protested, brushing at the sweat gathering on his forehead. “It’s only … I …”
“Only that somebody put a bug in your ear about the Rakers, and sold you on the idea of helping drive them out!” Lockett’s voice had risen to a harsh shout.
“Now hold on here. I …”
“It’s you that’d best hold on, mister,” Dade snapped. Jerking out his pistol, he dug the bill of sale for the cattle from a shirt pocket with his free hand, threw it onto the desk in front of Pogue. “There’s your paper. Now count me out five hundred dollars.” The elderly cowpuncher began to ease toward the door. Lockett made a quick gesture to him. “Far enough. Get yourself back here alongside your boss. I don’t want to have to shoot you. Start counting, Pogue.”
The rancher hesitated briefly, shrugged, and then began to form stacks of double-eagles. When he had set out the necessary number of gold coins, he leaned back, folded his arms. A slyness covered his features. “There’s five hundred dollars. I expect you know I could have you jugged for a hold-up.”
Dade smile tightly. “Maybe, but you’ve got the steers and a bill of sale … and one of your hired hands is a witness to what’s happening. He knows you agreed to a deal with the Rakers, too.” Pogue said nothing, only watched as Dade gathered up the coins, dropped them into a leather poke, and thrust it inside his shirt. He centered his attention on the rancher. “Reckon you know you’re getting more’n your money’s worth in this. The steers are worth half again what you’ve paid for them, but the Rakers ain’t bellyaching about it. You and the rest of the big ranchers around here’ve got them by the short hair and they’re having to do the best they can.”
“No fault of mine.”
“Nobody’s saying it is and I guess it’s only human nature for some folks to take advantage of others when they get the chance. Now, am I going to have trouble riding out of here?”
Bern Pogue glanced at Joe, pursed his lips.
“You can make it hard or you can make it easy,” Lockett continued. “Whichever, you’d best know here and now I’ll still wind up leaving and you’ll be doing some burying.”
The rancher shrugged. “Ain’t nobody going to bother you,” he said.
The hard set to Dade Lockett’s jaw relented slightly. “I’m a mite tired so I’m obliged to you for that much,” he said, and turned for the door.