Gunsight Pass: How Oil Came to the Cattle Country and Brought a New West

by William MacLeod Raine

  CHAPTER XLI

  HANK BRINGS BAD NEWS

  The change in the wind had cost three lives, but it had saved the Jackpotproperty and the feed on the range. After the fire in San Jacinto Canonhad broken through Hart's defense by its furious and persistent attack,nothing could have prevented it from spreading over the plains on a wildrampage except a cloudburst or a decided shift of wind. This last hadcome and had driven the flames back on territory already burnt over.

  The fire did not immediately die out, but it soon began to dwindle. Onlyhere and there did it leap forward with its old savage fury. Presentlythese sporadic plunges wore themselves out for lack of fuel. Thedevastated area became a smouldering, smoking char showing a few isolatedblazes in the barren ruin. There were still possibilities of harm in themif the wind should shift again, but for the present they were subdued toa shadow of their former strength. It remained the business of thefire-fighters to keep a close watch on the red-hot embers to prevent themfrom being flung far by the breeze.

  Fortunately the wind died down soon, reducing the danger to a minimum.

  Dave handed back to Shorty the revolver he had borrowed so peremptorilyfrom his holster.

  "Much obliged. I won't need this any more."

  The cowpuncher spoke grimly. "I'm liable to."

  "Mexico is a good country for a cattleman," Sanders said, lookingstraight at him.

  Shorty met him eye to eye. "So I've been told."

  "Good range and water-holes. Stock fatten well."

  "Yes."

  "A man might do worse than go there if he's worn out this country."

  "Stage-robbers and rustlers right welcome, are they?" asked Shortyhardily.

  "No questions asked about a man's past if his present is O.K."

  "Listens good. If I meet anybody lookin' to make a change I'll tell himyou recommended Mexico." The eyes of the two men still clashed. In eachman's was a deep respect for the other's gameness. They had been tried byfire and come through clean. Shorty voiced this defiantly. "I don't likea hair of yore head. Never did. You're too damned interferin' to suit me.But I'll say this. You'll do to ride the river with, Sanders."

  "I'll interfere again this far, Shorty. You're too good a man to go bad."

  "Oh, hell!" The outlaw turned away; then thought better of it and cameback. "I'll name no names, but I'll say this. Far as I'm concerned TimHarrigan might be alive to-day."

  Dave, with a nod, accepted this as true. "I guessed as much. You've beenrunning with a mighty bad pardner."

  "Have I?" asked the rustler blandly. "Did I say anything about apardner?"

  His eye fell on the three still figures lying on the hillside in a row.Not a twitching muscle in his face showed what he was thinking, that theymight have been full of splendid life and vigor if Dug Doble had not puta match to the chaparral back of Bear Canon. The man had murdered themjust as surely as though he had shot them down with a rifle. For weeksShorty had been getting his affairs in order to leave the country, butbefore he went he intended to have an accounting with one man.

  Dillon came up to Sanders and spoke in an awed voice. "What do you aim todo with ... these, Sanders?" His hand indicated the bodies lying near.

  "Send horses up for them," Dave said. "You can take all the men back tocamp with you except three to help me watch the fire. Tell Mr. Crawfordhow things are."

  The men crept down the hill like veterans a hundred years old. Ragged,smoke-blackened, and grimy, they moved like automatons. So great wastheir exhaustion that one or two dropped out of line and lay down onthe charred ground to sleep. The desire for it was so overmastering thatthey could not drive their weighted legs forward.

  A man on horseback appeared and rode up to Dave and Shorty. The man wasBob Hart. The red eyes in his blackened face were sunken and his coathung on him in crisped shreds. He looked down at the bodies lying side byside. His face worked, but he made no verbal comment.

  "We piled into a cave. Some of the boys couldn't stand it," Daveexplained.

  Bob's gaze took in his friend. The upper half of his body was almostnaked. Both face and torso were raw with angry burns. Eyebrows haddisappeared and eyes were so swollen as to be almost closed. He wasgaunt, ragged, unshaven, and bleeding. Shorty, too, appeared to have gonethrough the wars.

  "You boys oughtta have the doc see you," Hart said gently. "He's down atcamp now. One of Em's men had an arm busted by a limb of a tree fallin'on him. I've got a coupla casualties in my gang. Two or three of 'emrunnin' a high fever. Looks like they may have pneumonia, doc says. Lungsall inflamed from swallowin' smoke.... You take my hawss and ride down tocamp, Dave. I'll stick around here till the old man sends a relief."

  "No, you go down and report to him, Bob. If Crawford has any fresh menI'd like mine relieved. They've been on steady for 'most two days andnights. Four or five can hold the fire here. All they need do is watchit."

  Hart did not argue. He knew how Dave stuck to a thing like a terrierto a rat. He would not leave the ground till orders came from EmersonCrawford.

  "Lemme go an' report," suggested Shorty. "I wanta get my bronc an' lightout pronto. Never can tell when Applegate might drap around an' askquestions. Me, I'm due in the hills."

  "All right," agreed Bob. "See Crawford himself, Shorty."

  The outlaw pulled himself to the saddle and cantered off.

  "Best man in my gang," Dave said, following him with his eyes. "There toa finish and never a whimper out of him. Dragged a man out of the firewhen he might have been hustling for his own skin."

  "Shorty's game," admitted Hart. "Pity he went bad."

  "Yes. He told me he didn't kill Harrigan."

  "Reckon Dug did that. More like him."

  Half an hour later the relief came. Hart, Dave, and the threefire-fighters who had stayed to watch rode back to camp.

  Crawford had lost his voice. He had already seen Hart since the fire hadsubsided, so his greeting was to Sanders.

  "Good work, son," he managed to whisper, a quaver in his throat. "I'drather we'd lost the whole works than to have had that happen to theboys, a hundred times rather. I reckon it must 'a' been mighty bad upthere when the back-fire caught you. The boys have been tellin' me. Yousaved all their lives, I judge."

  "I happened to know where the cave was."

  "Yes." Crawford's whisper was sadly ironic. "Well, I'm sure glad youhappened to know that. If you hadn't...." The old cattleman gave alittle gesture that completed the sentence. The tragedy that had takenplace had shaken his soul. He felt in a way responsible.

  "If the doc ain't busy now, I reckon Dave could use him," Bob said. "Ireckon he needs a li'l' attention. Then I'm ready for grub an' a sleeptwice round the clock. If any one asks me, I'm sure enough dead beat.I don't ever want to look at a shovel again."

  "Doc's fixin' up Lanier's burnt laig. He'd oughtta be through soon now.I'll have him 'tend to Dave's burns right away then," said Crawford. Heturned to Sanders. "How about it, son? You sure look bunged up prettybad."

  "I'm about all in," admitted Dave. "Reckon we all are. Shorty gone yet?"

  "Yes. Lit out after he'd made a report. Said he had an engagement to meeta man. Expect he meant he had an engagement _not_ to meet the sheriff. Irec'lect when Shorty was a mighty promisin' young fellow before BradSteelman got a-holt of him. He punched cows for me twenty years ago. Hehadn't took the wrong turn then. You cayn't travel crooked trails an' notreach a closed pocket o' the hills sometime."

  For several minutes they had heard the creaking of a wagon working up animprovised road toward the camp. Now it moved into sight. The teamstercalled to Crawford.

  "Here's another load o' grub, boss. Miss Joyce she rustled up themcanteens you was askin' for."

  Crawford stepped over to the wagon. "Don't reckon we'll need thecanteens, Hank, but we can use the grub fine. The fire's about out."

  "That's bully. Say, I got news for you, Mr. Crawford. Brad Steelman'sdead. They found him in his house, shot plumb through the head. I reckonhe won't do yo
u any more meanness."

  "Who killed him?"

  "They ain't sayin'," returned the teamster cautiously. "Some folks wasguessin' that mebbe Dug Doble could tell, but there ain't any evidencefar's I know. Whoever it was robbed the safe."

  The old cattleman made no comment. From the days of their youth Steelmanhad been his bitter enemy, but death had closed the account between them.His mind traveled back to those days twenty-five years ago when he andthe sheepman had both hitched their horses in front of Helen Radcliff'shome. It had been a fair fight between them, and he had won as a manshould. But Brad had not taken his defeat as a man should. He hadnourished bitterness and played his successful rival many a meandespicable trick. Out of these had grown the feud between them. Crawforddid not know how it had come about, but he had no doubt Steelman hadsomehow fallen a victim in the trap he had been building for others.

  A question brought his mind back to the present. The teamster wastalking: "... so she started pronto. I s'pose you wasn't as bad hurt asSanders figured."

  "What's that?" asked Crawford.

  "I was sayin' Miss Joyce she started right away when the note come fromSanders."

  "What note?"

  "The one tellin' how you was hurt in the fire."

  Crawford turned. "Come here, Dave," he called hoarsely.

  Sanders moved across.

  "Hank says you sent a note to Joyce sayin' I'd been hurt. What about it?"

  "Why would I do that when you're not hurt?"

  "Then you didn't?"

  "Of course not," answered Dave, perplexed.

  "Some one's been stringin' you, Hank," said Crawford, smiling.

  The teamster scratched his head. "No, sir. I was there when she left.About twelve o'clock last night, mebbe later."

  "But Sanders says he didn't send a note, and Joyce didn't come here. Soyou must 'a' missed connections somewhere."

  "Probably you saw her start for home," suggested Dave.

  Hank stuck to his guns. "No, sir. She was on that sorrel of hers, an'Keith was ridin' behind her. I saddled myself and took the horse to thestore. They was waitin' there for me, the two young folks an' Juan."

  "Juan?"

  "Juan Otero. He brought the note an' rode back with her."

  The old cattleman felt a clutch of fear at his heart. Juan Otero was oneof Dug Doble's men.

  "That all you know, Hank?"

  "That's all. Miss Joyce said for me to get this wagonload of grub outsoon as I could. So I come right along."

  "Doble been seen in town lately?" asked Dave.

  "Not as I know of. Shorty has."

  "Shorty ain't in this."

  "Do you reckon--?"

  Sanders cut the teamster short. "Some of Doble's work. But I don't seewhy he sent for Keith too."

  "He didn't. Keith begged to go along an' Miss Joyce took him."

  In the haggard, unshaven face of the cattleman Dave read the ghastlyfear of his own soul. Doble was capable of terrible evil. His hatred,jealousy, and passion would work together to poison his mind. The cornersof his brain had always been full of lust and obscenity. There was thisdifference between him and Shorty. The squat cowpuncher was a cleanscoundrel. A child, a straight girl, an honest woman, would be as safewith him as with simple-hearted old Buck Byington. But Dug Doble--itwas impossible to predict what he would do. He had a vein of caution inhis make-up, but when in drink he jettisoned this and grew ugly. Hisvanity--always a large factor in determining his actions--might carryhim in the direction of decency or the reverse.

  "I'm glad Keith's with her," said Hart, who had joined the group. "WithKeith and the Mexican there--" His meaning did not need a completedsentence.

  "Question is, where did he take her," said Crawford. "We might comb thehills a week and not find his hole. I wish to God Shorty was still here.He might know."

  "He's our best bet, Bob," agreed Dave. "Find him. He's gone off somewhereto sleep. Rode away less than half an hour since."

  "Which way?"

  "Rode toward Bear Canon," said Crawford.

  "That's a lead for you, Bob. Figure it out. He's done--completely wornout. So he won't go far--not more than three-four miles. He'll be in thehills, under cover somewhere, for he won't forget that thousand dollarsreward. So he'll be lying in the chaparral. That means he'll be abovewhere the fire started. If I was looking for him, I'd say somewhere backof Bear, Cattle, or San Jacinto would be the likeliest spot."

  "Good guess, Dave. Somewheres close to water," said Bob. "You goin' alongwith me?"

  "No. Take as many men as you can get. I'm going back, if I can, to findthe place where Otero and Miss Joyce left the road. Mr. Crawford, you'dbetter get back to town, don't you think? There may be clues there wedon't know anything about here. Perhaps Miss Joyce may have got back."

  "If not, I'll gather a posse to rake the hills, Dave. If that villain'shurt my li'l' girl or Keith--" Crawford's whisper broke. He turned awayto conceal the working of his face.

  "He hasn't," said Bob with decision. "Dug ain't crazy even if his actionslook like it. I've a notion when Mr. Crawford gets back to town MissJoyce will be there all right. Like as not Dug brought her back himself.Maybe he sent for her just to brag awhile. You know Dug."

  That was the worst of it, so far as any allaying of their fear went. Theydid know Doble. They knew him for a thorough black-hearted scoundrel whomight stop at nothing.

  The three men moved toward the remuda. None of them had slept forforty-eight hours. They had been through a grueling experience that hadtried soul and body to the limit. But none of them hesitated for aninstant. They belonged to the old West which answers the call no matterwhat the personal cost. There was work to do. Not one of them would quitas long as he could stick to the saddle.