Chapter TenDirty Water
Breakfast next morning was finished in quick time and they set about breaking camp. Slim cached his own saddle and under it Chuck placed his extra clothing.
They brought their mounts up to the camp and saddled them. Slim patted Lightning affectionately, talking to her as he drew the cinches tight.
“We’re going on another adventure, old girl,” he said softly, “and I’m counting on you to help me win. If we get in any tight spots, it may be up to you and your speed. How about it?”
If Lightning didn’t understand the exact words, she sensed that her master was praising her, and she tossed her head proudly.
Slim looked carefully at the places where Old Bill had applied the dye. There was no trace of the pigment and to all intents and purposes Lightning was simply another sorrel. True, she was a little larger and longer of leg than the average range horse, but not uncommon enough to attract unusual attention.
Chuck’s new mount was just a plain calico cayuse, a good sturdy horse with plenty of endurance and a good trail gait.
“Fixed on cash?” asked Old Bill.
“We’re supposed to be broke,” said Chuck.
“Sure enough, but I thought you might need a bit for emergencies.”
“I’ve got enough for that,” said the Circle Four cowboy and Slim added that he had sufficient cash to carry him along.
The sun was just topping the Cajons when they swung into their saddles and splashed across the noisy mountain stream. They reached Sky High trail and took the turn to the left, heading down for the valley. For an hour they rode steadily with Old Bill in the lead. Then they came to a fork in the trail and the cattleman halted.
“Here’s where we part. I’m going left and out beyond the Cajons by the old trail. You boys take the way to the right. It’s a good day’s ride to Dirty Water and unless I miss my guess, that’s where you’ll find the rustlers. I’m counting on you boys to turn them up for us. When you need me you can send a telegram from the railroad station at Mopstick. That’s outside the valley, but it’s the nearest telegraph office. Good luck.”
Old Bill gave each of them a firm, warm handclasp that conveyed more than words, swung his horse around sharply, and moved briskly down the left fork of the trail.
Chuck and Slim watched him until a clump of aspen hid him from view. Then they spoke to their own horses and turned onto the trail that led to the Creeping Shadows.
The cowboy detectives rode at a steady pace that ate up miles on the long down trail into the valley.
Through midday the sun burned down on them unmercifully, but they paused at noon only long enough to water their horses.
Slim rode in the lead, little spurts of dust leaping up around Lightning’s hoofs. The Flying Arrow rider kept his head bowed to shield his face from the burning rays of the sun.
They left the foothills and entered the Creeping Shadows country, a broad, rolling land that was sheltered between the Cajons on the east and south and the mighty Three Soldiers range which reared its peaks in the west.
Streams tumbling down the sides of the ranges converged in the valley and assured the cattlemen there of plenty of water. There was ample timber and the grass was lush and long, though now burned badly by the long drought. It was a cattleman’s paradise and Slim, as he appraised the worth of the valley, could realize why rustlers would make a bold bid to steal the possessions of Adam Marks and take the valley for their own.
Lightning seemed to sense her rider’s thoughts for she paused at the crest of a knoll as though to give Slim a better chance to view the country which unfolded before him.
Chuck, his clothes heavy with dust, reined in beside Slim.
“Better ease up a little,” said the Circle Four rider. “This pace is a little more than my cayuse can stand on a day as hot as this.
“We’ve been hitting it pretty hard,” conceded Slim, “but I wanted to get to Dirty Water before sundown. Unless I miss my guess the village is only a couple of miles further.” Slim pointed toward the left, where a cluster of frame buildings could be seen strewn along the banks of a stream.
“It may be the Box B,” said Chuck.
“I don’t think so. The Box B is closer to the Three Soldiers. Whatever it is, we’ll know in a few minutes.”
Slim spoke to Lightning and the magnificent sorrel started down the slight grade, apparently as fresh and tireless as when they had taken the trail early in the day.
As they neared the buildings, Slim was convinced that they were approaching Dirty Water and he wondered just what kind of a reception was in store for them. Old Bill Needham had said the village was the headquarters of the rustlers.
Dirty Water was anything but impressive. It was a typical cow town. Most of the buildings were unpainted, their cracked boards burned a dead gray by the heat of summer and the chill blasts of winter.
Slim and Chuck pulled up on their side of the creek and surveyed the town with critical eyes. There was only one street, the buildings fronting along the creek and set back about fifty yards from the edge of the stream. Many of the frame structures had false fronts, giving them the appearance of two story buildings. There were not more than fifteen or sixteen buildings in Dirty Water.
“Wonder where the town got its name?” mused Chuck, looking down at the stream which flowed in front of them. It was clear and blue--the blue of waters from the high peaks of the Three Soldiers. “It couldn’t have been from this creek.”
“I’ll leave that information for you to dig out,” grinned Slim. “Come on. I’m hungry, tired and dirty. There’s one place over there that claims to be a hotel.”
They forded the stream and their horses mounted the sloping bank to the main street. Half way down the row of buildings a two-story structure reared its head. A faded sign proclaimed “Palace Hotel” and to the rear was a rambling stable and large corral.
In spite of their own weariness from the long, hot day in the saddle, their horses came first.
A hostler appeared from the shadows of the stable as they dismounted and Slim turned Lightning over to his care.
“How much for the horses?” asked Chuck.
“Going to stay at the hotel?” asked the stableman.
“Yes,” Chuck nodded.
“Half a dollar for each horse then.”
The price was fair enough and Slim and Chuck unfastened their saddles and rifle scabbards. They were taking no risks on the honesty of anyone at Dirty Water. The hostler looked at Lightning with open admiration.
“Fine looking horse,” he said. “Must be mighty fast.”
“Fair,” agreed Slim, “but getting a little old to keep up a hard trail gait very long. See that she’s given the best of care.”
The cowboys picked up their duffel and headed toward the hotel.
“What was the idea telling the hostler Lightning was old and losing her speed?” asked Chuck.
“There’s just a chance we may find our lives depending on Lightning’s speed and there’s no use in tipping off anyone how fast she really can run when I give her a chance.”
“In other words, we’ll sit tight and let the other fellows do the talking while we’re here,” grinned Chuck.
“Exactly. I’m hungry. Let’s hope the hotel doesn’t live up to the name of the town.”
They clumped across the narrow stoop in front of the hotel and entered the small room which served as a lobby. A fat, bald-headed man who had been swatting flies looked around from behind the counter.
“Bed and board?” he asked.
“Providing there’s no bugs in either one,” said Chuck.
The fat man’s face turned red and he sputtered furiously.
“Tha--, tha--, that’s an insult to the Palace Hotel,” he finally managed to say. “I never yet been accused of harboring a bed bug in my place.”
“No offense meant,” grinned Chuck. “I was just being cautious.”
The hotel man shoved a well thumbed ledger across the counter. A rusty pen and half empty bottle of ink followed.
“Sign your monickers here,” he said, indicating several blank spaces near the bottom of the page.
Slim picked up the pen and looked at the names which had been signed before him. According to the register, the last guest, Maxie Denkman, had visited the hotel three months before. Slim looked again at the name on the register. “Maxie,” the name clicked. It was the one the riders on the Sky High trail had mentioned as the man he had shot in the fight near the summit when Chuck had been ambushed. Here indeed was a clue to the mystery of the rustling in the Creeping Shadows. It might be worth only a little, but Slim carefully cataloged it in his mind for future reference.
“Not much travel through here,” he said, pointing to the name which had been placed on the book three months before.
“Not enough,” grunted the hotel keeper. “Still, with the riders coming in off the range, I manage to get along.”
“Country seems right healthy,” said Chuck, glancing through the dust-fogged windows toward the broad expanse of the valley.
“Some inquisitive people have been known to have a touch of lead poisoning,” said the hotel man sharply.
Slim signed his name and handed the pen to Chuck. The Flying Arrow rider scratched his name with gusto and felt sure that no one would be able to read the scrawl.
“You fellers didn’t put down your addresses,” said their host.
Slim looked at him calmly, yet when he spoke his voice was low.
“That,” he said, “is none of your business.” The hotel keeper decided that as far as he was concerned the newcomers could be only one jump ahead of a sheriff.
He handed a key over the counter. “Your room’s No. 3 on the left side as you go down the hall.”
Slim and Chuck picked up their saddles and ascended the stairs. The hallway was narrow, hot, and poorly lighted, but they found the door of their own room.
The room was furnished in the usual fashion of a cow country hotel. The bed was of cast iron, the other furnishings being two straight-backed chairs and a wash stand that stood at a crazy angle. The mirror above it, like the windows, had not been cleaned in months and there was a smell of mustiness about the room.
Slim threw open the one window and a light breeze from the east riffled the remnants of what had once been a curtain.
Chuck tested the bed.
“Not bad,” he said, “and the sheets are clean.”
There was no water in the pitcher on the washstand but the portly keeper of the hostelry appeared with a bucketful.
“Wasn’t looking for any business today,” he said as he filled the water pitcher. “Here’s a towel, too. Supper will be ready in about fifteen minutes.”
He paused at the door.
“Anything you need?” he asked.
“Solitude,” said Chuck.
The door slammed hard behind the retreating figure.
Slim laughed and then sobered as he turned to Chuck.
“You’re deliberately stirring that old chap up,” he said. “What’s the idea?”
“Nothing special. I just don’t like his looks. Maybe I can worry a little of the excess fat off him.”
“If you keep up at the rate you started, he’ll be a skeleton by tomorrow morning.”
They washed the grime of the day’s ride off and Slim surveyed the washbowl with distaste.
“It’s easy to see where they got the name ‘Dirty Water’ for this town.”
The clang of a bell sounded below and shortly after footsteps thudded heavily on the stoop.
“We’d better get down there ahead of the army,” said Chuck, throwing open the door of their own room and starting down the stairs. Slim followed, but at a more leisurely pace. He had heard someone moving about in the next room and he was curious to know what their neighbor looked like. The door opened and a man, dressed in typical cowboy attire, stepped into the hall. His right arm was in a sling. There was scarcely enough light to see his features clearly in the dusk of the hall, but Slim felt certain that the man was Maxie Denkman, who had registered three months before. He was also the Maxie he had wounded on the Sky High trail.
“Pretty hot today,” said Slim as the other man approached.
“Yeh, a little warm. I guess I saw you riding in a while ago.”
They were at the head of the stairs where the light was better and Slim saw that the other man was watching him keenly. His eyes shifted down to the gun, which swung at Slim’s right hip. Then they jerked back again.
“Going to stay in this country long?” Slim thought there was just a tinge too much anxiety in the tone.
“Hard to say. My pardner and I are just drifting, trying to find a good outfit to tie up with.”
“Then you won’t hang around here long. Cattle business in the valley is in a bad way. I hear lots of talk about rustlers, but I guess it’s poor management more than anything.”
“We’re willing to work cheap if the outfit looks like it will come through,” said Slim.
They reached the bottom of the stairs and turned into the dining room. Half a dozen men were already seated at the one table and the food was disappearing at a rapid rate.
Chuck had his own plate heaped high and Slim soon had his filled with food. There was little conversation. That would come later when appetites were satisfied and they sat back and waited for the pie to be brought on.
The man Slim had met in the hall was making slow work of his supper, for he was greatly handicapped with the use of only his left hand. He paused and looked at Slim.
“Don’t believe I know your name or did I miss it coming downstairs?”
“I didn’t mention it. Name’s Evans, Slim Evans. My pardner’s Chuck Meade.”
“Glad to know you. I’m Maxie Denkman. Meet the rest of the outfit here.”
He turned to his left and introduced the group at the table. There was Pike Carberry, who ran the general store, and his clerk, Jim Ferris, who also did the barbering for the whole valley. Next was Leo Kovec, whose star on his vest proclaimed him to be the marshal and beyond him sat Newt Bemis, whom Denkman introduced as an assistant cattle buyer. The man at the end of the table drew Slim’s attention. He was well groomed in spite in the heat of the day, immaculately shaved, and his linen was fresh and white. His dark hair was slightly curly and he had a pleasant smile.
“I’ll introduce myself,” he said. “I’m Hal Titzell, cattle buyer.”
“Glad to know you,” said Slim, and Chuck echoed the words. Just then the pie was placed on the table and conversation died.
Between mouthfuls of pie, Slim mentally gauged the group at the table.
Pike Carberry, genial, white-haired and sixty, was just what he appeared to be--the town storekeeper. Jim Ferris, slightly bald and about thirty-five, was talkative.
Leo Kovec, the marshal, was about forty, heavy of face and figure and Slim put him down as mentally slow, although he might be the local agent of the rustlers.
Newt Bemis looked plain bad. His features were heavily lined and a livid scar disfigured the right cheek. The brand, “Gunman,” was written all over him and for that reason Slim put him down as both interesting and dangerous. He was also the Newt who had tried to bushwhack Chuck on the trail.
Maxie Denkman, in introducing the others, had failed to mention his own business, but Slim knew he was allied with the rustlers.
The last man and the hardest of them all to catalog was Hal Titzell. He might be thirty-five and again he might be almost fifty. His skin was a clear tan, and his hands and fingernails much better kept than the average. He might be a cattle buyer, but Slim also put him down as a gambler, a man of rare courage and ability, which also meant an exceedingly dangerous man.
The pie finished, the group pushed their chairs away from the table and went to the stoop, where a dozen chairs were ranged along the wall of the hotel.
The sun had dropped behind the Three Soldiers and shadows were thickening. Titzell sat down beside Slim and pointed across the valley.
“Watch the shadows and you’ll see why this country is known as the Creeping Shadows.”
The shadows from the foothills of the Three Soldiers were extending further into the valley in a steady, visible movement. They were alive, creeping out and out until the entire basin was folded in their softness. Hard behind them came the deeper cloak of the night. Down the street a light flared in the window of Pike Carberry’s general store and further along raucous voices sounded in the Elite Pool Hall. Several horses splashed across the creek and their riders disappeared inside the portals of the pool hall.
“Quiet night,” said Titzell. “Things liven up Saturdays when the boys come in off the range.”
“You must get around the country quite a bit. Maybe you know where they’re needing help.”
“Most of the outfits are cutting down instead of adding men on the payroll,” said Titzell smoothly. “The Box B, Adam Marks’ outfit, claims to be having trouble with rustlers, so you might get on with him but it would be a chance I wouldn’t want to take if what Adam says is true.”
Slim wondered if Titzell was giving him a friendly warning or trying to scare him.
“I didn’t figure there was much rustling being done these days,” said Slim.
“All I know is the talk that’s current in the valley. Adam claims he’s being stolen blind and of course that makes all of the other ranchers touchy. They think he’s accusing them of being cattle thieves because Adam has the biggest outfit.”
“It looks like good cattle country.”
“There’s none better in the world,” said Titzell softly. “It would be a prize worth risking your life to get. Adam Marks once had the chance to control the whole valley, but he’s getting older and losing his grip. The man who succeeds the Box B can run this little cattle empire about as he desires.”
“Unless,” thought Slim to himself, “he happens to be an ambitious rustler and runs up against the law.”
Chuck, who had been making a tour of the town, returned and dropped into a chair beside Slim. It was quiet and peaceful, a far cry from the bitter cattle war which Old Bill Needham had told them was raging in the valley. They talked for another half hour with Titzell and were about to go up to their room when the sound of wildly drumming hoofs came from across the creek.
“Someone’s coming mighty fast,” said Titzell, half rising from his chair and shielding his eyes in an attempt to peer into the darkness beyond the creek.
“Two horses,” said Chuck, adding quickly, “they’re pulling a wagon of some kind.”
“Must be from one of the ranches, then,” put in Titzell. The cattle buyer stood up and hurried down toward the creek. Slim and Chuck followed.
Out of the night lurched a lather-covered team, a spring wagon careening behind them. The horses fairly leaped the stream and started a mad dash up the bank.
Chuck without waiting to learn who was in the wagon or what was happening, hurled himself at the team, grasping the bit of the horse on the left. The Circle Four cowboy was lifted from his feet by the wild charge of the horses, but he came down with his legs in motion and dragging hard on the bit. It was 195 pounds of bone and muscle against a tired team, and Chuck soon won, the horses slowing down to a walk. They came to a halt in front of the hotel where the feeble light from the lamp in the main room cast its rays over the wagon, where a man was huddled on the seat.
Hal Titzell vaulted into the wagon and lifted the man’s face.
“It’s Adam Marks,” he cried. “He’s been shot.”
The words drummed into Slim’s brain. Adam Marks, owner of the Box B and the man they had come to help, had been shot! The rustlers were striking out boldly, bidding for a quick finish in their fight to ruin the rancher and win control of his rich grazing lands.
Chapter ElevenSlim Rides Alone
Slim vaulted over the wheel and into the wagon. He picked up the body of the rancher and passed the inert form down to Chuck. The news of the runaway spread rapidly and a crowd was gathering. Hal Titzell shouted for the doctor and the only physician in the entire valley, “Doc” Baldridge, appeared in the doorway of his office, a half block down the street from the Palace Hotel.
“Bring him over here,” he called.
Chuck, carrying the unconscious rancher, hurried to the physician’s office where he placed Adam Marks on the old cot. The white hair of the cattleman was streaked with dried blood and his breathing was slow and irregular.
“Looks bad,” said Hal Titzell, shaking his head.
Slim was watching the doctor, now working over his patient with practiced hands. He called for hot water from the hotel and a bystander hurried away to return shortly with a steaming kettle of water.
There was nothing Slim and Chuck could do in the doctor’s office and they stepped outside.
“I’ll see that the team’s cared for,” said Chuck, leading the exhausted animals back toward the stable.
Slim, leaning against the hitching rail in front of the doctor’s office, stared into the blackness across Stony creek, wondering what secret it held of the attack which had struck down the cattleman. Chuck returned presently and they conversed in low tones.
“I found his rifle and revolver in the bottom of the wagon,” said Chuck. “The six gun must have fallen out of his holster. Neither one had been fired, which means he was ambushed.”
“I expected as much. The gang we’re up against doesn’t give a man a chance.”
Slim paused suddenly. Hal Titzell emerged from the doctor’s office.
“What’s the news?” asked Chuck.
“A little too early to say definitely,” replied the cattle buyer. “Adam’s been creased pretty deeply by a rifle bullet along the right side of his head. Doc thinks he may pull through but it’s going to be tough going.”
“Maybe we ought to ride outside and get a better doctor,” suggested Chuck, who had little faith in Dirty Water or anyone connected with it.
“No need to do that,” assured Titzell. “Doc Baldridge may not look like much, but when it comes to fixing up gunshot wounds he’s a marvel.”
It was evident that it would be a good many hours before Adam Marks regained consciousness and could tell what had happened, so the small group gradually dispersed leaving Slim and Chuck.
“You’d better roll in,” said Slim. “I’m going to hang around until I can find what’s happened.”
“All night?”
“If necessary. If the fellow that wounded him finds he didn’t do a thorough job, he may decide to sneak back and finish him.”
Chuck whistled softly. “That’s an idea. Tell you what. I’ll turn in for a few hours and then come down around two and relieve you.”
Chuck went to the hotel and Slim re-entered the doctor’s office. Doc Baldridge had drawn a chair up beside a table on which a kerosene lamp burned softly. On the cot across the room was the motionless form of the owner of the Box B.
“One of Adam’s riders?” asked the doctor.
“Nope. Just drifting and looking for a job. I’d kind of hoped to get on with the Box B.”
Doc Baldridge laid down his book and stared thoughtfully at Slim over his spectacles.
“Don’t be a fool,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“Just what I said. It’s doggoned near fatal to start riding for the Box B these days. Look what happened to the owner of the outfit.” He jerked his thumb toward the rancher.
“If the pay’s good, I’m willing to take the chance,” grinned Slim. “I’ll just stick around and when he comes to he may be crazy enough to hire me and my pardner.”
Doc Baldridge resumed his reading and Slim sat down beside the wounded man to begin what might be an all night vigil.
Hal Titzell looked in an hour later.
“You must want a job,” he said to Slim.
“I’m going to get one if patience will bring it,” grinned the Flying Arrow puncher.
“Maybe I could find something for you to do,” suggested Titzell.
“Thanks. If this doesn’t pan out, I may be around.”
The cattle buyer left and Doc Baldridge, without looking up from his book, spoke softly.
“Keep away from Titzell. He’s poison.”
Slim smiled and gave no sign that he had heard the warning from the doctor. He had already put the suave Titzell down as a dangerous man.
It was nearly one o’clock when Adam Marks opened his eyes. His fever had dropped and his mind seemed clear. Slim spoke to the doctor, who shut his book and went to the cot.
“How about it, doc?” asked the cattleman.
“You’re too tough for one rifle bullet to kill,” replied the doctor, “but you’re going to be laid up for a few days. What happened?”
“Bushwhacked,” was the slow reply. “It was almost dark and just at the mouth of Wolf coulee. The first shot missed me. I started for my gun but the second one got me. How’d I get here?”
“The team brought you in. They must have run all of the way. Good thing they did.”
“This will leave the boys at the ranch in a tough spot,” said Marks.
“Maybe you could use a couple of extra hands,” said Slim hopefully.
“I could if they were good, honest men.”
“I’m one of them and I’ll vouch for my pardner. I’m off the Flying Arrow and he’s from the Circle Four. We want work.”
“There’s more than work at my ranch. There’s apt to be fighting soon. I’m being stolen blind and the day I catch up with the rustlers there’s going to be bloodshed.”
“I’ll work and fight for an honest boss.”
The cattleman seemed to be mulling something over in his mind. Then he asked, “You say you’re off the Flying Arrow?”
Slim nodded.
“Fellow named Evans used to own that outfit. Maybe you know him.”
“My name’s Evans. I’m his son.”
Marks’ eyes twinkled beneath the heavy bandage.
“Then you’re hired and so is your friend. I wish I could get a dozen more like you.”
“I don’t think you’ll need a dozen more,” said Slim quietly. “I’ll start for the ranch now and my pardner will come down and stay with you. When he thinks it’s safe to leave you, give him any orders you have and he’ll ride out.”
“Joe Haines is my riding boss. Tell Joe I sent you. I’ve only got four men now. Others have either been shot up or scared away, but I guess you won’t scare.”
“I don’t like to run,” grinned Slim.
The Flying Arrow rider left the doctor’s office and hurried to the hotel. A dim light was burning in the lobby, but there was no one about. He shook Chuck out of a deep sleep and informed him that they were on the payroll of the Box B.
“Have any trouble getting on?” asked Chuck.
“Not a bit. I told him where I was from and he’s heard of Dad. I’m starting for the ranch now. You stay here and keep watch on Marks. He’ll be safe enough in the day time but don’t let him out of your sight at night.”
Chuck pulled on his clothes, examined his six gun and rifle, and prepared to take up his vigil at the doctor’s office.
The cowboy detectives parted outside the hotel.
“Watch your step,” cautioned Chuck. “I don’t want to see you brought into Doc Baldridge’s office with a hole through you.”
“I’ll be careful,” promised Slim.
The Flying Arrow rider wakened the stableman and inquired the way to the Box B.
“It’s a nine mile trip, but the trail’s clear. You’ll strike it just across the creek.”
Slim’s low whistle brought Lightning out of the corral and he saddled and bridled the mare with expert hands. He slipped his rifle into the scabbard on the saddle and swung silently into the stirrups.
Dirty Water appeared asleep with only the dim light in the hotel and the glow from the windows of Doc Baldridge’s trying to penetrate the blackness of the night. It was the hour just before the dawn when Slim set out for the Box B.
Chapter TwelveWar Declared
Dawn had broken over the crests of the Cajons and smoke was curling above the cookhouse when Slim rode down on the Box B. The ranch buildings were set almost in the shadows of the Three Soldiers, the towering peaks looming above the huddled structures at their feet.
The foothills rose some miles behind the ranch, but the buildings themselves were in a broad, rich valley. A fringe of cottonwoods growing rank along a creek protected the layout from the winter winds which swept down from the north.
The ranch house, a rambling frame structure, had once been painted gray, but wind and rain had worn this to a sickly hue. The other buildings, including the bunkhouse, the cookhouse, and the blacksmith shop, were unpainted, their boards warped and burned by the sun.
A large corral was just below the buildings with a score of horses inside. Beyond was a rich meadow through which the creek wandered, and the grass there was thick and green. Stacks of hay, cut for winter use, were ranged along one side. It was an ideal layout and Slim could understand the pride of Adam Marks in the Box B and its rich, rolling miles of range land. He could understand, with the spirit of a true cowman, how a man would fight to the end to retain his possessions in this last stand of the cattle frontier.
Slim spoke to Lightning and the sorrel quickened her pace. As he rode past the pole corral, men poured out of the bunkhouse to watch his approach.
Slim pulled Lightning up several rods from the bunkhouse and surveyed the Box B riders with a cool eye. It was easy to pick out Joe Haines, the foreman. He was a typical cowboy, head slightly bald as though singed by too much exposure to the sun and face as brown as saddle leather. He could claim any age from forty to fifty, and Slim would have been willing to guess that he was closer to fifty. The others were younger, but he noticed that every one of them carried guns and well-filled cartridge belts.
“I’m looking for Joe Haines,” said Slim. “I have news for him.”
“You’re looking at him,” said the foreman, stepping forward.
Slim leaned over in his saddle and looked into the foreman’s eyes.
“Your boss was shot last night,” he said.
“What’s that?” demanded Joe, stunned by the words.
“Adam Marks was shot last night. His team brought him to Dirty Water and Doc Baldridge patched him up.”
“How bad was he hurt?” a younger cowboy edged forward with this question.
“A rifle ball creased one side of his forehead. He was unconscious for a while, but Doc thinks he’ll pull through.”
“Where did it happen?” asked Haines, hitching his gun belt forward.
“Marks said it was at the mouth of Wolf coulee, wherever that is.”
Joe Haines nodded.
“That’s a bad place. Come on, boys. We’re riding for Dirty Water.”
Slim spoke quickly.
“Just a minute. I had a talk with your boss before I left town. He wants you to stick at the ranch and watch the cattle. Maybe this is just a ruse to get you all away so the rustlers can clean out the place.”
Pausing, the foreman turned back toward Slim. “Who in thunder are you?” he asked.
“Name’s Evans--Slim Evans. I’ve been riding over on the Flying Arrow. Been hired and told to report to you for work. My pardner, Chuck Meade, is staying in Dirty Water and he’s camped right beside your boss, so you won’t need to worry about anything happening to him there.”
“How do I know you’re telling a straight story?” countered the range boss.
“You’ve got my word for it and people don’t question my word,” said Slim quietly. He straightened up in his saddle and his right hand slipped along his leg.
Joe Haines saw the move and a broad smile covered his homely features.
“No offense meant, cowboy, but we’ve had so much trouble I’m just naturally suspicious of everyone who comes along. We’ll take your word. Better turn your horse loose. Breakfast will be ready in a few minutes.”
Slim rode down to the corral, pulled his saddle off Lightning and turned the sorrel loose. There was plenty of water and feed in the corral and, satisfied that his horse was all right, Slim returned to the bunkhouse where the cowboys were finishing their morning toilets under the pump.
“Meet the gang, or what’s left of them,” said Haines. “Here’s Pat Beals, Doug Huston and Walt Kelly.”
Slim shook hands with the outfit as the breakfast bell clanged. A Chinese cook, Lee Wu, brought steaming bowls of breakfast food, a pitcher of black coffee, and then stacks of cakes and bacon. There was little conversation as the cowboys stowed away enough food to carry them through the day if need be.
Slim made a survey of his companions while they were eating. Pat Beals and Walt Kelly were only a little older than himself and there was a reckless glint in their eyes. Doug Huston was sandy-haired and Slim put him down as probably thirty. His left eyelid drooped slightly and he seemed to be continually squinting. He was the least likeable of the group and Slim felt that he could not be trusted altogether.
Breakfast over, they gathered outside the cook house and Joe Haines issued orders for the day.
“Pat, you and Doug ride along the west range and see how those cattle along Stony creek are faring. Walt can trail over north and see if everything is all right toward the Double O. I’ll take Evans and ride down to Wolf coulee and see what happened there last night.”
They started for the corral, Slim and the range boss walking together.
“Your horse fit for a full day?” asked Haines.
“She’ll be all right,” smiled Slim as he thought of Lightning’s wonderful endurance. There was no need to tell anyone of the capabilities of his horse.
While the others had to rope their mounts to separate them from the milling string of horses in the corral, Slim only whistled once and Lightning responded instantly.
“My gosh!” exclaimed Pat Beals enviously. “You must have a circus horse. I can yell my head off and I can’t get any of my mounts to come near me.”
“Maybe they don’t like your voice,” suggested Walt Kelly, who had just finished a battle with a calico cayuse and was badly winded.
They swung into their saddles and started out on the day’s ride, Pat and Doug heading west to ride along the headwaters of Stony creek, Walt riding north toward the range of the Double O and Slim and the foreman backtracking along the trail to Dirty Water.
Joe Haines was openly admiring Lightning.
“Quite a horse,” he said. “Must be fast?”
“She can go places,” grinned Slim, but he did not encourage the conversation along that line.
“Have any trouble getting into the Creeping Shadows country?” asked the foreman.
“Why?”
“Rustling’s bad here and we’d heard that the gang doing most of the dirty work had plugged up every trail coming in and were getting ready for a final clean-up.”
“I haven’t been here long enough to find out what’s going on,” said Slim, which was partly true. “If rustling is bad, why not appeal to the peace officers?”
The foreman snorted. “The sheriff’s on the other side of the Three Soldiers and he’s either been bought off or is scared to death.”
“How about the marshal at Dirty Water?”
Haines laughed bitterly. “Kovec’s nothing but a tool for the rustlers. It’s a wonder you ever got out here alive.”
“I left when the town was asleep,” grinned Slim.
“That town never sleeps. It’s bad from top to bottom and Hal Titzell is one of the worst of them. He rides all over the country but I never heard of him ever buying any stock to amount to anything and Maxie Denkman and Newt Bemis, who say they’re helping him, are nothing but hired gunmen.”
“Maxie isn’t feeling so well,” said Slim.
“How come?”
“Well, from what I gather, Maxie and his friend Newt must have tried to stop a couple of cowboys from riding into the valley. Seems as though they picked the wrong targets and Maxie got a bullet through his arm.”
“You wouldn’t know who shot at Maxie, would you?” Haines asked, a broad grin wrinkling his face.
“I might,” smiled Slim, “and then again I might not. I’ve got a bad memory.”
“I think we’re going to get along fine,” said the foreman, “and I’m only hoping that pardner of yours is the right kind of a hombre.”
“Don’t worry about him. He’s as steady as they make them and a dead shot with a rifle.”
“Then I’m starting to take heart again. For a while it looked like we would be cleaned out, but with a couple of good riders who’ve got plenty of nerve and aren’t afraid of a struggle, we’ll fight this gang of rustlers to the end.”
Chapter ThirteenFading Trails
The ride to the mouth of Wolf coulee was uneventful and the sun was swinging high above the Cajons when they reached the scene where the owner of the Box B had been ambushed the night before.
The mouth of Wolf coulee was broad with the trail from the ranch to Dirty Water down the center of the draw. An outcropping of rock thrust its way into the coulee from the right and it was obvious that from the shelter of the rock the gunman had fired at Adam Marks.
The riders slipped from their saddles and picked their way carefully over the broken ground, Slim taking the lead.
“It must have been almost dark when it happened,” said Slim, “for it was some time after nightfall when the horses came galloping into Dirty Water.”
The foreman nodded. “He left the ranch half an hour before sunset and packing quite a roll of cash with him.”
“I didn’t see any cash when he was brought into the doctor’s office.”
“Probably not. The rustlers must have reached him after they had wounded him and taken the money. Adam was afraid to keep the money on the ranch and he was going to go around Dirty Water and drive all night to get to Mopstick where he could catch a train and take the money to the bank at Brighton.”
“If the money was in your boss’s clothes when he reached the doctor’s office, it’s safe, for Chuck’s on the job,” said Slim.
There was a warning whir of rattles and Joe Haines called out sharply.
Slim leaped backward, his gun spouting flame. Two shots echoed across the coulee and the body of the rattler slipped off the rock.
The foreman looked incredulously at Slim.
“Where you carrying your gun, in your hand?” he asked.
“No,” replied Slim, feeding fresh shells into the six gun and sliding the weapon back into his holster.
Joe Haines asked no further question but in his own mind he cataloged Slim as the fastest man he had ever seen with a gun. The weapon had been drawn with a skill so fast and smooth that it defied the eye. It was almost like magic, the sweep of that long arm and the accurate spurt of the weapon.
“Here’s where our bushwhacker made himself comfortable,” said Slim, pointing behind a rock where a half dozen cigarette butts were strewn. He leaned down and picked up an exploded rifle shell. Turning it over slowly in his fingers, he looked at the mark of the firing pin on the base. Then he slipped the copper cartridge into an inner pocket. It might come in handy later.
A few rods further back they found where the gunman’s horse had been tethered and there was evidence written in the dust there that the rider had mounted in great haste.
“He must have been afraid someone had overheard the shot and was coming after him. He sure tore out of here,” said Joe Haines.
“Maybe he started out to overtake Adam Marks and get the money,” said Slim.
“By golly, I’ll bet you’re right! We’ll get our horses and follow this trail.”
Slim’s hunch was correct, and a short distance further the tracks left by the lone rider merged into the dust of the main trail to Dirty Water. The gunman had been riding hard, but the team, spurred on by an unknown fear, had been too fast for him.
A mile and a half along the road to Dirty Water the trail of the solitary rider swung to the right toward the Three Soldiers.
“Want to follow it?” asked Slim.
“I’m more anxious about the money. That trail won’t cool off for a few hours. We’re riding to Dirty Water.”
It was mid morning when they reached the cow town. They splashed across Stony creek and tied their horses to the rail in front of Doc Baldridge’s office. Chuck emerged from the interior and Slim noticed that he was careful to keep his rifle in his hands.
“Anything happen?” he asked anxiously.
“Something tried to happen,” said Chuck grimly. “This is no place for a sick man to try to get well. We’ve got to get Mr. Marks back to the ranch and get him there at once.”
“This is my pardner, Chuck Meade,” said Slim, introducing his companion and the range boss of the Box B.
“Glad to know you,” said Chuck, as he shook Joe Haines’ hand with real warmth.
“Hear you’ve signed on to work with us and I’m glad of it. We need all the good boys we can get.”
The foreman hurried on into the office and Slim and Chuck had an opportunity to talk alone.
“What happened?” Slim asked eagerly.
“You mean what didn’t quite happen? Well, it was about half an hour after you left and I was still trying to wake up when I heard someone creeping along outside the front of the office. We had all of the curtains pulled down but it was so hot we had to leave the door open. I blew out the lamp and jumped through the doorway. In the darkness I stumbled and when I got up the hombre that had been trying to do the sneak act was running down the street past the hotel. I let him have a few slugs to stir things up, but I missed him.”
“You think he was after Marks?”
“I know it. Here’s what I found outside this morning. The fellow was in such a hurry he dropped it.”
Chuck pulled out a revolver which he had stuck in the belt of his trousers.
“We were afraid something like this might have happened. Joe Haines told me his boss was taking some cash to the bank at Brighton and had planned to ride around Dirty Water in the night and take the train at Mopstick. You see any money on him?”
Just then Joe Haines emerged from the Doctor’s office.
“If one of you boys will go around to the stable and get the team ready, we’ll start for the ranch. We’re taking the boss home. The money is safe.”
“Good thing,” said Chuck. “I’ll get the team.”
Fifteen minutes later they carried the owner of the Box B out of the office and placed him on a mattress in the bottom of the wagon. Slim had settled for their room at the hotel and at the same time had made the purchase of the mattress. Joe Haines took the reins of the team while Slim had a lead rope on Joe’s horse. They eased across the shallow bed of Stony creek and started the dusty ride to the ranch.
As they moved away from Dirty Water, Slim turned in his saddle. Hal Titzell, immaculately dressed, was standing on the stoop of the Palace Hotel, watching the small cavalcade and Slim thought that the expression on the face of the cattle buyer was anything but pleasant.
They made slow progress, Joe Haines driving carefully to ease the jolts for the injured man on the mattress. Slim rode alongside the wagon and conversed with Joe.
“If it’s all right with you, I’m going to swing off the main trail and see if I can follow the fellow who did the shooting last night,” he said.
“Go ahead,” urged Joe. “If you catch up with him, treat him like you did the rattlesnake this morning.”
A few minutes later Slim turned away from the trail to the ranch and headed more directly toward the Three Soldiers. He had little difficulty in following the trail for the rider had been pushing his horse hard.
Slim swung along at an easy lope, a pace that Lightning could hold all day. The trail was leading into the foothills of the Three Soldiers and shortly after midday Slim stopped beside a creek to allow Lightning to drink and graze. He had no food for himself, but breakfast at the Box B had been hearty enough to ward off the pangs of hunger until nightfall.
It was mid afternoon when Slim found the place where the unknown rider had stopped to rest himself and his mount. A handful of ashes were still warm and he pushed on with renewed hope. His quarry could not be more than three hours’ ride ahead and on a horse that should be tiring rapidly.
Slim leaped off Lightning and got down to examine the tracks he was following. He wanted the memory of the hoof marks stamped indelibly on his mind. Somewhere in the valley he might come across them again even though the coming night might let his quarry escape this time. The left rear shoe had a V-shaped nick that made it easily recognizable anywhere and after studying the other tracks for some outstanding characteristic, Slim remounted Lightning and pushed steadily ahead. The pace was faster now, and the sturdy sorrel seemed to scent that a chase was on.
They had been climbing for the last two hours and Slim knew that they were well behind and above the Box B layout. It was half an hour before sunset when, from a promontory, he looked down on the ranch buildings, snuggled in the rich valley which was the heart of the Box B.
As the shadows deepened in the Three Soldiers, Slim knew that his quarry was safe for the night. In spite of Lightning’s superior speed and the ease with which he had been able to follow the trail, it would be impossible to overtake the rider ahead.
Slim watered Lightning at a mountain stream and pondered what to do next. It would be a hard ride down to the ranch, but he was hungry. On the other hand, if he stayed in the foothills, he could press on the first thing in the morning, perhaps overtaking the man he sought before he struck the trail again.
Slim’s innate stubbornness and determination to stick to a job until the end finally decided him and he made a crude camp beside the tiny stream. There was plenty of grass for Lightning, but Slim went hungry for the second meal that day. He hitched his belt a trifle tighter and unrolled his blanket.
With the first streak of dawn over the distant Cajons, he had Lightning saddled and ready for the trail. An hour later he came upon the overnight camp of the unknown rider and his heart leaped. The trail was getting hot. Another hour and he should be within striking distance.
Slim felt that if he could but overtake the gunman who had shot down the owner of the Box B, he would have captured an important man in the gang of rustlers. It might be the opening wedge to splitting up the gang and freeing the entire valley of the menace which hung over the cow country.
The rosy hue of the dawn faded into a slate grey and misty clouds whirled around the peaks of the Three Soldiers. It looked like rain, the first in weeks.
Slim exclaimed bitterly, for a rain at this time would obliterate the trail and his day of hard riding would be without reward. Talking almost constantly to Lightning, he pushed the sorrel as rapidly as the rough ground would permit. He knew that he was gaining steadily and if the rain would only hold off another hour, he should have his quarry.
The gray clouds swept lower as Slim pressed along through the foothills, praying that the rain would hold back a few minutes longer. But the skies opened and the long-delayed rain descended in torrents. The trail faded before his eyes and Slim turned back and headed out of the foothills. So far the rustlers held the upper hand.