VIII“As well marked as a prize-winnin’ white-face, and as quick actin’ as a top-cuttin’ hoss,” was Shorty Carroway’s mental summing up of young Pete Basset. “He’d orter act plumb purty in a scrap, be it six-gun er knock down and drag out.”Nor was Shorty far from being wrong in his estimation of his companion. Straight-featured, clean-limbed, his clear eyes honest and alight with the fire of unspoiled youth, the son of Hank Basset sat his horse with a careless grace that marked him a born horseman. Even college had left him unspoiled by the flattery and idolatry that is the unmaking of many a crack athlete.“I don’t much like the idea of you getting mixed up in this mess, Carroway,” he said in a troubled tone. “It’s really not your scrap, you know, and there’s going to be some nasty battling before it’s over. It sure is white of you, and darn few men would do what you’re doing now, even friends of long standing. Hang it all, we’re little more than strangers to you and it’s not fair to——”“Fergit it, Pete,” grinned Shorty, reddening. “Strangers? I reckon not. There’s some folks that I’ve knowed since I was hock high to a cotton-tail rabbit, that’s more strangers tuh me than yore paw and mammy. They done took me and my Tad pardner into the house like we was kin folks. Dang it, I ain’t et such grub since I was a yearlin’.“Anyhow, my reasons fer takin’ chips in this here game is sorter vary and sundry, as the feller says. Tad’s bin abusin’ me scan’lous and I aim tuh git even. That’s one reason. Then, this here Foxhombreis nacherally goin’ tuh rear up and fall over backward on hisse’f when we brings out this herd. Thirdly and mostly, I’m sp’ilin’ tuh lay hands on this here gent which goes by the handle uh Black Jack, thereby completin’ a job uh manhandlin’ which I was forced tuh quit sudden like onct at the LF wagon.“Again, I’m honin’ fer tuh show yore daddy that there’s one human besides his son which kin bust that Missouri wide open. All uh which,amigo, downs ary argument on yore part. Ain’t it about time we was gittin’ to that place acrost from the Narrers? We bin ridin’ right along since we crossed on the ferry and she’s nigh dark.”“We’re about opposite the upper end now, Shorty. See that high-cut bank below the first little bend? That’s her. That lighter brown strip is their trail where they water the stock. We’re a mile above, rough figuring. That means we’ll drift to that trail nicely, starting here. We’ll angle it as much as we can. Current’s swift and the channel lays full against the cut back on the other side.“See that sharp pinnacle? Well that’s the point we’ll head for. It’ll show plain against the sky when the moon rises. Barring undercurrents and snags, we stand a fighting chance of hitting it. If we don’t, it’s thumbs down for us. That cliff is ten miles to the lower end and not six inches toe-hold in the ten miles. I wish you wouldn’t tackle it, pardner.”Shorty shook his head and, following Pete’s actions, dismounted and unsaddled. Hobbles were adjusted and the two partook of a meager repast of jerky and canned tomatoes. Brush screened them from the opposite bank as they squatted beneath a big cottonwood and waited for darkness and a rising moon.Already, the approaching danger was fast cementing a strong friendship between these two. As men will do on such occasions, they exchanged confidences, swapped stories and lighted their cigarets from the same match.Pete’s quick movements and the dancing light in his gray eyes betrayed the nervous tension within. Shorty showed not a trace of whatever emotion lay behind his soft-spoken banter. Though a scant ten years older than his companion, Shorty had been well tutored in the school of hard knocks. Like his partner, Tad, he was an orphan, range-reared and self reliant. The only living thing that he was afraid of was a woman. The more beautiful, the more fear she instilled in the heart of the little cowpuncher. Danger merely quickened his pulse as strong drink affects a man unused to it. Yet he masked his feelings as effectively as the seasoned gambler hides four aces. It was as if risking his life was an everyday occurrence, all in a day’s work.Twilight deepened into night and a white moon pushed itself over the ragged skyline. A horned owl hoo-hooed in the cottonwoods. The timid white-tail deer bedded down in their red willow thicket. Back in the brakes, a wolf gave voice to a long-drawn howl. A ripple showed on the smooth surface of the water as a muskrat swam from its hole in the clay bank. Plunk! A beaver tail slapped the water with such abruptness that Shorty’s hand dropped to his gun.“I reckon we might as well tackle it,” said Pete quietly, getting to his feet.They saddled in silence, with great care. Cinches were left loose. Hackamores took the place of bridles. Boots and chaps were rolled in a neat bundle and tied to the backs of the saddles. Shorty bit off a large chew of plug and swung into the saddle.“There’s no way of keeping you from coming along, Shorty?”“Not nary, Pete. I done hired out fer a tough hand and I plays my string out. Chaw?”He held out the gnawed plug.“Thanks, but I never chaw, pardner.”“Then don’t never learn. I gotta own up though, that there’s nothin’ quite so plumb downright soothin’ as a man-size hunk uh plug at a time like this. It’s as intoxicatin’ as a shot uh tea is to a ol’ maid school-marm. Take the lead, pard. I’m follerin’ clost behind. The sooner yuh starts, the better. These dad-gummed mosquiters is shore a-eatin’ off me fierce.”Pete in the lead rode out on a sand bar and his horse waded out into the stream. The swift-flowing water swirled and eddied about the animal’s legs.“That high peak yonder, Shorty,” he called softly as his horse hit swimming water. “Right yuh are, Peter.”No further word was spoken. Shorty set his jaws as the swift current swept his horse downstream. Easily, he slipped from the saddle and with a hand holding to his horse’s mane, swam alongside. The water was cool enough to freshen his tired nerves. He grinned to himself and jerked his hat down on his head with his free hand. Ahead of him he could see Pete and his horse. Both horses swam high in the water.Suddenly, like a bobbing cork pulled by a string, Pete and his mount were sucked beneath the surface.“Undercurrent,” muttered Shorty as he filled his lungs with a deep breath of air.Then he and his horse went under as if drawn by an invisible hand. In reality but a moment, yet it seemed an hour to the cowpuncher, and they again came to the top.“All right?” called a voice from ahead.“Settin’ purty,” he called back.The horses were blowing softly with a rattling noise. Unexcited, swimming stoutly, they battled against the current. Shorty splashed water against the side of his horse’s head to guide the animal a point downstream. Once more he was heading straight for the sharp point that loomed black against the sky.A dark, misshapen object bobbed up ahead. It was a big tree, half submerged, floating downstream. With swift, sure movements, Shorty swung his swimming horse to face straight up-stream against the current.“Easy now, ol’ hoss,” he murmured soothingly. “Jest kinda mark time fer a minute till yon snag drifts on to St. Louis. That’s the idee. Now she’s gone.”And they were under way once more. Ahead, Pete was watching for snags and had worked his way back until he now clung to his horse’s tail. Behind him, Shorty was doing the same. A scant hundred feet ahead the black shadow of the bank rose ominously. Pete scanned the unbroken shadow for a trace of the trail.Momentary panic clutched Pete. Where the trail should be, only a perpendicular wall showed. Either he was above or below the trail that meant escape from the treacherous river. Then the panic passed, giving way to dogged, unyielding determination. He dared not call out to his companion for fear of being overheard by the men they sought. He swung his horse to breast the current and waited for the coming of Shorty.A moment and the little puncher was alongside, careful to keep his distance lest the horses paw each other. The animals were breathing hard now. It had been a desperately hard swim. How long their strength and courage would hold out was a problem that might easily mean death to men and beasts.“Missed ’er,” whispered Pete hoarsely. “We got to chance it downstream, I reckon.”Swimming squarely against the current, their horses had been losing ground slowly. Shorty nodded and, gripping his floating saddle strings, pulled himself alongside the neck of his horse. He deftly slipped free his rope strap and flipped the end of his lariat to Pete. Pete caught it and with a nod, slipped the end under his armpits and knotted it. Shorty passed his loop over his head and under his arms, then drew it tight. Now, if one of them should find footing along that treacherous bank, he could save his companion. On the other hand, if one of them went under, the other would meet the same fate.“Both or neither,” explained Shorty in a grim whisper, then swung his horse downstream. “Here goes nothin’.”Two pairs of bloodshot, straining eyes swept the bank that slipped past so swiftly. Shorty now was in the lead, Pete ten feet behind, the slack of the rope coiled in his hand to keep from tangling. Both men were taking it with deadly calm as they fought their battle against the death that lurked in the muddy, swirling water.Suddenly Shorty’s horse ceased swimming. The animal’s legs were swept downstream and he floated.“Gone belly-up, Pete,” Shorty grunted.“Look out!” called Pete in a hoarse whisper, as his horse lunged forward in the water in an effort to climb on top of the floating horse.Now indeed, the situation was critical. Shorty ducked beneath the striking forefeet of Pete’s horse and with every ounce of his strength, jerked at his hackamore rope. Pete did likewise. The melee of struggling horses and men drifted apart. To the left, a narrow ribbon of light cut the dark wall of the bank.“The trail, thank ——,” muttered Pete and, with a jerk that seemed to tear the ligaments in his arm, wrenched at the hackamore rope. An agonizing moment, then his horse lunged shoreward and found footing.The weight of Shorty’s horse, swimming once more, hindered the puncher greatly as he fought the current, his eyes fixed on that strip of light that meant safety. Loath to let loose his horse, he fought off the temptation to turn the animal loose. The horse was becoming panicky now, snorting and lunging, pawing at the man ahead of him in the water. Flinty, steel-shod hoofs broke the water a scant two feet behind Shorty’s head.Pete, in the saddle now, dallied the slack rope around his saddle horn. His stockinged heels pressed the heaving sides of his tired horse.Back in the water, Shorty felt the rope beneath his arms go tight. Both his hands grasped the hackamore rope of his struggling horse. The noose beneath his arms tightened till it seemed to be cutting him in two. He clamped his jaws and gripped the hackamore rope. His arms seemed to be stretching until they loosened in the sockets. Seconds seemed eternity. Then he felt himself being dragged along the clay bank of the trail that led upward. He dimly saw his horse flounder ashore and stand with wide-spread legs and lowered head on the bank. With a grunt of utter relief he let go the hackamore rope.“Stick ’em up!” bawled a hoarse voice from above.A spurt of flame and the roar of a gun, then Pete’s voice, trembling a bit.“Got him, Shorty. Are you all right?”A violent choking, gasping sound from Shorty and Pete, gun in hand, cast off the rope and, leaping to the ground, slid down the trail to his companion’s side.“Good gosh, man! What’s wrong?” he whispered, loosening the rope and peering into Shorty’s writhing features.Shorty scrambled to his feet, reaching for his gun.“My chaw. Swallered ’er. Let’s go,” he gasped, and lunged forward to throw himself upon a dark blot that moved along the bank.The dull thud of a gun barrel sounded as it struck something.“Your shot jest winged him, Pete. He’s out fer a spell now. Gimme the rope and we’ll hog-tie him. Then let’s git outa here.”“Yo’re covered, —— yuh!” called a hidden voice. “Plug ’em if they make a move, Bill. “Stick them —— hands in the air.”Two rapid shots cut the darkness and Shorty felt the air of a lead slug pass his cheek.“Whupped!” he grunted and raised his hands. “I’ve laid down my hand, feller,” he called. “Foller suit, Pete, they got us foul.”
“As well marked as a prize-winnin’ white-face, and as quick actin’ as a top-cuttin’ hoss,” was Shorty Carroway’s mental summing up of young Pete Basset. “He’d orter act plumb purty in a scrap, be it six-gun er knock down and drag out.”
Nor was Shorty far from being wrong in his estimation of his companion. Straight-featured, clean-limbed, his clear eyes honest and alight with the fire of unspoiled youth, the son of Hank Basset sat his horse with a careless grace that marked him a born horseman. Even college had left him unspoiled by the flattery and idolatry that is the unmaking of many a crack athlete.
“I don’t much like the idea of you getting mixed up in this mess, Carroway,” he said in a troubled tone. “It’s really not your scrap, you know, and there’s going to be some nasty battling before it’s over. It sure is white of you, and darn few men would do what you’re doing now, even friends of long standing. Hang it all, we’re little more than strangers to you and it’s not fair to——”
“Fergit it, Pete,” grinned Shorty, reddening. “Strangers? I reckon not. There’s some folks that I’ve knowed since I was hock high to a cotton-tail rabbit, that’s more strangers tuh me than yore paw and mammy. They done took me and my Tad pardner into the house like we was kin folks. Dang it, I ain’t et such grub since I was a yearlin’.
“Anyhow, my reasons fer takin’ chips in this here game is sorter vary and sundry, as the feller says. Tad’s bin abusin’ me scan’lous and I aim tuh git even. That’s one reason. Then, this here Foxhombreis nacherally goin’ tuh rear up and fall over backward on hisse’f when we brings out this herd. Thirdly and mostly, I’m sp’ilin’ tuh lay hands on this here gent which goes by the handle uh Black Jack, thereby completin’ a job uh manhandlin’ which I was forced tuh quit sudden like onct at the LF wagon.
“Again, I’m honin’ fer tuh show yore daddy that there’s one human besides his son which kin bust that Missouri wide open. All uh which,amigo, downs ary argument on yore part. Ain’t it about time we was gittin’ to that place acrost from the Narrers? We bin ridin’ right along since we crossed on the ferry and she’s nigh dark.”
“We’re about opposite the upper end now, Shorty. See that high-cut bank below the first little bend? That’s her. That lighter brown strip is their trail where they water the stock. We’re a mile above, rough figuring. That means we’ll drift to that trail nicely, starting here. We’ll angle it as much as we can. Current’s swift and the channel lays full against the cut back on the other side.
“See that sharp pinnacle? Well that’s the point we’ll head for. It’ll show plain against the sky when the moon rises. Barring undercurrents and snags, we stand a fighting chance of hitting it. If we don’t, it’s thumbs down for us. That cliff is ten miles to the lower end and not six inches toe-hold in the ten miles. I wish you wouldn’t tackle it, pardner.”
Shorty shook his head and, following Pete’s actions, dismounted and unsaddled. Hobbles were adjusted and the two partook of a meager repast of jerky and canned tomatoes. Brush screened them from the opposite bank as they squatted beneath a big cottonwood and waited for darkness and a rising moon.
Already, the approaching danger was fast cementing a strong friendship between these two. As men will do on such occasions, they exchanged confidences, swapped stories and lighted their cigarets from the same match.
Pete’s quick movements and the dancing light in his gray eyes betrayed the nervous tension within. Shorty showed not a trace of whatever emotion lay behind his soft-spoken banter. Though a scant ten years older than his companion, Shorty had been well tutored in the school of hard knocks. Like his partner, Tad, he was an orphan, range-reared and self reliant. The only living thing that he was afraid of was a woman. The more beautiful, the more fear she instilled in the heart of the little cowpuncher. Danger merely quickened his pulse as strong drink affects a man unused to it. Yet he masked his feelings as effectively as the seasoned gambler hides four aces. It was as if risking his life was an everyday occurrence, all in a day’s work.
Twilight deepened into night and a white moon pushed itself over the ragged skyline. A horned owl hoo-hooed in the cottonwoods. The timid white-tail deer bedded down in their red willow thicket. Back in the brakes, a wolf gave voice to a long-drawn howl. A ripple showed on the smooth surface of the water as a muskrat swam from its hole in the clay bank. Plunk! A beaver tail slapped the water with such abruptness that Shorty’s hand dropped to his gun.
“I reckon we might as well tackle it,” said Pete quietly, getting to his feet.
They saddled in silence, with great care. Cinches were left loose. Hackamores took the place of bridles. Boots and chaps were rolled in a neat bundle and tied to the backs of the saddles. Shorty bit off a large chew of plug and swung into the saddle.
“There’s no way of keeping you from coming along, Shorty?”
“Not nary, Pete. I done hired out fer a tough hand and I plays my string out. Chaw?”
He held out the gnawed plug.
“Thanks, but I never chaw, pardner.”
“Then don’t never learn. I gotta own up though, that there’s nothin’ quite so plumb downright soothin’ as a man-size hunk uh plug at a time like this. It’s as intoxicatin’ as a shot uh tea is to a ol’ maid school-marm. Take the lead, pard. I’m follerin’ clost behind. The sooner yuh starts, the better. These dad-gummed mosquiters is shore a-eatin’ off me fierce.”
Pete in the lead rode out on a sand bar and his horse waded out into the stream. The swift-flowing water swirled and eddied about the animal’s legs.
“That high peak yonder, Shorty,” he called softly as his horse hit swimming water. “Right yuh are, Peter.”
No further word was spoken. Shorty set his jaws as the swift current swept his horse downstream. Easily, he slipped from the saddle and with a hand holding to his horse’s mane, swam alongside. The water was cool enough to freshen his tired nerves. He grinned to himself and jerked his hat down on his head with his free hand. Ahead of him he could see Pete and his horse. Both horses swam high in the water.
Suddenly, like a bobbing cork pulled by a string, Pete and his mount were sucked beneath the surface.
“Undercurrent,” muttered Shorty as he filled his lungs with a deep breath of air.
Then he and his horse went under as if drawn by an invisible hand. In reality but a moment, yet it seemed an hour to the cowpuncher, and they again came to the top.
“All right?” called a voice from ahead.
“Settin’ purty,” he called back.
The horses were blowing softly with a rattling noise. Unexcited, swimming stoutly, they battled against the current. Shorty splashed water against the side of his horse’s head to guide the animal a point downstream. Once more he was heading straight for the sharp point that loomed black against the sky.
A dark, misshapen object bobbed up ahead. It was a big tree, half submerged, floating downstream. With swift, sure movements, Shorty swung his swimming horse to face straight up-stream against the current.
“Easy now, ol’ hoss,” he murmured soothingly. “Jest kinda mark time fer a minute till yon snag drifts on to St. Louis. That’s the idee. Now she’s gone.”
And they were under way once more. Ahead, Pete was watching for snags and had worked his way back until he now clung to his horse’s tail. Behind him, Shorty was doing the same. A scant hundred feet ahead the black shadow of the bank rose ominously. Pete scanned the unbroken shadow for a trace of the trail.
Momentary panic clutched Pete. Where the trail should be, only a perpendicular wall showed. Either he was above or below the trail that meant escape from the treacherous river. Then the panic passed, giving way to dogged, unyielding determination. He dared not call out to his companion for fear of being overheard by the men they sought. He swung his horse to breast the current and waited for the coming of Shorty.
A moment and the little puncher was alongside, careful to keep his distance lest the horses paw each other. The animals were breathing hard now. It had been a desperately hard swim. How long their strength and courage would hold out was a problem that might easily mean death to men and beasts.
“Missed ’er,” whispered Pete hoarsely. “We got to chance it downstream, I reckon.”
Swimming squarely against the current, their horses had been losing ground slowly. Shorty nodded and, gripping his floating saddle strings, pulled himself alongside the neck of his horse. He deftly slipped free his rope strap and flipped the end of his lariat to Pete. Pete caught it and with a nod, slipped the end under his armpits and knotted it. Shorty passed his loop over his head and under his arms, then drew it tight. Now, if one of them should find footing along that treacherous bank, he could save his companion. On the other hand, if one of them went under, the other would meet the same fate.
“Both or neither,” explained Shorty in a grim whisper, then swung his horse downstream. “Here goes nothin’.”
Two pairs of bloodshot, straining eyes swept the bank that slipped past so swiftly. Shorty now was in the lead, Pete ten feet behind, the slack of the rope coiled in his hand to keep from tangling. Both men were taking it with deadly calm as they fought their battle against the death that lurked in the muddy, swirling water.
Suddenly Shorty’s horse ceased swimming. The animal’s legs were swept downstream and he floated.
“Gone belly-up, Pete,” Shorty grunted.
“Look out!” called Pete in a hoarse whisper, as his horse lunged forward in the water in an effort to climb on top of the floating horse.
Now indeed, the situation was critical. Shorty ducked beneath the striking forefeet of Pete’s horse and with every ounce of his strength, jerked at his hackamore rope. Pete did likewise. The melee of struggling horses and men drifted apart. To the left, a narrow ribbon of light cut the dark wall of the bank.
“The trail, thank ——,” muttered Pete and, with a jerk that seemed to tear the ligaments in his arm, wrenched at the hackamore rope. An agonizing moment, then his horse lunged shoreward and found footing.
The weight of Shorty’s horse, swimming once more, hindered the puncher greatly as he fought the current, his eyes fixed on that strip of light that meant safety. Loath to let loose his horse, he fought off the temptation to turn the animal loose. The horse was becoming panicky now, snorting and lunging, pawing at the man ahead of him in the water. Flinty, steel-shod hoofs broke the water a scant two feet behind Shorty’s head.
Pete, in the saddle now, dallied the slack rope around his saddle horn. His stockinged heels pressed the heaving sides of his tired horse.
Back in the water, Shorty felt the rope beneath his arms go tight. Both his hands grasped the hackamore rope of his struggling horse. The noose beneath his arms tightened till it seemed to be cutting him in two. He clamped his jaws and gripped the hackamore rope. His arms seemed to be stretching until they loosened in the sockets. Seconds seemed eternity. Then he felt himself being dragged along the clay bank of the trail that led upward. He dimly saw his horse flounder ashore and stand with wide-spread legs and lowered head on the bank. With a grunt of utter relief he let go the hackamore rope.
“Stick ’em up!” bawled a hoarse voice from above.
A spurt of flame and the roar of a gun, then Pete’s voice, trembling a bit.
“Got him, Shorty. Are you all right?”
A violent choking, gasping sound from Shorty and Pete, gun in hand, cast off the rope and, leaping to the ground, slid down the trail to his companion’s side.
“Good gosh, man! What’s wrong?” he whispered, loosening the rope and peering into Shorty’s writhing features.
Shorty scrambled to his feet, reaching for his gun.
“My chaw. Swallered ’er. Let’s go,” he gasped, and lunged forward to throw himself upon a dark blot that moved along the bank.
The dull thud of a gun barrel sounded as it struck something.
“Your shot jest winged him, Pete. He’s out fer a spell now. Gimme the rope and we’ll hog-tie him. Then let’s git outa here.”
“Yo’re covered, —— yuh!” called a hidden voice. “Plug ’em if they make a move, Bill. “Stick them —— hands in the air.”
Two rapid shots cut the darkness and Shorty felt the air of a lead slug pass his cheek.
“Whupped!” he grunted and raised his hands. “I’ve laid down my hand, feller,” he called. “Foller suit, Pete, they got us foul.”