CHAPTER IV
THE PAINT HOSS DISAPPEARS
Wakened by the gong, Dave lay luxuriously in the warmth of his blankets.It was not for several moments that he remembered the fight or thecircumstances leading to it. The grin that lit his boyish face at thoughtof its unexpected conclusion was a fleeting one, for he discovered thatit hurt his face to smile. Briskly he rose, and grunted "Ouch!" His sideswere sore from the rib squeezing of Miller's powerful arms.
Byington walked out to the remuda with him. "How's the man-tamer thisglad mo'nin'?" he asked of Dave.
"Fine and dandy, old lizard."
"You sure got the deadwood on him when yore spurs got into action. Aman's like a watermelon. You cayn't tell how good he is till you thumphim. Miller is right biggity, and they say he's sudden death with a gun.But when it come down to cases he hadn't the guts to go through and standthe gaff."
"He's been livin' soft too long, don't you reckon?"
"No, sir. He just didn't have the sand in his craw to hang on and finishyou off whilst you was rippin' up his laigs."
Dave roped his mount and rode out to meet Chiquito. The pinto was anaristocrat in his way. He preferred to choose his company, was a littledisdainful of the cowpony that had no accomplishments. Usually he grazeda short distance from the remuda, together with one of Bob Hart's string.The two ponies had been brought up in the same bunch.
This morning Dave's whistle brought no nicker of joy, no thud of hoofsgalloping out of the darkness to him. He rode deeper into the desert. Noanswer came to his calls. At a canter he cut across the plain to thewrangler. That young man had seen nothing of Chiquito since the eveningbefore, but this was not at all unusual.
The cowpuncher returned to camp for breakfast and got permission of theforeman to look for the missing horses.
Beyond the flats was a country creased with draws and dry arroyos. Fromone to another of these Dave went without finding a trace of the animals.All day he pushed through cactus and mesquite heavy with gray dust. Inthe late afternoon he gave up for the time and struck back to the flats.It was possible that the lost broncos had rejoined the remuda of theirown accord or had been found by some of the riders gathering up strays.
Dave struck the herd trail and followed it toward the new camp. Ahorseman came out of the golden west of the sunset to meet him. For along time he saw the figure rising and falling in the saddle, the ponymoving in the even fox-trot of the cattle country.
The man was Bob Hart.
"Found 'em?" shouted Dave when he was close enough to be heard.
"No, and we won't--not this side of Malapi. Those scalawags didn't makecamp last night. They kep' travelin'. If you ask me, they're movin' yet,and they've got our broncs with 'em."
This had already occurred to Dave as a possibility. "Any proof?" he askedquietly.
"A-plenty. I been ridin' on the point all day. Three-four times we cuttrail of five horses. Two of the five are bein' ridden. My Four-Bits hosshas got a broken front hoof. So has one of the five."
"Movin' fast, are they?"
"You're damn whistlin'. They're hivin' off for parts unknown. Malapifirst off, looks like. They got friends there."
"Steelman and his outfit will protect them while they hunt cover and makea getaway. Miller mentioned Denver before the race--said he was figurin'on goin' there. Maybe--"
"He was probably lyin'. You can't tell. Point is, we've got to get busy.My notion is we'd better make a bee-line for Malapi right away," proposedBob.
"We'll travel all night. No use wastin' any more time."
Dug Doble received their decision sourly. "It don't tickle me a heap tobe left short-handed because you two boys have got an excuse to get totown quicker."
Hart looked him straight in the eye. "Call it an excuse if you want to.We're after a pair of shorthorn crooks that stole our horses."
The foreman flushed angrily. "Don't come bellyachin' to me about yorebroomtails. I ain't got 'em."
"We know who's got 'em," said Dave evenly. "What we want is a wage checkso as we can cash it at Malapi."
"You don't get it," returned the big foreman bluntly. "We pay off when wereach the end of the drive."
"I notice you paid yore brother and Miller when we gave an order for it,"Hart retorted with heat.
"A different proposition. They hadn't signed up for this drive like youboys did. You'll get what's comin' to you when I pay off the others.You'll not get it before."
The two riders retired sulkily. They felt it was not fair, but on thetrail the foreman is an autocrat. From the other riders they borrowed afew dollars and gave in exchange orders on their pay checks.
Within an hour they were on the road. Fresh horses had been roped fromthe remuda and were carrying them at an even Spanish jog-trot through thenight. The stars came out, clear and steady above a ghostly world atsleep. The desert was a place of mystery, of vast space peopled bystrange and misty shapes.
The plain stretched vaguely before them. Far away was the thin outline ofthe range which enclosed the valley. The riders held their course bymeans of that trained sixth sense of direction their occupation haddeveloped.
They spoke little. Once a coyote howled dismally from the edge of themesa. For the most part there was no sound except the chuffing of thehorses' movements and the occasional ring of a hoof on the baked ground.
The gray dawn, sifting into the sky, found them still traveling. Themountains came closer, grew more definite. The desert flamed again, dry,lifeless, torrid beneath a sky of turquoise. Dust eddies whirled ininverted cones, wind devils playing in spirals across the sand.Tablelands, mesas, wide plains, desolate lava stretches. Each in turn wastraversed by these lean, grim, bronzed riders.
They reached the foothills and left behind the desert shimmering in thedancing heat. In a deep gorge, where the hill creases gave them shade,the punchers threw off the trail, unsaddled, hobbled their horses, andstole a few hours' sleep.
In the late afternoon they rode back to the trail through a draw, theponies wading fetlock deep in yellow, red, blue, and purple flowers. Themountains across the valley looked in the dry heat as though made of_papier-mache_. Closer at hand the undulations of sand hills stretchedtoward the pass for which they were making.
A mule deer started out of a dry wash and fled into the sunset light. Thelong, stratified faces of rock escarpments caught the glow of the slidingsun and became battlemented towers of ancient story.
The riders climbed steadily now, no longer engulfed in the ground swellof land waves. They breathed an air like wine, strong, pure, bracing.Presently their way led them into a hill pocket, which ran into a gorgeof pinons stretching toward Gunsight Pass.
The stars were out again when they looked down from the other side of thepass upon the lights of Malapi.
Gunsight Pass: How Oil Came to the Cattle Country and Brought a New West Page 4