CHAPTER XXVIIPARTNERS IN PERIL
Into the office of Blister Haines, J. P., a young man walked. He was a berry-brown youth, in the trappings of the range-rider, a little thin and stringy, perhaps, but well-poised and light-stepping.
With one swift glance the fat man swept his visitor from head to foot and liked what he saw. The lean face was tanned, the jaw firm, the eye direct and steady. There was no need to tell this man to snap up his head. Eight months astride a saddle in the sun and wind had wrought a change in Robert Dillon.
“’Lo, Red Haid,” the justice sang out squeakily. “How’s yore good health? I heerd you was d-drowned. Is you is, or is you ain’t? Sit down an’ rest yore weary bones.”
“I took a swim,” admitted Bob. “The boys fished me out while I was still kickin’.”
“Rivers all high?”
“Not so high as they were. We noticed quite a difference on the way back.”
“Well, s-sit down an’ tell me all about it. How do you like ridin’, Texas man?”
“Like it fine.”
“All yore troubles blown away?”
“Most of ’em. I’m a long way from being a wolf yet, though.”
“So? B-by the way, there’s a friend of yours in town—Jake Houck.”
There was a moment’s pause. “Did he say he was my friend?” asked Bob.
“Didn’t mention it. Thought maybe you’d like to know he’s here. It’s not likely he’ll trouble you.”
“I’d be glad to be sure of that. Dud an’ I had a little run-in with him last month. He wasn’t hardly in a position then to rip loose, seein’ as he had my horse an’ saddle in his camp an’ didn’t want Harshaw in his wool. So he cussed us out an’ let it go at that. Different now. I’m playin’ a lone hand—haven’t got the boss back of me.”
“F-fellow drifted in from Vernal yesterday,” the justice piped, easing himself in his chair. “Told a s-story might interest you. Said Jake Houck had some trouble with a y-young Ute buck over a hawss. Houck had been drinkin’, I reckon. Anyhow he let the Injun have it in the stomach. Two-three shots outa his six-gun. The Utes claimed it was murder. Jake he didn’t wait to adjust no claims, but lit out on the jump.”
“Won’t the Government get him?”
The fat man shrugged. “Oh, well, a Ute’s a Ute. Point is that Houck, who always was a t-tough nut, has gone bad since the boys rode him on a rail. He’s proud as Lucifer, an’ it got under his hide. He’s kinda cuttin’ loose an’ givin’ the devil in him free rein. Wouldn’t surprise me if he turned into a killer of the worst kind.”
Bob’s eyes fastened to his uneasily. “You think he’s—after me?”
“I think he’ll d-do to watch.”
“Yes, but—”
Blister rolled a cigarette and lit it before he asked casually, “Stayin’ long in town?”
“Leavin’ to-day for the ranch.”
“What size gun you carry for rattlesnakes?”
“Mine’s a forty-five.” Bob took it out, examined it, and thrust the weapon between his trousers and his shirt. If he felt any mental disturbance he did not show it except in the anxious eyes.
Blister changed the subject lightly. “Hear anything ab-b-bout the Utes risin’? Any talk of it down the river?”
“Some. The same old stuff. I’ve been hearin’ it for a year.”
“About ripe, looks like. This business of Houck ain’t gonna help any. There’s a big bunch of ’em over there in the hills now. They’ve been runnin’ off stock from outlying ranches.”
“Sho! The Indians are tamed. They’ll never go on the warpath again, Blister.”
“J-just once more, an’ right soon now.”
The justice gave his reasons for thinking so, while Bob listened rather inattentively. The boy wanted to ask him about June, but he remembered what his fat friend had told him last time he mentioned her to him. He was still extremely sensitive about his failure to protect his girl-wife and he did not want to lay himself open to snubs.
Bob sauntered from the office, and before he had walked a dozen steps came face to face with June. She was coming out of a grocery with some packages in her arms. The color flooded her dusky cheeks. She looked at him, startled, like a fawn poised for flight.
During the half-year since he had seen her June had been transformed. She had learned the value of clothes. No longer did she wear a shapeless sack for a dress. Her shoes were small and shapely, her black hair neatly brushed and coiffed. The months had softened and developed the lines of the girlish figure. Kindness and friendliness had vitalized the expression of the face and banished its sullenness. The dark eyes, with just a hint of wistful appeal, were very lovely.
Both of them were taken unawares. Neither knew what to do or say. After the first instant of awkwardness June moved forward and passed him silently.
Bob went down the street, seeing nothing. His pulses trembled with excitement. This charming girl was his wife, or at least she once had been for an hour. She had sworn to love, honor, and obey him. There had been a moment in the twilight when they had come together to the verge of something divinely sweet and wonderful, when they had gazed into each other’s eyes and had looked across the boundary of the promised land.
If he had only kept the faith with her! If he had stood by her in the hour of her great need! The bitterness of his failure ate into the soul of the range-rider as it had done already a thousand times. It did not matter what he did. He could never atone for the desertion on their wedding day. The horrible fact was written in blood. It could not be erased. Forever it would have to stand between them. An unbridgeable gulf separated them, created by his shameless weakness.
When Bob came to earth he found himself clumping down the river road miles from town. He turned andwalked back to Bear Cat. His cowpony was at the corral and he was due at the ranch by night.
Young Dillon’s thoughts had been so full of June and his relation to her that it was with a shock of surprise he saw Jake Houck swing out from the hotel porch and bar the way.
“Here’s where you ’n’ me have a settlement,” the Brown’s Park man announced.
“I’m not lookin’ for trouble,” Bob said, and again he was aware of a heavy sinking at the stomach.
“You never are,” jeered Houck. “But it’s right here waitin’ for you, Mr. Rabbit Heart.”
Bob heard the voices of children coming down the road on their way from school. He knew that two or three loungers were watching him and Houck from the doors of adjacent buildings. He was aware of a shouting and commotion farther up the street. But these details reached him only through some subconscious sense of absorption. His whole attention was concentrated on the man in front of him who was lashing himself into a fighting rage.
What did Houck mean to do? Would he throw down on him and kill? Or would he attack with his bare hands? Fury and hatred boiled into the big man’s face. His day had come. He would have his revenge no matter what it cost. Bob could guess what hours of seething rage had filled Houck’s world. The freckle-faced camp flunkey had interfered with his plans, snatched from him the bride he had chosen, brought upon him a humiliation that must be gall to his proud spirit whenever he thought of Bear Cat’s primitive justice. He would pay his debt in full.
The disturbance up the street localized itself. A woman picked up her skirts and flew wildly into a store. A man went over the park fence almost as though he had been shot out of a catapult. Came the crack of a revolver. Some one shouted explanation. “Mad dog!”
A brindle bull terrier swung round the corner and plunged forward. With bristling hair and foaming mouth, it was a creature of horrible menace.
Houck leaped for the door of the hotel. Bob was at his heels, in a panic to reach safety.
A child’s scream rang out. Dillon turned. The school children were in wild flight, but one fair-haired little girl stood as though paralyzed in the middle of the road. She could not move out of the path of the wild beast bearing down upon her.
Instinctively Bob’s mind functioned. The day was warm and his coat hung over an arm. He stepped into the road as the brindle bull came opposite the hotel. The coat was swung out expertly and dropped over the animal’s head. The cowpuncher slipped to his knees, arms tightening and fingers feeling for the throat of the writhing brute struggling blindly.
Its snapping jaws just missed his hand. Man and dog rolled over into the dust together. Its hot breath fanned Bob’s face. Again he was astride of the dog. His fingers had found its throat at last. They tightened, in spite of its horrible muscular contortions to get free.
There came a swish of skirts, the soft pad of running feet. A girl’s voice asked, “What shall I do?”
It did not at that moment seem strange to Dillon that June was beside him, her face quick with tremulousanxiety. He spoke curtly, as one who gives orders, panting under the strain of the effort to hold the dog.
“My gun.”
She picked the forty-five up from where it had fallen. Their eyes met. The girl did swiftly what had to be done. It was not until she was alone in her room half an hour later that the thought of it made her sick.
Bob rose, breathing deep. For an instant their eyes held fast. She handed him the smoking revolver. Neither of them spoke.
From every door, so it seemed, people poured and converged toward them. Excited voices took up the tale, disputed, explained, offered excuses. Everybody talked except June and Bob.
Blister rolled into the picture. “Dawg-gone my hide if I ever see anything to b-beat that. He was q-quick as c-chain lightnin’, the boy was. Johnny on the spot. Jumped the critter s-slick as a whistle.” His fat hand slapped Bob’s shoulder. “The boy was sure there with both hands and feet.”
“What about June?” demanded Mollie. “Seems to me she wasn’t more’n a mile away while you men-folks were skedaddlin’ for cover.”
The fat man’s body shook with laughter. “The boys didn’t s-stop to make any farewell speeches, tha’s a fact. I traveled some my own self, but I hadn’t hardly got started before Houck was outa sight, an’ him claimin’ he was lookin’ for trouble too.”
“Not that kind of trouble,” grinned Mike the bartender. He could afford to laugh, for since he had been busy inside he had not been one of the vanishingheroes. “Don’t blame him a mite either. If it comes to that I’m givin’ the right of way to a mad dog every time.”
“Hmp!” snorted Mollie. “What would ’a’ happened to little Maggie Wiggins if Dillon here had felt that way?”
Bob touched Blister on the arm and whispered in his ear. “Get me to the doc. I gotta have a bite cauterized.”
It was hardly more than a scratch, but while the doctor was making his preparations the puncher went pale as service-berry blossoms. He sat down, grown suddenly faint. The bite of a mad dog held sinister possibilities.
Blister fussed around cheerfully until the doctor had finished. “Every silver l-lining has got its cloud, don’t you r-reckon? Here’s Jake Houck now, all s-set for a massacree. He’s a wolf, an’ it’s his night to howl. Don’t care who knows it, by gum. Hands still red from one killin’. A rip-snortin’ he-wolf from the bad lands! Along comes Mr. Mad Dog, an’ Jake he hunts his hole with his tail hangin’. Kinda takes the tuck outa him. Bear Cat wouldn’t hardly stand for him gunnin’ you now, Bob. Not after you tacklin’ that crazy bull terrier to save the kids. He’ll have to postpone that settlement he was promisin’ you so big.”
The puncher voiced the fear in his mind. “Do folks always go mad when they’re bit by a mad dog, doctor?”
“Not a chance hardly,” Dr. Tuckerman reassured. “First place, the dog probably wasn’t mad. Secondplace, ’t wa’n’t but a scratch and we got at it right away. No, sir. You don’t need to worry a-tall.”
Outside the doctor’s office Blister and Bob met Houck. The Brown’s Park man scowled at the puncher. “I’m not through with you. Don’t you think it! Jus’ because you had a lucky fluke escape—”
“Tacklin’ a crazy wild beast whilst you an’ me were holin’ up,” Blister interjected.
Houck looked at the fat man bleakly. “You in this, Mr. Meddler? If you’re not declarin’ yoreself in, I’d advise you to keep out.”
Blister Haines laughed amiably with intent to conciliate. “What’s the use of nursin’ a grudge against the boy, Houck? He never did you any harm. S-shake hands an’ call it off.”
“You manage yore business if you’ve got any. I’ll run mine,” retorted Houck. To Bob he said meaningly as he turned away, “One o’ these days, young fellow.”
The threat chilled Dillon, but it was impossible just now to remain depressed. He rode back to the ranch in a glow of pleasure. Thoughts of June filled every crevice of his mind. They had shared an adventure together, had been partners in a moment of peril. She could not wholly despise him now. He was willing to admit that Houck had been right when he called it a fluke. The chance might not have come to him, or he might not have taken it. The scream of little Maggie Wiggins had saved the day for him. If he had had time to think—but fortunately impulse had swept him into action before he could let discretion stop him.
He lived over again joyfully that happy momentwhen June had stood before him pulsing with life, eager, fear-filled, tremulous. He had taken the upper hand and she had accepted his leadership. The thing his eyes had told her to do she had done. He would remember that—he would remember it always.
Nor did it dim his joy that he felt himself to be a fraud. It had taken no pluck to do what he did, since he had only obeyed a swift dominating mental reaction to the situation. The real courage had been hers.
He knew now that he would have to take her with him in his thoughts on many a long ride whether he wanted to or not.
CHAPTER XXVIIIJUNE IS GLAD
June turned away from the crowd surrounding the dead mad dog and walked into the hotel. The eyes of more than one man followed the slim, graceful figure admiringly. Much water had run down the Rio Blanco since the days when she had been the Cinderella of Piceance Creek. The dress she wore was simple, but through it a vivid personality found expression. No longer was she a fiery little rebel struggling passionately against a sense of inferiority. She had come down from the hills to a country filled with laughter and the ripple of brooks.
The desire to be alone was strong upon her—alone with the happy thoughts that pushed themselves turbulently through her mind. She was tremulous with excitement. For she hoped that she had found a dear friend who had been lost.
Once, on that dreadful day she would never forget, June had told Jake Houck that Bob Dillon was as brave as he. It had been the forlorn cry of a heart close to despair. But the words were true. She hugged that knowledge to her bosom. Jake had run away while Bob had stayed to face the mad dog. And not Jake alone! Blister Haines had run, with others of tested courage. Bob had outgamed him. He admitted it cheerfully.
Maybe the others had not seen little Maggie Wiggins. But Bob had seen her. The child’s cry had carried himback into the path of the brindle terrier. June was proud, not only of what he had done, but of the way he had done it. His brain had functioned swiftly, his motions been timed exactly. Only coördination of all his muscles had enabled him to down the dog so expertly and render the animal harmless.
During the months since she had seen him June had thought often of the man whose name she legally bore. After the first few hours there had been no harshness in her memories of him. He was good. She had always felt that. There was something fine and sweet and generous in his nature. Without being able to reason it out, she was sure that no fair judgment would condemn him wholly because at a crisis he had failed to exhibit a quality the West holds in high esteem and considers fundamental. Into her heart there had come a tender pity for him, a maternal sympathy that flowed out whenever he came into her musings.
Poor boy! She had learned to know him so well. He would whip himself with his own scorn. This misadventure that had overwhelmed him might frustrate all the promise of his life. He was too sensitive. If he lost heart—if he gave up—
She had longed to send a message of hope to him, but she had been afraid that he might misunderstand it. Her position was ambiguous. She was his wife. The law said so. But of course she was not his wife at all except in name. They were joint victims of evil circumstance, a boy and a girl who had rushed to a foolish extreme. Some day one or the other of them would ask the law to free them of the tie that technically bound them together.
Now she need not worry about him any longer. He had proved his mettle publicly. The court of common opinion would reverse the verdict it had passed upon him. He would go out of her life and she need no longer feel responsible for the shadow that had fallen over his.
So she reasoned consistently, but something warm within her gave the lie to this cold disposition of their friendship. She did not want to let him go his way. She had no intention of letting him go. She could not express it, but in some intangible way he belonged to her. As a brother might, she told herself; not because Blister Haines had married them when they had gone to him in their hurry to solve a difficulty. Not for that reason at all, but because from the first hour of meeting, their spirits had gone out to each other in companionship. Bob had understood her. He had been the only person to whom she could confide her troubles, the only pal she had ever known.
Standing before the glass in her small bedroom, June saw that her eyes were shining, the blood glowing through the dusky cheeks. Joy had vitalized her whole being, had made her beautiful as a wild rose. For the moment at least she was lyrically happy.
This ardor still possessed June when she went into the dining-room to make the set-ups for supper. She sang snatches of “Dixie” and “My Old Kentucky Home” as she moved about her work. She hummed the chorus of “Juanita.” From that she drifted to the old spiritual “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.”
A man was washing his hands in the tin basin providedoutside for guests of the hotel. Through the window came to him the lilt of the fresh young voice.
“Swing low, sweet chariot,
Comin’ fo’ to carry me home.”
The look of sullen, baffled rage on the man’s dark face did not lighten. He had been beaten again. His revenge had been snatched from him almost at the moment of triumph. If that mad dog had not come round the corner just when it did, he would have evened the score between him and Dillon. June had seen the whole thing. She had been a partner in the red-headed boy’s ovation. Houck ground his teeth in futile anger.
Presently he slouched into the dining-room.
Mollie saw him and walked across the room to June. “I’ll wait on him if you don’t want to.”
The waitress shook her head. “No, I don’t want him to think I’m afraid of him. I’m not, either. I’ll wait on him.”
June took Houck’s order and presently served it.
His opaque eyes watched her in the way she remembered of old. They were still bold and possessive, still curtained windows through which she glimpsed volcanic passion.
“You can tell that squirt Dillon I ain’t through with him yet, not by a jugful,” he growled.
“If you have anything to tell Bob Dillon, say it tohim,” June answered, looking at him with fearless, level eyes of scorn.
“An’ I ain’t through with you, I’d have you know.”
June finished putting his order on the table. “But I’m through with you, Jake Houck,” she said, very quietly.
“Don’t think it. Don’t you think it for a minute,” he snarled. “I’m gonna—”
He stopped, sputtering with fury. June had turned and walked into the kitchen. He rose, evidently intending to follow her.
Mollie Larson barred the way, a grim, square figure with the air of a brigadier-general.
“Sit down, Jake Houck,” she ordered. “Or get out. I don’t care which. But don’t you think I’ll set by an’ let you pester that girl. If you had a lick o’ sense you’d know it ain’t safe.”
There was nothing soft about Houck. He was a hard and callous citizen, and he lived largely outside the law and other people’s standards of conduct. But he knew when he had run up against a brick wall. Mrs. Larson had only to lift her voice and half a dozen men would come running. He was in the country of the enemy, so to say.
“Am I pesterin’ her?” he demanded. “Can’t I talk to a girl I knew when she was a baby? Have I got to get an O.K. from you before I say ‘Good-mawnin’ to her?”
“Her father left June in my charge. I’m intendin’ to see you let her alone. Get that straight.”
Houck gave up with a shrug of his big shoulders. He sat down and attacked the steak on his plate.
CHAPTER XXIX“INJUNS”
Bob swung down from the saddle in front of the bunkhouse.
Reeves came to the door and waved a hand. “’Lo, Sure-Shot! What’s new in Bear Cat?”
“Fellow thinkin’ of startin’ a drug-store. Jim Weaver is the happy dad of twins. Mad dog shot on Main Street. New stage-line for Marvine planned. Mr. Jake Houck is enjoyin’ a pleasant visit to our little city. I reckon that’s about all.”
Dud had joined Tom in the doorway. “Meet up with Mr. Houck?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Have any talk?”
“He had some, but he hadn’t hardly got to goin’ good when the mad dog sashayed up the street. Mr. Houck he adjourned the meetin’ immediate.”
“More important business, I reckon,” Dud grinned.
“He didn’t mention it, but all those present were in a kinda hurry.”
“So’s some one else.” Reeves nodded his head toward a small cloud of dust approaching the ranch.
A rider galloped up and dragged his mount to a halt. “Utes have broke out! Killed a trapper on Squaw Creek! Burned two nesters’ houses!” His voice was high and excited.
“Rumor?” asked Dud.
“No, sir. I talked with a fellow that seen the body. Met two families that had lit out from Squaw Creek. They’re sure enough on the warpath.”
Harshaw took the matter seriously. He gave crisp orders to his riders to cover the creeks and warn all settlers to leave for Bear Cat or Meeker. Dud and Bob were assigned Milk Creek.
It was hard for the young fellows, as they rode through a land of warm sunshine, to believe that there actually was another Indian outbreak. It had been ten years since the Meeker massacre and the defeat of Major Thornburg’s troops. The country had begun to settle up. The Utes knew that their day was done, though they still came up occasionally from the reservation on illicit hunting trips.
This very country over which they were riding was the scene of the Thornburg battle-field. The Indians had lain in ambush and waited for the troops to come over the brow of the rise. At the first volley the commander of the soldiers had fallen mortally wounded. The whites, taken by surprise, fell back in disorder. The Utes moved up on them from both sides and the trapped men fled.
“Must ’a’ been right about here Thornburg was shot,” explained Dud. “Charley Mason was one o’ the soldiers an’ he told me all about it. Captain Jack was in charge of this bunch of Utes. Seems he had signal fires arranged with those at the agency an’ they began their attacks at the same time. Charley claimed they didn’t know there was Injuns within twenty miles when the bullets began to sing. Says he ran five miles before he took a breath.”
Bob looked around apprehensively. History might repeat itself. At this very moment the Utes might be lying in the draw ready to fire on them. He was filled with a sudden urgent desire to get through with their job and turn the heads of their ponies toward Bear Cat.
“Makes a fellow feel kinda squeamish,” Dud said. “Let’s move, Bob.”
They carried the word to the settlers on the creek and turned in the direction of Bear Cat. They reached town late and found the place bustling with excitement. Families of settlers were arriving in wagons and on horseback from all directions. There were rumors that the Indians were marching on the town. A company of militia had been ordered to the scene by the Governor of the State and was expected to arrive on the second day from this.
Camp-fires were burning in the park plaza and round them were grouped men, women, and children in from the ranches. On all the roads leading to town sentries were stationed. Others walked a patrol along the riverbank and along the skirts of the foothills.
Three or four cowpunchers had been celebrating the declaration of war. In the community was a general feeling that the Utes must be put down once for all. In spite of the alarm many were glad that the unrest had come to an issue at last.
Bob and Dud tied their horses to a hitching-rack and climbed the fence into the park. Blister came out of the shadows to meet them.
“W-whad I tell you, Texas man?” he asked of Bob. “Show-down at last, like I said.”
Into the night lifted a startled yell. “Here come the Injuns!”
Taut nerves snapped. Wails of terror rose here and there. A woman fainted. The sound of a revolver shot rang out.
One of the roisterers, who had been loud in his threats of what he meant to do to the Indians, lost his braggadocio instantly. He leaped for the saddle of the nearest horse and dug his spurs home. In his fuddled condition he made a mistake. He had chosen, as a mount upon which to escape, the fence that encircled the park.
“Gid ap! Gid ap!” he screamed.
“Yore bronc is some balky, ain’t it, Jud?” Hollister asked. He had already discovered that the panic had been caused by a false cry of “Wolf” raised by one of the fence rider’s companions.
“S-some one hitched it to a post,” Blister suggested.
“Ride him, puncher,” urged Bob. “Stick to yore saddle if he does buck.”
Jud came off the fence sheepishly. “I was aimin’ to go get help,” he explained.
“Where was you going for it—to Denver?” asked Blister.
The night wore itself out. With the coming of day the spirits of the less hardy revived. The ranchers on the plaza breakfasted in groups, after which their children were bundled off to school. Scouts rode out to learn the whereabouts of the Utes and others to establish contact with the approaching militia.
Harshaw organized a company of rangers made up mostly of cowpunchers from the river ranches. Duringthe day more of these drifted in. By dusk he had a group of forty hard-riding young fellows who could shoot straight and were acquainted with the country over which they would have to operate. Blister was second in command. All of the Slash Lazy D riders had enlisted except one who had recently broken a leg.
Scouts brought in word that the Utes had swung round Bear Cat and were camped about thirty miles up the river. Harshaw moved out to meet them. He suspected the Indians of planning to ambush the militia before the soldiers could join forces with the rangers.
Bob had joined the rangers with no enthusiasm. He had enlisted because of pressure both within and without. He would have been ashamed not to offer himself. Moreover, everybody seemed to assume he would go. But he would much rather have stayed at Bear Cat with the home guards. From what he had picked up, he was far from sure that the Utes were to blame this time. The Houck killing, for instance. And that was not the only outrage they had endured. It struck him more like a rising of the whites. They had provoked the young bucks a good deal, and a sheriff’s posse had arrested some of them for being off the reservation hunting. Wise diplomacy might at least have deferred the conflict.
During the bustle of preparing to leave, Bob’s spirits were normal even though his nerves were a little fluttery. As they rode out of town he caught sight for a moment of a slim, dark girl in a blue gingham at the door of the hotel. She waved a hand toward the group of horsemen. It was Dud who answered the good-bye. Hehad already, Bob guessed, said a private farewell of his own to June. At any rate, his friend had met Hollister coming out of the hotel a few minutes before. The cowpuncher’s eyes were shining and a blue skirt was vanishing down the passage. There had been a queer ache in Bob Dillon’s heart. He did not blame either of them. Of course June would prefer Dud to him. Any girl in her senses would. He had all the charm of gay and gallant youth walking in the sunshine.
None the less it hurt and depressed him that there should be a private understanding between his friend and June. A poignant jealousy stabbed him. There was nothing in his character to attract a girl like June of swift and pouncing passion. He was too tame, too fearful. Dud had a spice of the devil in him. It flamed out unexpectedly. Yet he was reliable too. This clean, brown man, fair-haired and steady-eyed, riding with such incomparable ease, would do to tie to, in the phrase of the country. Small wonder a girl’s heart turned to him.
CHAPTER XXXA RECRUIT JOINS THE RANGERS
Harshaw did not, during the first forty-eight hours after leaving Bear Cat, make contact with either the Indians or the militia. He moved warily, throwing out scouts as his party advanced. At night he posted sentries carefully to guard against a surprise attack. It was not the habit of the tribes to assault in the darkness, but he was taking no chances. It would be easy to fall into an ambush, but he had no intention of letting the rangers become the victims of carelessness.
At the mouth of Wolf Creek a recruit joined the company. He rode up after camp had been made for the night.
“Jake Houck,” Bob whispered to Dud.
“Who’s boss of this outfit?” the big man demanded of Blister after he had swung from the saddle.
“Harshaw. You’ll find him over there with the cavvy.”
Houck straddled across to the remuda.
“Lookin’ for men to fight the Utes?” he asked brusquely of the owner of the Slash Lazy D brand.
“Yes, sir.”
“If you mean business an’ ain’t bully-pussin’ I’ll take a hand,” the Brown’s Park man said, and both voice and manner were offensive.
The captain of the rangers met him eye to eye. He did not like this fellow. His reputation was bad. In the olddays he had been a rustler, rumor said. Since the affair of the Tolliver girl he had been very sulky and morose. This had culminated in the killing of the Ute. What the facts were about this Harshaw did not know. The man might be enlisting to satisfy a grudge or to make himself safe against counter-attack by helping to drive the Indians back to the reservation. The point that stood out was that Houck was a first-class fighting man. That was enough.
“We mean business, Houck. Glad to have you join us. But get this straight. I’ll not have you startin’ trouble in camp. If you’ve got a private quarrel against any of the boys it will have to wait.”
“I ain’t aimin’ to start anything,” growled Houck. “Not till this job’s finished.”
“Good enough. Hear or see anything of the Utes as you came?”
“No.”
“Which way you come?”
Houck told him. Presently the two men walked back toward the chuck-wagon.
“Meet Mr. Houck, boys, any of you that ain’t already met him,” said Harshaw by way of introduction. “He’s going to trail along with us for a while.”
The situation was awkward. Several of those present had met Houck only as the victim of their rude justice the night that June Tolliver had swum the river to escape him. Fortunately the cook at that moment bawled out that supper was ready.
Afterward Blister had a word with Bob and Dud while he was arranging sentry duty with them.
“Wish that b-bird hadn’t come. He’s here because he wants to drive the Utes outa the country before they get him. The way I heard it he had no business to kill that b-buck. Throwed down on him an’ killed him onexpected. I didn’t c-come to pull Jake Houck’s chestnuts outa the fire for him. Not none. He ain’t lookin’ for to round up the Injuns and herd ’em back to the reservation. He’s allowin’ to kill as many as he can.”
“Did anybody see him shoot the Ute?” asked Bob.
“Seems not. They was back of a stable. When folks got there the Ute was down, but still alive. He claimed he never made a move to draw. Houck’s story was that he shot in self-defense. Looked fishy. The Injun’s gun wasn’t in s-sight anywheres.”
“Houck’s a bad actor,” Dud said.
“Yes.” Blister came back to the order of the day. “All right, boys. Shifts of three hours each, then. T-turn an’ turn about. You two take this knoll here. If you see anything movin’ that looks suspicious, blaze away. We’ll c-come a-runnin’.”
Bob had drunk at supper two cups of strong coffee instead of his usual one. His thought had been that the stimulant would tend to keep him awake on duty. The effect the coffee had on him was to make his nerves jumpy. He lay on the knoll, rifle clutched fast in his hands, acutely sensitive to every sound, to every hazy shadow of the night. The very silence was sinister. His imagination peopled the sage with Utes, creeping toward him with a horrible and deadly patience. Chills tattooed up and down his spine.
He pulled out the old silver watch he carried andlooked at the time. It lacked five minutes of ten o’clock. The watch must have stopped. He held it to his ear and was surprised at the ticking. Was it possible that he had been on sentry duty only twelve minutes? To his highly strung nerves it had seemed like hours.
A twig snapped. His muscles jumped. He waited, gun ready for action, eyes straining into the gloom. Something rustled and sped away swiftly. It must have been a rabbit or perhaps a skunk. But for a moment his heart had been in his throat.
Again he consulted the watch. Five minutes past ten! Impossible, yet true. In that eternity of time only a few minutes had slipped away.
He resolved not to look at his watch again till after eleven. Meanwhile he invented games to divert his mind from the numbing fear that filled him. He counted the definite objects that stood out of the darkness—the clumps of sage, the greasewood bushes, the cottonwood trees by the river. It was his duty to patrol the distance between the knoll and those trees at intervals. Each time he crept to the river with a thumping heart. Those bushes—were they really willows or Indians waiting to slay him when he got closer?
Fear is paralyzing. It pushes into the background all the moral obligations. Half a dozen times the young ranger was on the point of waking Dud to tell him that he could not stand it alone. He recalled Blister’s injunctions. But what was the use of throwing back his head and telling himself he was made in the image of God when his fluttering pulses screamed denial, when his heart pumped water instead of blood?
He stuck it out. How he never knew. But somehow he clamped his teeth and went through. As he grew used to it, his imagination became less active and tricky. There were moments, toward the end of his vigil, when he could smile grimly at the terror that had obsessed him. He was a born coward, but he did not need to let anybody know it. It would always be within his power to act game whether he was or not.
At one o’clock he woke Dud. That young man rolled out of his blanket grumbling amiably. “Fine business! Why don’t a fellow ever know when he’s well off? Me, I might be hittin’ the hay at Bear Cat or Meeker instead of rollin’ out to watch for Utes that ain’t within thirty or forty miles of here likely. Fellow, next war I stay at home.”
Bob slipped into his friend’s warm blanket. He had no expectation of sleeping, but inside of five minutes his eyes had closed and he was off.
The sound of voices wakened him. Dud was talking to the jingler who had just come off duty. The sunlight was pouring upon him. He jumped up in consternation.
“I musta overslept,” Bob said.
Dud grinned. “Some. Fact is, I hadn’t the heart to waken you when you was poundin’ yore ear so peaceful an’ tuneful.”
“You stood my turn, too.”
“Oh, well. It was only three hours. That’s no way to divide the night anyhow.”
They were eating breakfast when a messenger rode into camp. He was from Major Sheahan of the militia.That officer sent word that the Indians were in Box Cañon. He had closed one end and suggested that the rangers move into the other and bottle the Utes.
Harshaw broke camp at once and started for the cañon. A storm blew up, a fierce and pelting hail. The company took refuge in a cottonwood grove. The stones were as large as good-sized plums, and in three minutes the ground was covered. Under the stinging ice bullets the horses grew very restless. More than one went plunging out into the open and had to be forced back to shelter by the rider. Fortunately the storm passed as quickly as it had come up. The sun broke through the clouds and shone warmly upon rivulets of melted ice pouring down to the Blanco.
Scouts were thrown forward once more and the rangers swung into the hills toward Box Cañon.
“How far?” Bob asked Tom Reeves.
“’Bout half an hour now, I reckon. Hope we get there before the Injuns have lit out.”
Privately Bob hoped they would not. He had never been under fire and his throat dried at the anticipation.
“Sure,” he answered. “We’re humpin’ along right lively. Be there in time, I expect. Too bad if we have to chase ’em again all over the map.”
Box Cañon is a sword slash cut through the hills. From wall to wall it is scarcely forty feet across. One looks up to a slit of blue sky above.
Harshaw halted close to the entrance. “Let’s make sure where Mr. Ute is before we ride in, boys. He might be up on the bluffs layin’ for us. Dud, you an’ Tom an’Big Bill go take a look-see an’ make sure. We’ll come a-runnin’ if we hear yore guns pop.”
Two men in uniform rode out of the gulch. At the sight of the rangers they cantered forward. One was a sergeant.
“Too late,” said he. “They done slipped away from us. We took shelter from the hail under a cutbank where the cañon widens. They musta slipped by us then. We found their tracks in the wet ground. They’re headin’ west again, looks like.”
“We’ve got a warm trail,” Harshaw said to Blister Haines. “We better go right after ’em.”
“Hot foot,” agreed Blister.
“Major Sheahan’s followin’ them now. He said for you to come right along.”
The cavalcade moved at once.