CHAPTER XXVIIION A COLD TRAIL
"Dog it, Jack, we got to go after the Dinsmores," said Ellison, pounding the table with his fist. "I've just had a letter from the old man wantin' to know why we don't get results. It's not the Ranger policy to wait for outlaws to come to us. We go after 'em."
Tex smiled cheerfully. "Suits me fine. What are your instructions, Captain? Want me to arrest Homer Dinsmore again?"
"What would I do with him if you got him?" snapped the old-timer.
"You could turn him loose again," suggested Roberts, not entirely without sarcasm.
"If you boys were worth the powder to blow you-all up—!" exploded the veteran.
"Instead of bein' a jackpot bunch of triflin' no-account scalawags," murmured Jack.
"—You'd hustle out an' get evidence against 'em."
"Sounds reasonable." The Ranger lifted his heels to the seat of a second chair and rolled him a cigarette.
"You'd find out where they're hidin' the cattle they rustle."
"Are you givin' me an assignment, Captain?"
"You done said it, son. There's a bunch of rustled stock up in the rocks somewheres. You know it. Question is, can you find the cache?"
"I can try."
"Wasn't it you told me once about bumpin' into a rustler doin' business whilst you was ridin' the line?"
"At the mouth of Box Cañon—yes."
"Well, wha's the matter with you scoutin' up Box Cañon an' seein' what you find?"
"They're roostin' up there somewheres. I'll bet a hat on that."
"How many boys you want with you?"
Jack considered. "One. I'll take Ridley if you don't mind."
"He's a tenderfoot," suggested Ellison doubtfully. "Won't be of any help to you a-tall in cutting sign. If you leave him he's liable to get lost. Better take Moser, hadn't you?"
"Rather have Ridley. He doesn't claim to know it all. Besides, we've got to break him in sometime."
"Suits me if he does you. It's yore party."
"We'll start in the mo'nin'."
"The sooner the quicker," agreed the Captain. "I want the old man to know we're not spendin' our time settin' around a office. He's got no call to crawl my hump when you boys are doin' the best you can. Well, go to it, son. See if you-all can get evidence that will standup so's we can collect that bunch of hawss-thieves."
Before daybreak the two Rangers were on their way. They drove a pack-horse, their supplies loaded on a sawbuck saddle with kyacks. Jack had been brought up in the Panhandle. He knew this country as a seventh-grade teacher does her geography. Therefore he cut across the desert to the cap-rock, thence to Dry Creek, and so by sunset to Box Cañon. At the mouth of the gulch they slept under the stars. As soon as they had cooked their coffee and bacon Roberts stamped out the fire.
"We don't want to advertise we're here. I'm some particular about my health. I'd hate to get dry-gulched[7]on this job," said Jack.
"Would the Dinsmores shoot us if they found us?" asked Ridley, searching with his head for the softest spot in his saddle for a pillow.
"Would a calf milk its mother? They're sore as a toad at me, an' I expect that goes for any other Ranger too. Homer might give us an even break because we stayed with him on the island, but I'd hate to bet my head on that."
"If we get any evidence against them they can't afford to let us go," agreed Arthur.
"An' if they jump us up, how're they goin' toknow how much we've seen? There's one safe way, an' they would ce'tainly take it."
"Dead men tell no tales, it's said."
"Some of 'em do an' some don't. I never met up with a proverb yet that wasn't 'way off about half the time. For instance, that one you quoted. Rutherford Wadley's body told me considerable. It said that he'd been killed on the bluff above an' flung down; that he'd been shot by a rifle in the hands of a man standin' about a hundred an' fifty yards away; that he'd been taken by surprise an' probably robbed."
"It wouldn't have told me all that."
"Not till you learn to read sign closer than you do. An outdoor education is like a school-book one. You can't learn it in a day or a week or a year."
"You're no Methuselah. There's still hope for me."
"Lots o' hope. It's mostly keepin' yore eyes open an' yore brain workin'. I'm still only in the A B C class, but a fellow learns somethin' every day if he's that kind."
"If it's a matter of brains, why do Indians make the best trailers? You wouldn't say their brains are as good as a white man's, would you?"
"No; an' I'd say there's nothin' on earth an Indian can do as well as a white man, given the same chance to learn it. Indians know the outdoorsbecause they have to know it to live. The desert's no prodigal mother. Her sons have to rustle right smart to keep their tummies satisfied. If the 'Paches and the Kiowas didn't know how to cut sign an' read it, how to hunt an' fish an' follow a trail, they'd all be in their happy huntin' grounds long ago. They're what old Nature has made 'em. But I'll tell you this. When a white man gives his mind to it he understands the life of the plains better than any Indian does. His brains are better, an' he goes back an' looks for causes. The best trailers in the world are whites, not redskins."
"I didn't know that," Arthur said.
"Ask any old-timer if it ain't so."
They were eating breakfast when the light on the horizon announced a new day on the way. Already this light was saturating the atmosphere and dissolving shadows. The vegetation of the plains, the wave rolls of the land, the distant horizon line, became more distinct. By the time the sun pushed into sight the Rangers were in the saddle.
Roberts led through the polecat brush to the summit of a little mesa which overlooked the gulch. Along the edge of the ravine he rode, preferring the bluff to the sandy wash below because the ground was less likely to tell the Dinsmores a story of two travelers riding up Box Cañon. At the head of the gorge a faint traildipped to the left. Painted on a rock was a sign that Jack had seen before.
THIS IS PETE DINSMORE'S ROAD—TAKE ANOTHER.
He grinned reminiscently. "I did last time. I took the back trail under orders."
"Whose orders?" asked Ridley.
"Pete's, I reckon."
"If there's a story goes with that grin—" suggested Arthur.
"No story a-tall. I caught a fellow brandin' a calf below the cañon. He waved me around. Some curious to see who the guy was that didn't want to say 'How?' to me, I followed him into Box."
That seemed to be the end of the yarn. At any rate, Jack stopped.
"Well, did you find out who he was?"
"No, but I found this sign, an' above it a rifle slantin' down at me, an' back of the rifle a masked face. The fellow that owned the face advised me about my health."
"What about it?"
"Why, that this rough country wasn't suited to my disposition, temperament, an' general proclivities. So I p'inted back to where I had come from."
"And you never satisfied your curiosity about who the rustler was?"
"Didn't I?" drawled Jack.
"Did you?"
"Mebbe I did. I'm not tellin' that yarn—not to-day."
The country was rougher and hillier. The trail they had been following died away in the hills, but they crossed and recrossed others, made by buffaloes, antelopes, and coyotes driven by the spur of their needs in the years that had passed. Countless generations of desert life had come and gone before even the Indians drifted in to live on the buffalo.
"Why is it that there's more warfare on the desert than there is back East? The cactus has spines. The rattlesnake, the centipede, the Gila monster, the tarantula, all carry poison. Even the toad has a horn. Everywhere it is a fight to survive. The vegetation, as well as the animal life, fights all the time against drought. It's a regular hell on earth," Arthur concluded.
Jack eased himself in the saddle. "Looks kinda like Nature made the desert an' grinned at life, much as to say, 'I defy you to live there,' don't it? Sure there's warfare, but I reckon there's always war between different forms of life. If there wasn't, the world would be rank with all sorts of things crowdin' each other. The war would have to come then after all. Me, I like it. I like the way life came back with an answer to the challenge. It equipped itself with spines an'stings an' horns an' tough hides because it had to have 'em. It developed pores an' stomachs that could get along without much water. Who wants to live in a land where you don't have to rustle for a livin'?"
"You belong to the West. You're of it," Ridley said. "If you'd seen the fine grasslands of the East, the beautiful, well-kept farms and the fat stock, you'd understand what I mean. A fellow gets homesick for them."
Roberts nodded. "I've seen 'em an' I understand. Oncet I went back East an' spent three months there. I couldn't stand it. I got sick for the whinin' of a rope, wanted to hump over the hills after cows' tails. The nice little farms an' the nice little people with their nice little ways kinda cramped me. I reckon in this ol' world it's every one to his own taste." His eye swept the landscape. "Looks like there's water down there. If so, we'll fall off for a spell an' rest the hawsses."
A man is said to be "dry-gulched" when he mysteriously disappears,—killed by his enemies and buried under a pile of rocks.[7]
A man is said to be "dry-gulched" when he mysteriously disappears,—killed by his enemies and buried under a pile of rocks.[7]
CHAPTER XXIXBURNT BRANDS
At the end of the third day of scouting Jack came back to camp late, but jubilant.
"I've found what we're lookin' for, Art. I drifted across a ridge an' looked down into a draw this evenin'. A fellow was ridin' herd on a bunch of cows. They looked to me like a jackpot lot, but I couldn't be sure at that distance. I'm gonna find out what brands they carry."
"How?"
"The only way I know is to get close enough to see."
"Can you do that without being noticed?"
"Mebbe I can. The fellow watchin' the herd ain't expectin' visitors. Probably he loafs on the job some of the time. I'm gamblin' he does."
Roberts unloaded from the saddle the hindquarters of a black-tail deer he had shot just before sunset. He cut off a couple of steaks for supper and Ridley raked together the coals of the fire.
"Throw these into a fry-pan, Art, while I picket old Ten-Penny," said Jack. "I'm sure hungry enough to eat a mail sack. I lay up therein the brush 'most two hours an' that fellow's cookin' drifted to me till I was about ready to march down an' hold him up for it."
"What's the programme?" asked Arthur later, as they lay on their tarpaulins smoking postprandial cigarettes.
"I'll watch for a chance, then slip down an' see what's what. I want to know who the man is an' what brand the stock are carryin'. That's all. If it works out right mebbe we'll gather in the man an' drive the herd back to town."
"Then I go along, do I?"
"Yes, but probably you stay back in the brush till I signal for you to come down. We'll see how the thing works out."
Ridley lay awake for hours beneath a million stars, unable to get his alert nerves quiet enough for sleep. The crisis of his adventure was near and his active imagination was already dramatizing it vividly. He envied his friend, who had dropped into restful slumber the moment his head touched the saddle. He knew that Roberts was not insensitive. He, too, had a lively fancy, but it was relegated to the place of servant rather than master.
In the small hours Arthur fell into troubled sleep and before his eyes were fully shut—as it seemed to the drowsy man—he was roused by his companion pulling the blankets from under him. Ridley sat up. The soft sounds of the desertnight had died away, the less subdued ones of day showed that another life was astir.
"Time to get up, Sleepy Haid. Breakfast is ready. Come an' get it," called Jack.
They packed their supplies on the extra horse and saddled their mounts. The day was still young when they struck across the plains to the north. The way they took was a circuitous one, for Roberts was following the draws and valleys as far as possible in order to escape observation.
The sun was high in the heavens when he drew up in the rim-rock.
"We'll 'light here an' picket the broncs," he said.
This done, both men examined their rifles and revolvers carefully to guard against any hitch in the mechanism. Then, still following the low country, they worked forward cautiously for another half-mile.
Jack fell back to give the other Ranger final instructions. "There's a clump of cactus on the summit. We'll lie back o' there. You stay right there when I go forward. If I get the breaks I'll wave you on later. If I don't get 'em you may have to come a-shootin' to help me."
They crept up an incline, wriggling forward on their stomachs the last few yards to the shelter of the cactus on the crest. Before them lay a little valley. On the cactus-covered slope opposite a herd of cattle was grazing. No guard was in sight.
For two hours they lay there silently, watching intently.
"I'll slip down right now an' take a look at the brands," said Jack.
"Hadn't I better come too?"
"You stick right where you're at, Art. I might need a friend under cover to do some fancy shootin' for me if the Dinsmores arrived unexpected."
There was no cover on the near slope. Jack made no attempt to conceal himself, but strode swiftly down into the valley. Goosequills ran up and down his spine, for he did not know at what moment a bullet might come singing down at him.
He reached the outgrazers of the herd and identified the A T O brand on half a dozen cows. The brand had been changed by an adroit touch or two of a running-iron. Probably the cattle were being held here until the hair had grown again enough to conceal the fact of a recent burn.
The Ranger circled the herd, moving toward the brow of the land swell. He made the most of the cactus, but there was an emptiness about the pit of his stomach. If some one happened to be watching him, a single shot would make an end of Tex Roberts. His scalp prickled and drew tight, as though some unseen hand were dragging at it.
From one clump to another he slipped, every sense keyed to alertness. The rifle in his hand,resting easily against the right hip, could be lifted instantly.
At the top of the rise the Ranger waited behind a prickly pear to search the landscape. It rolled away in long low waves to the horizon. A mile or more away, to the left, a faint, thin film of smoke hung lazily in the air. This meant a camp. The rustlers, to play safe, had located it not too near the grazing herd. It was a place, no doubt, where water was handy and from which the outlaws, if caught by surprise, could make a safe and swift retreat to the rim-rock.
Again, in a wide circuit in order not to meet anybody who might be riding from the camp to the herd, the Ranger moved forward warily. The smoke trickle was his guide and his destination.
He took his time. He was in no hurry. Speed was the least part of his programme. Far more important was secrecy. With that patience which the frontiersman has learned from the Indian he followed a tortuous course through the brush.
His trained eye told him the best direction for approach, the side from which he could get nearest to the camp with the least risk of being seen. Through the curly mesquite he crawled, hiding behind the short bushlike clumps until he had chosen the next line of advance. At last, screened by a Spanish bayonet, he commanded a view of the camp.
So far as he could tell it was deserted. Campequipment lay scattered about. A frying-pan, a coffee-pot, tin cups and plates, had been dropped here and there. The coals of the fire still smouldered and gave forth a wisp of smoke. Fifty yards away a horse was picketed. It was an easy guess that the campers had not gone permanently, but were away from home for a few hours.
Where were they? Recalling the horses he and his companion had left picketed not far away, Jack felt a momentary qualm. If the Dinsmores should happen to stumble on them the situation would be an awkward one. The hunters would become the hunted. Deprived of their horses and supplies, the Rangers would be at a decided disadvantage. The only option left them would be to come to close quarters with the rustlers or to limp back home discouraged and discredited. Roberts preferred not to have his hand forced. He wanted to wait on opportunity and see what it brought him.
He moved forward to the camp and made a swift examination of it. Several men had slept here last night and four had eaten breakfast a few hours since. He could find no extra supplies, which confirmed his opinion that this was only a temporary camp of a night or two. A heavy buzzing of flies in a buffalo wallow not far away drew his steps. The swarm covered a saddle of deer from which enough for a meal had been slashed before it was thrown away.
The Ranger moved nothing. He left no signs other than his tracks to show that a stranger had been at the camp. As soon as he had inspected it he withdrew.
He had decided that the first thing to do was to join Ridley, make sure of their horses, and leave his companion in charge of them. Afterward he could return alone and watch the rustlers.
Since he knew that the rustlers were away from their camp, the Ranger did not feel the need of taking such elaborate precautions against discovery during the return journey. He made a wide circuit, but his long, easy stride carried him swiftly over the ground. Swinging round the valley in which the herd was grazing, he came up from the rear to the brush-covered summit where he had left Ridley.
Arthur had gone. He was nowhere in sight. Nor was there any sign to show where he had gone.
It was possible that some alarm might have sent him back to look after the horses. Jack ran down the incline to the little draw where the animals had been picketed. The broncos were safe, but Ridley was not with them.
CHAPTER XXXROGUES DISAGREE
With a heart that pounded queerly Arthur watched his friend cross the valley and work his way to the ridge beyond. Even after Jack had disappeared, he waited, nerves jumpy, for the crack of a rifle to carry news of death in the mesquite.
No tidings of tragedy came. The minutes fulfilled the hour. The many small sounds of the desert were shattered by no report. At last, drowsing in the warmth of the sunlit land, the Ranger's eyes closed, opened, and shut again. He nodded, fell asleep.
When he awakened it was with a shock of dread. His heart died. Four men were watching him. Two of them had him covered with revolvers. A third was just removing noiselessly his rifle and six-shooter from reach of his hand.
He jumped to his feet. The consternation in his eyes showed how completely he had been caught napping.
One of the men—a long, lank, cross-eyed fellow—laughed mockingly, and the sound of his mirth was evil.
"Whatta you doin' here?" demanded one whom he recognized as Pete Dinsmore.
For a moment the Ranger's mind was a blank. He could not make it serve his needs. Words were out of reach of his tongue. Then, "I'm lost," he stammered.
"Are you alone?"
"Yes." Out of his confusion one idea stood up imperatively. He must not betray Jack.
"Where's yore hawss?"
"It—it got away from me."
"When?"
"Last night." It seemed to him that he could keep just one jump ahead of this dominant man's menacing questions.
"Howcome that?"
"I shot a prairie-hen, and when I got down to get it—I don't know—my horse got frightened and jerked away. I tried to catch it. The brute wouldn't let me. Then night came."
"What were you doin' so far from town?" cut in one of the two who were covering him. He was a short, heavy-set man.
"That's right, Dave. Looks funny to me." Gurley seemed fairly to ooze malice. "Just happened to drift here to this herd, I reckon. It sure was yore unlucky day."
Arthur looked from one to another despairingly. He found no hope anywhere, not even in the expressionless face of Homer Dinsmore, who as yet had not spoken a word. There came over the boy what he afterward described as a "gone"feeling. It was the sensation, intensified many times, felt when an elevator drops from under one in swift descent.
"I—don't know what you mean," he faltered.
"You will," said Gurley brutally.
"Been across the valley to the herd yet?" asked Overstreet, elaborately careless.
Here was one question Ridley could answer with the truth. He spoke swiftly, eagerly. "No."
His questioner exchanged looks with Homer Dinsmore and laughed. The Ranger had betrayed himself. He had been so quick to deny that he had been near the herd that his anxiety gave him away. They knew he suspected them of having rustled the stock grazing on the slope. Very likely he had already verified his doubts as to burnt brands.
Homer Dinsmore spoke for the first time. His voice was harsh. "Why don't you tell the truth? You came to get evidence against us."
"Evidence?" repeated Arthur dully.
"To prove we're rustlin' stock. You know damn well."
"Why, I—I—"
"And you didn't come alone. Ellison never sent a tenderfoot like you out except with others. Where are the rest of yore party? Come through."
"I'm alone." Arthur stuck to that doggedly.
"If he's got a bunch of Rangers back of himwe better burn the wind outa here," suggested Gurley, looking around uneasily.
Overstreet looked at him with scorn and chewed tobacco imperturbably. "Keep yore shirt on, Steve. Time enough to holler when you're hurt."
"I haven't got a bunch of Rangers with me," cried Ridley desperately, beads of sweat on his brow. It had come to him that if he persuaded these men he had no companions with him he would be sealing his doom. They could murder him with impunity. But he could not betray Jack. He must set his teeth to meet the worst before he did that. "I tell you I'm alone. I don't know what you mean about the cattle. I haven't been across the valley. I came here, and I hadn't slept all night. So I was all worn out. And somehow I fell asleep."
"All alone, eh?" Pete Dinsmore murmured it suavely. His crafty mind was weighing the difference this made in the problem before the outlaws—the question as to what to do with this man. They could not let him go back with his evidence. It would not be safe to kill him if he had merely strayed from a band of Rangers. But assuming he told the truth, that he had no companions, then there was a very easy and simple way out for the rustlers. The Ranger could not tell what he knew—however much or little that might be—if he never returned to town.
"I keep telling you that I'm alone, that I got lost," Arthur insisted. "What would I be doing here without a horse if I had friends?"
"Tha's right," agreed Gurley. "I reckon he got lost like he said."
He, too, by the same process of reasoning as Pete Dinsmore, had come to a similar conclusion. He reflected craftily that Ridley was probably telling the truth. Why should he persist in the claim that he was alone if he had friends in the neighborhood, since to persuade his captors of this was to put himself wholly in their power?
"You're easily fooled, Steve," sneered Homer. "I've camped with this bird, an' I tell you he's got a passel of Rangers with him somewheres. We're standin' here jawin' waitin' for them to round us up, I reckon."
Overstreet looked at Homer. His eyebrows lifted in a slight surprise. He and the younger Dinsmore had been side partners for years. Homer was a cool customer. It wasn't like him to scare. There was something in this he did not understand. Anyhow, he would back his pal's play till he found out.
"I expect you're right. We can easy enough prove it. Let's light out for the cap-rock an' hole up for a coupla days. Then one of us will slip out an' see if the herd's still here an' no Rangers in sight. We'll keep this gent a prisoner till we know where we're at? How's that?"
"You talk like we was the United States Army, Dave," growled Pete Dinsmore. "We got no way to take care o' prisoners. I'm for settlin' this thing right here."
The outlaws drew closer together and farther from Ridley. He was unarmed and wholly in their power. If he tried to run he could not get twenty yards. The voices of the men fell.
Arthur began to tremble. His face grew gray, his lips bloodless. On the issue of that conference his life hung. The easiest thing to do would be to make an end of him now. Would they choose that way out of the difficulty? He could see that Gurley had, for the moment at least, joined forces with Homer and Dave Overstreet against Pete, but he could hear none of the arguments.
"You're wrong, Pete. We're playin' safe. That's all. My notion is this guy's tellin' the truth. There's only one thing to do. I don't reckon any of us want him to go back to town. But if we do anything with him here, the Rangers are liable to find his body. Oncet up in the cap-rock we can dry-gulch him."
The older Dinsmore gave way with an oath. "All right. Have yore own way, boys. Majority rules. We'll postpone this discussion till later."
Gurley brought the horses. Arthur was mounted behind him, his feet tied beneath the belly of the horse. The rustlers rode in pairs, Homer Dinsmore and Overstreet in the rear.
"What makes you think this fellow has friends near, Homer?" asked his companion.
"He doesn't know enough to ride alone. But I don't care whether he's alone or not. I'm not goin' to have the boy killed. He stood by me on the island to a finish. Of course that wouldn't go with Steve an' Pete, so I put it on the other ground."
"Want to turn him loose, do you?"
"I'd swear him first to padlock his mouth. He'd do it, too, if he said so."
"Some risk that, old-timer."
"I got to do it, Dave. Can't throw him down, can I?"
"Don't see as you can. Well, make yore play when you get ready. I'll shove my chips in beside yours. I never yet killed a man except in a fight an' I've got no fancy for beginnin' now."
"Much obliged, Dave."
"How far do you 'low to go? If Pete gets ugly like he sometimes does, he'll be onreasonable."
"I'll manage him. If he does get set there'll be a pair of us. Mebbe I'm just about as stubborn as he is."
"I believe you. Well, I'll be with you at every jump of the road," Overstreet promised.
The discussion renewed itself as soon as the outlaws had hidden themselves in a pocket of the cap-rock. Again they drew apart from their prisoner and talked in excited but reduced voices.
"The Rangers have got no evidence we collected this fellow," argued Gurley. "Say he disappears off'n the earth. Mebbe he died of thirst lost on the plains. Mebbe a buffalo bull killed him. Mebbe—"
"Mebbe he went to heaven in a chariot of fire," drawled Overstreet, to help out the other's imagination.
"The point is, why should we be held responsible? Nobody knows we were within fifty miles of him, doggone it."
"That's where you're wrong. The Rangers know it. They're right on our heels, I tell you," differed Homer Dinsmore.
"We'll get the blame. No manner o' doubt about that," said Overstreet.
"Say we do. They can't prove a thing—not a thing."
"You talk plumb foolish, Steve. Why don't you use yore brains?" answered Homer impatiently. "We can go just so far. If we overstep the limit this country will get too hot for us. There'll be a grand round-up, an' we'd get ours without any judge or jury. The folks of this country are law-abidin', but there's a line we can't cross."
"That's all right," agreed Pete. "But there's somethin' in what Steve says. If this tenderfoot wandered off an' got lost, nobody's goin' to hold us responsible for him."
"He didn't no such thing get lost. Listen. Tex Roberts was with him the day Steve—fell over the box. Tex was with him when we had the rumpus with the Kiowas on the Canadian. Those lads hunt together. Is it likely this Ridley, who don't know sic' 'em, got so far away from the beaten trails alone? Not in a thousand years. There's a bunch of Rangers somewheres near. We got to play our hands close, Pete."
"We're millin' around in circles, Homer. Why does this fellow Ridley claim he's alone? He must know it's up to him to persuade us his friends are about two jumps behind us."
"One guess is as good as another. Here's mine," said Overstreet. "He wants to throw us off our guard. He's hopin' we'll pull some fool break an' the Rangers will make a gather of our whole bunch."
"Good enough," said Homer, nodding agreement. "Another thing. This lad Ridley's not game. But he's a long way from bein' yellow. He's not gonna queer the campaign of the Rangers by tellin' what he knows."
"Betcha I can make him talk," boasted Gurley. "Put a coupla sticks between the roots of his fingers an' press—"
"Think we're a bunch of 'Paches, Steve?" demanded Homer roughly. "Come to that, I'll say plain that I'm no murderer, let alone torture. I've killed when I had to, but the otherfellow had a run for his money. If I beat him to the draw that was his lookout. He had no holler comin'. But this kid—not for me."
"Different here," said Pete evenly. "He knew what he was up against when he started. If it was us or him that had to go, I wouldn't hesitate a minute. Question is, what's safest for us?"
"The most dangerous thing for us is to harm him. Do that, an' we won't last a month in this country."
"What's yore idea, then, Homer? We can't hold him till Christmas. Soon as we let him go, he'll trot back an' tell all he knows," protested his brother irritably.
"What does he know? Nothin' except that we found him when he claimed to be lost an' that we looked after him an' showed him how to get home. Even if he's seen those cattle he can't prove we burned the brands, can he?"
"No-o."
"In a day or two we'll take the trail. I'll put it to Ridley that we haven't time to take him back to town an' that he'd sure get lost if we turned him loose here. We'll drop him somewheres on the trail after we've crossed the line."
"Fine an' dandy," jeered Gurley. "We'll introduce him to the herd an' take him along so's he'll be sure we're the rustlers."
They wrangled back and forth, covering thesame ground time and again. At last they agreed to postpone a decision till next day.
Homer reported the issue of their debate, colored to suit his purpose, to the white-faced Ranger. "I reckon we'll have to look out for you, Ridley. It wouldn't do to turn you loose. You'd get lost sure. Mebbe in a day or two some of us will be driftin' in to town an' can take you along."
"If you'd start me in the right direction I think I could find my way back," Arthur said timidly.
"No chance, young fellow. You'll stay right here till we get good an' ready for you to go. See?"
The Ranger did not push the point. He knew very well it would not be of the least use. His fears were temporarily allayed. He felt sure that Homer Dinsmore would put up a stiff argument before he would let him be sacrificed.
CHAPTER XXXIA PAIR OF DEUCES
From the lookout point among the rocks where he was stationed Overstreet shouted a warning to his companions below.
"Fellow with a white flag ridin' in. Looks like he might be a Ranger."
Pete Dinsmore dropped a coffee-pot and took three strides to his rifle. His brother Homer and Steve Gurley garnished themselves promptly with weapons. They joined the lookout, and from the big rocks could see without being seen.
The man coming to their hang-out had a handkerchief or a flour sack tied to the barrel of his rifle and was holding it in the air. He jogged along steadily without any haste and without any apparent hesitation. He was leading a saddled riderless horse.
A rifle cracked.
Pete Dinsmore whirled on Gurley angrily. "What you do that for?"
Malice, like some evil creature, writhed in Gurley's face. "It's that fellow Roberts. We got him right at last. Leggo my arm."
"I'll beat yore head off if you shoot again. Lucky for you you missed. Don't you see he comes here as a messenger. Ellison musta sent him."
"I don' care how he comes. He'll never go away except feet first." The man who had been horsewhipped by the Ranger was livid with rage.
Dinsmore swung him round by the shoulder savagely. "Who elected you boss of this outfit, Steve? Don't ride on the rope or you'll sure git a fall."
The eyes of Pete were blazing. Gurley gave way sullenly.
"Tha's all right. I ain't aimin' noways to cross you. I can wait to git this fellow if you say so."
The Ranger had pulled up his horse and was waving the improvised flag. Pete gave directions.
"Homer, you an' Dave go down an' find out what he wants. Don't bring him in unless you blindfold him first. We don't wanta introduce him to the place so as he can walk right in again any time."
The two men named walked out to meet the Ranger. They greeted him with grim little nods, which was exactly the salutation he gave them. The hard level eyes of the men met without yielding an eyebeat.
"Don't you know a flag of truce when you see it, Dinsmore?" demanded Roberts.
"Excuse that shot, Mr. Ranger," said Homer evenly. "It was a mistake."
"Gurley does make 'em," returned Jack, guessing shrewdly. "Some day he'll make one too many."
"I take it you came on business."
"Why, yes. Captain Ellison sent me with his compliments to get Ranger Ridley."
"Lost him, have you?"
"You can't exactly call him lost when we know where he is."
"Meanin' that he's here?"
"You ring the bell first shot."
Overstreet broke in, to mark time. "You think we've got him?"
"We do. Don't you?"
"And Ellison wants him, does he?"
"Wants him worse 'n a heifer cow does her calf." Roberts laughed softly, as though from some fund of inner mirth. "He's kinda hopin' you'll prove stubborn so as to give him a chance to come an' get him."
"Where is Ellison?"
The Ranger smiled. "He didn't give me any instructions about tellin' you where he is."
"H'mp! You can come in an' talk with Pete. We'll have to blindfold you," said Dinsmore.
The envoy made no objections. He dismounted. A bandana was tied across his eyes, and the men led him into the pocket of rock. The handkerchief was removed.
Jack told again what he had come for.
"How did you know we were here?" demanded Pete.
"It's our business to know such things." Jackdid not think it wise to mention that he had been here once before, the same day he found Rutherford Wadley's body a few miles away at the foot of a bluff.
"Ridley told us he was alone—no Rangers a-tall with him, he said."
"Did he?" Jack showed amusement. "What did you expect him to tell you? He draws pay as a Ranger."
"What's Ellison's proposition?"
"Captain Ellison hasn't any proposition to make, if by that you mean compromise. You're to turn Ridley over to me. That's all."
"An' where do we get off?" snorted Pete. "What does that buy us?"
"It buys you six hours' time for a get-away. I've got no business to do it, but I'll promise to loaf around an' not report to Captain Ellison till after noon. I'll go that far."
"I don' know's we want to make any get-away. We could hold the fort right here against quite a few Rangers, I reckon."
"Suit yourself," said Jack indifferently.
Pete chewed tobacco slowly and looked down sullenly at a flat rock without seeing it. Anger burned in him like a smouldering fire in peat. He hated this man Roberts, and Ellison he regarded as a natural enemy. Nothing would have pleased him more than to settle his feud with the Ranger on the spot with a six-shooter. But thatmeant a hurried exit from the Panhandle at a sacrifice of his accumulated profits. This did not suit Dinsmore's plans. His purpose was to leave Texas with enough money to set him up in business in Colorado or Wyoming. It would not do to gratify his revenge just now. Nor did he dare to carry out his threat and let the Rangers attack him. His policy was to avoid any conflict if possible.
"Have to talk it over with the other boys," he said abruptly. "You wait here."
Jack sat down on a rock while the rustlers retired and discussed the situation. There was not room for much difference of opinion. The Rangers had forced their hand. All they could do was to slip out of the rim-rock and make for another zone of safety. This would involve losing the stock they had rustled, but their option was a choice of two evils and this was decidedly the lesser.
Pete announced their decision truculently, his chin thrust out.
"One of these days we'll tangle, you 'n' me, young fellow. But not to-day. Take Ridley an' git outprontobefore I change my mind. For a plug of tobacco I'd go to foggin' the air right now."
The prisoner was brought forward. His weapons were restored to him. With the long strain of fear lifted at last from his mind, it was hardfor him to keep down a touch of hysterical joy. But he managed to return Jack's casual greeting with one as careless to all appearance.
He had caught the drift of the talk and he played up to his friend promptly. "I was rather lookin' for you or one of the other boys about now, Jack," he said. "Mighty careless of me to get nabbed asleep."
Ten minutes later the two Rangers were outside the pocket riding across the plain.
"Hope Pete won't change his mind an' plump a few bullets at us. He's a right explosive proposition," said Roberts.
It was all Arthur could do to keep from quickening the pace. His mind wouldn't be easy until several miles lay between him and his late captors.
"Where's Captain Ellison waiting?" asked Ridley.
"He's probably at Tascosa or Mobeetie. I haven't seen him since you have."
"Didn't he send you to the Dinsmores after me?"
"Why, no."
Arthur drew a deep breath of relief. If he had weakened in his story that he was alone and had told the truth, he would have brought ruin upon both himself and his friend.
"You mean you went in there on a pure bluff, knowing how they hated you and what a big chance there was that they would murder you?"
"I took a chance, I reckon. But it looked good to me."
"If I had told them you and I were alone—"
"I figured you wouldn't do that. I had a notion my bluff would stick. They wouldn't think I'd come to them unless I had strong backin'. The bigger the bluff the better the chance of its workin'."
"Unless I had told that there were only two of us."
"That was one of the risks I had to gamble on, but I felt easy in my mind about that. You'll notice one thing if you stay with the Rangers, Art. They can get away with a lot of things they couldn't pull off as private citizens. The law is back of us, and back of the law is the State of Texas. When it comes to a showdown, mighty few citizens want to get us after them good and hard. We always win in the end. The bad-men all know that."
"Just the same, for cold nerve I never saw the beat of what you did now."
"Sho! Nothin' to that. A pair of deuces is good as a full house when your hand ain't called. We'll swing over to the left here an' gather up that bunch of rustled stock, Art."
Late that afternoon, as they were following the dust of the drive, Ridley voiced a doubt in his heart.
"Isn't there a chance that the Dinsmores will follow us and find out we're alone?"
"Quite a chance," agreed Jack cheerfully. "If so, we're liable to swap bullets yet. But I don't reckon they'll do that hardly. More likely they're hittin' the trail for Palo Duro to hole up."
The outlaws did not molest them during the drive. Four days later they reached town with their thirsty, travel-worn herd.
Captain Ellison was at the hotel and Jack reported to him at once.
The eyes of the little Ranger Chief gleamed. "Good boys, both of you. By dog, the old man won't write me any more sassy letters when he reads what you done. I always did say that my boys—"
"—Were a bunch of triflin' scalawags," Jack reminded him.
The Captain fired up, peppery as ever. "You light outa here and see if a square meal won't help some, you blamed impudent young rascal."