XII
THE RUSTLERS
In defiance of all the laws of precedence, it was the guest who firstrose to the demands of the spiteful occasion. While Ballard was stillstruggling with the holster strappings of his rifle, Bigelow haddisengaged his weapon and was industriously pumping a rapid-fire volleyinto the flame-spitting darkness of the gorge.
The effect of the prompt reply in kind was quickly made manifest. Thefiring ceased as abruptly as it had begun, a riderless horse dashedsnorting down the bed of the dry arroyo, narrowly missing a stumblingcollision with the living obstructions lying in his way, and othergallopings were heard withdrawing into the hill-shadowed obscurities.
It was Ballard who took the water-boy to task when they had waited longenough to be measurably certain that the attackers had left the field.
"You were mistaken, Dick," he said, breaking the strained silence."There were more than two of them."
Young Carson was getting his horse up, and he appeared to be curiouslyat fault.
"You're plumb right, Cap'n Ballard," he admitted. "But that ain't what'spinchin' me: there's always enough of 'em night-herdin' this end of therange so 'at they could have picked up another hand 'r two. What Icayn't tumble to is how they-all out-rid us."
"To get ahead of us, you mean?"
"That's it. We're in the neck of a little hogback draw that goes on downto the big canyon. The only other trail into the draw is along by theriver and up this-a-way--'bout a mile and a half furder 'n the road wecome, I reckon."
It was the persistent element of mystery once more thrusting itself intothe prosaic field of the industries; but before Ballard could grapplewith it, the fighting guest cut in quietly.
"One of their bullets seems to have nipped me in the arm," he said,admitting the fact half reluctantly and as if it were something to beashamed of. "Will you help me tie it up?"
Ballard came out of the speculative fog with a bound.
"Good heavens, Bigelow! are you hit? Why didn't you say something?" heexclaimed, diving into the pockets of his duck coat for matches and acandle-end.
"It wasn't worth while; it's only a scratch, I guess."
But the lighted candle-end proved it to be something more; a raggedfurrow plowed diagonally across the forearm. Ballard dressed it as wellas he could, the water-boy holding the candle, and when the rough job ofsurgery was done, was for sending the Forestry man back to the valleyhead and Castle 'Cadia with the wound for a sufficient reason. ButBigelow developed a sudden vein of stubbornness. He would neither goback alone, nor would he consent to be escorted.
"A little thing like this is all in the day's work," he protested."We'll go on, when you're ready; or, rather, we'll go and hunt for theowner of that horse whose saddle I suppose I must have emptied. I'm justvindictive enough to hope that its rider was the fellow who pinked me."
As it happened, the hope was to be neither confirmed nor positivelydenied. A little farther up the dry arroyo the candle-end, sputtering toits extinction, showed them a confusion of hoof tramplings in theyielding sand, but nothing more. Dead or wounded, the horse-losing riderhad evidently been carried off by his companions.
"Which proves pretty conclusively that there must have been more thantwo," was Ballard's deduction, when they were again pushing cautiouslydown the inner valley toward its junction with the great canyon. "Butwhy should two, or a dozen of them, fire on us in the dark? How couldthey know whether we were friends or enemies?"
Bigelow's quiet laugh had a touch of grimness in it.
"Your Elbow Canyon mysteries have broken bounds," he suggested. "Yourstaff should include an expert psychologist, Mr. Ballard."
Ballard's reply was belligerent. "If we had one, I'd swap him for asection of mounted police," he declared; and beyond that the narrowtrail in the cliff-walled gorge of the Boiling Water forbadeconversation.
Three hours farther down the river trail, when the summer dawn waspaling the stars in the narrow strip of sky overhead, the perpendicularwalls of the great canyon gave back a little, and looking past thewater-boy guide, Ballard saw an opening marking the entrance of a smalltributary stream from the north; a little green oasis in the vast desertof frowning cliffs and tumbled boulders, with a log cabin and a tinycorral nestling under the portal rock of the smaller stream.
"Hello!" said Bigelow, breaking the silence in which they had beenriding for the greater part of the three hours, "what's this we arecoming to?"
Ballard was about to pass the query on to the boy when an armed man inthe flapped hat and overalls of a range rider stepped from behind aboulder and barred the way. There was a halt, an exchange of wordsbetween young Carson and the flap-hatted trail-watcher in tones so lowas to be inaudible to the others, and the armed one faced about, ratherreluctantly, it seemed, to lead the way to the cabin under the cliff.
At the dismounting before the cabin door, the boy cleared away a littleof the mystery.
"This yere is whar I live when I'm at home," he drawled, lapsing by theinfluence of the propinquity into the Tennessee idiom which was hisbirthright. "Pap'll get ye your breakfas' while I'm feedin' thebronc's."
Ballard glanced quickly at his guest and met the return glance ofcomplete intelligence in the steady gray eyes of the Forestry man. Thecabin and the corral in the secluded canyon were sufficiently accountedfor. But one use could be made of a stock enclosure in such aninaccessible mountain fastness. The trail station in the heart of theBoiling Water wilderness was doubtless the headquarters of the"rustlers" who lived by preying upon the King of Arcadia's flocks andherds.
"Your allies in the little war against Colonel Craigmiles," saidBigelow, and there was something like a touch of mild reproach in hislow tone when he added: "Misery isn't the only thing that 'acquaints aman with strange bedfellows.'"
"Apparently not," said Ballard; and they went together into the kitchenhalf of the cabin which was built, in true Tennessee fashion, as "twopens and a passage."
The welcome accorded them by the sullen-faced man who was already fryingrashers of bacon over the open fire on the hearth was not especiallycordial. "Mek' ye an arm and re'ch for yerselves," was his sole phraseof hospitality, when the bacon and pan-bread were smoking on the hugehewn slab which served for a table; and he neither ate with his guestsnor waited upon them, save to refill the tin coffee cups as they wereemptied.
Neither of the two young men stayed longer than they were obliged to inthe dirty, leather-smelling kitchen. There was freedom outside, with themorning world of fresh, zestful immensities for a smoking-room; and whenthey had eaten, they went to sit on a flat rock by the side of thelittle stream to fill and light their pipes, Ballard crumbling thecut-plug and stoppering the pipe for his crippled companion.
"How is the bullet-gouge by this time?" he questioned, when the tobaccowas alight.
"It's pretty sore, and no mistake," Bigelow acknowledged frankly.Whereupon Ballard insisted upon taking the bandages off and re-dressingthe wound, with the crystal-clear, icy water of the mountain stream forits cleansing.
"It was a sheer piece of idiocy on my part--letting you come on with meafter you got this," was his verdict, when he had a daylight sight ofthe bullet score. "But I don't mean to be idiotic twice in the sameday," he went on. "You're going to stay right here and keep quiet untilwe come along back and pick you up, late this afternoon."
Bigelow made a wry face.
"Nice, cheerful prospect," he commented. "The elder cattle thief isn'tprecisely one's ideal of the jovial host. By the way, what was thematter with him while we were eating breakfast? He looked and acted asif there were a sick child in some one of the dark corners which he wasafraid we might disturb."
Ballard nodded. "I was wondering if you remarked it. Did you hear thesick baby?"
"I heard noises--besides those that Carson was so carefully making withthe skillet and the tin plates. The room across the passage from uswasn't empty."
"That was my guess," rejoined Ballard, pulling thoughtfully at his shortpipe.
"I heard voices and tramplings, and, once in a while, somethingthat sounded remarkably like a groan--or an oath."
Bigelow nodded in his turn. "More of the mysteries, you'd say; but thistime they don't especially concern us. Have you fully made up your mindto leave me here while you go on down to the railroad? Because if youhave, you and the boy will have to compel my welcome from the oldrobber: I'd never have the face to ask him for a whole day'shospitality."
"I'll fix that," said Ballard, and when the boy came from the corralwith the saddled horses, he went to do it, leaving Bigelow to finish hispipe on the flat rock of conference.
The "fixing" was not accomplished without some difficulty, as itappeared to the young man sitting on the flat stone at the stream side.Dick brought his father to the door, and Ballard did thetalking--considerably more of it than might have been deemed necessaryfor the simple request to be proffered. At the end of the talk, Ballardcame back to the flat stone.
"You stay," he said briefly to Bigelow. "Carson will give you yourdinner. But he says he has a sick man on his hands in the cabin, andyou'll have to excuse him."
"He was willing?" queried Bigelow.
"No; he wasn't at all willing. He acted as if he were a loaded camel,and your staying was going to be the final back-breaking straw. But he'sa Tennessean, and we've been kind to his boy. The ranch is yours for theday, only if I were you, I shouldn't make too free use of it."
Bigelow smiled.
"I'll be 'meachum' and keep fair in the middle of the road. I don't knowanything that a prosecuting attorney could make use of against the manwho has given me my breakfast, and who promises to give me my dinner,and I don't want to know anything. Please don't waste any more daylighton me: Dick has the horses ready, and he is evidently growing anxious."
Ballard left the Forestry man smoking and sunning himself on the flatboulder when he took the down-canyon trail with the sober-faced boy forhis file leader, and more than once during the rather strenuous day towhich the pocket-gulch incident was the introduction, his thoughts wentback to Bigelow, marooned in the depths of the great canyon with thesaturnine cattle thief, the sick man, and doubtless other members of theband of "rustlers."
It was therefore, with no uncertain feeling of relief that he returnedin the late afternoon at the head of a file of as hard-lookingmiscreants as ever were gathered in a sheriff's posse, and found Bigelowsitting on the step of the Carson cabin, still nursing the bandaged arm,and still smoking the pipe of patience.
"I'm left to do the honours, gentlemen," said the Forestry man, risingand smiling quaintly. "The owner of the ranch regrets to say that he hasbeen unavoidably called away; but the feed in the corral and theprovisions in the kitchen are yours for the taking and the cooking."
The sheriff, a burly giant whose face, figure, garmenting and gracefulsaddle-seat proclaimed the ex-cattleman, laughed appreciatively.
"Bat Carson knows a healthy climate as far as he can see the suna-shinin'," he chuckled; and then to his deputies: "Light down, boys,and we'll see what sort o' chuck he's left for us."
In the dismounting Ballard drew Bigelow aside. "What has happened?" heasked.
"You can prove nothing by me," returned Bigelow, half quizzically. "I'vebeen asleep most of the day. When I woke up, an hour or so ago, thedoors were open and the cabin was empty. Also, there was a misspellednote charcoaled on a box-cover in the kitchen, making us free of thehorse-bait and the provisions. Also, again, a small bunch of cattle thatI had seen grazing in a little park up the creek had disappeared."
"Um," said Ballard, discontentedly. "All of which makes us accessoriesafter the fact in another raid on Colonel Craigmiles's range herd. Idon't like that."
"Nor do I," Bigelow agreed. "But you can't eat a man's bread, and thenstay awake to see which way he escapes. I'm rather glad I was sleepyenough not to be tempted. Which reminds me: you must be about all in onthat score yourself, Mr. Ballard."
"I? Oh, no; I got in five or six hours on the railroad train, going andcoming between Jack's Cabin and the county seat."
The posse members were tramping into the kitchen to ransack it for foodand drink, and Bigelow stood still farther aside.
"You managed to gather up a beautiful lot of cutthroats in the shorttime at your disposal," he remarked.
"Didn't I? And now you come against one of my weaknesses, Bigelow: Ican't stay mad. Last night I thought I'd be glad to see a bunch of thecolonel's cow-boys well hanged. To-day I'm sick and ashamed to be seentagging this crew of hired sure-shots into the colonel's domain."
"Just keep on calling it the Arcadia Company's domain, and perhaps thefeeling will wear off," suggested the Forestry man.
"It's no joke," said Ballard, crustily; and then he went in to take hischance of supper with the sheriff and his "sure-shots."
There was still sufficient daylight for the upper canyon passage whenthe rough-riders had eaten Carson out of house and home, and weremounted again for the ascent to the Kingdom of Arcadia. In the up-canyonclimb, the sheriff kept the boy, Dick, within easy bridle clutch,remembering a certain other canyon faring in which the cattle thief'sson had narrowly missed putting his father's captors, men and horses,into the torrent of the Boiling Water. Ballard and Bigelow rode ahead;and when the thunderous diapason of the river permitted, they talked.
"How did they manage to move the sick man?" asked Ballard, when thetrail and the stream gave him leave.
"That is another of the things that I don't know; I'm a leather-boundedition of an encyclopaedia when it comes to matters of realinformation," was the ironical answer. "But your guess of this morningwas right; there was a sick man--sick or hurt some way. I took theliberty of investigating a little when I awoke and found the ranchdeserted. The other room of the cabin was a perfect shambles."
"Blood?" queried the engineer; and Bigelow nodded.
"Blood everywhere."
"A falling-out among thieves, I suppose," said Ballard, half-absently;and again Bigelow said: "I don't know."
"The boy knows," was Ballard's comment. "He knew before he left theranch this morning. I haven't been able to get a dozen words out of himall day."
Just here both stream-noise and trail-narrowing cut in to forbid furthertalk, and Bigelow drew back to let Ballard lead in the single-fileprogress along the edge of the torrent.
It was in this order that they came finally into the Arcadiangrass-lands, through a portal as abrupt as a gigantic doorway. It wasthe hour of sunset for the high peaks of the Elk range, and the purpleshadows were already gathering among the rounded hills of the hogback.Off to the left the two advanced riders of the posse cavalcade saw theevening kitchen-smoke of Riley's ditch-camp. On the hills to the right afew cattle were grazing unherded.
But two things in the prospect conspired to make Ballard draw rein sosuddenly as to bring him awkwardly into collision with his follower. Onewas a glimpse of the Castle 'Cadia touring car trundling swiftly away tothe eastward on the river road; and the other was a slight barrier oftree branches piled across the trail fairly under his horse's nose.Stuck upon a broken twig of the barrier was a sheet of paper; and therewas still sufficient light to enable the chief engineer to read thetype-written lines upon it when he dropped from the saddle.
"Mr. Ballard:" it ran. "You are about to commit an act of the crudestinjustice. Take the advice of an anxious friend, and quench the fire ofenmity before it gets beyond control."
There was no signature; and Ballard was still staring after thedisappearing automobile when he mechanically passed the sheet of paperup to Bigelow. The Forestry man read the type-written note and glancedback at the sheriff's posse just emerging from the canyon portal.
"What will you do?" he asked; and Ballard came alive with a start andshook his head.
"I don't know: if we could manage to overtake that auto.... But it's toolate now to do anything, Bigelow. I've made my complaint and sworn outthe warrants. Beckwith will serve them--he's obliged to serve them."
"Of course," said Bigelow; a
nd together they waited for the sheriff'sposse to close up.
The King of Arcadia Page 12