CHAPTER XXVIII
ON A COLD TRAIL
"Dog it, Jack, we got to go after the Dinsmores," said Ellison, poundingthe table with his fist. "I've just had a letter from the old manwantin' to know why we don't get results. It's not the Ranger policy towait for outlaws to come to us. We go after 'em."
Tex smiled cheerfully. "Suits me fine. What are your instructions,Captain? Want me to arrest Homer Dinsmore again?"
"What would I do with him if you got him?" snapped the old-timer.
"You could turn him loose again," suggested Roberts, not entirelywithout sarcasm.
"If you boys were worth the powder to blow you-all up--!" exploded theveteran.
"Instead of bein' a jackpot bunch of triflin' no-account scalawags,"murmured Jack.
"--You'd hustle out an' get evidence against 'em."
"Sounds reasonable." The Ranger lifted his heels to the seat of a secondchair and rolled him a cigarette.
"You'd find out where they're hidin' the cattle they rustle."
"Are you givin' me an assignment, Captain?"
"You done said it, son. There's a bunch of rustled stock up in the rockssomewheres. You know it. Question is, can you find the cache?"
"I can try."
"Wasn't it you told me once about bumpin' into a rustler doin' businesswhilst you was ridin' the line?"
"At the mouth of Box Canon--yes."
"Well, wha's the matter with you scoutin' up Box Canon an' seein' whatyou find?"
"They're roostin' up there somewheres. I'll bet a hat on that."
"How many boys you want with you?"
Jack considered. "One. I'll take Ridley if you don't mind."
"He's a tenderfoot," suggested Ellison doubtfully. "Won't be of any helpto you a-tall in cutting sign. If you leave him he's liable to get lost.Better take Moser, hadn't you?"
"Rather have Ridley. He doesn't claim to know it all. Besides, we've gotto break him in sometime."
"Suits me if he does you. It's yore party."
"We'll start in the mo'nin'."
"The sooner the quicker," agreed the Captain. "I want the old man toknow we're not spendin' our time settin' around a office. He's got nocall to crawl my hump when you boys are doin' the best you can. Well, goto it, son. See if you-all can get evidence that will stand up so's wecan collect that bunch of hawss-thieves."
Before daybreak the two Rangers were on their way. They drove apack-horse, their supplies loaded on a sawbuck saddle with kyacks. Jackhad been brought up in the Panhandle. He knew this country as aseventh-grade teacher does her geography. Therefore he cut across thedesert to the cap-rock, thence to Dry Creek, and so by sunset to BoxCanon. At the mouth of the gulch they slept under the stars. As soon asthey had cooked their coffee and bacon Roberts stamped out the fire.
"We don't want to advertise we're here. I'm some particular about myhealth. I'd hate to get dry-gulched[7] on this job," said Jack.
"Would the Dinsmores shoot us if they found us?" asked Ridley, searchingwith his head for the softest spot in his saddle for a pillow.
"Would a calf milk its mother? They're sore as a toad at me, an' Iexpect that goes for any other Ranger too. Homer might give us an evenbreak because we stayed with him on the island, but I'd hate to bet myhead on that."
"If we get any evidence against them they can't afford to let us go,"agreed Arthur.
"An' if they jump us up, how're they goin' to know how much we've seen?There's one safe way, an' they would ce'tainly take it."
"Dead men tell no tales, it's said."
"Some of 'em do an' some don't. I never met up with a proverb yet thatwasn't 'way off about half the time. For instance, that one you quoted.Rutherford Wadley's body told me considerable. It said that he'd beenkilled on the bluff above an' flung down; that he'd been shot by a riflein the hands of a man standin' about a hundred an' fifty yards away;that he'd been taken by surprise an' probably robbed."
"It wouldn't have told me all that."
"Not till you learn to read sign closer than you do. An outdooreducation is like a school-book one. You can't learn it in a day or aweek or a year."
"You're no Methuselah. There's still hope for me."
"Lots o' hope. It's mostly keepin' yore eyes open an' yore brainworkin'. I'm still only in the A B C class, but a fellow learnssomethin' every day if he's that kind."
"If it's a matter of brains, why do Indians make the best trailers? Youwouldn't say their brains are as good as a white man's, would you?"
"No; an' I'd say there's nothin' on earth an Indian can do as well as awhite man, given the same chance to learn it. Indians know the outdoorsbecause they have to know it to live. The desert's no prodigal mother.Her sons have to rustle right smart to keep their tummies satisfied. Ifthe 'Paches and the Kiowas didn't know how to cut sign an' read it, howto hunt an' fish an' follow a trail, they'd all be in their happyhuntin' grounds long ago. They're what old Nature has made 'em. But I'lltell you this. When a white man gives his mind to it he understands thelife of the plains better than any Indian does. His brains are better,an' he goes back an' looks for causes. The best trailers in the worldare whites, not redskins."
"I didn't know that," Arthur said.
"Ask any old-timer if it ain't so."
They were eating breakfast when the light on the horizon announced a newday on the way. Already this light was saturating the atmosphere anddissolving shadows. The vegetation of the plains, the wave rolls of theland, the distant horizon line, became more distinct. By the time thesun pushed into sight the Rangers were in the saddle.
Roberts led through the polecat brush to the summit of a little mesawhich overlooked the gulch. Along the edge of the ravine he rode,preferring the bluff to the sandy wash below because the ground was lesslikely to tell the Dinsmores a story of two travelers riding up BoxCanon. At the head of the gorge a faint trail dipped to the left.Painted on a rock was a sign that Jack had seen before.
THIS IS PETE DINSMORE'S ROAD-- TAKE ANOTHER.
He grinned reminiscently. "I did last time. I took the back trail underorders."
"Whose orders?" asked Ridley.
"Pete's, I reckon."
"If there's a story goes with that grin--" suggested Arthur.
"No story a-tall. I caught a fellow brandin' a calf below the canon. Hewaved me around. Some curious to see who the guy was that didn't want tosay 'How?' to me, I followed him into Box."
That seemed to be the end of the yarn. At any rate, Jack stopped.
"Well, did you find out who he was?"
"No, but I found this sign, an' above it a rifle slantin' down at me,an' back of the rifle a masked face. The fellow that owned the faceadvised me about my health."
"What about it?"
"Why, that this rough country wasn't suited to my disposition,temperament, an' general proclivities. So I p'inted back to where I hadcome from."
"And you never satisfied your curiosity about who the rustler was?"
"Didn't I?" drawled Jack.
"Did you?"
"Mebbe I did. I'm not tellin' that yarn--not to-day."
The country was rougher and hillier. The trail they had been followingdied away in the hills, but they crossed and recrossed others, made bybuffaloes, antelopes, and coyotes driven by the spur of their needs inthe years that had passed. Countless generations of desert life had comeand gone before even the Indians drifted in to live on the buffalo.
"Why is it that there's more warfare on the desert than there is backEast? The cactus has spines. The rattlesnake, the centipede, the Gilamonster, the tarantula, all carry poison. Even the toad has a horn.Everywhere it is a fight to survive. The vegetation, as well as theanimal life, fights all the time against drought. It's a regular hell onearth," Arthur concluded.
Jack eased himself in the saddle. "Looks kinda like Nature made thedesert an' grinned at life, much as to say, 'I defy you to live there,'don't it? Sure there's warfare, but I reckon there's always war
betweendifferent forms of life. If there wasn't, the world would be rank withall sorts of things crowdin' each other. The war would have to come thenafter all. Me, I like it. I like the way life came back with an answerto the challenge. It equipped itself with spines an' stings an' hornsan' tough hides because it had to have 'em. It developed pores an'stomachs that could get along without much water. Who wants to live in aland where you don't have to rustle for a livin'?"
"You belong to the West. You're of it," Ridley said. "If you'd seen thefine grasslands of the East, the beautiful, well-kept farms and the fatstock, you'd understand what I mean. A fellow gets homesick for them."
Roberts nodded. "I've seen 'em an' I understand. Oncet I went back Eastan' spent three months there. I couldn't stand it. I got sick for thewhinin' of a rope, wanted to hump over the hills after cows' tails. Thenice little farms an' the nice little people with their nice little wayskinda cramped me. I reckon in this ol' world it's every one to his owntaste." His eye swept the landscape. "Looks like there's water downthere. If so, we'll fall off for a spell an' rest the hawsses."
[Footnote 7: A man is said to be "dry-gulched" when he mysteriouslydisappears,--killed by his enemies and buried under a pile of rocks.]