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Rimrock Trail
The girl drooped, tired from the long climb]
RIMROCK TRAIL
By J. ALLAN DUNN
Author of _"A Man to His Mate," etc._
A. L. BURT COMPANY Publishers New York
Published by arrangement with The Bobbs-Merrill Company Printed in U. S. A.
COPYRIGHT 1921 DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY
COPYRIGHT 1922 J. ALLAN DUNN
_Printed in the United States of America_
ARTHUR SULLIVANT HOFFMAN
To his loyal friendship, his sincerity and the caustic but kindly criticism which has made my stuff printable.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I GRIT 1
II CASEY 11
III MOLLY 32
IV SANDY CALLS THE TURN 46
V IN THE BED OF THE CREEK 67
VI PASO CABRAS 81
VII BOLSA GAP 97
VIII THE PASS OF THE GOATS 111
IX CAROCA 119
X SANDY RETURNS 129
XI PAY DIRT 135
XII WHITE GOLD 159
XIII A ROPE BREAKS 187
XIV A FREE-FOR-ALL 202
XV CASEY TOWN 232
XVI EAST AND WEST 266
XVII WESTLAKE BRINGS NEWS 291
XVIII DEHORNED 310
XIX THE HIDEOUT 345
XX MOLLY MINE 377
XXI THE END OF THE ROPE 389
XXII THE VERY END 396
Rimrock Trail
Rimrock Trail
CHAPTER I
GRIT
"Mormon" Peters carefully shifted his weighty bulk in the chair that hedared not tilt, gazing dreamily at the saw-toothed mountains shimmeringin the distance, sniffing luxuriously the scent of sage.
"They oughter spell Arizona with three 'C's,'" he said.
"Why?" asked Sandy Bourke, wiping the superfluous oil from the revolverhe was meticulously cleaning.
"'Count of Climate, Cactus, Cattle--an' Coyotes."
"Makin' four, 'stead of three," said the managing partner of the ThreeStar Ranch.
Came a grunt from "Soda-Water" Sam as he put down his harmonica on whichhe had been playing _The Cowboy's Lament_, with variations.
"Huh! You got no more eddication than a horn-toad, an' less commonsense. You don't spell Arizony with a 'C.' You can't. 'Cordin' to yoreargymint you should spell Africa with a 'Z' 'cause they raise zebrasthere, 'stead of mustangs. Might make it two 'R's,' 'count of rim-rockan'--an' revolvers."
Mormon snorted.
"That's a hell of a name for a man born in Maricopa County to call agun. _Revolver!_ You 'mind me of the Boston perfesser who come toArizona tryin' to prove the Cliff Dwellers was one of the Lost Tribes ofIsrael. He blows in with an introduction to the Double U, where I wasworkin'. Colonel Pawlin's wife has a cold snack ready, it bein' middlin'warm. The perfesser makes a pretty speech, after he'd eaten two men'sshare of victuals tryin', I reckon, to put some flesh on to his bones.An' he calls the lunch a _col-lay-shun_! Later, he asks the waitressdown to the Rodeo Eatin' House, while he's waitin' for his train, for aserve-yet. A _serve-yet_! That's what he calls a napkin. You must havebeen eddicated in Boston, Sam, though it's the first time I eversuspected you of book learnin'."
It was Sunday afternoon on the Three Star rancheria. The riders, all thehands--with the exception of Pedro, the Mexican cocinero, indifferent tomost things, including his cooking; and Joe, his half-breed helper,--haddeparted, clad in their best shirts, vests, trousers, Stetsons andbandannas of silk, some seeking a poker game on a neighboring rancho,some bent on courting. Pedro and Joe lay, faces down, under the shade ofthe trees about the tenaya, the stone cistern into which water waspumped by the windmills that worked in the fitful breezes.
The three partners, saddle-chums for years, ever seeking mutual employ,known through Texas and Arizona as the "Three Musketeers of the Range,"sat on the porch of the ranch-house, discussing business and lightermatters. One year before they had pooled their savings and Sandy Bourke,youngest of the three and the most aggressive, coolest and swiftest ofaction, had gloriously bucked the faro tiger and won enough to buy theThree Star Ranch and certain rights of free range. The purchase had notincluded the brand of the late owner. Originally the holding had beencalled the Two-Bar-P. As certain cattlemen were not wanting who had aknack of appropriating calves and changing the brands of steers, Sandyhad been glad enough, in his capacity of business manager, to change thename of the ranch and brand. Two-Bar-P was too easily altered to H-B,U-P, U-B, O-P, or B; a score of combinations hard to prove as forgeries.
There had been lengthy argument concerning the new name. Three Star, soSoda-Water Sam--whose nickname was satirical--opined, smacked of thesaloon rather than the ranch, but it was finally decided on and thebranding-irons duly made.
Sandy Bourke had dark brown hair, inclined to be curly, a tendency heoffset by frequent clipping of his thatch. The sobriquet of "Sandy"referred to his grit. He was broad-shouldered, tall and lean, weighing ahundred and seventy pounds of well-strung frame. His eyes were gray andthe lids sun-puckered; his deeply tanned skin showed the freckles onface and hands as faint inlays; his long limber legs were slightlybowed.
Not so the curve of Soda-Water Sam's legs. You could pass a small kegbetween the latter's knees without interference. Otherwise, Sam, whoselast name was Manning, was mainly distinguished by his enormous droopingmustache, suggesting the horns of a Texas steer, inverted.
As for Mormon, disillusioned hero of three matrimonial adventures,woman-soft where Sandy was woman-shy, he was high-stomached, too stoutfor saddle-ease to himself or mount, sun-rouged where his partners wereburned brown. His pate was bald save for a tonsure-fringe ofgrizzle-red.
All three were first-rate cattlemen, their enterprise bade fair forsuccess, hampered only by the lack of capital, occasioned by Sandy'spreference for modern methods as evidenced by thoroughbred bulls,high-grading of his steers, the steadily growing patches of alfalfa andthe spreading network of irrigation ditches.
Business exhausted, ending with an often expressed desire for a womancook who could also perform a few household chores, tagged with a lastattempt to persuade Mormon to marry some comfortable person who wouldact in that capacity, they had reverted to the good-humored chaff thatalways marked their talks together.
Mormon, with stubby fingers wonderfully deft, was plaiting horsehairabout a stick of hardwood to form the handle of a quirt, Sandyoverhauling his two Colts and Sam furnishing orchestra on his harmonica.Now he put it to his lips, unable to find a sufficiently crushing retortto Mormon's diatribe against words of more than one syllable, breathingout the burden of "My Bonnie lies over the Ocean."
Mormon, in a husky, yet musical bass, supplied the cowboy's version ofthe words.
"Last night, as I lay in the per-rair-ree. And gazed at the stars in the sky, I wondered if ever a cowboy, Could drift to that sweet by-an'-by.
"Roll on, roll on, Roll on, li'l' dogies, roll----"
He broke off suddenly, staring at the fringe of the waving mesquite.
"Look at that ornery coyote!" he said. "Got his nerve with him, themangy calf-eater, comin' up to the ranch thataway."
Sam put down his harmonica.
"My Winchester's jest inside the door," he said. "But he'd scoot if Imoved. Slip in a shell, Sandy, mebbe you kin git him in a minute."
"Yo're sheddin' yore skin, Sam. Got horn over yore eyes. Mormon, youneed glasses fo' yore old age. That ain't a coyote, it's a dawg,"pronounced Sandy.
The creature left the cover of the mesquite and came slowly butdeterminedly toward the ranch-house, past the corral and cook shack; itsdaring proclaiming it anything but a cowardly, foot-hill coyote. Itscoat was whitish gray. Its brush was down, almost trailing, its muzzledrooped, it went lamely on all four legs and occasionally limped onthree.
"Collie!" proclaimed Sandy. "Pore devil's plumb tuckered out."
"Sheepdawg!" affirmed Sam, disgust in his voice. "Hell of a gall to comeround a cattle ranch."
The gray-white dog came on, dry tongue lolling, observant of the men,glancing toward the tenaya where it smelled the slumbering Pedro andJoe. It halted twenty feet from the porch, one paw up, as Sandy bentforward and called to it.
"Come on, you dawg. Come in, ol' feller. Mormon, take that hair out ofthat pan of water an' set it where he can see it."
Mormon shifted the pan in which he had been soaking the horsehair foreasier plaiting and the dog sniffed at it, watching Sandy closely witheyes that were dim from thirst and weariness. Sandy patted his kneeencouragingly, and the tired animal seemed suddenly to make up its mind.Ignoring the water, it came straight to Sandy, uttered a harsh whine,catching at the leather tassel on the cowman's worn leather chaparejos,tugging feebly. As Sandy stooped to pat its head, powdered with thealkali dust that covered its coat, the collie released its hold andcollapsed on one side, panting, utterly exhausted, with glazing eyesthat held appeal.
Sandy reached for the pan, squatting down, and chucked some water fromthe palm of his hand into the open jaws, upon the swollen tongue. Thedog licked his hand, whined again, tried to stand up, failed, succeededwith the aid of friendly fingers in its ruff and eagerly lapped a fewmouthfuls.
Again it seized the tassel and pulled, looking up into Sandy's faceimploringly.
"Somethin' wrong," said the manager of the Three Star. "Tryin' to tellus about it. All right, ol' feller, you drink some more wateh. Let melook at that paw." He gently took the foot that clawed at his chaps andexamined it. The pad was worn to the quick, bleeding. "Come out of theBad Lands," he said, looking toward the range. "Through Pyramid Pass,likely."
"Some derned sheepman gone crazy an' shot his-self," grumbled Sam."Somethin' bound to spile a quiet afternoon."
"Not many sheep over that way," said Mormon. "No range."
Sandy rolled the dog on his side and found the other pads in the samecondition. Running his fingers beneath the ruff, scratching gently insign of friendship, he discovered a leather collar with a brass tag,rudely engraved, the lettering worn but legible.
GRIT. Prop. P. Casey.
"They sure named you right, son," he said. "We'll 'tend to P. Casey,soon's we've 'tended to you. You need fixin' if you're goin' to take usto him. You'll have to hoof it till we cut fair trail. Sam, fetch mesome adhesive, will you? An' then saddle up; Pronto fo' me, a hawss fo'yoreself an' rope a spare mount."
"What for? The spare?"
"Don't know for sure. May have to bring him back."
"A sheepman to Three Star! I'd as soon have a sick rattler around.Mormon, yo're elected to nurse him."
Sam went into the house for the medical tape, then to the corral. Sandybathed the raw pads softly, cut patches of the tape with his knife, putthem on the abrasions, held them there for the warmth of his palm to setthem. Grit licked at his hands whenever they were in reach, hisbrightening eyes full of understanding, shifting to watch Sam stridingto the corral.
"One thing about a sheepman is allus good," said Mormon. "His dawg.Reckon you aim on me tendin' the ranch, Sandy?"
"Come if you want to."
"Two's plenty, I reckon. I do more ridin' through the week than I carefor nowadays. I'll stick to the chair."
"Prod up Pedro to git some hot water ready. Keep a kittle b'ilin'. Notellin' what time we'll git back," said Sandy. "I'll take along somegrub an' the medicine kit. Have to spare some of that whisky Sam's gotstowed away."
"Goin' to waste booze at fifteen bucks a quart on a sheepman?" grumbledMormon.
"Not if you an' Sam don't want I should," replied Sandy, with a smile.He knew his partners. "Now then, Grit," he went on to the dog in aconfidential tone, "you-all have got to git grub an' wateh inside yoreribs. Savvy? I'm goin' to rustle some hash fo' you. You stay as you are,son."
He pressed the dog on its side once more, in the shade, and went intothe house. Mormon followed him. Grit watched them disappear, gave alittle whine of impatience, accepted the situation philosophically as helistened to sounds from the corral that told him of horses being caught,and drooped his head on the dirt, lying relaxed, eyes closed, gainingstrength against the return trip.
Sam rode to the porch on his roan, Sandy's pinto and a gray mareleading, and "tied them to the ground" with trailing reins as Sandy cameout bearing a pan of food, a package and a leather case. Mormon showedat the door.
"Where'd you hide yore bottle, Sam?" he asked.
"Where you can't find it, you holler-legged galoot. Why?"
"Fill up a flask to take along, Sam," said Sandy. "Here, Grit, climboutside of this chuck."
He coaxed the collie to eat the food from his hand while Sam brought thewhisky.
"Load my guns, Mormon," he requested.
Mormon did it without comment. The two blued Colts were as much a partof Sandy's working outfit as his belt, or the bridle of his horse. Sambuckled on his own cartridge belt, holster and pistol, fixed his spurs,tied the package of food to his saddle, filled two canteens and did thesame with them. Sandy-offered the pan of water to Grit who drank inbusinesslike fashion, assured of the success of his mission. He stood upsquarely on his legs, eased by the plastering. They were only tired now.
He shook himself vigorously, sending out the dust with which he waspowdered in all directions, making Mormon sneeze. He stretched hismuzzle toward the mountains, threw it up and barked for the first time.As Sandy and Sam mounted, the latter leading the gray mare, Grit ranahead of them and came back to make certain they were following. Then heheaded for the spot in the mesquite whence he had emerged, marking theopening of a narrow trail. The horses broke into a lope, the two men,the three mounts, and the dog, off on their errand of mercy.
Mormon watched them well into the mesquite before he put back the hairin the water the dog had left and went on with his plaiting: As hehandled the pliant horsehairs he talked aloud, range fashion.
"On'y sheepman I ever knowed worth trubblin' about was a woman. Used terknit while she watched the woollies. Knit me a sweater--plumb uselesswaste of time an' yarn. If I'd taken it I'd have had to take her alongwith it. Wimmen is sure persistent. Seems like I must look like a dogieto most of 'em. They're allus wantin' to marry me an' mother me. I surehope this one don't turn out to be a she-herder. 'P' might stand ferPolly."