THE HALF MOON Slash lay an easy ride south from Duarf, insofar as the headquarters buildings were concerned. Its boundaries, which Jeb Bowen had laid out, first in his mind’s eyes after days of riding, then by claim and appropriation, extended widely. There was room here to spread out, and he had made the most of the opportunity.
Jeb returned as night came down. Though tired and a little disgruntled, still he felt it had been a good day. He half resented Montana’s sending him back, when the town held such unlooked-for attractions. But Bill Abbott was his friend, and while Bowen did not share his apprehensions, he could do no less than keep an eye on things. Meanwhile, he rode as a man who dreams.
Nothing untoward had occurred during his absence. And his dream’s name was Katie O’Day. It was not every day that a man opened his eyes to look into the face of an angel.
It required a few moments to come awake, for the night was dark, and there was confusion all about him in the suddenly unfamiliar bunkhouse. Sleepy men were trying to rouse, to dress and to run, all at the same time. Bowen tugged on his boots; then, hatless and coatless, pulling at his belt, he ran with them out into the night.
He was awake by then, brutally jerked back to reality from a dreamland of his own making. He cursed bitterly, most of his anger directed at himself. After all, Montana had warned him, so there was no excuse for not having foreseen what was happening and posting guards against surprise. Some of his bitterness was against the unseen enemy for striking in such a fashion.
He reached the barn and threw a saddle on a horse, tugged the cinch with a swift hard jerk, and was up and riding with the others. There was confusion from among a tangle of hills a mile away—a lot of unnecessary noise. He wondered why there should be so much.
His cattle were off there—a couple of thousand head. For the past few days they had been busy combing the coulees, searching the high ground, rounding up the bunch, bringing them in. He’d taken off for town only after that had been accomplished. Two cowboys had been holding the gathered herd in a natural draw, with only a single exit.
On the morrow he had planned to begin branding the calves, ear-marking them and doing all the other things which could drive a herd to the ultimate in frenzy. The beef herd would be cut apart from the rest, held on prime pasture before being driven to market.
The prospect was rich in potential. Even in the spring, he’d had no thought or hope of such a thing as the railroad, and the drive to market was long and weary. Summer had brought the promise, even the miracle of the railroad. The drive now would be short and easy. Even if he didn’t take advantage of the offers made him, the coming of the iron horse was a boon.
The raiders had struck—not silently, as might have been expected, but noisily. Now his herd was being driven off.
It was impossible, of course, to rouse a bedded herd of cattle in the middle of the night and get them on the move without some noise and confusion. It was that which nagged at the fringes of Bowen’s mind. If he had been trying to get away with a herd under such circumstances, he’d have been at pains to do so as quietly as possible. Either these rustlers were bunglers, or they were yelling and shooting with a deliberate disregard for whoever might hear.
Only it didn’t have the mark of bunglers or tender-feet. The gate stood wide, and the cattle, so laboriously rounded up, were spilling through the gap, going fast, a dark blur like spreading ink. A knot of riders were hustling them along.
The crew of Half Moon Slash were bunched, riding hard. Bowen spoke quietly, but his voice carried to each man.
“Keep together, boys. When we get there, hit them hard—and make your shots count!”
He was tensing for the shock when the Kid’s voice cut in, a shrill yelp of dismay. He was a youngster who’d asked for a job that summer, and Bowen had signed him on. The Kid had proven out. Only in times of stress his voice went high.
“Behind us,” he shrilled. “Fire! The buildings!”
Everyone looked, and rage clogged their throats, twisted in their minds. Indecisively they pulled to a stop, the horses pawing, their formation ragged. The Kid was right. The barn flared like a torch, crimson against the backdrop of the night. The spreading glow showed the other buildings, crouching like hens under the swoop of a hawk.
Caught on the horns of a dilemma, Bowen hesitated only an instant, then swung back.
“Come on,” he choked, and led the way.
This was devil’s work. As soon as their backs had been turned, others of the outlaw bunch had set fire to the barn. The reason for the excessive noise had been to lure them away.
From the way the barn was burning, it was apparent that coal oil must have been splashed copiously.
A raid was understandable, but this was something else, and the planning was diabolical. While they fought the fire, the rustlers could proceed, unhampered.
The buildings had to come first, to be saved if possible. It was a hard choice, but urgent. Bowen unlimbered his gun. The ones who had set the fire might be waiting to snipe from the darkness.
But there was no sign of them, nor had they set fire to more than the barn. It was a tower of flame.
Luckily, there was little wind. They managed to save the other buildings, but it was a hard-fought battle, and time-consuming.
“We’ll go after the cattle,” Bowen said wearily, but despair choked in his throat. Montana had sent him back with a warning, and he’d failed. Now, if the rustlers got away with the herd—
Already the outlaw crew had a long start, and they were making the most of it. With the reason for noise past, they moved in efficient silence. The heavy darkness which precedes the dawn hampered Bowen’s crew; their eyes were stinging from the smoke and red glare against which they had struggled. It took a while to discover which way the herd had gone.
Once they were sure, they rode fast, but not for long. The dawn was coming at last, lighting the world so that men on horses stood out in stark silhouette. The cattle had been driven through a long canyon, a quarter of a mile across. Evergreens so darkly tinted as to give their name to the mountains in the distance, crowded at either side. Occasional cottonwoods had ventured beyond them.
From the frowning line of evergreens, a sudden hail of bullets spattered.
The Kid got it first. His voice sounded in a single high-pitched cry, and one hand lifted as if in farewell. He sagged and slid and pitched from the saddle.
There was nothing to do but dismount and seek cover, and the taste of frustration was bitter. The herd was ahead—a long way ahead, the distance increasing with each dragging minute. While the cattle were pushed on, the gunmen pinned them down, holding them in a trap.
One thought stood out amid the bleakness of anger. Jeb Bowen shook his head.
There’s a damn sight more to this than just cattle-stealing, he thought. I sure got you into something this time, Montana. Maybe you have some notion of what, but I don’t. I only hope you ain’t as slow a learner!