CHAPTER IV.
PREPARATIONS FOR PURSUIT.
As the cowboys, who knew him so well, heard the grim words uttered by the doughty ranchman, they realized that he would keep his vow of trailing the cattle thieves until he had, indeed, run them to their lair.
“We’re with you, Sam,” declared the foreman.
“That’s what!” chorused the other cowpunchers, while Deadshot added: “There can’t no bunch of cowlifters say they fooled Deadshot Pete—and got away with it!”
“But as I was a going to say,” continued Sandy, “it strikes me we ought to round up the cattle and get ’em back before we start out.”
“And let those sneaks get away while we’re doing it?” snapped the owner of the Double Cross. “I’d rather getthemthan all the cattle on my ranch!”
“That’s all right, Sam. I know how you feel; that is, I know how I’d feel in your place. But they can’t get away. We’ll trail ’em from Old Mex to Canada—if we have to. A few hours’ start won’t do ’em any good, consequently. So I say, what’s the use of letting the cattle run wild?”
Already the animals which still remained inside the raided corral were beginning to quiet down, the cause of their disturbance having been removed, and the reasoning of the foreman, therefore, was sound.
“Reckon Sandy’s right,” opined Pinky. “The critturs won’t run very far on such a night, and unless there are enough of the devils to follow each bunch, daylight won’t find ’em more’n a mile or so from home.”
Several minutes the ranchman sat pondering, vouchsafing no reply, while his men anxiously awaited any word or movement that would indicate their boss’s intentions.
“That’s horse sense, I suppose,” he exclaimed, at last. “But I hate to let the skulks think I care more for my cattle than for getting the first opportunity to pump them full of lead.”
“But ain’t it more businesslike to get both the cattleandthem?” inquired Sandy.
“It ain’t only the business end of it—it’s the effect it will have on any other thieves who might take a flier at cutting out your critturs, that you’ve got to think of, Sam,” declared Deadshot.
“If you hit the trail without rounding up the cattle, so many cowlifters would strike for the Double Cross there wouldn’t be room for ’em on the home ranch. They’d argue as how you couldn’t chase ’em all and so some of ’em would be able to drive off a bunch of critturs—and for the value of the cattle they’d be willing to risk pursuit. On the other hand, if youfirstround up the cattle andthenthe cowlifters, getting both of them, there won’t a dirty greaser nor a renegade buck dare to lift a finger against the Double Cross outfit.”
Though this argument was crude and expressed in a roundabout way, it’s meaning was perfectly clear.
“There’s no getting away from the fact that your reasoning is sound, Deadshot,” responded Bowser. “So we’ll wait till daylight and then round up the cattle.” Though his reluctance to abandon immediate pursuit was evidenced by his next words, as he added: “But I do hate to let a man take a shot at me—let alone two—without sending at least one shell in return.”
“If that’s all what’s worrying you, cheer up,” rejoined Pinky. “You seem to be forgetting it was you who started the game by taking a pot at the spook, when it was floating around.”
“That’s so. I didn’t think of that,” returned the owner of the Double Cross. And from the tone of his voice, his men understood that the memory had appreciably tempered his regret at being obliged to await the coming of day before picking up the trail.
Quieter and quieter were the cattle in the raided corral becoming, a sign the cowpunchers interpreted to mean that the thieves had taken their departure after the last shot. Consequently when the end of an hour brought no fresh outbreak, the ranchman ordered his men to return to the horse corral and gather together the things they would require when they took up the pursuit.
To their amazement, when they rode into the yard, there was not a light to be seen in either the home or bunkhouse.
“You don’t suppose they’ve run off with the missus, too?” suggested Pinky, in alarm.
But their anxiety as to the safety of Mrs. Bowser was allayed even as the cowboy spoke.
“Who goes there?” demanded a voice, meant to bestern, but in which there was an unmistakable tremor, from the direction of the home front door.
“It’s all right, Sarah. It’s the boys and I,” hastily replied her husband.
“Glory be! I’ve been scared almost out of my wits,” exclaimed the woman.
“Scared?” repeated the men, in surprise.
“Yes. Just after Deadshot had left, I heard some one ride into the yard. Thinking it was either him or one of you, I rushed to the door. ‘Get inside if you don’t want a bullet in your head!’ shouted a voice.”
“The fiend!” ejaculated the ranchman. “Did he shoot at you?” he asked, anxiously.
“No. I didn’t give him the chance. When I found it wasn’t any of you, I ducked down, slamming the door and then I put the lights out.”
“But what became of the lights in the bunkhouse?” inquired Sandy.
“I put them out, too,” returned Mrs. Bowser. “You see, after I got over the first surprise and scare, my nerve came back. I grabbed one of Sam’s guns, crept across the yard, extinguished the lamps and then took up my stand in the doorway, determined to take a shot at any one else who came along.”
“Thank goodness, you had the foresight to speak before shooting,” exclaimed her husband. “It was the last thing I ever thought of your being on guard.”
“Oh, I may be a ‘’fraid cat,’ but I’m no fool,” asserted the woman.
“That’s what you’re not, Sarah.”
“And there ain’t many other women with the nerve to stand watch in the dark after they’ve been threatened,” chimed in Sandy, in evident admiration of the bravery displayed by the wife of the ranch owner.
During the conversation, the men had dismounted and Pinky had relighted the lamps in the bunkhouse, which they all entered, leaving their ponies standing, ready saddled in case of emergency, by the door.
In the light of the lamps, Mrs. Bowser was able to notice for the first time that her husband was hatless, while the others all had their sombreros on.
“How’d you lose your hat, Sam?” she queried.
“Shot off,” replied the ranch owner, laconically. And then, in response to her eager inquiries, he told her all that had transpired in the cattle corral.
“Land sakes! How many of them do you suppose there were?” she asked, as the narration of the exciting incidents of the stampede, the disappearance of the mysterious spectre and the shooting was concluded.
“There must have been four or five, at least, judging from the number of openings there were in the fence,” answered Pinky, eager to take part in the conversation.
But his remark was ignored in the attention given to Deadshot.
“How many did you see riding through the yard, Mrs. Bowser?” he asked.
“Only one.”
“Which means the gang has split up,” declared Sandy.
“Oh, you can’t tell anything by that,” asserted the ranchman. “The fellow may have been cutting through to join the rest of his bunch. Just stow your saddlebags with grub, shells and cartridges, then look to your guns. We must be off with the first break of day.”
In obedience, the cowpunchers set about making their preparations for the pursuit, while the ranchman and his wife crossed the yard to their home.
With the first flush of light in the East, the Double Cross outfit rode forth to gather the strayed cattle, the majority of which they found, as Pinky had prophesied, within a few miles of the home-ranch.
Driving them back to the corral as quickly as possible, the men took stock and found they had recovered all but about fifty.
“That’s probably all the ‘lifters’ thought they could handle and make their getaway,” exclaimed Sandy.
“More likely it means there weren’t so many of the raiders as we think,” rejoined his boss. “Come on, now. We’ll pick up the trail of this bunch of fifty and see where that brings us.”
And with the promise to his wife that he would have a couple of the cowboys from Henry Hawks’ ranch come over to protect her and the cattle, the owner of the Double Cross dashed away to pick up the trail of the Midnight Raider, followed by his cowpunchers.