Trail Dust Page 13

  “Let it burn,” he said. “We’re stayin’ here.”

  The moving figures stopped and turned, looking curiously at the trail boss. The cook sighed with relief and hurriedly placed the water bucket under the wagon. Bed rolls were being dragged into sight again, and this pleased him: especially when Pete hauled his own out. That meant that Pete wouldn’t crowd him in the wagon. Cook knew who was going to sleep in that wagon.

  “Them T Dot Circle fellers didn’t have no cause to believe that I was tellin’ th’ truth,” said the trail boss judiciously. He tried to be fair with a man. “They’d never seen me before. They’re on th’ trail, an’ in trouble. Us trail outfits got to stick together when things bust wrong. Gibson did what he shoulda done. I got a purty good idear where them thieves drove to, seein’ Red an’ me was there before. Reckon we better help ’em out. Let th’ herd drift as it grazes. There won’t be enough of you to drive ’em on th’ trail without takin’ chances.”

  He turned and looked at Red, and that person grinned; but Johnny, an indignant expression on his face, pushed swiftly forward.

  “I told that red–headed Siwash that I was goin’ on th’ next war party!” said the Kid loudly. “Red ain’t goin’ to hog all th’ fun!”

  “You ain’t got no call to beef about it,” rejoined the trail boss, frowning at the youngster. “I need a third man, an’ th’ experience will mebby do you good. You see that you beat th’ cook outa th’ blankets in th’ mornin’ an’ do somethin’ besides beller. There’s a hoss to be well loaded with grub: me an’ Red near starved to death last time.”

  “You mean I’m really goin’ with you?” yelped Johnny, his eyes shining.

  “What else do I mean? You want I should write you an invite on a piece of paper?” growled the trail boss.

  “Hell!” said a low voice on the fringe of the firelight. “You couldn’t do that: you don’t know how to spell.”

  “Nor write, nuther,” said another, with a chuckle. “Shut up!” barked Johnny, flipping open his bed roll. “Shut up, so a man can sleep!”

  “Meanin’ you?” snapped Lanky, turning sour as the Kid turned sweet. He had nursed the hope of going to war; now all he was going to do was nurse cattle.

  The trail boss looked at the seated figures, ignoring the remarks.

  “You can fix up yore shifts to suit yoreselves,” he said. “If Gibson gets past us, an’ I reckon he’s goin’ past us right about now—seein’ which direction he rode away from this camp—let him open up a good gap. Let th’ herd drift ahead as it grazes. You’ll see——”

  “I won’t nurse th’ cavvy, an’ I won’t flank th’ herd,” sang Johnny as he squirmed into the blankets.

  “Throw a loop over yore mouth,” growled the trail boss. “Can’t you hear I’m talkin’?”

  “You ’most generally are,” said Pete. “Not that you say nothin’.”

  “Shut up!” snapped Billy, squirming suddenly in his blankets. “Don’t you know I got a shift to ride?”

  “I’m plumb sick of beans, an’ sow–belly, too,” hummed Johnny and ducked barely in time to avoid the boot.

  “Would you mind throwin’ yore own boots?” growled Pete, lumbering off to retrieve the missile.

  Dawn found a camp already stirring. The cook rubbed sleepy eyes and mooched about his troubles. He glared at the alarm clock and vowed that he would blow it apart when they reached Bulltown, if they ever did reach it. Johnny was loading provisions on a much surprised horse, deftly throwing pack hitches which might well be the envy of a much older man.

  Breakfast out of the way, the trail boss took one final look around, stepped into the saddle, and led the way westward toward the wide baldness of the great cattle trail. He did not know where to find Halliday or any of his men, and he did not especially care to find him or them; he knew pretty well the territory where Waggoner’s friends ran off their stolen animals, and that part of the country lay well west of the trail. He led the way across the great beaten welt which stretched from the warm waters of the Gulf almost up to the Canadian line, and pushed on in a direction a little west of south, heading for a certain chain of little valleys in all that great expanse of plain as a homing pigeon heads for its cote.

  XVII

  They struck the line of puddles which marked the watercourse, and found horse tracks, a welter of them. They were fresh enough to have been very recently made. A significant fact soon became noticeable: every little while a few tracks left the main sign and led off to one side or the other; and in each of these instances the tracks of one horse returned.

  Hopalong glanced up from one of these divergent signs and smiled knowingly.

  “Scatterin’ ’em as they go,” he said. “A few here an’ a few there. Th’ main herd is gettin’ smaller all th’ time, an’ th’ scattered animals can be rounded up and driven in whenever them fellers feel like doin’ it. Looks to me like Halliday has purty near lost his cavvy, or most of it.”

  “But,” protested Johnny, “soon’s it got daylight these fellers could see by th’ brands that they didn’t get our cavvy. They’d know they got th’ wrong herd.”

  “Shore; but it would be too late then,” replied the trail boss; “An’ hosses are hosses, just th’ same. They got th’ wrong bunch, but they shore did get ridin’ stock. Hoss for hoss, Halliday’s are worth as much as ourn.”

  “But these signs of scatterin',” said Red, “show that they had time to do it: they wasn’t bein’ hard–pressed. They didn’t have no such start as that over th’ T Dot Circle outfit. How you figger that out?”

  “Only a couple of ways that sound sensible,” answered Hopalong slowly. “They could have left a rear guard to hold th’ outfit back, or they could have split th’ cavvy an’ made Halliday take his choice of which bunch to foller.”

  “Huh!” snorted Red, in strong disbelief. “If it had been us, we’d have split up, too, an’ follered both bunches. Halliday has a full crew, which is more than we have. He coulda done that.”

  “Well, however that is, we know that these thieves had time enough to scatter ’em. Th’ signs tell us that. They mebby mighta stampeded th’ cattle along after th’ cavvy, blottin’ out every damn hoss track. Where you’ve got a faint or blotted sign, made on th’ run, it takes trackers a lot longer to figger ’em out than it takes th’ makers to blot ’em. Halliday mighta figgered, by signs like that, that th’ cavvy an’ th’ herd had run together an’ got all mixed up; that when he rounded up th’ cattle he’d find his hosses.” He scratched his head. “It ain’t a question of what they did or how they did it: it’s been done. Suppose we save up all these arguments for some time when we’re all settin’ around th’ fire, an’ do a little more ridin'?”

  The divergent signs continued to be found. Every mile or so a set of them led off to one side or the other; with the single horse track returning in every case. The main herd had been steadily shrunk, until at last it was only a handful. At each of these divergent trails Hopalong took good notice of the tracks of the returning horse; and some of these tracks had characteristics, faint or otherwise, which could be made out and memorized. By the time the main herd had shrunk to a dozen animals he knew the signatures of the horses ridden by the raiders.

  They pulled up at the last divergent trail. Ahead of them lay the tracks of six horses, tracks evenly spaced, tracks made by six men riding side by side. The signs were eloquent: the stolen cavvy had been well scattered, and now the half–dozen raiders, free to ride where they pleased, were going on unhampered by loose saddle stock.

  “There’s only three of us,” growled Hopalong thoughtfully. “It’d take us a long time to hunt out an’ herd up Halliday’s hosses. We could do a much better job with his outfit helpin’ us. Sooner or later they’ll be ridin’ this way, once they get th’ trail; you can’t fool them fellers. Th’ thieves know that, too. All they played for was time—time to scatter th’ cavvy an’ get away. By now they figger they’ve done that. Shall we round up what hosses w
e can an’ drive ’em back; or shall we leave that till we have help, an’ keep after these coyotes an’ teach ’em a lesson?”

  “Hell with th’ hosses!” snapped Johnny, his eyes glinting. “It was us they was hittin’ at. An’ it’s too big a job for three men, combin’ out an’ roundin’ up all these animals.”

  “You’d rather fight any day than work, wouldn’t you, Kid?” chuckled Hopalong.

  “It ain’t too big a job,” corrected Red; “but too long a job. Looks like we oughta try to make th’ big trail safe for trail herds. There’s mebby dozens of ’em headin’ up it right now; an’ next year we’ll be comin’ up it again, like as not. I say to foller these six tracks an’ make some of them fellers sick at his stomach.”

  Hopalong nodded, his eyes on the alluring tracks.

  “I’ve talked a lot with that trail cutter,” he said. “He knows this whole country. It’s his stampin’ ground. I’ve let him talk an’ listened to what he said. That means we ain’t follerin’ these tracks right along. Them fellers will hole up when they get to th’ right place, waitin’ in th’ brush in case th’ T Dot Circle comes a–ridin’. They can empty three, four saddles th’ first fire. They’ll wait a reasonable time an’ then, if nobody shows up, they’ll either ride on to some rendezvous, or they’ll start back to drift th’ stolen hosses outa th’ brush an’ bunch ’em into a herd again. If th’ trail cutter was right, I know about where that rendezvous is. What you say we head for it, cuttin’ straight acrost country, an’ lettin’ these tracks alone?”

  Johnny fidgeted with eagerness.

  “Cut straight acrost!” His gaze ran along the telltale tracks, and he thought that he, too, had memorized their identifying characteristics: he would know them again, wherever they were found.

  Red nodded, but so perfunctorily that the trail boss looked at him curiously.

  “What’s on yore mind, Red?”

  “If we cut acrost to any rendezvous, an’ they head back toward th’ scattered cavvy, then we won’t see ’em. We’ll mebby be all snug an’ waitin’ for ’em like three fools, an’ they never show up a–tall.”

  Hopalong nodded and again scratched his head.

  “I figger they’ll show up sooner or later, with th’ hosses or without ’em,” he said; “but we got to consider th’ time that’s passin’. We got a herd up th’ trail, an’ we got a delivery date to worry about. For once in yore ornery life yo’re right.”

  Johnny’s eager expression changed to one of disappointment.

  “Aw! Th’ rest of th’ boys can drift th’ herd ahead,” he growled. “If they throw it in with Gibson’s mixed herd, they can push it right along at a good trail gait.”

  “Gibson’s outfit went past us th’ night he called on us,” said Red. “They’d be steppin’ right along an’ openin’ up a bigger trail gap every hour. That ain’t no good.”

  “But what good does it do, settin’ here an’ talkin’ about it?” demanded Johnny impatiently.

  “Yo’re doin’ th’ talkin’,” growled Hopalong. “We’re thinkin’.”

  Johnny’s snort of derision was far from complimentary, but his companions ignored it.

  Hopalong stirred out of his preoccupation and looked thoughtfully at Red.

  “We’ll circle off an’ swing back every once in a while,” he said. “That’ll save us from follerin’ th’ tracks like damn fools an’ keep us from losin’ ’em altogether. We’ve wasted considerable time: let’s get goin’.”

  Even with the start that Waggoner’s gang had enjoyed, they were not far ahead by now, and Hopalong knew it. It had taken time to drive the loose horses, and more time to scatter them in small bunches, no matter how expeditiously it had been done. The three friends rode on as swiftly as the pack horse and the going would allow, making arcs of varying length to the chord of the cattle thieves’ trail, returning again and again for a quick look at the tracks of the six horses; and each time they cut the trail they found the signs no older. On the other hand, they appeared to grow fresher; and then, suddenly, they became very fresh.

  “We’re close to ’em—right close,” said Hopalong in a low voice. “From now on we’re not ridin’ so fast, an’ we’re ridin’ more cautious an’ keepin’ our eyes skinned for trouble. We also got to spread out more. Kid, you take that damn pack hoss an’ keep west of us.”

  For the second time in the last hour Johnny worked the lever of the Sharps until the falling breechblock let him see the dull gleam of the brass cartridge case. Reassured as to proper preparedness, he slowly followed his companions from the trail to begin another arc which he hoped would lead to war. He kept within sight of Red, at some trouble, and found himself being shoved farther west, in a larger arc than any made so far. It seemed to him to be a long time before Red began to swing the other way. The country was still rough and broken, with gullies, dry washes, and thick scrub, ideal for hiding riders who tried to ride unseen. The arc of his riding still swept back to the east, and then Red suddenly flung up an arm and became lost to sight as Johnny stopped to wait.

  Red pushed on at a little better speed so as to join his leader, and together they cautiously approached the trail running along the bottom of the narrow little valley. As they came within sight of its edge, they dismounted without a word, dropped the reins over the heads of their horses, and crept forward, keeping close under cover. After a few moments they peered down into a shallow basin and studied it carefully. There was nothing to be seen except the faint, beaten trail leading southwestward. It was too far away for them to be able to distinguish individual tracks on its rough surface.

  “Wait here, Red,” said the trail boss, studying a brush–covered little promontory which thrust out into the valley and forced the trail to swing well out and then to pass it close by.

  Red nodded and watched his companion disappear in the brush, marveling at the other’s uncanny silence. An Indian would make no more noise, but Red doubted if any white man could do as good. Minutes passed, and then Red gave a little start at the voice behind him.

  “No fresh tracks come down this far,” said the trail boss. “We’ve got ahead of ’em. We mebby won’t have time to go back for th’ Kid; be just as well to keep him outa this, anyhow. That gang oughta pass here purty soon.”

  “One or two of ’em might get past,” admitted Red grimly.

  “I mean oughta come in sight,” corrected Hopalong. “Let’s lay low an’ keep still.”

  More minutes went past, but there were no signs of the thieving half–dozen. More time passed, and then Hopalong began to give this matter his full thought. Time enough had elapsed to bring the riders this far down the trail. Still he waited, silent and motionless, and waited in vain. He stirred, squirmed sideways, and looked at his companion.

  “We passed a little rill about a mile back,” he said thoughtfully. “It’s th’ only runnin’ water we’ve passed in a long time, an’ I noticed it particular.”

  “Yes,” agreed Red. “I remember it.”

  “There ain’t much decent water down in this part of th’ country,” continued Hopalong slowly. “Hardly none a–tall in this valley, except little pools that smell. I got th’ idear that they’ve camped at th’ outlet of that rill. Either that or they’ve growed wings.”

  “Figger yo’re right,” said Red. “Won’t take us long to find out. What about th’ Kid? You want I should go back an’ get him?”

  “Not yet. We’ll leave our horses where they are an’ work back up this rim on foot. Hadn’t oughta be more’n a mile or two.”

  “Mile or two!” growled Red, who hated walking over rough country in his high–heeled boots as a cat hates a bath; but his growl was for his own benefit, and he followed his boss without lagging. Nearly half an hour went by, and then the leader held up a hand and stopped. Red carefully joined him, and they looked down into the little valley where the rill flowed into it to form a sizable pond in a hollow. An adobe house, squat and square, sat at the edge of the tiny stream, and
on a bench against its front wall four men were loafing. A faint finger of smoke came from the rock–and–mud chimney, and located the fifth man, evidently cook pro tem. Where was Number Six? There should be six according to the tracks, and according to the six saddled horses which had made the tracks, and which were grazing a hundred yards below the building, with neither hobbles nor picket ropes to restrict their movements. That was the worst of such scant feed.

  “They’re shore takin’ things easy, for a gang that has just run off a whole cavvy,” whispered Hopalong. “They ain’t afraid of bein’ come onto unawares, an’ that’s unusual. That’s th’ one thing that mebby tells us about Number Six. We’re lucky he didn’t spot us; but, of course, we’ve come up from th’ wrong direction. He’s watchin’ th’ north trail. Betcha he’s up on th’ top of that little hill behind th’ house. Well, that’ll be a job for me—takin’ care of him.”

  “An’ th’ Kid accused me of hoggin’ things,” growled Red with strong disgust.

  “I want a good rifle shot layin’ right here, with that door an’ them two little side winders under his sights,” rejoined Hopalong. “You figger you could hit a head, at this distance, shootin’ from a rest?” Hopalong was a little sarcastic.

  “From a rest?” sneered his companion. “Hell! I can make four–inch groups at this range! I got a gun!”

  “All right, then,” said the trail boss, inching backward. “You stay here, holed up, while I go get th’ Kid. I want him farther south, close in to them horses. Somebody might make a dash for ’em. We don’t want nobody loose to pester us when we’re drivin’ out an’ roundin’ up that scattered cavvy.”