As Tompkins climbed down the rock-strewn cañon toward the thorny growth which hid the flivver from sight, he came to a decision upon his course of action, forcing himself to determine upon a caution which was distasteful and yet necessary.
“Hasta mañana!” he resolved. “Until tomorrow, at least, I must remain Percival and so forth Tompkins—and then I’ll become Pat Ramsay once more, and get into action. The damned murderers! I wonder how many men have gone the way of poor Alec? I wonder how many people have been decoyed into this spiderweb to lose everything they had? Alec must have gone investigating, must have discovered the headquarters of this gang—and so they finished him. He’s probably lying somewhere up that cañon now. Well, time enough to look him up; just now I’ve got to watch my step mighty close.”
He was now assailed by the problem of locating Sagebrush, since he could not well run off with the car and leave his companion to rusticate in the desert solitudes. As he came in sight of the patch of piñon and cactus which enshrined the flivver, he caught no sign of the desert rat. He knew that he could recall Sagebrush with a smoke, but this he did not desire to do unless necessary.
When he drew near the clump, he perceived Hassayamp’s flivver on the other side, with strips of canvas flung over the tires to protect them. An unusual object beneath this car attracted his attention, and upon closer approach he discovered it to be no other than Sagebrush. He gave a hail, and the old desert rat crawled out into the sunlight.
An exclamation broke from Tompkins, and he hurried forward. The left arm of Sagebrush was out of its shirt-sleeve and roughly bandaged, and the bandage was dark with blood.
“What happened?” he demanded. “How’d you hurt yourself, old-timer?”. Sagebrush clawed at his whiskers and flung the inquirer a pained look.
“You got it plumb wrong, Perfesser,” he observed. “I aint been meanderin’ around these parts for fifteen year or more ’thout leamin’ how not to hurt myself. I aint no pilgrim, by gosh!”
“My humble apologies,” said Tompkins dryly. “May I ask, then, who hurt you?” Sagebrush grinned.
“Another of these yere smart gents who think that ’cause a man’s a prospector and don’t wear galluses, he’s a babe in arms. I aint right certain as to this feller’s name, but when I was over to Mohave six months ago, I seen a picture of him in the sheriff’s office. Name was Joe Mendoza, or some suchcholoname.”
The speaker enjoyed hugely the bewilderment of Tompkins.
“You don’t mean you had a scrap, Sagebrush?”
“Nope.” Sagebrush expectorated, wiped his lips and grinned. “I was peckin’ away at a ledge in a cañon a couple mile east of yere, when durned if that feller Mesquite Harrison didn’t come ridin’ down the cañon on a hoss! Yessir! Right on top o’ me, ’fore I seen him, too. He started throwin’ lead, and I covered up, and ’fore I could git into action, the coyote was gone. Then along come another feller that I hadn’t seen, this yerecholo, and durned if he didn’t pick on me too. But I was ready for him, you betcha! I gives him jest one crack from ol’ Betsy,”—here Sagebrush patted his waistband significantly,—“and he flops. I walks over to him and seen he looked like thischoloMendoza, and then I come back yere and set down to rest a spell.”
“Killed him?” asked Tompkins curtly.
“Hope so. He was some dead when I left him, anyhow, but you never can tell ’bout themmarihuana-eaters. I knowed acholoover to Mormon Wells, oncet, that etmarihuanaand smoked it likewise. Fin’ly one night he got plumb filled up on it, and jumped into the corral and begun to slash the hosses with his knife. Sheriff and two other fellers sat on the bars and pumped lead into him for as much as five minutes, but he didn’t quit till he’d slashed every hoss there; then he quit. Sheriff allowed he’d been dead with the first shot, but themarihuanahad kep’ him goin’, same’s a rattler keeps a-twitchin’ till sundown after he’s dead. That there hop is powerful stuff, Perfesser.”
Tompkins stood staring at the desert rat for a moment. Then:
“The whole gang will be after you now, wont they?”
Sagebrush gave him a queer look. “How come you know so durned much, Perfesser?”
“That’s what I’m here to know,” snapped Tompkins suddenly. “Remember my asking you about a boulder with piñon trees growing out of it? Well, that place is up yonder in Pinecate Cañon. My name isn’t Tompkins at all. It’s Pat Ramsay. Last year my brother Alec came over here to spend a year in the desert and clear up his lungs. He bought a place and vanished—clear vanished, and couldn’t be traced. The last heard of him was from Stovepipe Springs. He wrote me about a place he had bought, describing that boulder. I found this up the cañon in a pack-rat’s nest. Look it over while I get the car ready.”
He gave the cigarette case to the staring desert rat, then turned and went back to his own car. When he got this out of the brush, he removed most of the load and hid it securely among the trees. This done, he returned to Sagebrush, who was sitting on the running-board of Hassayamp’s car examining the deed.
“Anything I can do for your arm?” he asked.
“Nope. Bone aint hurt. Say, Perfesser, you’ve sure struck me all of a heap! Still, I knowed you wasn’t the danged fool you looked.”
“Thanks.” Tompkins laughed curtly. “Now, Sagebrush, I’m going to town, speak easy to everyone, and slide back here. First I want to investigate that Hourglass Cañon, wherever it is—”
“I know where it is,” said Sagebrush, scratching his wealth of whiskers.
“All right. Where do you come in on the program? Want to be left out?”
Sagebrush produced his pipe and sucked at it. At length he made slow answer.
“Perfesser, there’s some folks around here jest pining to be left alone, and most gen’ally they gets left alone. ThatcholoMendoza was one such, and killin’ him aint botherin’ me none. Most likely you’ve discounted Sidewinder Crowfoot?”
“My guess is that he’s the head of the whole gang.”
“Reckon ye aint far off. Now, so long as I aint bothered, I aint troublin’ nobody. My motter is never to bother a rattler what’s a gent and sounds his rattles—but if he acts like a sidewinder, then bash his head, and do it pronto! Yestiddy you asks if I’ll help keep this yere female from gettin’ skun, and I says no. I still aint int’rested nohow. But two of that danged crowd have set in on me with a cold deck this mornin’, and I’m plumb riled. Yessir, I’m riled!”
Sagebrush stood up. His bent figure straightened a trifle, and a sudden savage expression showed in his eyes, half masked behind the hairy growth of whiskers. In a flash all his dirt and squalor, all his unkempt and sun-bleached appearance, was gone in the eyes of Tompkins; he saw there a desert man who cared nothing for externals, but who could cope daily with the bitterest and most fearful forces of nature—and who was now ready to turn his inward strength against men. The drab and plodding desert rat suddenly showed, for one flashing moment, what unsuspected depths of character lay within him; and a rush of anger unbarred the floodgates of his reticence.
“Yessir, I’m riled! I’ve seen them goin’s-on and said nothin’. I’ve seen them outlaws rulin’ the roost around yere and said nothin’. ’Twan’t no skin off’m my nose. I hadn’t no call to butt in. I’ve seen folks come in yere right happy, and seen ’em go out skun and mis’able and busted. I’ve seen one feller after another come in yere with the law two jumps behind him, and he goes over to Hourglass Cañon and lives happy. No law reaches in yere; nobody dast to interfere; and nobody knows about it anyhow. Stovepipe Springs, dad blame it, is jest a blind! If any law-off’cer comes pirootin’ around, he gits steered plumb careful and goes away ’thout learnin’ nothin’. But now, by gosh, I’m riled! Yessir. Perfesser, I’m with ye six ways from Sunday. Them skunks have sold us chips in this yere game, and by gosh I’ll play them chips till hell freezes over! Name your ante, Perfesser, and let’s go.”
Sagebrush relaxed. He stuck his pipe in his pocket, brought out his plug and bit off a large section. Tompkins, taking the cigarette case and pocketing it, nodded.
“Good. I’m going to get a rifle in town and come back tomorrow morning without anyone suspecting what I have in mind. Then I’ll be Pat Ramsay once more. Want to go to town with me?”
“Reckon not,” said Sagebrush reflectively. “Mesquite was headin’ for town, and him and me would sure collide. That might spoil your hand. And say! I remember that brother o’ yours. I seen him with Mesquite one time. He looked a heap like you do ’thout them spec’s and all.” Tompkins produced his pocket flask, opened it and held it out.
“Here’s to our luck, Sagebrush! Good hunting!”
With a grunt of delight, Sagebrush lifted the flask and absorbed his share of the contents; Tompkins finished it off, undisturbed by any thought of rock scorpions, eyed the empty glass container, and with a laugh tossed it into the clump of trees.
“Then I’m off. I’ll be back in the morning. Have to send that deed to be recorded. Anything you want from town?”
Sagebrush wiped his lips and nodded.
“Yep. There’s jest one feller there ye can trust—Haywire Johnson, up to the hotel. Register that deed and send by him and tell him to shet up about it. Otherwise, that durned Hassayamp will poke his nose into it. Then tell Haywire to give you that there gun he’s keepin’ for me. I don’t aim to carry more’n one gun these days, not havin’ much use for it, and Haywire has been keepin’ my other one. I’ll mosey up this yere cañon and have breakfast ready for ye in the mornin’. Git out early.”
With another nod, Tompkins climbed into his car, started the engine, and started away. He knew well enough that Sagebrush would carefully avoid meeting Hassayamp and Miss Gilman.
What most stirred in his mind, however, as he headed for town, was that mention of his brother and Mesquite Harrison—and Mesquite was now in town. Taken in conjunction with Crowfoot’s recommendation, here was a chance not to be missed.
“I’ll sure interview Mr. Harrison and give him the time of his life before I’m done with him!” thought Tompkins, and he glanced at the sun. “Hm! I can get to town and clean up everything before supper. Then I’ll want to see Miss Gilman. She must be persuaded to get out of here at once. Hm! Queer how old Sagebrush showed up. To all appearance, he’s a comic-supplement character; put him on a city street and he’d gather a crowd—but how many of that crowd would last a week with him on the Mohave? These smart Alecs back East who think Europe is better than America and who part their hair the way the Prince of Wales does it, and who look on everyone west of Newark, N. J. with supreme contempt—wouldn’t I like to see ’em get out in the desert with old Sagebrush, though! They’d find out what sort of man it was who made this country what she is.”
It did not occur to him that in undertaking to play a lone hand against the Hourglass Cañon gang, he was likewise carrying out certain traditions of Americanism.
The First State Bank of Stovepipe Springs had no banking hours, but was open whenever Sidewinder Crowfoot was there. It was nearly supper-time when Percival Henry J. Tompkins entered; and Sidewinder gazed at him in astonishment.
“Thought you were off bug-hunting!”
Tompkins shook his head sadly.
“I regret to say, sir, that the man whom I had engaged proved to be an unworthy rascal. I refer to Mr. Beam. In common parlance, he was drunk, insisted on taking me in the contrary direction to that which I desired, and even threatened me with a revolver. I abandoned him in the desert, but had I not encountered Miss Gilman and Mr. Foster, I might never have found my way back to town. Here is your receipt, sir, and I shall have to withdraw my money temporarily until I can recompense Mr. Foster for his assistance and make certain purchases. Tomorrow I hope to start off again with a new guide.”
The glittering gray eyes of Sidewinder were masked for a moment, then shot up.
“That’s right good news!” he exclaimed. “That feller I recommended to you, Mesquite Harrison, is here in town right now. Want to see him?”
“By all means!” said Tompkins gratefully. “If he can come to the hotel later on this evening, I shall be very glad—or, let us say, early tomorrow morning. I shall be up with the sun, and I trust early rising will not discommode him?”
“None to mention,” said Sidewinder, and took an envelope from his safe. “Here’s your money. Bring back what you got left tomorrow, and we’ll take care of it.”
“Thank you—thank you very much,” said Tompkins, and departed.
Halting at the garage to see that fresh supplies of fuel were put aboard the flivver, which he left standing in the street, he walked on down to the hotel and found Haywire Johnson in the office, alone. Mr. Tompkins produced a ten-dollar gold-piece and laid it under the eyes of the startled Haywire.
“Want to earn that, partner?” he asked in his natural voice.
“Gosh, yes!” said Haywire promptly. “Whose mail d’ye want?”
“Nobody’s. Give me an envelope and some sealing-wax.” When he was supplied, Tompkins wrote a short note, inclosed with it the deed to Alec Ramsay’s property in Pinecate Cañon, addressed the envelope to the recorder in Chuckwalla City, and sealed it up. Then he gave it to Haywire.
“Register this, and slip it into tomorrow morning’s mail-sack without giving Hassayamp a squint at it. That earns the first ten.” Tompkins now produced a second gold-piece, at which Haywire goggled frantically. “Here’s another you can earn. Go over to Pincus’ store and buy me a rifle with a box of cartridges—”
“Hold on, Puffesser!” broke in Haywire, quickly. “I got one I’ll sell cheap. Good gosh, yes! Five year old, but better’n they make ’em now. Distance sights.”
“All right. Sneak it into my room with a box of cartridges to fit, and I’ll pay you for it; bring along that gun you’re keeping for Sagebrush Beam, too. He wants it. There’s the other ten. You’ll earn it by keeping your mouth shut real tight. And listen! Will you or Hassayamp be on deck along about sunup in the morning?”
“Hassayamp wont; that’s certain,” said Haywire, staring at Tompkins. “I’m liable to be, if ye want me.”
“All right. You know Mesquite Harrison? He’s coming to see me. Bring him right to my room, savvy? Then if you hear him yell, be deaf in both ears, and if you see anything funny going on, be blind in both eyes.”
“All right, Puffesser. Gosh, ye don’t talk like the same feller ye was—”
“Never mind. Your job is to be a human sphinx. Supper ready?”
“Bell’s just about to ring, Puffesser. I’ll be along d’rectly.”
Seeking his own cell, Tompkins enjoyed a thorough wash-up, and before he finished heard signs of life in the adjoining room which tokened that Miss Gilman had returned. On his way to the dining-room he encountered Hassayamp, looking more melancholy than ever, and was given a cheerless nod; then a flicker of interest seized the hotel-proprietor.
“Say, Puffesser! Thought you aimed to stay awhile in the desert?”
“So I did, Mr. Foster,” said Tompkins blandly. “So I did. But I regret to say that I had trouble with my companion. Perhaps you observed that I was alone when we met each other this afternoon? Luckily I was able to follow the tracks of your car back to town, or I might have been lost. I trust your stomach trouble has quite passed over?”
“More or less,” said Hassayamp, and went his way.
Tompkins went in and dined heartily, now confident that even if Hassayamp and Sidewinder got together in conference during the evening, they would be unable to figure him out to any great extent.
When Miss Gilman appeared at her table, she gave Tompkins a smiling nod, and he perceived that her day on the burning sands had done its work well.
“Cold cream is recommended,” he exclaimed. “May I inquire whether you will view the beauties ol the sunset this evening in my company, madam?”
“I shall be charmed—Perfesser,” she responded, and Tompkins grinned.
There was no sunset to view that evening, however. When they met in front of the hotel, a keen wind was coming down off the Chuckwalla hills, and clouds had appeared like magic in the sky. They walked together in silence toward the deserted buildings of the old boom town, until Tompkins spoke.
“We’ll have snow upon the desert’s dusty face in the morning. Old Omar Khayyam sure had been there! I’ve seen an inch of snow on the Mohave at sunrise, and it’d be gone in an hour. This is probably the tail-ender of the season—rains are all over now. Well, how did you find everything up the cañon?”
“It was just as described in that deed,” she said soberly. “Oh, I’m sorry for the way I spoke the other night! I didn’t think it could be possible, Mr.—shall I call you Tompkins or Ramsay?”
“Neither one,” he responded with a whimsical smile. “Call me Pat.”
“No. I think you don’t need any encouragement to impertinence.” And she laughed. “But really—that cañon was a dream of beauty! There was water, running and in pools, and all sorts of lilies were there, and flowers—”
“Sure, a regular desert cañon after the rains,” said Tompkins. “And not very far away, a dead man.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean that! I didn’t want to think of your brother as—”
“I’m not talking about him. Another man.”
She gave him a startled look. “You mean a man was killed out there?”
“Yes, and another wounded. Several are going to be killed in the near future, if I’m any judge. You needn’t look alarmed about it, Miss Gilman; they’re outlaws. I’ve opened up the whole situation pretty well, I think. Now, I hope you’ll take my advice and get out of this town tomorrow morning on the stage. I expected to be gone about sunrise, as I have work waiting for me out yonder, but if you think you’ll need any moral backing in drawing out of the game, I’ll stay and see you through.”
“No, thanks,” she returned quietly. “I’m staying.”
“After what I’ve told you and showed you?” he said with a frown.
“Yes. Now let me explain, and don’t get too bossy. Hassayamp wanted to sell me that claim belonging to your brother; it’s one of the most beautiful spots I ever saw. However, I made some excuse about it not being suited to chickens, and I’m going to buy the five acres adjoining it and just above. You wait till you see that place! It’s got—”
“My dear girl,” said Tompkins, “don’t you know chickens can’t be raised here, without large and expensive precautions?”
“Oh, I’m not quite a tenderfoot. Chickens or not, I’m going to own that piece of land! And I’ve taken warning from you, too, because I’ll not turn over the money until the title is clear and the deed recorded. The five acres cost me three hundred dollars, mineral rights and all. Hassayamp owns it. He showed me where a mine used to be—it’s played out now. I don’t care a bit if the place is never any real good to me; I’m going to keep it just to live on when I get old, and enjoy it. Why, you get a wonderful view from the upper cañon out over the desert!”
“Well,” said Tompkins reluctantly, “since your eyes are open, I can’t of course make any more objections, though you can buy plenty of desert cañon for less money. But what about transport?”
“I’ve bought Hassayamp’s car. It’s an old one, but I know all about a flivver and it will do me. Then, I’m going to get a big tent set up there—”
Tompkins groaned inwardly, but presently changed the subject. It was no use whatever to raise up practical objections; the girl would have to find things out for herself. She was obviously determined on her course, and the more he saw of her, the more he began to feel that she was a pretty competent young woman. In fact, as they walked and spoke of cabbages surd kings, he was distinctly and unpleasantly surprised to find that it had grown dark and very cold, and that they must return to shelter immediately. When they had reached the adobe cells that constituted the hotel, he paused at her door and shook hands.
“From now on, Miss Gilman, my name’s Ramsay—only you’ll come to calling me Pat, especially if we’re to be neighbors. If you have any need of me, don’t hesitate to summon me. I believe Haywire Johnson is a good sort, and you may confide in him any time. And by the way, if you hear any queer noises early in the morning, don’t call for help.”
“I usually don’t,” she said, smiling. “Why?”
“One of the men who murdered my brother is coming to call on me, I hope.” The smile died on her lips. Her eyes widened on him.
“You mean it? But—but surely you—you don’t intend—”
“We’re going to have a talk; that’s all,” said Tompkins. “Good night, and pleasant dreams! I’ll see you again. Don’t forget to look through your blankets for stray lizards.”
He went on to his own cell, and in twenty minutes was sound asleep.
With dawn, Tompkins, or as he was now to become, Pat Ramsay, wakened to a glorious sunrise just breaking over a transformed world. As he had predicted, snow had come during the night. Everything was covered with a soft white garment, unusual but by no means unheard-of in the desert, which would be gone again in an hour.
He shaved and made his ablutions and got ready to travel. He inspected the rifle which Haywire had left in his room, and found it good. He was still looking it over when Haywire himself knocked at the door.
“Say, Puffesser! Mesquite is out there—” “All right, bring him right along. Hold on! I want to settle with you for this gun. And where’s that revolver that Sagebrush wanted?”
“Got it right here, Puffesser—”
Taking the old forty-five that was handed him, Ramsay paid for his rifle and then swiftly made ready for his visitor. He pulled down the blind of the window, partly darkening the room, then rubbed his face with talcum powder and seated himself without glasses or helmet, with his back to the door, the rifle in his hand. After a moment came steps, then a knock.
“Come in,” he said.
Mesquite Harrison stepped into the room and stood blinking at the swift transition from snow-dazzle to this obscurity. He was a cadaverous person with straggling mustache and rudimentary chin, adenoidal mouth and projecting front teeth; his entire countenance was stamped with viciousness and weakness, and one glance showed Ramsay that his ruse was bound to succeed.
“Heard ye wanted a guide,” said Mesquite.
“I wanted you,” said Ramsay, “and I came back to get you.”
He swung his chair around so that the light struck his face.
Mesquite Harrison uttered one low gasp, and then stood absolutely petrified, struck into helpless, motionless silence. His mouth opened, and his piggish eyes widened into round disks. He stood with hands thrown back against the door, and a ghastly pallor crept across his horrified countenance.
“Thought you were safe when you knew I was dead up there in Pinecate Cañon, didn’t you?” said Ramsay, in a hollow voice. “You thought that after shooting me through the lungs you were safe, eh? But you’re not. I’ve come back to get you! Don’t move a muscle, or I’ll put a bullet through you.”
His likeness to the vanished Alec Ramsay was strong—so strong that the wretched Mesquite Harrison made no query about how a ghost could shoot a rifle. This interesting conundrum was about the farthest thing from Mesquite’s mind at the moment. His distended eyes were fastened in horror upon the face of Ramsay, and now a low wail broke from him.
“Leave me be, fer Gawd’s sake!” he howled. “It wasn’t me! It was Cholo Bill and Tom Emery done it—I was jest trailin’ along with ’em that day! It was Tom Emery fired that shot! Leave me be and I’ll be good—”
He plumped down on his knees, and his teeth began to chatter with fright.
“All right,” said Ramsay in contempt. “Get up! Turn around and walk out that door and walk out to the street. Then start going—and keep going. Head for Meteorite, and don’t stop. I’ll be right back of you until you get there. You can’t see me after we get out of town, but I’ll be there. Get going!”
The unhappy Mesquite lost no time in obeying. He flung open the door, darted outside, and started for the street. Ramsay followed more leisurely. When he passed through the hotel front, he saw Mesquite standing outside, staring back, and as Ramsay appeared in his wake, the thoroughly frightened rascal uttered another howl and started for Meteorite.
“Don’t ever come back here or I’ll get you!” called Ramsay, and the last he saw of Mesquite Harrison, the latter was plugging along through the snow, head down and arms going as he ran. Ramsay turned a back into the hotel office, and met the stare of Haywire.
“Gosh!” said the latter. “What’d ye do to him, Puffesser?”
Without replying, Ramsay went on back to his room. There he got his belongings together and carried them to the car, which was standing in the street. While he was putting them into the flivver, he saw Hassayamp appear at the front door of the hotel, yawning mightily. Ramsay jerked off his glasses and sun-helmet, and went up to Hassayamp. In the latter’s startled gaze he read instant recognition, for this was the first time Hassayamp had ever seen him without the yellow goggles.
“Listen here!” said Ramsay, tapping melancholy Hassayamp on the arm and boring into him with stern gaze, “I suppose you thought that little escapade of yours back in St. John’s, Arizona, a good many years ago, had been forgotten, eh?”
Hassayamp turned white. Whether or not he recognized his interlocutor as singularly like the vanished Alec Ramsay in looks, he certainly recognized the remarkable change of voice and manner in the supposed professor. Mention of St. John’s brought the pallor to his cheeks. Over his shoulder gaped Haywire, intensely interested.
“Well,” continued Ramsay, “it hasn’t been forgotten, my friend. One of my errands here was to remind you of the occurrence. If I were you, I wouldn’t rely too much on the protection of Sidewinder Crowfoot. The theft of horses may be forgotten with the years; but what about that church money you stole, eh?”
“I—I’ll pay it back,” stammered Hassayamp, now convinced that the Mormons were on his trail.
“You wont get the chance. If I didn’t have other and more important fish to fry, I’d attend to you right now. But I guess you’ll keep until I get back. Then you’ll come along with me.”
Hassayamp turned yet whiter. The Southwest has by no means forgotten the days of Mountain Meadow and the avenging angels of Mormon; and while in these more settled times the followers of that faith are certainly guiltless of any ill-doing, there is an heritage of uneasiness that lingers about the very name of Mormon and will not be stilled.
So Ramsay strode out to his car, donned goggles and helmet, and went chugging away to get his breakfast at Pinecate Cañon.
Sagebrush, who had camped at the entrance of the cañon, listened with hearty approval to Ramsay’s recital of the morning’s events. His roar of laughter echoed back from the rocky walls and went thundering away up toward the mesa.
“Durned if I’ve laughed so much since my ol’ woman run off!” he exclaimed. “Shootin’s too good for that coyote Mesquite, anyhow. He’ll run into jail to Meteorite, ’cause he’s wanted there for robbin’ an Injun off the reservation last year. Yessir! That’s how mean that pesky critter is. Done robbed an Injun squaw what had been sellin’ beadwork to tourists on the trains.”
“Do you know those men he mentioned as the actual murderers?” queried Ramsay.
“Nope. Never heard o’ Cholo Bill—most likely he’s a halfbreed greaser, same’s that cuss Mendoza. Tom Emery’s different. He’s a bad man, real bad. Got out o’ jail in Arizona two year back, murdered a rancher in the White Mountains, and skipped out. I reckon there’s a reward for him.”
“All right. You collect all the rewards—what I’m after is scalps.”
“That suits me, Perfesser. She goes as she lays. What’s the program?”
Ramsay, having finished his breakfast, lighted his pipe and considered.
“The thing to do, of course,” he said tentatively, “is to apprise the nearest legal officers of conditions, get the sheriff to work, and round up the gang.”
Sagebrush eyed him askance, in no little astonishment.
“Is that there your program, then?”
“No.” Ramsay’s blue eyes twinkled. “No, it isn’t. I only mentioned it as the proper thing.”
“If we all done the proper thing, this would be a hell of a world,” and Sagebrush sighed in relief. “I nominates that we light a shtick out o’ yere, go over to that there Hourglass Cañon, and clean her up. Everybody there is wanted, you betcha!. We don’t need no warrants, nor no officers fussin’ around to see things is done right.”
“Nomination seconded,” said Ramsay promptly. “How far is it from here?”
“Hold on,” warned the desert rat. “This aint no picnic party, Perfesser. We got to git busy ’fore Sidewinder gits busy, but there’s no sense to rushin’ things. We can’t take no autybile over there. We got to hike. Ground’s durned rocky and rough. Yessir! We’re headin’ east on a rough and rocky road, and no mistake. That’s one reason nobody aint never follered none o’ that gang to the roost. Nobody much hint been along this yere range for ten or twelve year—she’s got the repytation of havin’ petered out. You and me can prob’ly git there sometime tonight, ease up the cañon, git the lay of the land toward sunup, and git into action. Wipe out the hull durned batch!”
Ramsay frowned. “That’s a trifle bloodthirsty, isn’t it? I want those two murderers; if I can get ’em alive to stand trial, all right. If not—”
“They’re all in the same kittle,” snapped Sagebrush. “Wipe ’em out! Yessir! I’m riled. But no sense goin’ too fast. We got to see who’s there and how many, and what things look like. That there cañon is shaped like the figger X, and where the lines cross is a right narrer gap. The back end is a box cañon, all right, with durned steep walls and lots of timber. Only green spot this side o’ them hills. Last time I was there was ten year back, when Chuck Martin busted his whiffletree, and we rode over yere to find a new stick. We had some liquor along them days, and Chuck he took a drap too much and went to sleep in an ol’ shack, and when he woke up it was dark, and they was a hull passel o’ ’phoby skunks holdin’ a carnival, and Chuck busted up the dance ’fore he knowed what it was. Gosh, I can smell him yet when I think of it. Yessir, ‘Look ’fore you sleep’ is a dad-blamed good rule to foller in these ol’ shacks—and anywheres else too, I reckon. Well, I’ll git the packs made up while you clean camp.”
The two men set to work. After the flivver was laid out of sight in the clump of piñon trees and thorny mesquite, the loads were assembled, and within twenty minutes the partners were on their way. What with grub and blankets, rifle and water-bag, Ramsay had all the weight to carry that he wanted, and he faced the prospect of a full day in rocky desert ground with a grimace.
His expectations were entirely fulfllled. Sagebrush led the way, skirting the high and precipitous mesa for a time and then striking directly off toward the hills to the northeast. The abundance of rocks showed Ramsay that no flivver could hope to cover this ground; the snow had all vanished long since, and no trace of moisture remained to mark its passing.
Fortunately for Ramsay, the old desert rat was used to the slow burro pace, and shuffled along at a steady plodding gait which was not difficult to sustain, and which ate up the distance slowly but surely. To anyone not used to it, there was something terrible in the thought of thus shuffling across the desert day in and day out for years, eternally seeking the yellow dust; and yet men did it, hundreds of them, and were not happy unless doing it.
Pat Ramsay faced the project which lay ahead of them, unblinking the facts, and not shirking what was to be done. He now knew what before he had only conjectured. Impossible as it seemed, he knew it to be true. Here at this back door of civilization existed a number of men whose business in life was robbery and if necessary murder—an abnormal situation, to be handled with other than normal methods. Ramsay was no innocent in the waste places. He knew that in these vast stretches of desert country there existed strange things, that in this apparently empty basin of forgotten seas there were still unsolved problems and undiscovered wonders. If he was to go seeking the men who had murdered his brother, he must put away all thought of haling them before the bar of justice; the only justice which obtained in the desert was that of the strong hand and the inexorable requisitions of nature. If men offended the laws of nature, a terrible punishment was exacted from them. If they offended the laws of man, as they did every day, the ordinary machinery of man’s justice could not always reach them—and they knew it.
“By gosh,” said Sagebrush, when they halted at noon in the shade of a towering pinnacle of rock, “ye done a good stroke when ye got to work this mornin’ and cut off Sidewinder from them fellers yonder! Yessir! I’d think twicet or maybe three times ’fore I tackled that there gent. Most likely that cholo and Mesquite rode in to git supplies, and cuttin’ them off was a right smart piece o’ work. Wisht we had a hoss apiece! Sing out next you see a nice fat chuckwalla. I’d like to git me a good chunk o’ lizard-tail for supper, Per-fesser.”
Before they had left the overhanging rock, indeed, Sagebrush located a fine big lizard and staged a battle royal. The lizard, ensconced in a rock cranny, inflated himself and could not be dislodged for all the tugging of Sagebrush, who in the end was content with taking the tail. This the chuckwalla gladly surrendered, and Sagebrush stowed it away in his pocket after Ramsay refused to share the delicacy.
The afternoon drew on. They did not hurry; yet the ground was covered steadily, and no moving object broke the dun expanse of glaring rock and sand. Gradually they approached a patch of green high on the hills, which served as landmark, but the entrance to Hourglass Cañon itself did not open up before them. When the sun was drawing down to the western horizon, Sagebrush halted.
“No use goin’ on now—we’ll be in the cañon in half an hour and can’t take no chances. Goin’ to be a clear night, and cold as hell. Why don’t preachers make hell a cold place, Perfesser? Dad blame if I can see anythin’ ornery in hell the way it’s laid out. I bet it aint no hotter’n the Ralston Desert up in Nevada, and that don’t stack up noways alongside what Imperial Valley used to be ’fore they started growin’ melons and garden truck there. Reckon I’m goin’ to freeze tonight ’thout no fire, but can’t be helped. Let’s git our victuals washed down, and then we’ll mosey along and take it easy till dark.”
When the sun was down, they moved on again, and before the last of the daylight died into the starry radiance of night, Ramsay descried the lines of the cañon opening out from the general mass of hills ahead. The night was clear, with a thin green-silver crescent of moon hanging high, but nothing could be seen of the environment, though old Sagebrush plodded along without a pause. A little later he broke into speech.
“Trail. No talkin’, now. Watch out underfoot.”
A trail indeed—at least, a path beaten by the hoofs of horses. Sagebrush had need to mind his own warning, for the next moment he jumped sharply aside, dropped his pack and picked up the nearest rock to crush a sidewinder in his path. After this both men kept a sharper watch for the nocturnal reptiles than on the surrounding scenery.
They had proceeded perhaps two miles when Ramsay found the cañon walls closing in ahead, apparently forming an unbroken barrier. Then he began to appreciate the strategic value of the place, which to anyone on the search would appear to be an empty cañon, while in reality there was a narrow passage opening into a second but completely hidden cañon. This was a freak of erosion and wind-carving, for the trail led them sharply to the right, and then into a black hole—a widening cleft in the rock, ten feet in width and twenty through to the other side. Sagebrush halted his companion and stole forward cautiously, then summoned Ramsay. The opening was unguarded.
Passing through, both men came to an astonished halt. They stood in an almost circular bowl which, so far as the deceptive light told them, was not more than a mile in diameter, closed in by gigantic walls of rock which, on the side opposite them, presented only blackness which was illumined by three yellow pin-points.
“Lamps,” said Sagebrush. “Got some shacks over there, by gosh!”
It was not this which had startled them both, however. In their immediate vicinity were great masses of jumbled rock, fallen from the walls that hemmed in the entrance. At a distance of fifty feet from them the scattered rock and sand gave place to a thick green carpet which seemed to cover the entire bowl, and across this carpet moved masses of horses, quietly grazing.
The explanation was simple. Just now, immediately after the rains, this hidden box cañon was saturated with drainage from the slopes above and behind. Either the growth of grass here was natural, or as was more likely, it had been sown by the occupants of the cañon.
“Set,” said Sagebrush, slipping off his pack and squatting down. Ramsay followed suit, and the desert rat softly elucidated the situation.
“We got things straight now, Perfesser. This yere crowd is right happily located, for a fact! The idee is, they slide acrost the hills to the Chuckwalla range and slide back with a few hosses picked up over there. When they get a right good remuda, they drive ’em over to the railroad at Meteorite, or maybe up north acrost the Salt Pans to Silver City. They keep ’em yere maybe six months till the hair’s growed out over the rebrand, and by that time everybody’s give up looking: they prob’ly git a lot o’ foals, too.”
“With a base of supplies at Stovepipe Springs, they’re safe,” commented Ramsay. “And Sidewinder Crowfoot is the brains of the outfit. All right. What d’you want to do?”
“Sneak up and look things over. Better let me do it when we git right close. Then I’ll come back yere and lay up in these yere rocks with both guns handy. You cut around and open fire on them shacks. You’ll jest naturally catch ’em penned up, and if they git away, I’ll catch ’em yere. If they don’t bust loose, I’ll come over and help you. How’s that strike ye, Per-fesser?”
“First rate,” said Ramsay. “What does Tom Emery look like?”
“Red whiskers. Can’t miss him. Let’s mosey along.”
They rose, picked up their loads, and set forth.
In the darkness of the upper cañon, with the stars glimmering far above, the scout was made, and all things considered, it was a good scout. But when it had been ended, the two men drew off together for consultation, upon both of them settled a silent consternation. For here was a factor they had not reckoned on.
Three cabins, and in one of them four men sitting playing cards, a lantern swinging from a rafter. One was Tom Emery—a brutal giant of a man with a great fringe of flaring red whiskers and matted red hair, a murderer and escaped jailbird with a price on his head. One, whom old Sagebrush did not know, was a swarthy halfbreed, doubtless the Cholo Bill mentioned by the dying Alec Ramsay—a slender, furtive man, on the surface all smiles, and all deviltry beneath. The third card-player was identified as Gentleman Jimson, an elderly man with handsome, ascetic features and the general air of a benevolent preacher. He had escaped from a California penitentiary three years previously, where he was serving a life term for murder and forgery. The last of the four men was a pure Mexican, one Manuel Ximines—a scowling, sullen scoundrel from below the border, a murderer of women. Not all this had given the two friends pause, however, but the shrill wail of an infant from one of the other shacks, and the thin voices of two Mexican women.
“Women everywhere. Aint it hell?” demanded Sagebrush, when they were at a safe distance. “And now what?”
“Walk in on the four of them,” said Ramsay promptly. “And we have ’em.”
“Nope. Them cholo women would jump us in the back in a minute. Then, if anything went wrong, the bunch would scatter in the darkness. We don’t know the lay o’ the ground.”
“All right. Then stick to our original plan.”
Sagebrush dissented with a grunt. “Pardner, it means the females fight with the men. Now, I jest naturally can’t abide that notion nohow. When it comes to puttin’ a bullet into a female, I pass. We got to sep’rate them fellers from the females.”
“Granted,” assented Ramsay at once. “How?”
“There aint but one way out o’ this yere cañon—the front way. Let’s you and me go back through that hole in the wall and wait. If anybody comes, we got him; if anybody leaves, we got him. Then, come sunup, we lights a fire out beyond. They see the smoke, and most likely that feller Ximines comes out to investigate. We got him. The other fellers come out when he don’t return—and we got ’em all.”
“Good,” said Ramsay. “Let’s go.”
All that night coyotes howled dismally upon the hills; and Ramsay, stretched out beside Sagebrush near the “hole in the wall,” wakened from time to time at their almost human cries.
The scheme proposed by the old desert rat was simple and promised to be highly effective. It had only one drawback, common to all human propositions—it failed to take into account the dispensations of Providence, not anticipating the unexpected.
The misty gray darkness that precedes dawn was over everything when Ramsay, on watch, awakened Sagebrush, and the desert rat sat up, shivering.
“Gosh, it’s cold!” he observed, throwing off his blankets and pulling on his boots. Thus finishing dressing operations, he rose. Their camp was just outside the rock crevice which gave access to the inner cañon. “Might’s well git us some hot coffee while we’re makin’ that fire. I’ll rustle up some bresh along the slopes while you’re gittin’ the grub. Little skillet layin’ in my pack for the side-meat. We got lots o’ time—they wont disciver our smoke until after sunup.”
He shuffled off toward the slopes on the right, and disappeared in the darkness. Ramsay went to work at breakfast, preparing the coffee with the last of their water and slicing up some bacon.
Getting some dry and dead twigs together, Ramsay heaped them in readiness to build a fire. As he rose, a voice suddenly impinged sharply on his consciousness.
“Up with ’em, stranger—reach high and quick!”
He put up his hands, and turned. There, standing at the rock opening through which he must have come unobserved, stood the tall, stooped figure of Gentleman Jimson, his pistol covering Ramsay.
“What you doing here?” demanded Jimson. “Who you looking for?”
His rifle out of reach, Ramsay knew himself caught. His brain worked swiftly.
“I’m looking for Tom Emery,” he said, raising his voice in order to warn Sagebrush, whose proximity was evidently unsuspected.
“Oh, looking for Tom, are you?” Jimson sneered. “On what business?”
“That’s for him to hear,” returned Ramsay. “Sidewinder told me to camp here until morning. You’re Jimson, I s’pose?” The other was momentarily astonished. “What! Sidewinder sent you here, did he? Where’s Mesquite?”
“Gone to jail in Meteorite, I guess. That greaser with him was killed.”
“What!” Jimson looked startled; then he frowned. “You’re a cussed liar! What’s this you’re pulling off, anyhow? Sidewinder would never have told you to wait out here before telling us all this. March over here—leave that rifle where it lays! Quick, now, or I’ll drill you!”
The voices had risen shrill and distinct on the quiet air of the dawn, and had quite accomplished the purpose for which Ramsay hoped. Jimson caught a movement on the hillside from the corner of his eye, and turned—but his pistol did not swing quickly enough. The roar of a forty-five crashed out, then again. Gentleman Jimson, with a look of frightful astonishment, dropped his automatic, took two staggering steps, then slumped face down.
Sagebrush, standing on the hillside to the right, emitted a whoop of exultation.
“Ye will crowd me and my pardner, will ye? Reckon that’s one reward I’ll collect.” Suddenly his voice rose shrill. “Hey, Per-fesser! Look out—hosses comin’!”
Ramsay, already scrambling for his rifle, heard the pounding of many hoofs and sprang up, wildly startled by that shrill cry. He saw, coming in upon him from the desert, a mass of horses. One glance at Sagebrush, and he caught sight of the latter staggering out of sight—then rifles cracked. A bullet sang past his head.
With a leap, Ramsay darted toward his only protection, the hole in the wall. He jumped the motionless body of Jimson, turned, and began firing. The scream of a frantic horse answered his first shot; then bullets began to whang on the rock around him. He saw that a dozen or more horses were charging in, had a vision of two men firing; then he slipped back into the ten-foot passage, with the rush of animals at his very heels.
As he ran for the other side, a curse broke from his lips. Sagebrush was shot down, and their whole scheme of action was disrupted. It was plain enough that two of the gang were returning with stolen horses—
They were upon him, and nothing saved him from trampling but a hasty shot from under his arm. At the report, a horse leaped high and then came down kicking. Something struck Ramsay as he gained the inner opening of the passage, struck him and sent him headlong to one side. He crashed down, rolled over, picked himself up. A rifle roared above him; the bullet sang by his face; and as he himself fired, he had a swift vision of a bearded rider flinging out arms and pitching forward. Then he was working the bolt, looking for the other horsethief, as the rush of animals swept past and went pounding up the grassy cañon. No other appeared.
Ramsay stood panting, waiting, rifle ready. Twenty feet away lay the outlaw he had shot from the saddle—but where was the other? From the other end of the cañon lifted faint shouts of men; the gang there were alarmed, but it was still too dark for them to make out anything.
Something flickered from the black depths of the passage. Before Ramsay could comprehend its import, a lariat settled over his shoulders and was jerked taut. He was fighting it instantly, trying to whip around his rifle—fighting it furiously, fiercely, vainly. A hoarse laugh made answer; then he was drawn off his feet and hurled sprawling. Next instant, a horse came leaping through the opening and started away, the rider holding the rope with Ramsay dragging behind.
In the space of a few seconds terrible things can come to pass. Arms caught just above his elbows and fast bound to his body with the rope cutting into the flesh, Ramsay was dragged along for half a minute, jerking and helpless, clothes ripped away, death threatening with every rock that loomed in his path; he came to the grass, slid over it more easily, heard the outlaw yelling at his mount to increase its speed—and all the while held on to his rifle, though it was nearly torn from his hand.
And then came a merciful relaxation. The horse stumbled suddenly, was reined sharply in—the lariat slackened. Ramsay rolled over on his side, gained his feet with a leap, cocked and fired the rifle from his hip. It was a chance shot, but a good one. The poor horse sank forward. Its outlaw rider, leaping from the saddle, turned and threw up a pistol. But Ramsay, working up the lariat, had ejected the shell and now fired again. The outlaw pitched forward on his face, shot through the brain.
All this took place with incredible rapidity. Indeed, it must have passed swiftly, for no man can long survive the dragging at a lariat’s end. As it was, Ramsay knew himself bruised and hurt, torn and scratched—but in essentials undamaged. He was not thirty yards from the passage, and turned to it. As he did so, that dark cleft in the rock wall vomited a spat of flame, and to the smashing report of a pistol, a bullet whined past him.
Instantly Ramsay whirled, threw himself at the dead horse, gained it, and took shelter. Another report, and another bullet went screaming over him. He answered it with a blind shot. Panting, he realized his intolerable position. He was out here in the open, trapped, and from the shouts at the other end of the cañon, he knew the three men there would soon be sweeping down on him. Swiftly he weighed the chances for a dash toward one of the side slopes—and then he saw a grim thing, yet one which spelled his salvation.
He had supposed that these shots from the passage must have come from a third horsethief. Now he perceived a figure take shape in the grayness, and was about to fire when he saw it staggering forward, and checked himself. It was the tall figure of Jimson, mortally wounded and yet still alive, blindly reeling on, pistol in hand. As Ramsay waited, the pistol dropped. For a moment Jimson stood there, swaying, then dropped slowly to his knees and fell in a limp heap.
In a flash, Ramsay visualized what was now sure to take place. It was his one chance, and a sure chance. None of those three outlaws at the head of the cañon would know what had happened here. He leaped up, and imagined that he could see riders coming from the gray background of the cañon. That he was unseen, he knew well enough. Next instant he was running for the heaped-up rocks near the passage. As he went by Jimson, he saw the dying man was still alive and trying to rise, but kept on, and a moment later threw himself down in cover of the boulders.
“No time to ask after Sagebrush now—here’s the great chance to clean up the whole gang!” he thought, as he reloaded his rifle and drew long deep breaths to calm himself. “By glory, we haven’t done so badly so far, either! Three of them done for now. They came asking for it, and they got it. If things work right, I’ll get these last three scoundrels alive—ah! They’re coming, all right.”
He waited, eyes glittering, bloody and bruised figure tense, rifle ready. Now the gray darkness was clearing off, and the clearer light of day was breaking through. Coming across the grassy cañon at a breakneck gallop were three riders, impeded at first by the mass of frightened and rushing horses. Now, free of the remuda, the three were plunging toward the passage and the three outstretched figures lying there in the open; one of those figures was moving, slowly crawling upward. Jimson, dying hard, got to one knee and remained thus, swaying.
The three outlaws swept on, straight for the figure of Jimson, and the man in the lead was Tom Emery, his mass of flaming whiskers marking him clearly. All three had rifles and were girded with gun-belts. Ramsay grinned excitedly as he waited, out of sight.
“They don’t know what’s happened!” he thought in exultation. “Jimson is baiting them right into the trap—”
Jimson was not forty feet away from him, and the three outlaws came thundering down with shouted queries and wild oaths of rage. As they drew closer, Ramsay could see them looking from Jimson to the girdling masses of rock, and knew that he was out of their sight. Tom Emery was in the lead, riding like a Centaur, his face like a red blur; behind him were the sullen, scowling Ximines and the more dapper halfbreed Cholo Bill, eyes glittering like dots of jet.
They came hurtling down upon Jimson, threw themselves from the saddle and gathered around him with a burst of excited speech. But they came too late; for Jimson, swaying, toppled over as they reached him, and lay quiet—this time forever. The three stared one at another, but only for an instant.
“Stick ’em up—pronto!” commanded Ramsay’s voice. “Drop the rifles.”
A raging oath burst from Emery. All three turned, facing the rock wall and the passage; dismounted, caught in the open, their three dead comrades to serve as warning, they comprehended instantly that they were trapped, snared mercilessly. In silence they obeyed the mandate, but their faces were eloquent as they dropped the rifles and elevated their arms.
“Tom Emery,” continued Ramsay, his voice cool and deadly in its slight drawl, “you and Cholo Bill are wanted for the murder of Alec Ramsay last year. Ximines, you can come along on general principles. You take your own pistol and drop it overboard, then relieve your two friends of their weapons. Leave ’em all in a pile. I don’t need much of an excuse to put a bullet into you, so watch out you don’t give it to me.”
The scowling Mexican deposited his own pistol and those of the others in the dust.
“Now step forward!” Ramsay rose, rifle at his shoulder. “Step forward, please! All three—that’s right. Walk right through the hole in the wall, and don’t walk too fast. The hand is quicker than the foot, gentlemen. Now into the hole—you first, señor Ximines, then Cholo Bill, and Mr. Emery last. Close together, and slowly.”
He strode forward as the three came to the passage that gave on to the outer cañon. Their eyes glittered on him with unspeakable rage, but they said not a word. In the order assigned, they entered the cleft, and Ramsay brought up the rear with the muzzle of his rifle thrust against the back of the gigantic Emery, whose red whiskers were bristling with suppressed fury. Ramsay chuckled, as he marched them forward.
“I expect you’re due for a shave before long, Mr. Emery, and a free haircut to boot. Keep right ahead of each other, gentlemen, and walk straight out into the daylight. When you are safely taken care of, well all start out and have a nice little walk over to town, and interview Mr. Crowfoot. Now, everybody, four steps forward, then halt and about-face.”
By this time the full morning light was spreading over everything, and the three captives left the rock-cleft and marched forward as directed. Ramsay, not daring to take his eyes from them, followed for a pace or two and then halted as they turned and faced his rifle. For a moment he met the savage gaze of Emery—then the latter suddenly looked up, behind Ramsay, and his eyes widened in surprise.
Ramsay cast one startled glance over his shoulder. He saw, to his utter consternation, a horse close pressed against the rock wall to the left of the opening; and holding the reins in one hand, and in the other a leveled pistol—Sidewinder Crowfoot. For an instant those glittery gray eyes held Ramsay paralyzed.
“Careful with that gun!” warned Sidewinder, a deadly whine to his voice. “Grab it, Tom. Then grab this gent—and do it careful. He’s got to do some talkin’ real soon. Tie him up and leave him be.” Ramsay knew better than to resist. Utterly dismayed, dumbfounded by the simple manner in which he had been trapped in the very moment of victory, he let himself be seized, hurled to the ground, and then none too gently be bound hand and foot. A swift search, and he was disarmed.
A flood of curses burst loose, and for a moment he thought the Mexican would stamp on him in rage, but Sidewinder interfered and quieted the noise.
“What’s happened here?” he snapped. Emery made profane response.
“Dunno! The boys come in with them hosses they went after, but they come dead. Jimson come out to meet ’em, and he’s dead. This feller jumps us. Says we’re wanted for killin’ Ramsay last year. What is he—sheriff or detective?”
“That’s what we’ll find out,” said Sidewinder. “He sure played hell around here, didn’t he? Well, I’m dead for something to eat. Any of his friends around?”
“Nope. I reckon he done played a lone hand,” said Emery, not without a trace of admiration. “You aint seen no one out here?”
“No,” said Sidewinder. “Nary a sign. This hoss of mine is clear done up and staggering. I seen what happened from the passage, and come back to lay for him—and got him. Tom, take charge of him and walk him in. I’ll take your hoss and ride over to camp. This gent has played hell in town as well as here. I been on my way since yesterday noon—had to come all the way on hossback. Leave the hoss here—he’ll wander in after he comes around. All ready, boys—let’s go!”
Emery jerked Ramsay to his feet, cast loose his ankles, and propelled him forward into the passage; he went dumbly, unresisting, appalled by the disaster which had overwhelmed him.
Behind them, the outer cañon was empty of life save for the horse which Sidewinder had ridden, and which stood with legs wide apart, head drooping, exhausted and spent. Red and gold streaked across the sky, as the first fingers of sunrise reached up to the zenith. Presently the horse, still saddled and bridled, made a convulsive movement and came out from among the rocks, and stood, white with lather. He was still standing there twenty minutes later, when the first rays of sunlight struck down from the hilltops and smote all the desert spaces into gold and purple, and up on the hillside stirred something that presently took definite shape. This was Sagebrush Beam.
The desert rat painfully gained his feet, staggered forward, lost his balance and came sprawling down among the rocks. He lay quiet for a while, blood spreading across the grizzled expanse of his tangled beard. Then, warmed by the sun, he lifted himself again, feebly gained his feet, and came tottering across the sand to where the horse stood watching him. For a little he clung to the saddle, helpless. After a time he made an effort to draw himself up, cursed vividly if weakly, and at the second effort made shift to mount.
The exhausted horse submitted to its fate and started out into the desert, with Sagebrush limp and clinging to the pommel.
The three shacks at the head of Hourglass Cañon were set amid trees and near a trickling brook, which in another three weeks would be only a summer’s memory, and which was lost in the grass a hundred yards distant. Ramsay was allowed to sit against a tree, and was set free of his bonds, while his four captors surrounded him. The two frightened Mexican women, wretched creatures who belonged to Ximines and Cholo Bill, fetched coffee and tortillas.
Ramsay had been studying his captors. Ximines was the most dangerous, because the most vicious and debased Cholo Bill was far above him in character. Tom Emery had some traces of humor in his brutal countenance. All three of them were distinctly perturbed and uneasy, yet deferred everything to Sidewinder. And Ramsay perceived that Crowfoot himself, beneath that grayish mask of a face, was more alarmed than he cared to betray.
“Now, you going to talk or do we got to make ye?” demanded Sidewinder, his reptilian gaze fastened on Ramsay. The latter smiled slightly.
“You give me a share in your breakfast and let me get my pipe going, and I’ll swap all the information you want.”
“Fair enough,” grunted Sidewinder, and summoned one of the women.
Ramsay found his tortillas excellent and the coffee passable, and attacked his breakfast heartily. His chief concern was for Sagebrush. The latter was either dead, in which case he could not be aided, or else was wounded, in which case he was better off without Sidewinder’s help; in either event, his participation in the morning’s affair was not suspected and must not be suspected. In all other respects, frank speech was the best policy.
The meal finished, Ramsay got his pipe going while the other four rolled cigarettes, and Sidewinder started his catechism.
“First off, what kind of an officer are you, anyhow? County, State or Fed’ral?”
“Neither one,” Ramsay chuckled. “My name’s Pat Ramsay. I came here to get Mr. Emery yonder, also Cholo Bill, for the murder of my brother Alec last year. You were a party to it also.”
Emery started to speak, but Sidewinder flashed him a look that held him silent.
“It wasn’t no murder,” said Sidewinder. “It was a straight killin’—”
“No use passing any lies,” said Ramsay quietly. “Let’s all stick to the truth. Alec left a message for me, also the deed to that property he bought from Harrison—told me all about it. I found ’em in Pinecate Cañon the other day. The deed’s gone in to the recorder’s office. So has an explanation of the circumstances. I expect the sheriff will be along any time to look things over.”
An outburst of startled oaths broke from the three outlaws, but Sidewinder only grinned and put a hand to his pocket. He drew forth an unopened letter. Ramsay, in dismay, recognized it as that containing the deed, which he had registered with Haywire Johnson.
“Here y’are,” said Sidewinder, and tossed it to him with a malignant grin. “I reckon ye might’s well keep it. Serve for identification. Darned good thing I took a look through that mail-sack ’fore it went out yesterday, eh? What’d you do to Hassayamp, anyhow? He got Miss Gilman’s money, took Mesquite’s hoss and beat it for parts unknown.”
Ramsay, although he flinched under the blow, rallied quickly.
“I jogged his memory about a job he pulled off down in Arizona before coming here.”
“And ye sure give Mesquite a scare. Reckon he’s still goin’. So you aint no officer, th? You just come nosing in here on your own hook, eh? Well, you’ve sure played hell. I wonder how you can set there and eat and smoke and laugh, after wipin’ out three good men this morning! Aint you got no conscience? Don’t it mean nothin’ to you that ye’ve killed three men?”
Ramsay shrugged.
“It doesn’t worry you to bring in people from outside and cheat them or murder them, does it?” he retorted. “And it doesn’t worry anyone to wipe out a rattler. You fellows and desert rattlers are about in the same class.”
“And you’ll be in the same class with your brother when we get through with ye,” said Sidewinder acidly.
“He knows too much,” said Ximines in Spanish. “Kill him now, quickly.”
“You back down and rest your heels,” snapped Sidewinder. “I’m running this show. Now, Ramsay, you’re alone in this deal—you and Miss Gilman—”
“She’s not in it,” broke out Ramsay quickly, alarmed by the man’s look.
“Don’t ye lie to me! You and her have been carryin’ on together. Got to town about the same time, and been thick ever since. She fooled me at first, all right, but now I’m wide awake and ready to strike. You’ve earned your victuals. Now shut up.”
With this, Sidewinder turned to the three outlaws and briefly described Miss Gilman’s activities, while Ramsay listened in acute anxiety.
“All good things have an end,” he finished. “We’ve just about reached the end of our rope. The thing to do now is to bust up camp. Better get them women and the kid off right now, with hosses. Let ’em ride in to town, and José Garcia will take care of ’em until you’re ready to send for ’em. Then get busy with a running-iron and a knife, and we’ll go over them hosses on hand. Any that can’t be worked over, leave here. You’ll have a right good remuda, and you three fellers can run ’em up to Silver City. Emery, you know how to get there across the Salt Pans, don’t ye?”
Tom Emery nodded in silence, but jerked his thumb at Ramsay.
“Don’t worry none about him. First, get them women off. Then get busy with the irons. We’ll be until night gettin’ the remuda worked over and in good shape. Then, early in the morning, we’ll ride over to Pinecate Cañon with this inquisitive pilgrim. That fool woman is goin’ out there sometime today, to camp and see about where to build a shack. We’ll nab her and her car. —Hey, Ramsay! Where’s that rat Sagebrush?”
“Last I saw of him was out in the desert,” said Ramsay truthfully. “He didn’t fancy any acquaintance with Miss Gilman, and got right huffy over her being around.”
“So he run off, eh? Blamed if that aint old Sagebrush all over!” Sidewinder chuckled dryly. “Where’s your car?”
“At Pinecate Cañon.”
“All right.” Sidewinder eyed his three men. “Ye see, we can’t afford to take no chances. If we kill thishombre, there may be questions asked—and what’d we do with the Gilman woman? I don’t aim to murder a woman.”
“Give her to me,” suggested Ximines, with a grin.
“You go plumb to hell,” snapped Sidewinder. “I don’t guess any of us want a double murder charge follering us. So here’s the program with them two: Leave ’em in Pinecate Cañon, with some grub. They aint going to walk away from there in a hurry—”
“Hamstring him!” Ximines gave Ramsay a scowling glance.
“Good idea,” approved Sidewinder, with a nod. “Fix him so’s he can’t travel, anyhow. Then I’ll have José Garcia come over there from town and camp out to keep an eye on the two of ’em. You boys run the remuda up to Silver City, sell her, and then scatter. I’ll get sold out in Stovepipe Springs, and disappear. Three weeks ought to fix us up all around. Then Garcia can remove himself likewise. By the time Ramsay and that fool woman get out to where they can tell their story—let ’em tell it! That’s the general scheme. We can fix the details later. How’s it suit?”
“Fine with me,” said Tom Emery, pawing his red whiskers.
Cholo Bill nodded. “Bueno!But my woman, she go with me and the remuda.”
“Mine too,” growled Ximines.
“Then get busy.” Sidewinder rose. “Tie up this gent.”
Ramsay, despite his protestations, was seized and lashed firmly to a tree, after which he was ignored for the remainder of the morning. He was somewhat relieved by the exposition of Sidewinder’s plans, since these did not at least include murder; this relief was more than balanced, however, by the menace directed toward Ethel Gilman.
The hours dragged past, while Sidewinder and his three companions worked like slaves. The entire band of horses, numbering nearly forty, had to be gone over. Each animal had to be examined carefully, and his brand worked upon with running irons to make it accord with the brands used by Sidewinder, while the other marks also had to be altered to suit.
There was an hour’s lay-off at noon, when Ramsay was given temporary liberty. Then he was closely confined again, and the work went on. Five of the unavailable horses were turned into a small corral behind the shacks, and one of the women was sent to the outer cañon to bring in the horse which Sidewinder had left there. She returned later with word that the animal had wandered off out of sight.
It was nearly sunset when the work was concluded, and the four men, weary to the point of exhaustion, came in and flung themselves down. The two women had prepared a meal which was eaten hurriedly; then Ramsay, who had been released temporarily, was again bound and relegated to his post against the tree. Ordering the women to wake them at midnight, Sidewinder and the others rolled up and were asleep at once.
Benumbed by his many and tight lashings, stiff and sore with his hurts and bruises, Ramsay resigned himself to the inevitable, and after a little dropped off into a doze. From this he was wakened to find Ximines cutting him free and playfully jabbing him with the point of a knife as he cut.
“So, leetle señor, you come weeth me, eh?” In the starry darkness the white teeth of the swarthy Mexican outlaw flashed faintly. “You ride with Manuel,” continued the man in Spanish, which Ramsay comprehended perfectly. “And while you rideconmigo, we shall talk, eh?”
Ramsay, rubbing his stiffened limbs, glanced around and saw that they were alone. He gathered his muscles—