* * * * *The Hog Back loomed up like a condensation of the surrounding night, its huge bulk magnified and made soft in its rugged outlines. A restless wind scurried like a panic-stricken animal, sighing through the brush and whispering through the rocks. At intervals the silence was so intense that the scraping of a twig, yards away, could be plainly heard; and at other times the bellow of a steer would have been lost in a few rods.Something moved across the plain, slowly and carefully as if feeling its way, and toiled up the precarious trail, rolling pebbles clattering down; in the noise of their fall was lost the soft thudding that marked the course of the moving smudge. The lightning in the western sky flashed nearer and gave brief illumination of the scene. Four men rode single file up the dark trail, silent, intent, wary, the leader picking his way as though he knew it well; in reply to a low-voiced question from his nearest companion, he stretched out an abnormally long arm in a sharp gesture. He did not like to have his ability doubted.Reaching the top, the procession strung along and finally dipped into a ravine, following the steeply slanting water-course until stopped by a lariat stretched across the way. Tossing aside the rope, the leader led the force onto the walled-in pasture where each man went swiftly to work without instructions. The fire at the leader's feet, fanned by the high wind, leaped from him through the sun-cured bunches of grass in a rapidly widening circle, the heavy smoke rolling down upon the restless cattle in pungent clouds, sparks streaming through them. Every cow on the pasture was on its feet, pawing and snorting with fear at this most dreaded of all enemies. While they stood, seemingly hypnotized for a moment by the low flames, the darkness to the east of them was streaked with spurts of fire and the cracks of revolvers on their flank sent them thundering toward the river. The confusion of the stampede was indescribable as the front ranks, sensing the edge of the cliff, tried in vain to check itself and hold back against the press of the avalanche of terror-stricken animals behind. The change was magical—one moment a frenzied mass of struggling cows lighted grotesquely by the burning grass, and then only the edge of the cliff and the swishing grayness of the river below. The wind was blowing the flames toward the edge of the cliff and they would die from lack of material upon which to feed, though the four cared little about that. Their horses stumbled with them along the ravine, leaving behind a blackened plain across which sparks were driven by each gust of wind, to glow brilliantly and die. Below, once more wrapped in impenetrable darkness, swished the Black Jack, cold, cruel, deep, and fugitive, its scurrying, frightened cross currents whispering mysteriously as they discussed the tragedy. Suddenly the rain deluged everything as if wrathful at the pitiable slaughter and eager to wash out the stain of it.* * * * *In the middle of the forenoon of the following day Slow Jack loomed up in the fog of the driving rain and the vapors arising from the earth and slid from his saddle in front of the ranch house, his hideous yellow slicker shining as though polished. Buck opened the door and instinctively stepped back to avoid the wet gust that assailed him. "There 's a lot o' cows floating in the backwater o' th' Jack where th' creek empties in—I roped one an' drug it ashore. Just plain drowned, I reckon. There was signs of itch, too," Slow Jack reported.Buck hastened into his storm clothes, got Monroe from the corral, and started through the storm to see for himself. When he reached the river he saw a score of Double Y cows drifting in circles in the backwater, and at intervals one would swing into the outer current and be caught in the pull of the rushing river to go sailing toward Twin. The stream was rising rapidly now, its gray waters turning brown and roiled. Sending Monroe to follow the stream to town, he and Slow Jack rode close to the water toward the hazy Hog Back. When he met Monroe at the ranch house that afternoon he learned that most of the inhabitants of Twin River were swarming upon the point behind Ike's saloon, busily engaged in roping and skinning the cattle as fast as they drifted by; the count varied from one hundred to five hundred, and he knew that the fight was on again.There had been no clues found upon which to base action against the perpetrators. True, the pasture behind the Hog Back had been burned since he last saw it, but Slow Jack's tardy memory recalled that one morning, several days before, he had detected the smell of grass smoke in the air. He was going to investigate it but hesitated to go through the quarantined range for fear of bringing back the itch. During the day the smell had disappeared and he had seen no signs of smoke at any time. He had meant to speak of it when he returned to the bunk-house but had forgotten, as usual.When left alone Buck stared out of the window, not noticing that the storm had ceased, burning with rage at his absolute helplessness. The loss of the cows was not great enough to cripple him seriously but this blow, following hard upon the other, showed him what little chance he had of making the Double Y a success without a large outfit of tried and trusted men. Even while he looked at the plain with unseeing eyes his cattle might be stolen or driven to death in the swollen waters of either river—and he was powerless to stop it.To his mind again leaped the recollection of Ned's warning regarding Schatz: he was a "hard nut," Ned had said. Buck was beginning to think he would have to crack him on suspicion. He looked in the direction of the German's cabin and a curse rumbled in his throat.Whitby opened the door and reported that everything was all right on his part of the range and asked for orders for the next day. After a few minutes' conversation he moved on to the bunk-house, troubled and ill at ease at the appearance of his employer. In a way Whitby had certain small privileges that were denied to the other members of the outfit. He was a gentleman, as Buck had instantly realized, and he could make time pass very rapidly under most conditions. He paused now and finally decided to thrust his company upon Buck for the evening; in his opinion Buck would be all the better for company. He had almost reached the ranch house door when behind him there was a sound of furious galloping and Bow-Wow flung himself from his horse and burst into the room excited and fuming, Whitby close upon his heels."They 've shot a lot of cows on th' southeast corner, close to th' Jill. I 'd 'a' been in sooner only I went huntin' for 'em. Lost their tracks when they swum th' river. Three of 'em did it, an' they dropped nigh onto fifty head." Winded as he was, Bow-Wow yet found breath for a string of curses that appeared to afford him little relief.A look came into Buck's face that told of a man with his back to the wall. The piling on of the last straw was dangerously near at hand. His fingers closed convulsively around the butt of his Colt and he swayed in his tracks. No one ever knew how close to death Whitby and Bow-Wow were at that moment, by what a narrow margin the range was spared ruthless murder at the hands of a man gone fighting mad. The Texan was cut to the heart by this last news, and only a swift reaction in the form of the habitual self-restraint of thirty years saved him from running amuck. The grayness of his face gave way to its usual color, only the whipcord veins and the deep lines telling of the savage battle raging in the soul of the man. He waved the two men away and paced to and fro across the room, fighting the greatest battle of his eventful life. One man against unknown enemies who shot in the dark; his outfit was an unknown quantity and practically worse than none at all, since he had to trust it to a certain extent. He thought that Ned Monroe was loyal, but his judgment might have become poor because of the strain he had undergone; and was not Monroe one who had lost when the ranch was turned over to its rightful owners? Bow-Wow was more likely to be honest than otherwise, but he had no proof in the puncher's favor. Chesty Sutton had no cause to be a traitor, but the workings of the human mind cause queer actions at times. Cock Murray and Slow Jack could be regarded as enemies, but there was not enough proof to convict them: they had been in charge of the western part of the ranch when the herd had been stampeded into the Black Jack—yet Buck realized that two men could hardly handle so large a tract of land; and again, the stampede had occurred at night while they were asleep in the bunkhouse. If he got rid of every man he could find reason to doubt, he would have no outfit to handle the routine work of the ranch. There remained Jake and Whitby. The cook could be dismissed as of no account one way or the other, since he was a fool at best and never left the ranch house for more than a few minutes at a time. The Englishman seemed to be loyal but there was no positive assurance of it; while he had undoubtedly killed the itch, it was so dangerous a plague that every man's hand should be turned against it.When he tried to reason the matter out he came to the conclusion he had reached so often before: the only man in Montana whom he trusted absolutely was Buck Peters. If he had some of his old outfit, or even Hopalong, Red, or Lanky, one man in whom he could place absolute trust, he felt he could win out in the end—and he would have them. He ceased his pacing to and fro and squared his shoulders: He would give his outfit one last tryout and if still in doubt of its loyalty, he would send a message to Hopalong and have him pick out a dozen men from the Bar-20 and near-by ranches and send them up to the Double Y. Lucas, Bartlett, and Meeker could spare him a few men each, men friendly to him. It would be admitting preliminary defeat to do this but the results would justify the means.When he thought he had mastered himself and was becoming calm and self-possessed, Chesty Sutton and the foreman entered with troubled looks on their faces. Monroe spoke: "Chesty reports he found a dozen cows lyin' in a heap at th' bottom of Crow Canyon, and Murray says th' fence has been cut an' stripped o' wire for a mile on th' north end."Buck lost himself in the fury of rage that swept over him at this news. The fence had been intact that noon when he rode out to look over the floating cows in the Jack; this blow in daylight told him that the battle was being forced from several points at once; and again he realized how absolutely helpless he was—there was no hope now. When Ned and Chesty returned to the bunk-house, drawing meagre satisfaction from the clearing weather, they left behind them a man broken in spirit, weak from fruitless anger, who shook his upraised arms at Providence and cursed every man in Montana. A desperate idea entered his head: he would force the fighting. He slipped out of the corral, roped his horse and led it around back of the ranch house, where he tethered it and returned to the house to wait for night. Night would see him at Schatz's cabin, there to choke out the truth and strike his first blow.Jake came in, muttering something about lights and supper, to retreat silently at the curt dismissal. The long shadows stole into the room, enveloping the brooding figure, and deepened into dark. The time was come and Buck arose and went out to his horse. With his hand on the picket he paused and listened. Across the Jill a broad moon was beginning to cast its light and from the same direction, a long way off, came the sound of singing. The singer was coming toward him and Buck stepped into the house again to await his arrival. He might be the bearer of some message.While he paced restlessly the singing died down and in a few minutes the squeaking of a vehicle caught his ear. He wondered who cared to drive over that trail when there were so many good saddle horses to be had for the asking and he started toward the door to see. Suddenly he stopped as if shot and gripped his hat with all his strength as another song came to his ears. He doubted his senses and feared he was going crazy, hoping against hope that he heard aright. Who in Montana could know that song!"'Th' cows go grazin' o'er th' lea—Pore Whiskey Bill, pore Whiskey Bill.An' achin' thoughts pour in on meOf Whiskey Bill.Th' sheriff up an' found his stride,Bill's soul went shootin' down th' slide—How are things o'er th' Great Divide,Oh, Whiskey Bill?'"Hello th' house! Hey, Buck! Buck!O, Buck! Whoa, blame you—think I'm a fool tenderfoot? Hey, Buck! BUCK!"Buck leaped to the door in one great bound and ran toward the creeping buckboard, yelling like an Indian. The bunk-house door flew open and the men tumbled through it, guns in hand, and sprinted toward the point of trouble. Bow-Wow led and close upon his heels ran Whitby, with Murray a close third. When the leader got near enough he saw two men wrestling near a buckboard and he manoeuvred so as to insert himself into the fracas at the first opportunity. Then he snorted and backed off in profound astonishment, colliding with the eager Englishman, to the pain of both. The wrestlers were not wrestling but hugging; and a woman in the buckboard was laughing with delight. Bow-Wow shook his head as if to clear it and began to slip back toward the bunk-house. This was against all his teachings and he would have no part in it. The idea of two cowmen hugging each other!Whitby strolled after and overtook the muttering puncher. "I fancy that's one of those Texans he 's been talking about; or, rather, two of them. Perhaps we shall see some frontier law up here now—and God knows it is time."Slow Jack veered off and swore in his throat. "Texaslaw, huh? We 'll send him back where he come from, in a box!" he growled.He stopped when he heard Buck's laughing words, and sneered: "Hopalong Cassidy an' his wife, eh? She 'll be his widder if he cuts inthisgame. But I wonder if any more o' them terrible Texas killers is comin' up? Huh! Let 'em come—that's all."CHAPTER XVITHE MASTER MINDFor a while, at least, Buck seemed to cast his troubles to the four winds and was a picture of delight; his happiness, bubbling up in every word, kept his face wreathed in one vast smile. At last he had a man whom he could trust. Jake was summoned and prepared the best meal he could and the three sat down to a very good supper, Buck surprised to find how hungry he had become. His visit to Schatz was forgotten as he listened to Hopalong and Mary chatter about old times and people he wished he could see again.After a little, Hopalong noticed how tired his wife was and sent her to get a good night's rest. The long railroad journey and the ride in the buckboard had been a great strain on her.When left alone, Buck demanded to know all about the Bar-20 and its outfit and laughed until the tears came as he listened to some of the tales. "What deviltry has Johnny been up to since I left?" asked Buck."Well, it's only been six months," replied Hopalong, "so you see he ain't really had much time; but he 's made good use o' what he did have. He fell in love again, had th' prospectin' fever, wanted to go down to th' Mexican line an' help Martin. I had th' very devil of a time stoppin' him. Him an' Lucas had their third fight an' Lucas got licked this time; then they went off to Cowan's an' blew th' crowd, near havin' another scrap 'cause each wanted to pay. He dosed Pete's cayuse with whiskey an' ginger, chased Lee Hop clean to Buckskin, so we ain't got no cook. Red licked him for that, so Johnny tied all th' boys together one night, tied chairs an' things to 'em an' then stepped outside an' began shootin' at th' stars. It was some lively, that mess in th' dark, judgin' from th' hair-raisin' noises; it scared th' Kid all th' way to Perry's Bend—leastways, we has no news for a week, when we hears he 'd pulled stakes there, leavin' th' town fightin' an' th' sheriff locked up in his own jail. Th' Bend has sent numerous invitations for him to call again. From there he drifts over to th' C80, wins all their money an' then rides home loaded down with presents to square hisself with th' boys. He wanted to fight when I made Red foreman while I was away—it's Red's first good chance to get square.""That's th' Kid, all right," laughed Buck. "Lord, how I wish he was up here!""Red, he's th' same grouch as ever but he's all right if Johnny 'd let him get set. As soon as Red calms down th' Kid calls his attention to somethin' excitin' an' th' trouble begins again. They all wanted to come up here an' give you a hand till you got things runnin' right. I told 'em I could get a better crowd in two days, so they stayed home to spite me. From what I 've heard I wish I 'd told 'em they could come—things 'd run smoother for you with them wild men buckjumpin' 'round lookin' for trouble. Like to turn Red an' Johnny loose up here with a good grudge to work off. Th' railroad would report that Montana was jumpin' east fast.""What was that your wife called you?" asked Buck, curiously."Billy-Red," laughed Hopalong. "That 's her own name for me.""Billy-h—l!" snorted Buck. "Billy-goat would suit you better.""Say, Buck, Pete saw som'ers there was lots o' money in raisin' chickens, so he borrows all our money, gets about a hundred head from th' East, an' starts in. For a week there was lots of excitement 'round our place—coyotes got so they 'd get under our feet an' th' nights was plumb full o' hungry animals with a taste for chicken. We put up a bomb-proof coop but they tunnelled it th' first night an' got all that was left o' th' herd 'cept about a dozen what was roostin' high. Pete, he was broken-hearted an' give up. He makes Mary a present o' what was left of his stock, an' what do you think she give him for 'em? Two day's work diggin'. He dug a ditch, four-sided, for th' foundations of a new coop. Then he has to sink posts in it in th' ground an' fill th' ditch with stones. Johnny got th' stones in th' chuck wagon from th' creek, so as to square hisself with Mary, an' she give him a whole apricot pie for it. He 's been a nuisance ever since. Well, th' posts rose four feet above th' ground an' when that hen-corral was roofed over, you could see, any moonlight night, plenty o' coyotes trottin' 'round it, prayin' for somethin' to happen. We got some fine shootin' for a while. But I got other things to talk about, Buck—Texas can wait.""Kind of a dry job, Hoppy," replied Buck, going to a cupboard and returning with a bottle."Better stuff than Cowan ever sold," smiled the visitor, and then plunged into what he considered real news."When we got off th' train at Wayback, I went huntin' for a wagon an' purty soon we was on our way to Twin River. I knowed we 'd have to spend th' night there: Mary could n't stand forty miles in a buckboard after that train ride. We had n't got very far from town when I hears a hail an' looks around to see Tex Ewalt comin' up. He spotted me when I left th' train but he did n't want to show he knows me there.""What!" exclaimed Buck, in great surprise. "Tex Ewalt! Why, I thought he went East for good.""He thought so, too, at th' time," and Hoppy gave a brief history of their friend's movements. "When he got back to th' ranch he was restless an' decided to come up here an' help you. He 's been very busy up here in a quiet way. He tells me he knows th' man that put th' itch on yore range. Tex says he could 'a' stopped it if he knew enough to add two an' two. But he says there 's another man behind him, slicker 'n a coyote. Tex 's been hopin' every day to rope an' tie him but he ain't got him yet.""Who is it?" asked Buck, with grim simplicity."Tex won't tell me. He says you can't do no good shootin' on suspicion. He's tried watchin' him but he might as well be goin' to church when he does leave home, his travels is that innocent.""Why didn't Tex come here? I been wantin' one man I could trust, an' me an' Tex could 'a' wiped out th' gang.""He says different—an' he was afraid o' bein' seen. You see, that would kill his usefulness. Just as soon as he could get to th' bottom o' th' game an' lay his fingers on th' real boss,thenhe 'd 'a' come out for you in th' open, put th' boss in th' scrap-pile for burial, an' burned powder till you had things where you wanted 'em. We about concluded you ain't makin' good use o' th' punchers you got, Buck, though I shore hates to say it.""How can I make use o' men I don't trust? You don't know th' worst, Hopalong—""About th' couple o' thousand head went swimmin'? I ain't heard much else in Twin River. How 'd it happen?"Buck ran over the day's occurrences graphically and without missing a single point. Hopalong's thoughtful comment was characteristic of the man upon whom Buck had unconsciously leaned in crises not a few."The two men on yore south pasture is liars," he declared. "Yore foreman is some doubtful: 'pears like to me if he 's honest an' attendin' to business, no point o' yore range ought to go shy o' him for long. Th' Britisher 's white: it's no part o' his business to help you, th' way Tex tells me; if he ain't square he just does his work an' don't offer no suggestions. Th' other two is all right if they ain't just fools what 'll do as th' foreman says 'cause he 's th' foreman, right or wrong. That's how I reckons you stand. Now we got to prove it.""Fire away," said Buck, earnestly. "I agrees to every word. Provin' it's th' horse I ain't been able to rope.""Th' outlyin' free range don't count. You ain't missed no cows in th' round-up, has you?""No, they tallied high.""Goes to show there 's a head to th' deviltry. You don't get no losses on'y right on yore home range. Now, we divide th' range in sections, a man to each section, an' work 'em that way a few days. There won't be no night ridin' at first. Then we set 'em night ridin' when they ain't expectin' it an' shift th' men every night. We soon know who to trust, don't we?""Yo 're right—plumb right—an' it's so simple I ought to be fed hay, for a cow. I got a map som'ers—or I 'll make one. We 'll lay out them sections right now.""That's th' talk! There ain't no time like right now for doin' most things, Buck."They were not long in laying out and perfecting their plans and had said good-night when Buck suddenly remembered the picketed pony. He turned it into the corral and went to bed. Smiler Schatz, sleeping the sleep of the very wicked and the very innocent, did not dream how near he had come to an incident more exciting than any he had ever passed through.CHAPTER XVIIHOPALONG'S NIGHT RIDEHopalong, passing the bunk-house on his way to the stable, paused to listen. Through the open window Pickles' voice had reached him quite clearly: "I don't guess I 'll ever get him, Whit, but if I do, it 'll be for keeps, you betcher."Hopalong was interested. The death of Gottleib Gerken was an old story and so many things of pressing moment having occurred about the time of Hopalong's arrival, he had not been told of this. The finality of decision in Pickles' murderous intention was so evident that Hopalong wondered how the boy came to conceive so deadly a hatred. He stepped to the window and stood looking at the two figures within. They neither saw nor heard him.Both were deep in thought. Whitby's inherent regard for due process of law had received numerous shocks since he left Chicago. Like many another square man finding his niche in a raw country, he was beginning to see that right must be enforced by might, until such time as wrong became subdued by the steady march of the older civilization. And this face-about in opinion is not accomplished in a day, even when on the spot and a personal sufferer. It was this new feeling that led him to listen with respect to Pickles' confidences, boy though he was. Boys imbibed men's ideas early in this country; too early, thought Whitby, recalling his own play-time at this lad's age. He stole a look at the glum face beside him and began to draw circles with the point of the switch he held in his hand—he was never without one. "It's a pity," he said, "a pity.""What's a pity?" asked Pickles, a note of indignation in his voice at the implied suggestion.Whitby ignored the tone. "It's a pity you never heard of the Witch's Spell," he explained, reminiscently."What's that?""But then, of course," reasoned Whitby, "if you can't find a Witch's Ring, you can't work the Spell; and I rather fancy there is n't a Witch's Ring in all the world outside of Yorkshire.""What's it like?" demanded Pickles, with the practical insistence of Young America."Why, the Old Witch makes it, you know. She runs around in a ring and blows on the grass and it never grows any more. Inside the Ring and outside, the grass is just the same, but the Ring is always bare."Pickles was silent. He was picturing to himself the process of the Ring in the making. So was Hopalong. It seemed very matter-of-fact as Whitby told it; still, there was something—"What's she do that for?" asked Pickles—the very question Hopalong was asking himself."It's the bad fairies, you know, and Wizards, and that sort of thing; she 's afraid of them. But they can't pass the Ring, no matter how deep they dig, so the Witch is quite safe, you know. They 're a bad lot, those others, no end. But the Old Witch is quite a decent sort. She lives inside the Ring, under the ground, and that's where you go to get your wish."Pickles pondered. His eyes began to glow. "Any wish?" he questioned, in subdued excitement."All sorts," declared Whitby. "There was Jimmie Pickering: he always got his wish; he told me so, himself; and Arthur Cooper: he wished to be a minister and he got his wish; and George Hick: he wished to see the world and he 's always travelling up and down the earth; and Allen Ramsey, who wished to be an athlete, strong, you know: he got his wish; then there was Maggie Sheffield, who wished to marry a soldier: she married a soldier; and Vi Glades, who wished to be a singer: she can sing tears into your heart, lad, so sweet you 're glad to have them there; so she got her wish. And ever so many more: they all got their wishes. She was a rare good one, that Witch.""Did you get yore wish, Whit?""I could only count to seven," explained Whitby.Pickles' lips moved silently. "How many do you have to count?" he asked, dubiously."Nine," said Whitby, with a regretful sigh. "You run around the Ring nine times, holding your breath and saying your wish to yourself over and over again. Then you run into the middle and lie down. You must n't breathe until you lie down. When you put your ear to the ground you can hear the Old Witch churning out your wish. 'Ka-Chug! Ka-Chug! Ka-Chug!' goes the churn, away down in the earth. Then you know you will get your wish."Pickles straightened up and looked fixedly at Whitby. His voice was very solemn: "Whit, I take my oath there's a Witch's Ring right here on the range!""Nonsense!""Hope I may die! I 'll show you, to-morrow. An' I 'm a-goin' to wish—""I say! You must n't tell your wish, you know. That breaks the Spell. If ever you tell your wish, it does n't come true.""Jiggers!—I won't tell. Nine times 'round the Ring an' hol' yore breath an' say yore wish fast an' then to th' middle—"Hopalong lost the rest as he continued on his way to the stable. Pickles' Ring puzzled him only for a moment, for as he turned away from the window, he was chuckling. "Means some place where th' Injuns used to war-dance, I reckon," was his conclusion. "But that Britisher seems like he believed it himself."Two minutes later and he was in the saddle and riding south, edging over toward Big Moose trail. He melted into the surrounding darkness like a shadow, silence having been the evident aim of his unusual preparations earlier in the evening. Not a leather creaked; an impatient toss of his pony's head betrayed no clink of metal on teeth; the velvety padding of the hoofs made as little noise as the passing of one of the larger cats, in a hurry. Hopalong meant to quarter the section of range allotted him like a restless ghost and, if the others did as well, he had a strong conviction that night-deviltry would lose its attractions in this particular part of the country.It was not long before he began to test his memory. To a man of his experience this guard duty would have presented but little difficulty in any case, but Hopalong had been careful to make a very complete mental map of this section when riding it by daylight. He went on now like a man in his own house.He turned abruptly to the left, heading for the Jill and taking the low ground between two huge buttes. Just short of the Big Moose trail he halted, listening intently for five minutes, and then, turning west again, began to quarter the ground like a hound, gradually working south. With the plainsman's certainty of direction his course followed a series of obliques, fairly regular, though he chose the low ground, winding about the buttes, to the top of which he lent a keen scrutiny. He stopped for minutes at a time to listen and then went on again.It was during one of these pauses that he espied a dark shape at rest not far from him. He eyed it with suspicion. It should be a cow but there was something not quite normal in its attitude. He rode forward cautiously, being in no way desirous of disturbing the brute. Circling it at a walk a similar object loomed up, some little distance from the other. "Calf!" he decided. A few steps nearer and he changed his mind. "No, another cow. I don't know as I ever see cattle look like that. 'Pears like they was shore enough tuckered out—an' I bet they ain't drifted a mile in twenty-four hours." They were very still. There was no reason why they should not be and yet—the wind being right, he hazarded a few steps nearer.And then there came to his ears a sound that stiffened him in his saddle. His pony turned its head and gazed inquiringly into the darkness. "Injuns!" breathed Hopalong, doubt struggling with conviction. He slipped to earth and ran noiselessly to the nearest recumbent figure. A single touch told him: it was a dead cow; warm, but unquestionably dead.With his horse under him once more, Hoppy crept forward. Careful before, his progress now had all the stealth of a stalking tiger. There it came again: the unmistakable twang of a bow-string. The pony veered to the left in response to the pressure of Hoppy's knee, when there sounded a movement to the right and he straightened his course to ride between the two. His spirits began to rise with the old-time zest at the imminence of a fight to the death. Mary, back yonder in the ranch house, with her new proud hope, Buck and his anxieties, Tex in his indefatigable hunt for evidence, the far-distant Bar-20 with its duties and its band of loyal friends, all were forgotten in the complete absorption of the coming duel. Indians! Rebellious and treacherous punchers were foemen to beware of, but these red wolves, savage from the curb of the reservation and hungry with a blood lust long denied—a grin of pure delight spread over his features as he foresaw the instant transformation from cattle-killing thieves to strategic assassins at the first crack of his Colt.The odds could not be great and he expected to reduce them at the opening of hostilities. Warily he glanced about him as he moved slowly forward, casting, at the last, a searching look off to the right. He saw that which brought him up standing, his breath caught in his distended lungs; it escaped in a long sigh of pleased wonder: "Great Land of Freedom! Please look at that," he pleaded to his unresponsive country.Broadside on, head up and facing him with ears pricked forward, alert yet waiting, stood a horse that filled Hopalong's soul with the sin of covetousness. So near that the obscurity failed to hide a line, the powerful quarters and grand forehand betrayed to Hopalong's discerning eyes a latent force a little superior to the best he had ever looked on. "An' a' Injun's!" sighed Hoppy, in measureless disgust. "But not if I sees th' Injun," he added hopefully. Wishing that he might, his thought back-somersaulted to Pickles and Whitby and the Witch's Spell. A whimsical smile wrinkled the corners of his mouth and at this very moment the thing happened.A nerve-racking screech, the like of which no Indian ever made, lifted the hair on Hoppy's head, and his pony immediately entered upon a series of amazing calisthenics, an enthusiastic rendering no doubt enhanced by the inch or two of arrow-head in his rump. Hopalong caught one glimpse of a squat, mis-shapen figure that went past him with a rush and let go at it, more from habit than with the expectation of hitting. When he had subdued his horse to the exercise of some little equine sense, the rapidly decreasing sound of the fleeing marauder told him that only one had been at work and with grim hopelessness he set after him. "Might as well try to catch a comet," he growled, sinking his spurs into the pony's side and momentarily distracting its attention from the biting anguish of the lengthier spur behind.The pony was running less silently than when he left the ranch. Portions of unaccustomed equipment, loosened in his mad flurry, were dropping from him at every jump. This, and the straining of Hopalong's hearing after the chase, allowed to pass unnoticed the coming up of a third horseman, riding at an angle to intercept the pursuit. The first intimation of his presence Hopalong received was the whine of a bullet, too close for comfort, and Hopalong was off and behind his pony to welcome the crack of the rifle when it reached him. "Shootin' at random, d—n his fool hide!" snorted Hoppy; "an' shootin' good too," he conceded, as a second bullet sped eagerly after the first. Hoppy released a bellow of angry protest: "Hey! What 'n h—l do you reckon yo 're doin'?"There was an interval of silence and then a voice from the darkness: "Show a laig, there: who is it?""Show you a boot, you locoed bummer! It's Cassidy." He mounted resignedly and waited for the other to ride up. "Could n't 'a' caught him, nohow," he reflected. "Never see such a horse in my life, never. Hope to th' Lord it don't rain. Be just like it."The unknown rode up full of apologies. Hopalong cut him short. "What d' they call you?" he asked, curtly."Slow Jack," was the answer.Hoppy grunted. "Well, you camp down right here," he ordered, "an' don't let nobody blot that sign. I 'm a-goin' to be here at daylight an' foller that screech-owl th' limit. Good-night."He headed for the ranch house, satisfied that his section of range would remain undisturbed during the next few hours, at the least.* * * * *"Sweet birds-o'-paradise! Would you—would you oblige me by squintin' at that!"Straight north, from the few dead carcasses where the trail started it led to the creek bank, east of the ranch house; and like hounds with nose to scent, Hopalong, Buck, and Ned had followed it from the point where Slow Jack had been found doing sentry-go and sent, in profane relief, to breakfast and sleep. Hoppy was in the lead and as he came to the creek he raised his eyes to look across at the other bank for signs of the quarry's exit from the water. It was the sign on the north bank, coupled with that on the somewhat higher bank where they stood, that had made him exclaim.Ned Monroe's face cleared of the frowning perplexity that had darkened it at first sight of the hoof prints they tracked. "Must be a stranger," he affirmed. "Dunno th' country or he 'd never jump when he could ride through.""Jump!" exclaimed Buck, startled. "Why, of course," he conceded. "Hoppy, that's shore one scrumptious jump"; and the dawning admiration grew to wonder as he mentally measured the distance.Hoppy nodded his head. "Inever see th' horse could do it right now; an' that bird flew over there last night. He was right on it afore he knew an' he did n't stop to remember how deep it was; he just dug in a spur an' lifted him at sight of th' breakin' bubbles: they 'd show purty nigh white last night—an' th' horse, he does n't know how much he has to jump, so he jumps a good one—a d—n good one, though Ned, here, don't think it so much. Mebby you know a horse as could do it right easy, eh, Ned?"With Hopalong's sharp eyes on his face, Ned shook his head in denial, gazing stolidly at the sign. "Too good for any in these parts; would n't be no disgrace for a thoroughbred."Buck glanced quickly at Ned and then, pulling his hat low over his eyes, struck up the brim with two snappy blows of the back of his hand."Well, Buck, I reckon I 'll leave you an' Ned to foller this. I got a feelin' I 'm wanted at th' ranch. So long." Hopalong rode off in obedience to one of the signals that had helped to simplify affairs among the Bar-20 punchers.Buck had signified his desire for Hoppy's absence. He pushed Allday to the creek and set off at a lope. "Easy as follerin' a wagon, Ned," he remarked."Yep," agreed Ned."Stopped here," observed Buck. "Listenin', I reckon. Goin' slower, now.""Some," replied Ned."Right smart jump acrost that creek," said Buck, questioningly."Uh-huh!" consented Ned, with non-committal brevity.They rode a couple of miles before Buck hazarded another remark. "Seems like I oughta know that hoof," he complained. "Keeps a-lookin' more 'n more like I knowed it. Durn thing purty nigh talks."Ned threw him a startled glance and then gazed steadily ahead. "Be at th' Jill in a minute," he announced."Yeah. Thought he was driftin' that-away. Lay you ten to two he don'tjumpth' Jill, Ned.""Here 's Charley," was the irrelevant response. The Indian was a welcome diversion. Buck slowed to a walk, raised his eyes and waved Charley an amiable salute. The Cheyenne promptly left the trail and rode to join them."Hey, Charley, whose horse is that?" asked Buck, pointing to the hoof prints.The Indian barely glanced at them. "French Rose," he declared. "Cross trail, swim river before sun. Heap good horse.""Where goin', Charley—ranch?" asked Buck, evenly. He did not question the Cheyenne's conclusions.He knew. Buck was satisfied of that.Charley grinned sheepishly and shifted uneasily under Buck's stare. "That's all right," assured Buck, "tell Jake to give you—no, wait for me. I 'll be there as soon as you are." He turned away and Charley accepted his dismissal in high good humor, riding off with cheering visions of a cupful of the "old man's" whiskey, which was very different from that dispensed over the bar in Twin River."Well, Ned," said Buck."Well, Buck," returned Ned."You knew it was Rose's horse.""I was a-feared.""You knew it, you durn ol' grizzly.""Look a-here, Buck. You ain't goin' to tell me as how Rose—""Not by a jugful! That's a flower without a stain, Ned, an' I backs her with my whole pile.""Here, too," coincided Ned, in hearty accord."We lost th' trail, Ned.""You bet!""In th' Jill.""Took a boat," suggested Ned, solemnly.Buck concealed his amusement. "Or a balloon," he offered."Mebby," assented Ned. "Could n't pick her up agin, nohow.""Not if we 'd had a dog," declared Buck."Or a' Injun," supplemented Ned. They gazed at one another for a second and, of one mind, spun their horses around and off for the ranch like thoroughbreds at the drop of the flag."I just thought o' Charley," explained Buck."Here, too," grunted Ned."Might talk," said Buck."You bet."Charley heard them coming. When he saw them, the explanation to his untutored mind was a race. Determined to be in at the finish, he laid the quirt to his pony with enthusiastic zeal, casting a rapid glance over his shoulder, now and then, to see if he were holding his own. It was a sight to see the tireless little pony wake up under punishment. He had covered twenty miles that day and over forty the day before, but he shot forward on his wiry legs like a startled jack-rabbit and in one-two-three order they thundered up to the ranch house with a noise that brought Mary to the door."Well, Buck Peters!" she exclaimed, "ain't younevergoin' to grow up? Yo're worse'n that loco husband o' mine, right now."Buck grinned at the abashed Ned and winked knowingly at Mary. He and Mary were very good friends, Buck long ago having gauged her sterling worth and become aware of her mischievous propensity for teasing. As he led Charley indoors he asked for Hopalong and learned that he had set off for Twin River soon after his arrival at the ranch house.
* * * * *
The Hog Back loomed up like a condensation of the surrounding night, its huge bulk magnified and made soft in its rugged outlines. A restless wind scurried like a panic-stricken animal, sighing through the brush and whispering through the rocks. At intervals the silence was so intense that the scraping of a twig, yards away, could be plainly heard; and at other times the bellow of a steer would have been lost in a few rods.
Something moved across the plain, slowly and carefully as if feeling its way, and toiled up the precarious trail, rolling pebbles clattering down; in the noise of their fall was lost the soft thudding that marked the course of the moving smudge. The lightning in the western sky flashed nearer and gave brief illumination of the scene. Four men rode single file up the dark trail, silent, intent, wary, the leader picking his way as though he knew it well; in reply to a low-voiced question from his nearest companion, he stretched out an abnormally long arm in a sharp gesture. He did not like to have his ability doubted.
Reaching the top, the procession strung along and finally dipped into a ravine, following the steeply slanting water-course until stopped by a lariat stretched across the way. Tossing aside the rope, the leader led the force onto the walled-in pasture where each man went swiftly to work without instructions. The fire at the leader's feet, fanned by the high wind, leaped from him through the sun-cured bunches of grass in a rapidly widening circle, the heavy smoke rolling down upon the restless cattle in pungent clouds, sparks streaming through them. Every cow on the pasture was on its feet, pawing and snorting with fear at this most dreaded of all enemies. While they stood, seemingly hypnotized for a moment by the low flames, the darkness to the east of them was streaked with spurts of fire and the cracks of revolvers on their flank sent them thundering toward the river. The confusion of the stampede was indescribable as the front ranks, sensing the edge of the cliff, tried in vain to check itself and hold back against the press of the avalanche of terror-stricken animals behind. The change was magical—one moment a frenzied mass of struggling cows lighted grotesquely by the burning grass, and then only the edge of the cliff and the swishing grayness of the river below. The wind was blowing the flames toward the edge of the cliff and they would die from lack of material upon which to feed, though the four cared little about that. Their horses stumbled with them along the ravine, leaving behind a blackened plain across which sparks were driven by each gust of wind, to glow brilliantly and die. Below, once more wrapped in impenetrable darkness, swished the Black Jack, cold, cruel, deep, and fugitive, its scurrying, frightened cross currents whispering mysteriously as they discussed the tragedy. Suddenly the rain deluged everything as if wrathful at the pitiable slaughter and eager to wash out the stain of it.
* * * * *
In the middle of the forenoon of the following day Slow Jack loomed up in the fog of the driving rain and the vapors arising from the earth and slid from his saddle in front of the ranch house, his hideous yellow slicker shining as though polished. Buck opened the door and instinctively stepped back to avoid the wet gust that assailed him. "There 's a lot o' cows floating in the backwater o' th' Jack where th' creek empties in—I roped one an' drug it ashore. Just plain drowned, I reckon. There was signs of itch, too," Slow Jack reported.
Buck hastened into his storm clothes, got Monroe from the corral, and started through the storm to see for himself. When he reached the river he saw a score of Double Y cows drifting in circles in the backwater, and at intervals one would swing into the outer current and be caught in the pull of the rushing river to go sailing toward Twin. The stream was rising rapidly now, its gray waters turning brown and roiled. Sending Monroe to follow the stream to town, he and Slow Jack rode close to the water toward the hazy Hog Back. When he met Monroe at the ranch house that afternoon he learned that most of the inhabitants of Twin River were swarming upon the point behind Ike's saloon, busily engaged in roping and skinning the cattle as fast as they drifted by; the count varied from one hundred to five hundred, and he knew that the fight was on again.
There had been no clues found upon which to base action against the perpetrators. True, the pasture behind the Hog Back had been burned since he last saw it, but Slow Jack's tardy memory recalled that one morning, several days before, he had detected the smell of grass smoke in the air. He was going to investigate it but hesitated to go through the quarantined range for fear of bringing back the itch. During the day the smell had disappeared and he had seen no signs of smoke at any time. He had meant to speak of it when he returned to the bunk-house but had forgotten, as usual.
When left alone Buck stared out of the window, not noticing that the storm had ceased, burning with rage at his absolute helplessness. The loss of the cows was not great enough to cripple him seriously but this blow, following hard upon the other, showed him what little chance he had of making the Double Y a success without a large outfit of tried and trusted men. Even while he looked at the plain with unseeing eyes his cattle might be stolen or driven to death in the swollen waters of either river—and he was powerless to stop it.
To his mind again leaped the recollection of Ned's warning regarding Schatz: he was a "hard nut," Ned had said. Buck was beginning to think he would have to crack him on suspicion. He looked in the direction of the German's cabin and a curse rumbled in his throat.
Whitby opened the door and reported that everything was all right on his part of the range and asked for orders for the next day. After a few minutes' conversation he moved on to the bunk-house, troubled and ill at ease at the appearance of his employer. In a way Whitby had certain small privileges that were denied to the other members of the outfit. He was a gentleman, as Buck had instantly realized, and he could make time pass very rapidly under most conditions. He paused now and finally decided to thrust his company upon Buck for the evening; in his opinion Buck would be all the better for company. He had almost reached the ranch house door when behind him there was a sound of furious galloping and Bow-Wow flung himself from his horse and burst into the room excited and fuming, Whitby close upon his heels.
"They 've shot a lot of cows on th' southeast corner, close to th' Jill. I 'd 'a' been in sooner only I went huntin' for 'em. Lost their tracks when they swum th' river. Three of 'em did it, an' they dropped nigh onto fifty head." Winded as he was, Bow-Wow yet found breath for a string of curses that appeared to afford him little relief.
A look came into Buck's face that told of a man with his back to the wall. The piling on of the last straw was dangerously near at hand. His fingers closed convulsively around the butt of his Colt and he swayed in his tracks. No one ever knew how close to death Whitby and Bow-Wow were at that moment, by what a narrow margin the range was spared ruthless murder at the hands of a man gone fighting mad. The Texan was cut to the heart by this last news, and only a swift reaction in the form of the habitual self-restraint of thirty years saved him from running amuck. The grayness of his face gave way to its usual color, only the whipcord veins and the deep lines telling of the savage battle raging in the soul of the man. He waved the two men away and paced to and fro across the room, fighting the greatest battle of his eventful life. One man against unknown enemies who shot in the dark; his outfit was an unknown quantity and practically worse than none at all, since he had to trust it to a certain extent. He thought that Ned Monroe was loyal, but his judgment might have become poor because of the strain he had undergone; and was not Monroe one who had lost when the ranch was turned over to its rightful owners? Bow-Wow was more likely to be honest than otherwise, but he had no proof in the puncher's favor. Chesty Sutton had no cause to be a traitor, but the workings of the human mind cause queer actions at times. Cock Murray and Slow Jack could be regarded as enemies, but there was not enough proof to convict them: they had been in charge of the western part of the ranch when the herd had been stampeded into the Black Jack—yet Buck realized that two men could hardly handle so large a tract of land; and again, the stampede had occurred at night while they were asleep in the bunkhouse. If he got rid of every man he could find reason to doubt, he would have no outfit to handle the routine work of the ranch. There remained Jake and Whitby. The cook could be dismissed as of no account one way or the other, since he was a fool at best and never left the ranch house for more than a few minutes at a time. The Englishman seemed to be loyal but there was no positive assurance of it; while he had undoubtedly killed the itch, it was so dangerous a plague that every man's hand should be turned against it.
When he tried to reason the matter out he came to the conclusion he had reached so often before: the only man in Montana whom he trusted absolutely was Buck Peters. If he had some of his old outfit, or even Hopalong, Red, or Lanky, one man in whom he could place absolute trust, he felt he could win out in the end—and he would have them. He ceased his pacing to and fro and squared his shoulders: He would give his outfit one last tryout and if still in doubt of its loyalty, he would send a message to Hopalong and have him pick out a dozen men from the Bar-20 and near-by ranches and send them up to the Double Y. Lucas, Bartlett, and Meeker could spare him a few men each, men friendly to him. It would be admitting preliminary defeat to do this but the results would justify the means.
When he thought he had mastered himself and was becoming calm and self-possessed, Chesty Sutton and the foreman entered with troubled looks on their faces. Monroe spoke: "Chesty reports he found a dozen cows lyin' in a heap at th' bottom of Crow Canyon, and Murray says th' fence has been cut an' stripped o' wire for a mile on th' north end."
Buck lost himself in the fury of rage that swept over him at this news. The fence had been intact that noon when he rode out to look over the floating cows in the Jack; this blow in daylight told him that the battle was being forced from several points at once; and again he realized how absolutely helpless he was—there was no hope now. When Ned and Chesty returned to the bunk-house, drawing meagre satisfaction from the clearing weather, they left behind them a man broken in spirit, weak from fruitless anger, who shook his upraised arms at Providence and cursed every man in Montana. A desperate idea entered his head: he would force the fighting. He slipped out of the corral, roped his horse and led it around back of the ranch house, where he tethered it and returned to the house to wait for night. Night would see him at Schatz's cabin, there to choke out the truth and strike his first blow.
Jake came in, muttering something about lights and supper, to retreat silently at the curt dismissal. The long shadows stole into the room, enveloping the brooding figure, and deepened into dark. The time was come and Buck arose and went out to his horse. With his hand on the picket he paused and listened. Across the Jill a broad moon was beginning to cast its light and from the same direction, a long way off, came the sound of singing. The singer was coming toward him and Buck stepped into the house again to await his arrival. He might be the bearer of some message.
While he paced restlessly the singing died down and in a few minutes the squeaking of a vehicle caught his ear. He wondered who cared to drive over that trail when there were so many good saddle horses to be had for the asking and he started toward the door to see. Suddenly he stopped as if shot and gripped his hat with all his strength as another song came to his ears. He doubted his senses and feared he was going crazy, hoping against hope that he heard aright. Who in Montana could know that song!
"'Th' cows go grazin' o'er th' lea—Pore Whiskey Bill, pore Whiskey Bill.An' achin' thoughts pour in on meOf Whiskey Bill.Th' sheriff up an' found his stride,Bill's soul went shootin' down th' slide—How are things o'er th' Great Divide,Oh, Whiskey Bill?'
"'Th' cows go grazin' o'er th' lea—Pore Whiskey Bill, pore Whiskey Bill.An' achin' thoughts pour in on meOf Whiskey Bill.Th' sheriff up an' found his stride,Bill's soul went shootin' down th' slide—How are things o'er th' Great Divide,Oh, Whiskey Bill?'
"'Th' cows go grazin' o'er th' lea—
Pore Whiskey Bill, pore Whiskey Bill.
An' achin' thoughts pour in on meOf Whiskey Bill.Th' sheriff up an' found his stride,
An' achin' thoughts pour in on me
Of Whiskey Bill.
Of Whiskey Bill.
Th' sheriff up an' found his stride,
Bill's soul went shootin' down th' slide—
How are things o'er th' Great Divide,Oh, Whiskey Bill?'
How are things o'er th' Great Divide,
Oh, Whiskey Bill?'
Oh, Whiskey Bill?'
"Hello th' house! Hey, Buck! Buck!O, Buck! Whoa, blame you—think I'm a fool tenderfoot? Hey, Buck! BUCK!"
Buck leaped to the door in one great bound and ran toward the creeping buckboard, yelling like an Indian. The bunk-house door flew open and the men tumbled through it, guns in hand, and sprinted toward the point of trouble. Bow-Wow led and close upon his heels ran Whitby, with Murray a close third. When the leader got near enough he saw two men wrestling near a buckboard and he manoeuvred so as to insert himself into the fracas at the first opportunity. Then he snorted and backed off in profound astonishment, colliding with the eager Englishman, to the pain of both. The wrestlers were not wrestling but hugging; and a woman in the buckboard was laughing with delight. Bow-Wow shook his head as if to clear it and began to slip back toward the bunk-house. This was against all his teachings and he would have no part in it. The idea of two cowmen hugging each other!
Whitby strolled after and overtook the muttering puncher. "I fancy that's one of those Texans he 's been talking about; or, rather, two of them. Perhaps we shall see some frontier law up here now—and God knows it is time."
Slow Jack veered off and swore in his throat. "Texaslaw, huh? We 'll send him back where he come from, in a box!" he growled.
He stopped when he heard Buck's laughing words, and sneered: "Hopalong Cassidy an' his wife, eh? She 'll be his widder if he cuts inthisgame. But I wonder if any more o' them terrible Texas killers is comin' up? Huh! Let 'em come—that's all."
CHAPTER XVI
THE MASTER MIND
For a while, at least, Buck seemed to cast his troubles to the four winds and was a picture of delight; his happiness, bubbling up in every word, kept his face wreathed in one vast smile. At last he had a man whom he could trust. Jake was summoned and prepared the best meal he could and the three sat down to a very good supper, Buck surprised to find how hungry he had become. His visit to Schatz was forgotten as he listened to Hopalong and Mary chatter about old times and people he wished he could see again.
After a little, Hopalong noticed how tired his wife was and sent her to get a good night's rest. The long railroad journey and the ride in the buckboard had been a great strain on her.
When left alone, Buck demanded to know all about the Bar-20 and its outfit and laughed until the tears came as he listened to some of the tales. "What deviltry has Johnny been up to since I left?" asked Buck.
"Well, it's only been six months," replied Hopalong, "so you see he ain't really had much time; but he 's made good use o' what he did have. He fell in love again, had th' prospectin' fever, wanted to go down to th' Mexican line an' help Martin. I had th' very devil of a time stoppin' him. Him an' Lucas had their third fight an' Lucas got licked this time; then they went off to Cowan's an' blew th' crowd, near havin' another scrap 'cause each wanted to pay. He dosed Pete's cayuse with whiskey an' ginger, chased Lee Hop clean to Buckskin, so we ain't got no cook. Red licked him for that, so Johnny tied all th' boys together one night, tied chairs an' things to 'em an' then stepped outside an' began shootin' at th' stars. It was some lively, that mess in th' dark, judgin' from th' hair-raisin' noises; it scared th' Kid all th' way to Perry's Bend—leastways, we has no news for a week, when we hears he 'd pulled stakes there, leavin' th' town fightin' an' th' sheriff locked up in his own jail. Th' Bend has sent numerous invitations for him to call again. From there he drifts over to th' C80, wins all their money an' then rides home loaded down with presents to square hisself with th' boys. He wanted to fight when I made Red foreman while I was away—it's Red's first good chance to get square."
"That's th' Kid, all right," laughed Buck. "Lord, how I wish he was up here!"
"Red, he's th' same grouch as ever but he's all right if Johnny 'd let him get set. As soon as Red calms down th' Kid calls his attention to somethin' excitin' an' th' trouble begins again. They all wanted to come up here an' give you a hand till you got things runnin' right. I told 'em I could get a better crowd in two days, so they stayed home to spite me. From what I 've heard I wish I 'd told 'em they could come—things 'd run smoother for you with them wild men buckjumpin' 'round lookin' for trouble. Like to turn Red an' Johnny loose up here with a good grudge to work off. Th' railroad would report that Montana was jumpin' east fast."
"What was that your wife called you?" asked Buck, curiously.
"Billy-Red," laughed Hopalong. "That 's her own name for me."
"Billy-h—l!" snorted Buck. "Billy-goat would suit you better."
"Say, Buck, Pete saw som'ers there was lots o' money in raisin' chickens, so he borrows all our money, gets about a hundred head from th' East, an' starts in. For a week there was lots of excitement 'round our place—coyotes got so they 'd get under our feet an' th' nights was plumb full o' hungry animals with a taste for chicken. We put up a bomb-proof coop but they tunnelled it th' first night an' got all that was left o' th' herd 'cept about a dozen what was roostin' high. Pete, he was broken-hearted an' give up. He makes Mary a present o' what was left of his stock, an' what do you think she give him for 'em? Two day's work diggin'. He dug a ditch, four-sided, for th' foundations of a new coop. Then he has to sink posts in it in th' ground an' fill th' ditch with stones. Johnny got th' stones in th' chuck wagon from th' creek, so as to square hisself with Mary, an' she give him a whole apricot pie for it. He 's been a nuisance ever since. Well, th' posts rose four feet above th' ground an' when that hen-corral was roofed over, you could see, any moonlight night, plenty o' coyotes trottin' 'round it, prayin' for somethin' to happen. We got some fine shootin' for a while. But I got other things to talk about, Buck—Texas can wait."
"Kind of a dry job, Hoppy," replied Buck, going to a cupboard and returning with a bottle.
"Better stuff than Cowan ever sold," smiled the visitor, and then plunged into what he considered real news.
"When we got off th' train at Wayback, I went huntin' for a wagon an' purty soon we was on our way to Twin River. I knowed we 'd have to spend th' night there: Mary could n't stand forty miles in a buckboard after that train ride. We had n't got very far from town when I hears a hail an' looks around to see Tex Ewalt comin' up. He spotted me when I left th' train but he did n't want to show he knows me there."
"What!" exclaimed Buck, in great surprise. "Tex Ewalt! Why, I thought he went East for good."
"He thought so, too, at th' time," and Hoppy gave a brief history of their friend's movements. "When he got back to th' ranch he was restless an' decided to come up here an' help you. He 's been very busy up here in a quiet way. He tells me he knows th' man that put th' itch on yore range. Tex says he could 'a' stopped it if he knew enough to add two an' two. But he says there 's another man behind him, slicker 'n a coyote. Tex 's been hopin' every day to rope an' tie him but he ain't got him yet."
"Who is it?" asked Buck, with grim simplicity.
"Tex won't tell me. He says you can't do no good shootin' on suspicion. He's tried watchin' him but he might as well be goin' to church when he does leave home, his travels is that innocent."
"Why didn't Tex come here? I been wantin' one man I could trust, an' me an' Tex could 'a' wiped out th' gang."
"He says different—an' he was afraid o' bein' seen. You see, that would kill his usefulness. Just as soon as he could get to th' bottom o' th' game an' lay his fingers on th' real boss,thenhe 'd 'a' come out for you in th' open, put th' boss in th' scrap-pile for burial, an' burned powder till you had things where you wanted 'em. We about concluded you ain't makin' good use o' th' punchers you got, Buck, though I shore hates to say it."
"How can I make use o' men I don't trust? You don't know th' worst, Hopalong—"
"About th' couple o' thousand head went swimmin'? I ain't heard much else in Twin River. How 'd it happen?"
Buck ran over the day's occurrences graphically and without missing a single point. Hopalong's thoughtful comment was characteristic of the man upon whom Buck had unconsciously leaned in crises not a few.
"The two men on yore south pasture is liars," he declared. "Yore foreman is some doubtful: 'pears like to me if he 's honest an' attendin' to business, no point o' yore range ought to go shy o' him for long. Th' Britisher 's white: it's no part o' his business to help you, th' way Tex tells me; if he ain't square he just does his work an' don't offer no suggestions. Th' other two is all right if they ain't just fools what 'll do as th' foreman says 'cause he 's th' foreman, right or wrong. That's how I reckons you stand. Now we got to prove it."
"Fire away," said Buck, earnestly. "I agrees to every word. Provin' it's th' horse I ain't been able to rope."
"Th' outlyin' free range don't count. You ain't missed no cows in th' round-up, has you?"
"No, they tallied high."
"Goes to show there 's a head to th' deviltry. You don't get no losses on'y right on yore home range. Now, we divide th' range in sections, a man to each section, an' work 'em that way a few days. There won't be no night ridin' at first. Then we set 'em night ridin' when they ain't expectin' it an' shift th' men every night. We soon know who to trust, don't we?"
"Yo 're right—plumb right—an' it's so simple I ought to be fed hay, for a cow. I got a map som'ers—or I 'll make one. We 'll lay out them sections right now."
"That's th' talk! There ain't no time like right now for doin' most things, Buck."
They were not long in laying out and perfecting their plans and had said good-night when Buck suddenly remembered the picketed pony. He turned it into the corral and went to bed. Smiler Schatz, sleeping the sleep of the very wicked and the very innocent, did not dream how near he had come to an incident more exciting than any he had ever passed through.
CHAPTER XVII
HOPALONG'S NIGHT RIDE
Hopalong, passing the bunk-house on his way to the stable, paused to listen. Through the open window Pickles' voice had reached him quite clearly: "I don't guess I 'll ever get him, Whit, but if I do, it 'll be for keeps, you betcher."
Hopalong was interested. The death of Gottleib Gerken was an old story and so many things of pressing moment having occurred about the time of Hopalong's arrival, he had not been told of this. The finality of decision in Pickles' murderous intention was so evident that Hopalong wondered how the boy came to conceive so deadly a hatred. He stepped to the window and stood looking at the two figures within. They neither saw nor heard him.
Both were deep in thought. Whitby's inherent regard for due process of law had received numerous shocks since he left Chicago. Like many another square man finding his niche in a raw country, he was beginning to see that right must be enforced by might, until such time as wrong became subdued by the steady march of the older civilization. And this face-about in opinion is not accomplished in a day, even when on the spot and a personal sufferer. It was this new feeling that led him to listen with respect to Pickles' confidences, boy though he was. Boys imbibed men's ideas early in this country; too early, thought Whitby, recalling his own play-time at this lad's age. He stole a look at the glum face beside him and began to draw circles with the point of the switch he held in his hand—he was never without one. "It's a pity," he said, "a pity."
"What's a pity?" asked Pickles, a note of indignation in his voice at the implied suggestion.
Whitby ignored the tone. "It's a pity you never heard of the Witch's Spell," he explained, reminiscently.
"What's that?"
"But then, of course," reasoned Whitby, "if you can't find a Witch's Ring, you can't work the Spell; and I rather fancy there is n't a Witch's Ring in all the world outside of Yorkshire."
"What's it like?" demanded Pickles, with the practical insistence of Young America.
"Why, the Old Witch makes it, you know. She runs around in a ring and blows on the grass and it never grows any more. Inside the Ring and outside, the grass is just the same, but the Ring is always bare."
Pickles was silent. He was picturing to himself the process of the Ring in the making. So was Hopalong. It seemed very matter-of-fact as Whitby told it; still, there was something—
"What's she do that for?" asked Pickles—the very question Hopalong was asking himself.
"It's the bad fairies, you know, and Wizards, and that sort of thing; she 's afraid of them. But they can't pass the Ring, no matter how deep they dig, so the Witch is quite safe, you know. They 're a bad lot, those others, no end. But the Old Witch is quite a decent sort. She lives inside the Ring, under the ground, and that's where you go to get your wish."
Pickles pondered. His eyes began to glow. "Any wish?" he questioned, in subdued excitement.
"All sorts," declared Whitby. "There was Jimmie Pickering: he always got his wish; he told me so, himself; and Arthur Cooper: he wished to be a minister and he got his wish; and George Hick: he wished to see the world and he 's always travelling up and down the earth; and Allen Ramsey, who wished to be an athlete, strong, you know: he got his wish; then there was Maggie Sheffield, who wished to marry a soldier: she married a soldier; and Vi Glades, who wished to be a singer: she can sing tears into your heart, lad, so sweet you 're glad to have them there; so she got her wish. And ever so many more: they all got their wishes. She was a rare good one, that Witch."
"Did you get yore wish, Whit?"
"I could only count to seven," explained Whitby.
Pickles' lips moved silently. "How many do you have to count?" he asked, dubiously.
"Nine," said Whitby, with a regretful sigh. "You run around the Ring nine times, holding your breath and saying your wish to yourself over and over again. Then you run into the middle and lie down. You must n't breathe until you lie down. When you put your ear to the ground you can hear the Old Witch churning out your wish. 'Ka-Chug! Ka-Chug! Ka-Chug!' goes the churn, away down in the earth. Then you know you will get your wish."
Pickles straightened up and looked fixedly at Whitby. His voice was very solemn: "Whit, I take my oath there's a Witch's Ring right here on the range!"
"Nonsense!"
"Hope I may die! I 'll show you, to-morrow. An' I 'm a-goin' to wish—"
"I say! You must n't tell your wish, you know. That breaks the Spell. If ever you tell your wish, it does n't come true."
"Jiggers!—I won't tell. Nine times 'round the Ring an' hol' yore breath an' say yore wish fast an' then to th' middle—"
Hopalong lost the rest as he continued on his way to the stable. Pickles' Ring puzzled him only for a moment, for as he turned away from the window, he was chuckling. "Means some place where th' Injuns used to war-dance, I reckon," was his conclusion. "But that Britisher seems like he believed it himself."
Two minutes later and he was in the saddle and riding south, edging over toward Big Moose trail. He melted into the surrounding darkness like a shadow, silence having been the evident aim of his unusual preparations earlier in the evening. Not a leather creaked; an impatient toss of his pony's head betrayed no clink of metal on teeth; the velvety padding of the hoofs made as little noise as the passing of one of the larger cats, in a hurry. Hopalong meant to quarter the section of range allotted him like a restless ghost and, if the others did as well, he had a strong conviction that night-deviltry would lose its attractions in this particular part of the country.
It was not long before he began to test his memory. To a man of his experience this guard duty would have presented but little difficulty in any case, but Hopalong had been careful to make a very complete mental map of this section when riding it by daylight. He went on now like a man in his own house.
He turned abruptly to the left, heading for the Jill and taking the low ground between two huge buttes. Just short of the Big Moose trail he halted, listening intently for five minutes, and then, turning west again, began to quarter the ground like a hound, gradually working south. With the plainsman's certainty of direction his course followed a series of obliques, fairly regular, though he chose the low ground, winding about the buttes, to the top of which he lent a keen scrutiny. He stopped for minutes at a time to listen and then went on again.
It was during one of these pauses that he espied a dark shape at rest not far from him. He eyed it with suspicion. It should be a cow but there was something not quite normal in its attitude. He rode forward cautiously, being in no way desirous of disturbing the brute. Circling it at a walk a similar object loomed up, some little distance from the other. "Calf!" he decided. A few steps nearer and he changed his mind. "No, another cow. I don't know as I ever see cattle look like that. 'Pears like they was shore enough tuckered out—an' I bet they ain't drifted a mile in twenty-four hours." They were very still. There was no reason why they should not be and yet—the wind being right, he hazarded a few steps nearer.
And then there came to his ears a sound that stiffened him in his saddle. His pony turned its head and gazed inquiringly into the darkness. "Injuns!" breathed Hopalong, doubt struggling with conviction. He slipped to earth and ran noiselessly to the nearest recumbent figure. A single touch told him: it was a dead cow; warm, but unquestionably dead.
With his horse under him once more, Hoppy crept forward. Careful before, his progress now had all the stealth of a stalking tiger. There it came again: the unmistakable twang of a bow-string. The pony veered to the left in response to the pressure of Hoppy's knee, when there sounded a movement to the right and he straightened his course to ride between the two. His spirits began to rise with the old-time zest at the imminence of a fight to the death. Mary, back yonder in the ranch house, with her new proud hope, Buck and his anxieties, Tex in his indefatigable hunt for evidence, the far-distant Bar-20 with its duties and its band of loyal friends, all were forgotten in the complete absorption of the coming duel. Indians! Rebellious and treacherous punchers were foemen to beware of, but these red wolves, savage from the curb of the reservation and hungry with a blood lust long denied—a grin of pure delight spread over his features as he foresaw the instant transformation from cattle-killing thieves to strategic assassins at the first crack of his Colt.
The odds could not be great and he expected to reduce them at the opening of hostilities. Warily he glanced about him as he moved slowly forward, casting, at the last, a searching look off to the right. He saw that which brought him up standing, his breath caught in his distended lungs; it escaped in a long sigh of pleased wonder: "Great Land of Freedom! Please look at that," he pleaded to his unresponsive country.
Broadside on, head up and facing him with ears pricked forward, alert yet waiting, stood a horse that filled Hopalong's soul with the sin of covetousness. So near that the obscurity failed to hide a line, the powerful quarters and grand forehand betrayed to Hopalong's discerning eyes a latent force a little superior to the best he had ever looked on. "An' a' Injun's!" sighed Hoppy, in measureless disgust. "But not if I sees th' Injun," he added hopefully. Wishing that he might, his thought back-somersaulted to Pickles and Whitby and the Witch's Spell. A whimsical smile wrinkled the corners of his mouth and at this very moment the thing happened.
A nerve-racking screech, the like of which no Indian ever made, lifted the hair on Hoppy's head, and his pony immediately entered upon a series of amazing calisthenics, an enthusiastic rendering no doubt enhanced by the inch or two of arrow-head in his rump. Hopalong caught one glimpse of a squat, mis-shapen figure that went past him with a rush and let go at it, more from habit than with the expectation of hitting. When he had subdued his horse to the exercise of some little equine sense, the rapidly decreasing sound of the fleeing marauder told him that only one had been at work and with grim hopelessness he set after him. "Might as well try to catch a comet," he growled, sinking his spurs into the pony's side and momentarily distracting its attention from the biting anguish of the lengthier spur behind.
The pony was running less silently than when he left the ranch. Portions of unaccustomed equipment, loosened in his mad flurry, were dropping from him at every jump. This, and the straining of Hopalong's hearing after the chase, allowed to pass unnoticed the coming up of a third horseman, riding at an angle to intercept the pursuit. The first intimation of his presence Hopalong received was the whine of a bullet, too close for comfort, and Hopalong was off and behind his pony to welcome the crack of the rifle when it reached him. "Shootin' at random, d—n his fool hide!" snorted Hoppy; "an' shootin' good too," he conceded, as a second bullet sped eagerly after the first. Hoppy released a bellow of angry protest: "Hey! What 'n h—l do you reckon yo 're doin'?"
There was an interval of silence and then a voice from the darkness: "Show a laig, there: who is it?"
"Show you a boot, you locoed bummer! It's Cassidy." He mounted resignedly and waited for the other to ride up. "Could n't 'a' caught him, nohow," he reflected. "Never see such a horse in my life, never. Hope to th' Lord it don't rain. Be just like it."
The unknown rode up full of apologies. Hopalong cut him short. "What d' they call you?" he asked, curtly.
"Slow Jack," was the answer.
Hoppy grunted. "Well, you camp down right here," he ordered, "an' don't let nobody blot that sign. I 'm a-goin' to be here at daylight an' foller that screech-owl th' limit. Good-night."
He headed for the ranch house, satisfied that his section of range would remain undisturbed during the next few hours, at the least.
* * * * *
"Sweet birds-o'-paradise! Would you—would you oblige me by squintin' at that!"
Straight north, from the few dead carcasses where the trail started it led to the creek bank, east of the ranch house; and like hounds with nose to scent, Hopalong, Buck, and Ned had followed it from the point where Slow Jack had been found doing sentry-go and sent, in profane relief, to breakfast and sleep. Hoppy was in the lead and as he came to the creek he raised his eyes to look across at the other bank for signs of the quarry's exit from the water. It was the sign on the north bank, coupled with that on the somewhat higher bank where they stood, that had made him exclaim.
Ned Monroe's face cleared of the frowning perplexity that had darkened it at first sight of the hoof prints they tracked. "Must be a stranger," he affirmed. "Dunno th' country or he 'd never jump when he could ride through."
"Jump!" exclaimed Buck, startled. "Why, of course," he conceded. "Hoppy, that's shore one scrumptious jump"; and the dawning admiration grew to wonder as he mentally measured the distance.
Hoppy nodded his head. "Inever see th' horse could do it right now; an' that bird flew over there last night. He was right on it afore he knew an' he did n't stop to remember how deep it was; he just dug in a spur an' lifted him at sight of th' breakin' bubbles: they 'd show purty nigh white last night—an' th' horse, he does n't know how much he has to jump, so he jumps a good one—a d—n good one, though Ned, here, don't think it so much. Mebby you know a horse as could do it right easy, eh, Ned?"
With Hopalong's sharp eyes on his face, Ned shook his head in denial, gazing stolidly at the sign. "Too good for any in these parts; would n't be no disgrace for a thoroughbred."
Buck glanced quickly at Ned and then, pulling his hat low over his eyes, struck up the brim with two snappy blows of the back of his hand.
"Well, Buck, I reckon I 'll leave you an' Ned to foller this. I got a feelin' I 'm wanted at th' ranch. So long." Hopalong rode off in obedience to one of the signals that had helped to simplify affairs among the Bar-20 punchers.
Buck had signified his desire for Hoppy's absence. He pushed Allday to the creek and set off at a lope. "Easy as follerin' a wagon, Ned," he remarked.
"Yep," agreed Ned.
"Stopped here," observed Buck. "Listenin', I reckon. Goin' slower, now."
"Some," replied Ned.
"Right smart jump acrost that creek," said Buck, questioningly.
"Uh-huh!" consented Ned, with non-committal brevity.
They rode a couple of miles before Buck hazarded another remark. "Seems like I oughta know that hoof," he complained. "Keeps a-lookin' more 'n more like I knowed it. Durn thing purty nigh talks."
Ned threw him a startled glance and then gazed steadily ahead. "Be at th' Jill in a minute," he announced.
"Yeah. Thought he was driftin' that-away. Lay you ten to two he don'tjumpth' Jill, Ned."
"Here 's Charley," was the irrelevant response. The Indian was a welcome diversion. Buck slowed to a walk, raised his eyes and waved Charley an amiable salute. The Cheyenne promptly left the trail and rode to join them.
"Hey, Charley, whose horse is that?" asked Buck, pointing to the hoof prints.
The Indian barely glanced at them. "French Rose," he declared. "Cross trail, swim river before sun. Heap good horse."
"Where goin', Charley—ranch?" asked Buck, evenly. He did not question the Cheyenne's conclusions.He knew. Buck was satisfied of that.
Charley grinned sheepishly and shifted uneasily under Buck's stare. "That's all right," assured Buck, "tell Jake to give you—no, wait for me. I 'll be there as soon as you are." He turned away and Charley accepted his dismissal in high good humor, riding off with cheering visions of a cupful of the "old man's" whiskey, which was very different from that dispensed over the bar in Twin River.
"Well, Ned," said Buck.
"Well, Buck," returned Ned.
"You knew it was Rose's horse."
"I was a-feared."
"You knew it, you durn ol' grizzly."
"Look a-here, Buck. You ain't goin' to tell me as how Rose—"
"Not by a jugful! That's a flower without a stain, Ned, an' I backs her with my whole pile."
"Here, too," coincided Ned, in hearty accord.
"We lost th' trail, Ned."
"You bet!"
"In th' Jill."
"Took a boat," suggested Ned, solemnly.
Buck concealed his amusement. "Or a balloon," he offered.
"Mebby," assented Ned. "Could n't pick her up agin, nohow."
"Not if we 'd had a dog," declared Buck.
"Or a' Injun," supplemented Ned. They gazed at one another for a second and, of one mind, spun their horses around and off for the ranch like thoroughbreds at the drop of the flag.
"I just thought o' Charley," explained Buck.
"Here, too," grunted Ned.
"Might talk," said Buck.
"You bet."
Charley heard them coming. When he saw them, the explanation to his untutored mind was a race. Determined to be in at the finish, he laid the quirt to his pony with enthusiastic zeal, casting a rapid glance over his shoulder, now and then, to see if he were holding his own. It was a sight to see the tireless little pony wake up under punishment. He had covered twenty miles that day and over forty the day before, but he shot forward on his wiry legs like a startled jack-rabbit and in one-two-three order they thundered up to the ranch house with a noise that brought Mary to the door.
"Well, Buck Peters!" she exclaimed, "ain't younevergoin' to grow up? Yo're worse'n that loco husband o' mine, right now."
Buck grinned at the abashed Ned and winked knowingly at Mary. He and Mary were very good friends, Buck long ago having gauged her sterling worth and become aware of her mischievous propensity for teasing. As he led Charley indoors he asked for Hopalong and learned that he had set off for Twin River soon after his arrival at the ranch house.