CHAPTER XXII

CHAPTER XXIIAN ALTERNATIVE PROPOSED AND DECLINED

The prediction made by Blister Haines that some overbearing puncher would bully Bob because of his reputation as safe game did not long wait fulfillment. A new rider joined the Slash Lazy D outfit. He had been working for the K Bar T for a couple of months. Prior to that time he had not been seen on the river. The rumor was that he hailed from Wyoming. To ask for more specific information would not have been good form. More than one or two cowboys in the Rio Blanco country had left their former homes just ahead of a sheriff.

Bandy Walker knew how to rope and ride. That was the main consideration of Harshaw when he hired him. He guessed the fellow’s name was not Walker any more than it was Bandy. One cognomen had been given him because he was so bow-legged; the other he had no doubt taken for purposes of non-identification.

Bandy was short, heavy-set, and muscular. At a glance one would have picked him out as dangerous. The expression on the face was sulky. The eyes were expressionless as jade.

He was given the bunk next Dillon and before twenty-four hours were past he had begun to bully him. It began with a surly request behind which Bob sensed a command.

“Fellow, get my bridle, won’t you? I left it with my saddle somewheres close to the chuck house. Got to fix it to-night.”

Dillon had taken off his high-heeled boots because they were hurting his feet. He observed that Walker, lying fully dressed on the blankets, was still wearing his.

“Why, sure,” Bob said amiably, and he tugged on his boots.

Presently he returned with the bridle and handed it to Bandy.

That was the beginning of it. Before the week was out Bob was the man’s flunkey, the butt of his ill-natured jokes, the helpless victim of his bad temper. Inside, he writhed. Another failure was being scored against him. But what could he do? This Bandy Walker was a gunman and a rough-and-tumble fighter. He boasted of it. Bob would be a child in his hands.

The other punchers watched the affair, drew deductions, but made no audible comments. The law of the outdoors is that every man must play his own hand. The Slash Lazy D resented Bandy. He was ugly in face, voice, and manner. His speech was offensive. He managed to convey insult by the curl of his lip. Yet he was cunning enough to keep within the bounds of safety. Nobody wanted to pick a quarrel with him, for it might turn out to be a serious business. The fellow looked rancorous. Moreover, the ranch riders had no use for Dillon. It would be a relief if Bandy drove him away. They felt disgraced when cowboys from the Circle Bar or the Quarter Circle Triangle inquired for the health of their new rider Miss Roberta.

Dud and Bob were riding Milk Creek one day about a week after Walker’s arrival. They unsaddled at noon and lay down to loaf on a sunny bank close to the water’s edge.

Hollister had been silent all morning, contrary to his usual custom. His good spirits usually radiated gayety.

“What’s the matter? Ain’t you feelin’ good?” Bob asked.

“No, I ain’t.”

“Stomach?”

“Heart,” returned Dud gloomily.

Bob sat up. “Why, I never heard there was anything the matter with yore heart. If there is, you hadn’t ought to be ridin’ these crazy colts you do.”

“Nothin’ the matter withmyheart. It’s yore’s I’m worryin’ about.”

Bob flushed, but said nothing.

“I’m wonderin’ how long you’re aimin’ to let that bully puss fellow Walker run over you.”

“What can I do?” Bob did not look at his companion. He kept his eyes on the ground, where he was tracing figures with a broken stick.

“Well, there’s seve-re-al things you could do. You might work the plug-ugly over. It couldn’t hurt his looks none, an’ it might improve ’em. That’s one suggestion. I’ve got others where that come from.”

“He’s a bad actor. I expect he’d half kill me,” Bob muttered.

“I reckon he would, onless you beat him to it. That’s not the point. You got to fight him or admit you’re yellow. No two ways about that.”

“I can’t fight. I never did,” groaned Dillon.

“Then how do you know you can’t? If you can’t, take yore lickin’. But you be on top of him every minute of the time whilst you’re gettin’ it. Go to it like awild cat. Pretty soon something’ll drop, an’ maybe it won’t be you.”

“I—can’t.”

Dud’s blue eyes grew steely. “You can’t, eh? Listen, fellow. I promised Blister to make a man outa you if I could. I aim to do it. You lick Bandy good to-night or I’ll whale you to-morrow. That ain’t all either. Every time you let him run on you I’ll beat you up next day soon as I get you alone.”

Bob looked at him, startled. “You wouldn’t do that, Dud?”

“Wouldn’t I? Don’t you bet I wouldn’t. I’m makin’ that promise right now.”

“I thought you were—my friend,” Bob faltered.

“Don’t you think it. I’m particular who I call by that name. I ain’t a friend of any man without sand in his gizzard. But I done give my word to Old Blister an’ I gotta come through. It’ll hurt you more’n it will me, anyhow.”

“I’ll quit an’ leave this part of the country,” Bob said wretchedly.

“I’m not stoppin’ you, but you won’t go till I’ve whopped you once good. Will you take it now?”

“Let’s talk it over reasonable,” Bob pleaded.

Dud looked disgusted. “I never see such a fellow for thinkin’ he could chin himself outa trouble. Nothin’ doing.”

“You’ve got no right to interfere in my affairs. It’s not yore business,” the worried victim of circumstances declared with an attempt at dignity.

“Say, don’t I know it? If I hadn’t promised Blister—Butwhat’s the use? I done said I would, an’ I got to go through.”

“I’ll let you off yore promise.”

Dud shook his head. “Wish you could, but you can’t. It was to Blister I give my word. No, sir. You gotta take or give a lickin’, looks like. Either me or Bandy, I ain’t particular which.”

“You lay off me, Dud Hollister.”

“Honest, I hope you’ll fix it so’s I can. Well, you got till to-morrow to decide. Don’t forget. Me or Bandy one. You take yore choice.”

“I won’t fight you.”

“Then it’s Bandy. Suits me fine. Say, Bob, I ain’t so darned sure that fellow’ll be there so big when it comes to a show-down. He looks to me tricky rather than game. Take him by surprise. Then crawl his hump sudden. With which few well-chosen words I close. Yores sincerely, Well-wisher, as these guys sign themselves when they write to the papers.”

All through the rest of the day Bob was depressed. He felt as cheerful as a man about to be hanged. Why couldn’t they let him alone? He never in his life went looking for trouble and it seemed to hunt him out if he was anywhere in reach. It was not fair. What claim had Dud to mix into his difficulties with Bandy? Absolutely none.

He made up his mind to slip away in the night, ride to Glenwood, and take the train for Denver. There a fellow could live in peace.

CHAPTER XXIIIBOB CRAWLS HIS HUMP SUDDEN

There was a game of stud after supper in the bunkhouse. Bob lay on his bed, a prey to wretched dread. He had made up his mind to have it out with Bandy, but his heart was pumping water instead of blood. When he looked at the squat puncher, thick-necked and leather-faced, an ugly sneer on his lips, the courage died out of his breast.

Dud was sitting with his back to the wall. His attention was ostensibly on the game, but Bob knew he was waiting for developments.

Bandy sat next Dud. “Raise you once,” he snarled. His card-playing was like everything else he did, offensive by reason of the spirit back of it. He was a bad loser and a worse winner.

“And another blue,” said Hollister easily when it came his turn again. “Got to treat an ace in the hole with respect.”

The other two players dropped out, leaving only Bandy to contest the pot with Dud.

“Once more,” retorted the bow-legged puncher, shoving in chips.

“And again.”

“Hmp! Claim an ace in the hole, do you? Well, I’ll jes’ give it one more li’l’ kick.”

Hollister had showing a deuce of hearts, a trey of clubs, an ace of spades, and a four of hearts. He mighthave a five in the hole or an ace. Bandy had a pair of jacks in sight.

Dud called.

“You see it,” growled Bandy. “One pair.”

His opponent flipped over an ace of diamonds. “One pair here—aces.”

“Knew it all the time. Yore play gave it away,” jeered Bandy with obvious ill-temper.

“I reckon that’s why you kept raisin’,” Dud suggested, raking in the pot.

“All I needed was to hook a jack or another pair to beat you.”

“If I didn’t catch another ace or a small pair.”

The game was breaking up.

“Hell! I was playin’ poker before you could navigate, young fellow,” Bandy boasted. He had lost four dollars and was annoyed.

“An’ you’re still an optimist about hookin’ another pair when you need ’em.” Dud was counting his winnings placidly. “Six-fifty—seven—seven and two bits. Wish I had yore confidence in the music of the spears workin’ out so harmonious.”

This last was a reference to a book left at the ranch recently by the Reverend Melancthon Browning, the title of which was, “The Music of the Spheres.” Its philosophy was that every man makes his own world by the way he thinks about it.

Bandy jingled back to his bunk. He unstrapped his spurs, hooked one foot behind the knee of the other leg, and tried to work the wet boot off. The slippery leather stuck.

He called to Bob. “Come here, fellow, an’ yank this boot off for me.”

Dillon did not move. His heart stood still, then began to race. A choking filled his throat. The hour was striking for him. It was to be now or never.

The bow-legged puncher slewed his head. “I’m talkin’ to you.”

Slowly, reluctantly, Bob rose. He did not want to move. Something stronger than his will lifted him out of the bed and dragged him across the floor. He knew his hands were trembling.

Malignant triumph rode in Bandy’s eye. It was always safe to bully this timid youth. Dud Hollister had a “No Trespass” sign displayed in his quiet, cool manner. Very well. He would take it out of his riding mate. That was one way of getting at him.

“What’s ailin’ you? Git a move on. You act like you’d like to tell me to go take a walk. I’ll bet you would, too, if you wasn’t such a rabbit heart.”

Bob stooped and picked up the dirty boot. He zigzagged it from the foot. As he straightened again his eyes met those of Dud. He felt a roaring in the temples.

“O’ course any one that’d let another fellow take his wife from him—an’ him not married more’n an hour or two—”

The young fellow did not hear the end of the cruel gibe. The sound of rushing waters filled his ears. He pulled off the second boot.

Again his gaze met that of Hollister. He remembered Dud’s words. “Crawl his hump sudden. Go to it like awild cat.” The trouble was he couldn’t. His muscles would not obey the flaccid will.

The flood of waters died down. The roaring ceased. The puncher’s words came to him clear.

“... not but what she was likely glad enough to go with Jake. She was out with him four-five hours. Where was they, I ask? What was they doing? You can’t tell me she couldn’t ’a’ got away sooner if she’d wanted to so darned bad. No, sir, I’m no chicken right out of a shell. When it comes to a woman I say, Where’s the man?”

A surge of anger welled up in Dillon and overflowed. He forgot about Dud and his threats. He forgot about his trepidation. This hound was talking of June, lying about her out of his foul throat.

One of the boots was still in his hand. He swung it round and brought the heel hard against the fellow’s mouth. The blood gushed from the crushed lips. Bob dropped the boot and jolted his left to the cheek. He followed with a smashing right to the eye.

Taken at disadvantage, Bandy tried to struggle to his feet. He ran into one straight from the shoulder that caught the bridge of his nose and flung him back upon the bunk.

His hand reached under the pillow. Bob guessed what was there and dropped hard with both knees on his stomach.

The breath went out of Bandy suddenly. He lay still for a moment. When he began to struggle again he had forgotten the revolver under the pillow. With a sweeping gesture Bob brushed pillow and gun to the floor.

The man underneath twisted his red, wrinkled neck and bit Bob’s forearm savagely. The boy’s fingers closed like a vice on the hairy throat and tightened. His other fist beat a merciless tattoo on the bruised and bleeding face.

“Take him off!” Bandy presently gasped.

Dud appointed himself referee. With difficulty he unloosed the fingers embedded in the flesh of the throat.

“Had enough, Bandy? You licked?” he asked.

“Take him off, I tell you!” the man managed to scream.

“Not unless you’re whipped. How about it?”

“’Nough,” the bully groaned.

Bob observed that Hawks had taken charge of the revolver. He released Walker.

The bow-legged puncher sat at the side of the bed and coughed. The blood was streaming from a face bruised and cut in a dozen places.

“He—he—jumped me—when I wasn’t lookin’,” the cowboy spat out, a word at a time.

“Don’t pull an alibi, Bandy. You had it comin’,” Dud said with a grin. He was more pleased than he could tell.

Dillon felt as though something not himself had taken control of him. He was in a cold fury, ready to fight again at the drop of a hat.

“He said she—she—” The sentence broke, but Bob rushed into another. “He’s got to take it back or I’ll kill him.”

“Only the first round ended, looks like, Bandy,” Dud said genially. “You better be lookin’ this time when he comes at you, or he’ll sure eat you alive.”

“I’m not lookin’ for no fight,” Bandy said sulkily, dabbing at his face with the bandanna round his neck.

“I’ll bet you ain’t—not with a catamount like Miss Roberta here,” Tom Reeves said, chuckling with delight.

One idea still obsessed Bob’s consciousness. “What he said about June—I’ll not let him get away with it. He’s got to tell you-all he was lyin’.”

“You hear yore boss speak, Bandy,” drawled Dud. “How about it? Do we get to see you massacreed again? Or do you stand up an’ admit you’re a dirty liar for talkin’ thataway?”

Bandy Walker looked round on a circle of faces all unfriendly to him. He had broken the code, and he knew it. In the outdoor West a man does not slander a good woman without the chance of having to pay for it. The puncher had let his bad bullying temper run away with him. He had done it because he had supposed Dillon harmless, to vent on him the spleen he could not safely empty upon Dud Hollister’s blond head.

If Bob had been alone the bow-legged man might have taken a chance—though it is doubtful whether he would have invited that whirlwind attack again, unless he had had a revolver close at hand—but he knew public sentiment was wholly against him. There was nothing to do but to swallow his words.

That he did this in the most ungracious way possible was like him. “Since you’re runnin’ a Sunday School outfit I’ll pack my roll an’ move on to-morrow to where there’s some he-men,” he sneered. “I never met this girl, so I don’t know a thing about her. All I did was to make a general remark about women. Which same Iknow to be true. But since you’re a bunch of sky pilots at the Slash Lazy D, I’ll withdraw anything that hurts yore tender feelin’s.”

“Are you takin’ back what you said—about—about her?” Bob demanded harshly.

Bandy’s smouldering, sullen eyes slid round. “I’m takin’ it back. Didn’t you hear me say I don’ know a thing about her? I know Houck, though. So I judged—” He spat a loose tooth out on the floor venomously. It would perhaps not be wise to put into words what he had deduced from his knowledge of Jake Houck.

“The incident is now clo-o-sed if Miss Roberta is satisfied,” Dud announced to the public at large.

His riding mate looked at Hollister. “Don’t call me that,” he said.

For a moment Dud was puzzled. “Don’t call you what?”

“What you just called me.”

Dud broke into a grin of delight. He wondered if it would not be a good idea to make Bob give him a licking, too. But he decided to let good enough alone. He judged that Blister would be satisfied without any more gore. Anyhow, Bob might weaken and spoil it.

“Boy, I’ll never call you Miss—what I called you—long as I live exceptin’ when I’m meanin’ to compliment you special.” Dud slapped him hard between the shoulder blades. “You’re a young cyclone, but you can’t get a chance to muss Dud Hollister up to-night. You work too rapid. Doggone my hide, if I ever did see a faster or a better piece o’ work. How about it, Tom?”

Reeves, too, pounded Dillon in token of friendship. IfBob had not wiped the slate clean he had made a start in that direction.

“You’re some scrapper when you get started. Bandy looks like he’s been through a railroad wreck,” he said.

Bandy was by this time at the wash-basin repairing damages. “Tell you he jumped me when I wasn’t lookin’,” he growled sulkily. “Fine business. You-all stood by an’ watched him do it.”

“After you’d deviled him for a week,” amended Big Bill. “Mebbe in that outfit of he-men you’re expectin’ to hit the trail for to-morrow they’ll wrop you up in cotton an’ not let a hundred-an’-thirty-pound giant jump you.”

“I ain’t askin’ it of ’em,” Bandy retorted. “I can look out for myself an’ then some. As for this sprout who thinks he’s so gosh-mighty, I’ll jus’ say one thing. Some o’ these days I’ll settle with him proper.”

He turned as he spoke. The look on his battered face was venomous.

CHAPTER XXIVIN THE SADDLE

White winter covered the sage hills and gave the country a bleak and desolate look. The Slash Lazy D riders wrapped up and went out over the wind-swept mesas to look after the cattle cowering in draws or drifting with the storm. When Bob could sleep snugly in the bunkhouse he was lucky. There were nights when he shivered over a pine-knot fire in the shelter of a cutbank with the temperature fifteen degrees below zero.

At this work he won the respect of his fellows. He could set his teeth and endure discomfort with any of them. It was at sharp danger crises that he had always quailed. He never shirked work or hardship, and he never lied to make the way easier or more comfortable. Harshaw watched him with increasing approval. In Dillon he found all but one of the essential virtues of the cowboy—good humor, fidelity, truth, tenacity, and industry. If he lacked courage in the face of peril the reason was no doubt a constitutional one.

A heavy storm in February tried the riders to capacity. They were in the saddle day and night. For weeks they appeared at the ranch only at odd intervals, haggard, unshaven, hungry as wolves. They ate, saddled fresh mounts, and went out into the drifts again tireless and indomitable.

Except for such food as they could carry in a sack they lived on elk trapped in the deep snow. The WhiteRiver country was one of the two or three best big game districts in the United States.[3]The early settlers could get a deer whenever they wanted one. Many were shot from the doors of their cabins.

While Harshaw, Dud, and Bob were working Wolf Creek another heavy snow fell. A high wind swept the white blanket into deep drifts. All day the riders ploughed through these to rescue gaunt and hungry cattle. Night caught them far from the cabin where they had been staying.

They held a consultation. It was bitter weather, the wind still blowing.

“Have to camp, looks like,” Harshaw said.

“We’ll have a mighty tough night without grub and blankets,” Dud said doubtfully. “She’s gettin’ colder every minute.”

“There’s a sheltered draw below here. We’ll get a good fire going anyhow.”

In the gulch they found a band of elk.

“Here’s our supper an’ our beds,” Dud said.

They killed three.

While Bob gathered and chopped up a down and dead tree the others skinned the game. There was dry wood in Harshaw’s saddle-bags with which to start a fire. Soon Dillon had a blaze going which became acrackling, roaring furnace. They ate a supper of broiled venison without trimmings.

“Might be a heap worse,” Dud said while he was smoking afterward before the glowing pine knots. “I’m plenty warm in front even if I’m about twenty below up an’ down my spine.”

Presently they rolled up in the green hides and fell asleep.

None of them slept very comfortably. The night was bitter, and they found it impossible to keep warm.

Bob woke first. He decided to get up and replenish with fuel the fire. He could not rise. The hide had frozen stiff about him. He shouted to the others.

They, too, were helpless in the embrace of their improvised sleeping-bags.

“Have to roll to the fire an’ thaw out,” Harshaw suggested.

This turned out to be a ticklish job. They had to get close enough to scorch their faces and yet not near enough to set fire to the robes. More than once Bob rolled over swiftly to put out a blaze in the snow.

Dud was the first to step out of his blanket. In a minute or two he had peeled the hides from the others.

An hour later they were floundering through the drifts toward the cabin on Wolf Creek. Behind each rider was strapped the carcass of an elk.

“Reminds me of the time Blister went snow blind,” Harshaw said. “Up around Badger Bend it was. He got lost an’ wandered around for a coupla days blind as a bat. Finally old Clint Frazer’s wife seen him wallowin’ in the drifts an’ the old man brought him in. They wasouta grub an’ had to hoof it to town. Clint yoked his bull team an’ had it break trail. He an’ the wife followed. But Blister he couldn’t see, so he had to hang on to one o’ the bulls by the tail. The boys joshed him about that quite a while. He ce’tainly was a sight rollin’ down Main Street anchored to that critter’s tail.”

“I’ll bet Blister was glad to put his foot on the rail at Dolan’s,” Dud murmured. “I’d be kinda glad to do that same my own se’f right now.”

“Blister went to bed and stayed there for a spell. He was a sick man.” Harshaw’s eye caught sight of some black specks on a distant hillside. “Cattle. We’ll come back after we’ve onloaded at the cabin.”

They did. It was long after dark before they reached shelter again.

The riders of the Slash Lazy D were glad to see spring come, though it brought troubles of its own. The weather turned warm and stayed so. The snow melted faster than the streams could take care of it. There was high water all over the Blanco country. The swollen creeks poured down into the overflowing river. Three punchers in the valley were drowned inside of a week, for that was before the bridges had been built.

While the water was still high Harshaw started a trail herd to Utah.

[3]According to old-timers the automobile is responsible for the extermination of the game supply going on so rapidly. The pioneers at certain seasons provided for their needs by killing blacktail and salting down the meat. But they were dead shots and expert hunters. The automobile tourists with high-power rifles rush into the hills during the open season and kill male and female without distinction. For every deer killed outright three or four crawl away to die later from wounds. One ranchman reports finding fifteen dead deer on one day’s travel through the sage.

According to old-timers the automobile is responsible for the extermination of the game supply going on so rapidly. The pioneers at certain seasons provided for their needs by killing blacktail and salting down the meat. But they were dead shots and expert hunters. The automobile tourists with high-power rifles rush into the hills during the open season and kill male and female without distinction. For every deer killed outright three or four crawl away to die later from wounds. One ranchman reports finding fifteen dead deer on one day’s travel through the sage.

CHAPTER XXVTHE RIO BLANCO PUTS IN A CLAIM

Preparations for the drive occupied several days. The cattle were rounded up and carefully worked. Many of those that had roughed through the hard winter were still weak. Some of these would yet succumb and would increase the thirty per cent of losses already counted. Only those able to stand inspection were thrown into the trail herd. Afterward, a second cut was made and any doubtful ones culled from the bunch.

Word had come from Rangely that all the streams were high as far as and beyond the Utah line. But the owner of the Slash Lazy D was under contract to deliver and he could not wait for the water to go down.

When the road herd had been selected and the mavericks in the round-up branded with the Slash Lazy D or whatever other brand seemed fair considering the physical characteristics of the animal and the group with which it was ranging, Harshaw had the cattle moved up the river a couple of miles to a valley of good grass. Here they were held while the ranch hands busied themselves with preparations for the journey. A wagon and harness were oiled, a chuck-box built, and a supply of groceries packed. Bridles and cinches were gone over carefully, ropes examined, and hobbles prepared.

The remuda for the trail outfit was chosen by Harshaw himself. He knew his horses as he knew the trail to Bear Cat. No galled back or lame leg could escape hiskeen eye. No half-tamed outlaw could slip into the cavvy. Every horse chosen was of proved stamina. Any known to be afraid of water remained at the ranch. Every rider would have to swim streams a dozen times and his safety would depend upon his mount. Tails were thinned, hoofs trimmed, manes cleared of witches’ bridles, and ears swabbed to free them of ticks.

The start was made before dawn. Stars were shining by thousands when the chuck-wagon rolled down the road. The blatting of cows could be heard as the riders moved the phantom cattle from their bedding-ground.

The dogies were long-legged and shaggy, agile and wild as deer. They were small-boned animals, not fit for market until they were four-year-olds. On their gaunt frames was little meat, but they were fairly strong and very voracious. If not driven too hard these horned jackrabbits, as some wag had dubbed them, would take on flesh rapidly.

Harshaw chose five punchers to go with him—Dud, Big Bill, Tom Reeves, Hawks, and Bob. A light mess-wagon went with the outfit. Before noon the herd had grazed five miles down the river.

The young grass matted the ground. Back of the valley could be seen the greenclad mesas stretching to the foothills which hemmed in the Rio Blanco. The timber and the mesquite were in leaf. Wild roses and occasionally bluebells bloomed. The hillsides were white with the blossoms of service berries.

In the early afternoon they reached the ford. Harshaw trailed the cattle across in a long file. He watched the herd anxiously, for the stream was running strongfrom the freshet. After a short, hard swim the animals made the landing.

The mess-wagon rattled down to the ford as the last of the herd scrambled ashore.

“Think I’ll put you at the reins, Dud,” the cattleman said. “Head the horses upstream a little and keep ’em going.”

All the other punchers except Bob were across the river with the herd.

Dud relieved the previous driver, gathered up reins and whip with competent hands, and put the horses at the river. They waded in through the shallows, breasted the deep water, and began to swim. Before they had gone three yards they were in difficulties. The force of the current carried the light wagon downstream. The whiplash cracked around the ears of the horses, but they could not make headway. Team, wagon, and driver began to drift down the river. Supplies, floating from the top of the load, were scattered in all directions.

Instantly six men became very busy. Rope loops flew out and tightened around the bed of the wagon. Others circled the necks of the horses. Dud dived into the river to lighten the load. Harshaw, Bob, and the cook rode into the shallow water and salvaged escaping food, while the riders on the other bank guided wagon and team ashore.

Dud, dripping like a mermaid, came to land with a grin. Under one arm a pasty sack of flour was tucked, under the other a smoked venison haunch. “An’ I took a bath only yesterday,” he lamented.

The food was sun-dried and the wagon repacked.

At Dry Creek, which was now a rushing torrent, Harshaw threw the cattle into a draw green with young grass and made camp for the night.

“We got neighbors,” announced Big Bill, watching a thin column of smoke rising from the mesa back of them.

“Guess I’ll drift over after supper,” Harshaw said. “Maybe they can give me the latest news about high water down the river.”

Hawks had just come in from the remuda. He gave information.

“I drifted over to their camp. An old friend, one of ’em. Gent by the name of Bandy Walker. He’s found that outfit of he-men he was lookin’ for.”

“Yes,” said the cattleman non-committally.

“One’s a stranger. The other’s another old friend of some o’ the boys. Jake Houck he calls hisself.”

Bob’s heart shriveled within him. Two enemies scarcely a stone’s throw away, and probably both of them knew he was here. Had they come to settle with him?

He dismissed this last fear. In Jake Houck’s scheme of things he was not important enough to call for a special trip of vengeance.

“We’ll leave ’em alone,” Harshaw decided. “If any of them drop over we’ll be civil. No trouble, boys, you understand.”

But Houck’s party did not show up, and before break of day the camp of the trail herd outfit was broken. The riders moved the herd up the creek to an open place where it could be easily crossed. From here the cattledrifted back toward the river. Dud was riding on the point, Hawks and Dillon on the drag.

In the late afternoon a gulch obstructed their path. It ran down at right angles to the Rio Blanco. Along the edge of this Harshaw rode till he found an easier descent. He drove the leaders into the ravine and started them up the other side of the trough to the mesa beyond. The cattle crowded so close that some of them were forced down the bed of the gorge instead of up the opposite bank.

Bob galloped along the edge and tried to head the animals back by firing his revolver in front from above. In this he was not successful. The gulch was narrow, and the pressure behind drove the foremost cattle on to the river.

The dogies waded in to drink. The push of the rear still impelled the ones in advance to move deeper into the water. Presently the leaders were swimming out into the stream. Those behind followed at heel.

Dillon flung his horse down into the ravine in the headlong fashion he had learned from months of hill riding. He cantered along it, splashing through shallow pools and ploughing into tangled brush. When he came within sight of the river the cattle were emerging from it upon a sandy bar that formed an island in midstream.

He kicked off his chaps, remounted, and headed into the water. The current was strong and Powder River already tired. But the bronco breasted the rushing waters gamely. It was swept downstream, fighting every inch of the way. When at last the Wyoming horse touched bottom, it was at the lower edge of the long bar.

Bob swung down into the water and led his mount ashore.

From the bank he had just left, Hawks called to him. “Want I should come over, or can you handle ’em?”

“Better stay there till I see if I can start ’em back,” Bob shouted.

On Powder River he rounded up the cattle, a score or more of them, and drove them back into the stream. They went reluctantly, for they too were tired and the swim across had been a hard one. But after one or two had started the others followed.

The young cowpuncher did not like the look of the black rushing waters. He had known one horrible moment of terror while he was crossing, that moment during which he had been afraid Powder River would be swept beyond the point of the sand spit. Now he cringed at the thought of venturing into that flood again. He postponed the hazard, trying two or three starting-places tentatively before he selected one at the extreme upper point of the island.

His choice was a bad one. The bronco was carried down into a swirl of deep, angry water. So swift was the undertow that Powder River was dragged from beneath its rider. Bob caught at the mane of the horse and clung desperately to it with one hand. A second or two, and this was torn from his clutch.

Dillon was washed downstream. He went under, tried to cry for help, and swallowed several gulps of water. When he came to the surface again he was still close to the island, buffeted by the boiling torrent. It swept him to a bar of willow bushes. To these he clung with the frenzy of a drowning man.

After a time he let go one hand-hold and found another. Gradually he worked into the shallows and to land. He could see Powder River, far downstream, still fighting impotently against the pressure of the current.

Bob shuddered. If he lived a hundred years he would never have a closer escape from drowning. It gave him a dreadful sinking at the stomach even to look at the plunging Blanco. The river was like some fearful monster furiously seeking to devour.

The voice of Hawks came to him. “Stay there while I get the boss.”

The dismounted cowboy watched Hawks ride away, then lay down in the hot sand and let the sun bake him. He felt sick and weak, as helpless as a blind and wobbly pup.

It may have been an hour later that he heard voices and looked across to the mouth of the ravine. Harshaw and Big Bill and Dud were there with Hawks. They were in a group working with ropes.

Harshaw rode into the river. He carried a coil of rope. Evidently two or more lariats had been tied together.

“Come out far as you can and catch this rope when I throw it,” Harshaw told the marooned cowboy.

Bob ventured out among the willows, wading very carefully to make sure of his footing. The current swirled around his thighs and tugged at him.

The cattleman flung the rope. It fell short. He pulled it in and rewound the coil. This time he drove his horse into deeper water. The animal was swimming when the loop sailed across to the willows.

Dillon caught it, slipped it over his body, and drewthe noose tight. A moment later he was being tossed about by the cross-currents. The lariat tightened. He was dragged under as the force of the torrent flung him into midstream. His body was racked by conflicting forces tugging at it. He was being torn in two, the victim of a raging battle going on to possess him. Now he was on his face, now on his back. For an instant he caught a glimpse of blue sunlit sky before he plunged down again into the black waters and was engulfed by them....

He opened his eyes. Dud’s voice came from a long way.

“Comin’ to all right. Didn’t I tell you this bird couldn’t drown?”

The mists cleared. Bob saw Dud’s cheerful smile, and back of it the faces of Harshaw, Hawks, and Big Bill.

“You got me out,” he murmured.

“Sure did, Bob. You’re some drookit, but I reckon we can dry you like we did the grub,” his riding mate said.

“Who got me?”

“Blame the boss.”

“We all took a hand, boy,” Harshaw explained. “It was quite some job. You were headed for Utah right swift. The boys rode in and claimed ownership. How you feelin’?”

“Fine,” Bob answered, and he tried to demonstrate by rising.

“Hold on. What’s yore rush?” Harshaw interrupted. “You’re right dizzy, I expect. A fellow can’t swallow the Blanco and feel like kickin’ a hole in the sky right away. Take yore time, boy.”

Bob remembered his mount. “Powder River got away from me—in the water.” He said it apologetically.

“I’m not blamin’ you for that,” the boss said, and laid a kindly hand on Dillon’s shoulder.

“Was it drowned?”

“I reckon we’ll find that out later. Lucky you wasn’t. That’s a heap more important.”

Bob was riding behind Dud fifteen minutes later in the wake of the herd. Hawks had gone back to learn what had become of Powder River.

Supper was ready when Buck reached camp. He was just in time to hear the cook’s “Come an’ get it.” He reported to Harshaw.

“Horse got outa the river about a mile below the island. I scouted around some for it, but couldn’t trail in the dark.”

“All right, Buck. To-morrow Dud and Bob can ride back and get the bronc. We’ll loaf along the trail and make a short day of it.”

He sat down on his heels, reached for a tin plate and cup, and began one of the important duties of the day.

CHAPTER XXVICUTTING SIGN

Dud’s observation, when he and Bob took the back trail along the river to find the missing bronco, confirmed that of Buck Hawks. He found the place where a horse had clawed its way out of the stream to the clay bank. From here it had wandered into the sage and turned toward the home ranch. The tracks showed that Powder River was moving slowly, grazing as it went.

“I reckon by noon we can say ‘Hello!’ to yore bronc,” Dud prophesied. “No need to trail it. All we got to do is follow the river.”

An hour later he drew up and swung from the saddle. “Now I wonder who we’ve had with us this glad mawnin’.”

Dud stooped and examined carefully tracks in the mud. Bob joined him.

“Powder River ain’t so lonesome now. Met up with friends, looks like. Takin’ a li’l’ journey north.” The cowpuncher’s blue eyes sparkled. The prosaic pursuit of a stray mount had of a sudden become Adventure.

“You mean—?”

“What doyouread from this sign we’ve cut?”

Bob told his deductions. “Powder River met some one on horseback. The man got off. Here’s his tracks.”

“Fellow, use yore haid,” admonished his friend. “Likewise yore eyes. You wouldn’t say this track was made by the same man as this one, would you?”

“No. It’s bigger.”

“An’ here’s another, all wore off at the heel. We got three men anyhow. Which means also three horses. Point of fact there are four mounts, one to carry the pack.”

“How do you know there are four?”

“They had four when they camped close to us night ’fore last.”

Dillon felt a sinking at the pit of his stomach. “You think this is Houck’s outfit?”

“That’d be my guess.”

“An’ that they’ve taken Powder River with them?”

“I’m doing better than guessin’ about that. One of the party saw a bronc with an empty saddle an’ tried to rope it. First time he missed, but he made good when he tried again.”

“If I had yore imagination, Dud—”

“Straight goods. See here where the loop of the rope dragged along the top of the mud after the fellow missed his throw.”

Bob saw the evidence after it had been pointed out to him. “But that don’t prove he got Powder River next time he threw,” he protested.

“Here’s where that’s proved.” Dud showed him the impressions of two hoofs dug deep into the ground. “Powder River bucked after he was roped an’ tried to break away. The other horse, like any good cowpony does, leaned back on the rope an’ dug a toe-hold.”

“Where’s Houck going?”

“Brown’s Park likely, from the way they’re headed.”

“What’ll we do?”

“Why, drap in on them to-night kinda casual an’ say‘Much obliged for roundin’ up our stray bronc for us.’”

This programme did not appeal to Bob. In that camp were two enemies of his. Both of them also hated Dud. Houck and Walker were vindictive. It was not likely either of them would forget what they owed these two young fellows.

“Maybe we’d better ride back an’ tell the boss first,” he suggested.

“Maybe we’d better not,” Hollister dissented. “By that time they’d be so far ahead we’d never catch ’em. No, sir. We’ll leave a note here for the boss. Tack it to this cottonwood. If we don’t show up in a reasonable time he’ll trail back an’ find out what for not.”

“That’d do us a lot of good if Houck had dry-gulched us.”

Dud laughed. “You’re the lad with the imagination. Far as Houck goes, an’ Bandy Walker, too, for that matter, I’ll make you a present of the pair of ’em as two sure-enough bad eggs. But they’ve got to play the hands dealt ’em without knowin’ what we’re holdin’.”

“They’ve prob’ly got rifles, an’ we haven’t.”

“It’s a cinch they’ve got rifles. But they won’t dare use ’em. How do they know we’re playin’ this alone? First off, I’ll mention that I sent Buck back to tell the boss we’d taken the trail after them. That puts it up to them to act reasonable whether they want to or not. Another thing. We surprise ’em. Give the birds no chance to talk it over. Not knowin’ what to do, they do nothing. Ain’t that good psycho-ology, as Blister says when he calls a busted flush?”

“Trouble is we’re holdin’ the busted flush.”

“Sure, an’ Houck’ll figure we wouldn’t ’a’ trailed him unless we’d fixed the play right beforehand. His horse sense will tell him we wouldn’t go that strong unless our cards was all blue. We’re sittin’ in the golden chair. O’ course we’ll give the birds a chance to save their faces—make it plain that we’re a whole lot obliged to ’em for lookin’ after Powder River for us.”

Bob’s sagging head went up. He had remembered Blister’s injunction. “All right, Dud. Turn yore wolf loose. I’ll ride along an’ back the bluff.”

They left the river and climbed to the mesa. The trail took them through a rough country of sagebrush into the hills of greasewood and piñon. In mid-afternoon they shot a couple of grouse scuttling through the bunch grass. Now and again they started deer, but they were not looking for meat. A brown bear peered at them from a thicket and went crashing away with an awkward gait that carried it over the ground fast.

From a summit they saw before them a thin spiral of smoke rising out of an arroyo.

“I reckon that’s the end of the trail,” Dud drawled. “We’re real pleased to meet up with you, Mr. Houck. Last time I had the pleasure was a sorta special picnic in yore honor. You was ridin’ a rail outa Bear Cat an’ being jounced up considerable.”

“If he thinks of that—”

“He’ll think of it,” Dud cut in cheerfully. “He’s gritted his teeth a lot of times over that happenstance, Mr. Houck has. It tastes right bitter in his mouth every time he recollects it. First off, soon as he sees us, he’ll figure that his enemies have been delivered into hishand. It’ll be up to us to change his mind. If you’re all set, Sure-Shot, we’ll drift down an’ start the peace talk.”

Bob moistened his dry lips. “All set.”

They rode down the hillside, topped another rise, and descended into the draw where a camp was pitched.

A young fellow chopping firewood moved forward to meet them.

“There’s Powder River with the broncs,” Bob said in a low voice to his friend.

“Yes,” said Dud, and he swung from the saddle.

“’Lo, fellows. Where you headed for?” the wood-chopper asked amiably.

Two men were sitting by the fire. They waited, in an attitude of listening. Dusk had fallen. The glow of the fire lighted their faces, but the men who had just ridden up were in the gathering darkness beyond the circle lit by the flames.

“We came to get Powder River, the bronc you rounded up for us,” Hollister said evenly. “Harshaw sent us ahead. We’re sure much obliged to you for yore trouble.”

The larger of the two men by the fire rose and straddled forward. He looked at Dud and he looked at Bob. His face was a map of conflicting emotions.

“Harshaw sent you, did he?”

“Yes, sir. Bob had bad luck in the river an’ the horse got away from him. I reckon the pony was lightin’ out for home when yore rope stopped the journey.” The voice of Dud was cheerful and genial. It ignored any little differences of the past with this hook-nosed individual whose eyes were so sultry and passionate.

“So he sent you two fellows, did he? I’ll say he’s a good picker. I been wantin’ to meet you,” he said harshly.

“Same here, Houck.” Bandy Walker pushed to the front, jerking a forty-five from its scabbard.

Houck’s hand shot forward and caught the cowpuncher by the wrist. “What’s bitin’ you, Bandy? Time enough for that when I give the word.”

The yellow teeth of the bow-legged man showed in a snarl of rage and pain. “I’d ’a’ got Dillon if you’d let me be.”

“Didn’t you hear this guy say Harshaw sent them here? Use yore horse sense, man.” Houck turned to Hollister. “Yore bronc’s with the others. The saddle’s over by that rock. Take ’em an’ hit the trail.”

In sullen rage Houck watched Dud saddle and cinch. Not till the Slash Lazy D riders were ready to go did he speak again.

“Tell you what I’ll do,” he proposed. “Get down off’n yore horses, both o’ you, an’ I’ll whale the daylight outa the pair of you. Bandy’ll stay where he’s at an’ not mix in.”

Hollister looked at Bandy, and he knew the fellow’s trigger finger itched. There was not a chance in the world that he would stand back and play fair. But that was not the reason why Dud declined the invitation. He had not come to get into trouble. He meant to keep out of it if he could.

“Last fellow that licked me hauled me down off’n my bronc, Mr. Houck,” Dud answered, laughing. “No, sir. We got to turn down that invite to a whalin’. The bossgave us our orders straight. No trouble a-tall. I expect if it was our own say-so we might accommodate you. But not the way things are.”

“No guts, either of you. Ain’t two to one good enough?” jeered Houck angrily.

“Not good enough right now. Maybe some other time, Mr. Houck,” Dud replied, his temper unruffled.

“You want it to be twelve to one, like it was last time, eh?”

“Harshaw will be lookin’ for us, so we’ll be sayin’ good-evenin’,” the rider for the Slash Lazy D said quietly.

He turned his horse to go, as did his companion. Houck cursed them both bitterly. While they rode into the gloom Bob’s heart lifted to his throat. Goosequills ran up and down his spine. Would one of his enemies shoot him in the back? He could hardly keep from swinging his head to make sure they were not aiming at him. He wanted to touch his mount with a spur to quicken the pace.

But Dud, riding by his side, held his bronco to the slow even road gait of the traveler who has many miles to cover. Apparently he had forgotten the existence of the furious, bitter men who were watching their exit from the scene. Bob set his teeth and jogged along beside him.

Not till they were over the hill did either of them speak.

“Wow!” grunted Dud as he wiped the sweat from his face. “I’m sure enough glad to have that job done with.My back aches right between the shoulder blades where a bullet might ’a’ hit it.”

Bob relaxed in the saddle. He felt suddenly faint. Even now he found himself looking round apprehensively to make sure that a man carrying a rifle was not silhouetted on the hilltop against the sky-line.

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