I
THE COMING OF CASSIDY
The trail boss shook his fist after the departing puncher and sworesoftly. He hated to lose a man at this time and he had been a littlereckless in threatening to "fire" him; but in a gun-fighting outfitthere was no room for a hothead. "Cimarron" was boss of the outfit thatwas driving a large herd of cattle to California, a feat that had beenaccomplished before, but that no man cared to attempt the second time.Had his soul been enriched by the gift of prophecy he would have turnedback. As it was he returned to the work ahead of him. "Aw, let himgo," he growled. "He 's wuss off 'n I am, an' he 'll find it out quick.I never did see nobody what got crazy mad so quick as him."
"Bill" Cassidy, not yet of age, but a man in stature and strength, rodenorth because it promised him civilization quicker than any other wayexcept the back trail, and he was tired of the coast range. He hadforgotten the trail-boss during the last three days of his solitaryjourneying and the fact that he was in the center of an uninhabitedcountry nearly as large as a good-sized state gave him no concern; hewas equipped for two weeks, and fortified by youth's confidence.
All day long he rode, around mesas and through draws, detouring to avoidcanyons and bearing steadily northward with a certainty that was aheritage. Gradually the great bulk of mesas swung off to the west, andto the east the range grew steadily more level as it swept toward thepeaceful river lying in the distant valley like a carelessly flung ropeof silver. The forest vegetation, so luxuriant along the rivers anddraws a day or two before, was now rarely seen, while chaparrals andstunted mesquite became more common.
He was more than twenty-five hundred feet above the ocean, on a greatplateau broken by mesas that stretched away for miles in a vast sea ofgrass. There was just enough tang in the dry April air to make riding apleasure and he did not mind the dryness of the season. Twice that dayhe detoured to ride around prairie-dog towns and the sight of buffaloskeletons lying in groups was not rare. Alert and contemptuous graywolves gave him a passing glance, but the coyotes, slinking a littlefarther off, watched him with more interest. Occasionally he had a shotat antelope and once was successful.
Warned by the gathering dusk he was casting about for the most favorablespot for his blanket and fire when a horseman swung into sight out of adraw and reined in quickly. Bill's hand fell carelessly to his sidewhile he regarded the stranger, who spoke first, and with a restrainedwelcoming gladness in his voice. "Howd'y, Stranger! You plumbsurprised me."
Bill's examination told him that the other was stocky, compactly built,with a pleasing face and a "good eye." His age was about thirty and thesurface indications were very favorable. "Some surprised myself," hereplied. "Ridin' my way?"
"Far's th' house," smiled the other. "Better join us. Couple ofbuffalo hunters dropped in awhile back."
"They 'll go a long way before they 'll find buffalo," Bill responded,suspiciously. Glancing around he readily picked out the rectangularblot in the valley, though it was no easy feat. "Huntin' or ranchin'?"he inquired in tones devoid of curiosity.
"Ranchin'," smiled the other. "Hefty proposition, up here, I reckon.Th' wolves 'll walk in under yore nose. But I ain't seen no Injuns."
"You will," was the calm reply. "You 'll see a couple, first; an' thenth' whole cussed tribe. _They_ ain't got no buffalo no more, neither."
Buck glanced at him sharply and thought of the hunters, but he nodded."Yes. But if that couple don't go back?" he asked, referring to theIndians.
"Then you 'll save a little time."
"Well, let 'em come. I 'm here to stay, one way or th' other. But,anyhow, I ain't got no border ruffians like they have over in th'Panhandle. They 're worse 'n Injuns."
"Yes," agreed Bill. "Th' war ain't ended yet for some of them fellers.Ex-guerrillas, lots of 'em."
When they reached the house the buffalo hunters were arguing about theirnext day's ride and the elder, looking up, appealed to Bill. "Howd'y,Stranger. Ain't come 'cross no buffaler signs, hev ye?"
Bill smiled. "Bones an' old chips. But th' gray wolves was headin'southwest."
"What 'd I tell you?" triumphantly exclaimed the younger hunter.
"Well, they ain't much dif'rence, is they?" growled his companion.
Bill missed nothing the hunters said or did and during the silent mealhad a good chance to study their faces. When the pipes were going andthe supper wreck cleaned away, Buck leaned against the wall and lookedacross the room at the latest arrival. "Don't want a job, do you?" heasked.
Bill shook his head slowly, wondering why the hunters had frowned at ajob being offered on another man's ranch. "I 'm headed north. But I'll give you a hand for a week if you need me," he offered.
Buck smiled. "Much obliged, friend; but it 'll leave me worse off thanbefore. My other puncher 'll be back in a few weeks with th' supplies,but I need four men all year 'round. I got a thousand head to brandyet."
The elder hunter looked up. "Drive 'em back to cow-country an' sell'em, or locate there," he suggested.
Buck's glance was as sharp as his reply, for he could n't believe thatthe hunter had so soon forgotten what he had been told regarding theownership of the cattle. "I don't own 'em. This range is bought an'paid for. I won't lay down."
"I done forgot they ain't yourn," hastily replied the hunter, smiling tohimself. Stolen cattle cannot go back.
"If they was I 'd stay," crisply retorted Buck. "I ain't quittin'nothin' I starts."
"How many 'll you have nex' spring?" grinned the younger hunter. He wassurprised by the sharpness of the response. "More 'n I 've got now, inspite of h--!"
Bill nodded approval. He felt a sudden, warm liking for this rugged manwho would not quit in the face of such handicaps. He liked game men,better if they were square, and he believed this foreman was as squareas he was game. "By th' Lord!" he ejaculated. "For a plugged peso I 'dstay with you!"
Buck smiled warmly. "Would good money do? But don't you stay if yououghtn't, son."
When the light was out Bill lay awake for a long time, his mind busywith his evening's observations, and they pleased him so little that hedid not close his eyes until assured by the breathing of the huntersthat they were asleep. His Colt, which should have been hanging in itsholster on the wall where he had left it, lay unsheathed close to histhigh and he awakened frequently during the night so keyed was he forthe slightest sound. Up first in the morning, he replaced the gun inits scabbard before the others opened their eyes, and it was not untilthe hunters had ridden out of sight into the southwest that he entirelyrelaxed his vigilance. Saying good-by to the two cowmen was not withoutregrets, but he shook hands heartily with them and swung decisivelynorthward.
He had been riding perhaps two hours, thinking about the little ranchand the hunters, when he stopped suddenly on the very brink of a sheerdrop of two hundred feet. In his abstraction he had ridden up thesloping southern face of the mesa without noticing it. "Bet there ain'tanother like this for a hundred miles," he laughed, and then ceasedabruptly and started with unbelieving eyes at the mouth of a draw notfar away. A trotting line of gray wolves was emerging from it andswinging toward the south-west ten abreast. He had never heard of sucha thing before and watched them in amazement. "Well, I'm--!" heexclaimed, and his Colt flashed rapidly at the pack. Two or threedropped, but the trotting line only swerved a little without pause or achange of pace and soon was lost in another draw. "Why, they 're singlehunters," he muttered. "Huh! I won't never tell this. I can't hardlybelieve it myself. How 'bout you, Ring-Bone?" he asked the horse.
Turning, he rode around a rugged pinnacle of rock and stopped again,gazing steadily along the back trail. Far away in a valley two blackdots were crawling over a patch of sand and he knew them to be horsemen.His face slowly reddened with anger at the espionage, for he had notthought the cowmen could doubt his good will and honesty. Then suddenlyhe swore and spurred forward to cover those m
iles as speedily aspossible. "Come on, ol' Hammer-Head!" he cried. "We're goin' back!"
The hunters had finally decided they would ride into the southwest andhad ridden off in that direction. But they had detoured and swung northto see him pass and be sure he was not in their way. Now, satisfiedupon that point, they were going back to that herd of cattle, easilyturned from skinning buffalo to cattle, and on a large scale. To dothis they would have to kill two men and then, waiting for the absentpuncher to return with the wagon, kill him and load down the vehiclewith skins. "Like h--l they will!" he gritted. "Three or none, youpiruts. Come on, White-Eye! Don't sleep all th' time; an' don't lightoften'r once every ten yards, you saddle-galled, barrel-bellied runt!"
Into hollows, out again; shooting down steep-banked draws and avoidingcacti and chaparral with cat-like agility, the much-described littlepony butted the wind in front and left a low-lying cloud of dustswirling behind as it whirred at top speed with choppy, tied-in stridein a winding circle for the humble sod hut on Snake Creek. The ridergrowled at the evident speed of the two men ahead, for he had not gainedupon them despite his efforts. "If I 'm too late to stop it, I 'llclean th' slate, anyhow," he snapped. "Even if I has to ambush! Willyou run?" he demanded, and the wild-eyed little bundle of whalebone andsteel found a little more speed in its flashing legs.
The rider now began to accept what cover he could find and when heneared the hut left the shelter of the last, low hill for that affordedby a draw leading to within a hundred yards of the dugout's rear wall.Dismounting, he ran lightly forward on foot, alert and with every sensestrained for a warning.
Reaching the wall he peered around the corner and stifled anexclamation. Buck's puncher, a knife in his back, lay head down thesloping path. Placing his ear to the wall he listened intently for somemoments and then suddenly caught sight of a shadow slowly creeping pasthis toes. Quickly as he sprang aside he barely missed the flashingknife and the bulk of the man behind it, whose hand, outflung to savehis balance, accidentally knocked the Colt from Bill's grasp and sent itspinning twenty feet away.
Without a word they leaped together, fighting silently, both trying togain the gun in the hunter's holster and trying to keep the other fromit. Bill, forcing the fighting in hopes that his youth would stand ahot pace better than the other's years, pushed his enemy back againstthe low roof of the dugout; but as the hunter tripped over it and fellbackward, he pulled Bill with him. Fighting desperately they rolledacross the roof and dropped to the sloping earth at the doorway, sotightly locked in each other's arms that the jar did not separate them.The hunter, falling underneath, got the worst of the fall but kept onfighting. Crashing into the door head first, they sent it swinging backagainst the wall and followed it, bumping down the two steps stilllocked together.
Bill possessed strength remarkable for his years and build and he washard as iron; but he had met a man who had the sinewy strength of theplainsman, whose greater age was offset by greater weight and the youthwas constantly so close to defeat that a single false move would havebeen fatal. But luck favored him, for as they surged around the roomthey crashed into the heavy table and fell with it on top of them. Thehunter got its full weight and the gash in his forehead filled his eyeswith blood. By a desperate effort he pinned Bill's arm under his kneeand with his left hand secured a throat grip, but the under man wriggledfuriously and bridged so suddenly as to throw the hunter off him andBill's freed hand, crashing full into the other's stomach, flashed backto release the weakened throat grip and jam the tensed fingers betweenhis teeth, holding them there with all the power of his jaws. The dazedand gasping hunter, bending forward instinctively, felt his own throatseized and was dragged underneath his furious opponent.
In his Berserker rage Bill had forgotten about the gun, his furysweeping everything from him but the primal desire to kill with hishands, to rend and crush like an animal. He was brought to his sensesvery sharply by the jarring, crashing roar of the six-shooter, thepowder blowing away part of his shirt and burning his side. Twistingsideways he grasped the weapon with one hand, the wrist with the otherand bent the gun slowly back, forcing its muzzle farther and fartherfrom him. The hunter, at last managing to free his left hand from theother's teeth, found it useless when he tried to release the youngerman's grip of the gun; and the Colt, roaring again, dropped from itsowner's hand as he relaxed.
The victor leaned against the wall, his breath coming in great, sobbinggulps, his knees sagging and his head near bursting. He reeled acrossthe wrecked room, gulped down a drink of whisky from the bottle on theshelf and, stumbling, groped his way to the outer air where he flunghimself down on the ground, dazed and dizzy. When he opened his eyesthe air seemed to be filled with flashes of fire and huge, blackfantastic blots that changed form with great swiftness and the hutdanced and shifted like a thing of life. Hot bands seemed to encirclehis throat and the throbbing in his temples was like blows of a hammer.While he writhed and fought for breath a faint gunshot reached his earsand found him apathetic. But the second, following closely upon thefirst, seemed clearer and brought him to himself long enough to make himarise and stumble to his horse, and claw his way into the saddle. Theanimal, maddened by the steady thrust of the spurs, pitched viciouslyand bolted; but the rider had learned his art in the sternest school inthe world, the "busting" corrals of the great Southwest, and he not onlystuck to the saddle, but guided the fighting animal through a barrancaalmost choked with obstructions.
Stretched full length in a crevice near the top of a mesa lay the otherhunter, his rifle trained on a small bowlder several hundred yards downand across the draw. His first shot had been an inexcusable blunder fora marksman like himself and now he had a desperate man and a verycapable shot opposing him. If Buck could hold out until nightfall hecould slip away in the darkness and do some stalking on his own account.
For half an hour they had lain thus, neither daring to take sight. Buckcould not leave the shelter of the bowlder because the high groundbehind him offered no cover; but the hunter, tiring of the fruitlesswait, wriggled back into the crevice, arose and slipped away, intendingto crawl to the edge of the mesa further down and get in a shot from anew angle before his enemy learned of the shift; and this shot would notbe a blunder. He had just lowered himself down a steep wall when thenoise of rolling pebbles caused him to look around, expecting to see hisfriend. Bill was just turning the corner of the wall and their eyes metat the same instant.
"'Nds up!" snapped the youth, his Colt glinting as it swung up. Thehunter, gripping the rifle firmly, looked into the angry eyes of theother, and slowly obeyed. Bill, watching the rifle intently, forthwithlearned a lesson he never forgot: never to watch a gun, but the eyes ofthe man who has it. The left hand of the hunter seemed to melt intosmoke, and Bill, firing at the same instant, blundered into a hit whenhis surprise and carelessness should have cost him dearly. His bullet,missing its intended mark by inches, struck the still moving Colt of theother, knocking it into the air and numbing the hand that held it. Asearing pain in his shoulder told him of the closeness of the call andset his lips into a thin, white line. The hunter, needing no words tointerpret the look in the youth's eyes, swiftly raised his hands,holding the rifle high above his head, but neglected to take his fingerfrom the trigger.
Bill was not overlooking anything now and he noticed the crooked finger."Stick th' muzzle _up_, an' pull that trigger," he commanded, sharply."Now!" he grated. The report came crashing back from half a dozenpoints as he nodded. "Drop it, an' turn 'round." As the other obeyedhe stepped cautiously forward, jammed his Colt into the hunter's backand took possession of a skinning knife. A few moments later thehunter, trussed securely by a forty-foot lariat, lay cursing at the footof the rock wall.
Bill, collecting the weapons, went off to cache them and then peeredover the mesa's edge to look into the draw. A leaden splotch appearedon the rock almost under his nose and launched a crescendo scream intothe sky to whine into silence. He ducked an
d leaped back, grinningfoolishly as he realized Buck's error. Turning to approach the edgefrom another point he felt his sombrero jerk at his head as anotherbullet, screaming plaintively, followed the first. He dropped like ashot, and commented caustically upon his paucity of brains as he gravelyexamined the hole in his head gear. "Huh!" he grunted. "I had a fool'sluck three times in twenty minutes,--d--d if I 'm goin' to risk th' nextturn. _Three_ of 'em," he repeated. "I 'm a' Injun from now on. An'that foreman shore can shoot!"
He wriggled to the edge and called out, careful not to let any of hisanatomy show above the sky-line. "Hey, Buck! I ain't no buffalohunter! This is Cassidy, who you wanted to punch for you. Savvy?" Helistened, and grinned at the eloquent silence. "You talk too rapid," helaughed. Repeating his statements he listened again, with the samesuccess. "Now I wonder is he stalkin' _me_? Hey, _Buck_!" he shouted.
"Stick yore hands up an' foller 'em with yore face," said Buck's voicefrom below. Bill raised his arms and slowly stood up. "Now what 'nblazes do _you_ want?" demanded the foreman, belligerently.
"Nothin'. Just got them hunters, one of 'em alive. I reckoned mebbyyou 'd sorta like to know it." He paused, cogitating. "Reckon webetter turn him loose when we gets back to th' hut," he suggested."I'll keep his guns," he added, grinning.
The foreman stuck his head out in sight. "Well, I'm d--d!" he exclaimed,and sank weakly back against the bowlder. "Can you give me a hand?" hemuttered.
The words did not carry to the youth on the skyline, but he saw,understood, and, slipping and bumping down the steep wall with morespeed than sense, dashed across the draw and up the other side. Henodded sagely as he examined the wound and bound it carefully with thesleeve of his own shirt. "'T ain't much--loss of blood, mostly. Yo 'rebetter off than Travis."
"Travis dead?" whispered Buck. "In th' back! Pore feller, pore feller;didn't have no show. Tell me about it." At the end of the story henodded. "Yo 're all right, Cassidy; yo 're a white man. He 'd 'a'stood a good chance of gettin' me, 'cept for you." A frown clouded hisface and he looked weakly about him as if for an answer to the questionthat bothered him. "Now what am I goin' to do up here with all thesecows?" he muttered.
Bill rolled the wounded man a cigarette and lit it for him, after whichhe fell to tossing pebbles at a rock further down the hill.
"I reckon it _will_ be sorta tough," he replied, slowly. "But I sortareckoned me an' you, an' that other feller, can make a big ranch out ofyore little one. Anyhow, I 'll bet we can have a mighty big timetryin'. A mighty fine time. What you think?"
Buck smiled weakly and shoved out his hand with a visible effort. "Wecan! Shake, Bill!" he said, contentedly.