“Oh hell!” cried Wilbur. “Now they’re after us!”
“They appear to be!” Stovepipe called as he stuck the Winchester back in its sheath and hauled the Appaloosa around in a hard turn to the left.
Wilbur followed, although he asked, “Where are we going?”
“Those breaks are closer than any cover back the way we come from,” said Stovepipe. “We’ll try to get amongst ’em, like that other fella.”
Indeed, the lone rider who had been the group’s original quarry had vanished into the rugged terrain. Stovepipe could still see a cloud of dust hanging in the air, but the rider himself was no longer in sight.
That was what he and Wilbur needed to do right about now: disappear.
As he galloped toward the breaks, Stovepipe felt bad about the man who had been shot and even worse for his partner. It was pretty obvious from the way the man had toppled from the saddle that one of Wilbur’s bullets had brought him down. Wilbur was going to be racked with guilt about that, at least until they found out who the pursuers were and why they had been after that other hombre.
If it turned out the men had been up to no good, that would ease Wilbur’s conscience, at least somewhat.
Of course, at the moment Wilbur’s conscience wasn’t that much of a consideration. Survival was. Because of the angles involved, it looked like the other men might be able to cut Stovepipe and Wilbur off from the breaks.
But then their horses began to falter. Stovepipe’s Appaloosa and Wilbur’s dun were fresher. The other men’s mounts must have had a long, hard run already.
“We’re gonna make it!” Wilbur called exultantly.
“Don’t jinx it!” said Stovepipe. “You know what a hoodoo you are, Wilbur.”
“Me a hoodoo? You’re the hoodoo, you long drink of water! Bad luck follows you around—”
Wilbur ducked as a bullet whined over his head. The pursuers might not be able to catch them before they reached the breaks, but those men could still shoot.
Less than a minute later, though, Stovepipe and Wilbur raced through the mouth of a narrow, shallow, twisting canyon. A bend not far inside the canyon cut them off from view of the men who were after them.
“Slow down a mite,” Stovepipe told his friend as he drew back on the reins. “They ain’t gonna be too eager to charge in here, knowin’ we might stop and set up an ambush.”
“Yeah, but they’re mighty mad at us,” Wilbur said as he slowed his mount. He shook his head ruefully. “It took even less time than usual before somebody got themselves a hankerin’ to ventilate us—”
He stopped short as a gun boomed and a slug kicked up dirt and gravel right in front of them.
CHAPTER SIX
Stovepipe reached for his gun, but a man’s voice called, “Don’t do it, mister! You’re covered!”
Stovepipe moved his hand away from the ivory-handled Colt. He gestured to Wilbur, a gentle motion that Stovepipe knew Wilbur would understand as a signal to take it easy.
He put the sentiment into words as he expressed it to the unseen shooter, drawling, “Take it easy there, amigo. We ain’t lookin’ for trouble.”
“Then how come we find it all the dad-blasted time?” asked Wilbur under his breath.
“Just lucky, I guess,” Stovepipe answered in the same fashion. He raised his voice as he went on, “If you’re the fella who got chased into these breaks a few minutes ago, you should know that we’re the ones who slowed down those jaspers doggin’ your trail.”
“Why would you do that?” demanded the man. “I’ve never seen you before.”
“Let’s just say I didn’t care for the odds.”
Between the shot and the conversation they had exchanged, Stovepipe had been able to pin down the unseen man’s location. He was in a narrow crease in the canyon wall about twenty feet ahead of them, a dark line that Stovepipe had taken merely for a shadow on the wall at first. Now he realized it was an opening barely wide enough for a man to slide into.
“Where’s your horse?” Stovepipe went on. “Those fellas who were after you might be a little leery of chargin’ in here blind, but it won’t be long before they show up.”
The man didn’t answer for a moment, then he said, “You’re sure you’re not part of that posse?”
“Posse?” repeated Wilbur. “Uh-oh.”
Before the stranger could answer, a deep voice boomed from outside the canyon.
“You boys might as well come outta there!” a man bellowed. “You’ve taken cover in a box canyon! No way out!”
The stranger stepped out of the crack in the wall. He clutched a revolver tightly in his hand. He was fairly young, probably in his midtwenties, Stovepipe estimated, but he had the look of a man who had knocked around some. His range clothes were covered with trail dust, and dark beard stubble covered his cheeks and jaw.
“If you’re telling me the truth, come on,” he said as he gestured with the gun for Stovepipe and Wilbur to follow him.
“In there?” asked Stovepipe. “There ain’t room for all of us to hide.”
“We’re not hiding. We’re getting away.”
From outside the canyon, that same powerful voice shouted, “This is Sheriff Frank Olsen from Hat Creek! I’m ordering you to give yourselves up in the name of the law!”
Despite what Stovepipe considered to be their generally peaceable nature, this wasn’t the first time he and Wilbur had found themselves on the wrong side of the law. Usually those problems were caused by a misunderstanding, and now and then they ran into star packers who were crooked as a dog’s hind leg.
Stovepipe didn’t want to wait around and find out which case this was. With one of their number downed by a bullet, the other members of the posse likely wouldn’t be in any mood to listen to explanations or apologies. Depending on how firm a hand Sheriff Frank Olsen had, they might decide a little lynching was in order.
The sheriff might even be the sort to lead that necktie party himself.
So Stovepipe nudged the Appaloosa ahead and said, “If you really and truly know a way outta here, amigo, now’d be a good time to share that little secret.”
“Right here,” the man said as he pointed to the crack in the canyon wall. “The sheriff just thinks this is a box canyon. The passage is pretty tight starting out, but it’s wider than it looks. A horse can get through it.”
“Most horses, maybe,” said Stovepipe. “These are pretty big fellas.”
“Well, you can wait around and talk to Olsen if you want.”
Stovepipe dismounted in front of the cleft in the wall. Wilbur followed suit. Stovepipe said, “Lead the way, mister.”
The young man went first, followed by Stovepipe leading the Appaloosa. The Palouse’s flanks scraped the sides of the narrow crack, which made him reluctant to go through it, but the horse trusted Stovepipe and the lanky cowboy’s gentle-voiced urging kept him moving.
Wilbur came next, leading his dun. He said, “I think this hoss of mine has that, what d’you call it, closetrophobia.”
“That ain’t quite right, I don’t think,” said Stovepipe, “but I know what you mean.”
“I reckon I’ve got a touch of it, too. I don’t like this, Stovepipe.”
The young man said, “It’s not this narrow for much longer.”
He was true to his word. The passage widened after a few more yards. It was still narrow enough that they had to proceed single file, but at least the walls weren’t closing in quite so oppressively.
Behind them, Sheriff Frank Olsen was still yelling, telling the fugitives they were trapped and calling on them to surrender.
“Where’s your horse, amigo?” Stovepipe asked their newfound companion.
“Up ahead a little ways in a clearing where there’s a spring and some grass.”
“Sounds like a hideout.”
The man glanced back over his shoulder and said, “I’m not an outlaw, if that’s what you mean.” He paused, then went on, “But it’s true I’ve been staying ther
e for a while because I didn’t want anybody to find me. That’s how I knew this crack was here. I’ve been exploring some.”
“You mind sayin’ why you’re hidin’ out?”
“I’m not sure that’s any of your business.”
“We helped you get away from those fellas,” Stovepipe pointed out. “They might’ve grabbed you if we hadn’t slowed ’em down.”
He didn’t say anything about the man Wilbur had apparently shot out of the saddle.
From the spot where Wilbur was bringing up the rear of this procession, the redhead said, “You might as well tell him what he wants to know, mister. Once Stovepipe gets curious and starts asking questions, he’s mighty stubborn.”
“Fine,” the young man said. “This is Box D range, right at the edge of the spread but still Abel Dempsey’s property. I’m not welcome here. I used to ride for Dempsey, but he fired me and told me to stay off his ranch.”
“And yet you stay,” said Stovepipe. “What’s your name, son?”
“Dan Hartford.”
“Pleased to meet you, Dan. Probably. Dependin’ on how this turns out. They call me Stovepipe Stewart.”
“On account of he’s as tall and skinny as a stovepipe,” Wilbur put in.
“Dan looks like he’s smart enough to figure that out on his own. The caboose back there’s Wilbur Coleman.”
“Grub-line riders?” Dan asked.
“You could say that.”
Dan shook his head and said, “I wouldn’t recommend signing on with the Box D, even if Dempsey’s hiring.”
“Yeah, it looks like his punchers get treated kinda rough,” said Stovepipe.
Dan looked back at him again and asked, “What makes you say that?”
“You got some bruises that are almost healed, but not quite. Looks like you got a pretty good whippin’ a while back.”
Dan made a disgusted noise.
“You mean I got ganged up on,” he said.
“How many of ’em did it take?”
“Four. Two to hold on to me and two to do the punching. Plus the hombre who jumped me in the first place.”
“With odds like that, nobody could blame you for gettin’ licked. Were they all Box D hands, the fellas who done it?”
“Yeah. And Dempsey himself started it by slapping me a couple of times.”
“Hard for a man to take bein’ treated like that.”
“I wasn’t going to take it,” said Dan. “I would have gone after him, no matter what the consequences—but then those other men jumped me, and I never got the chance.”
Wilbur said, “If somebody I was working for did that, I’d draw my time and leave. And if he fired me before I could do that, I’d sure shake the dust of the place off my boots as fast as I could.”
“Maybe,” Stovepipe said. “But some hombres’d be more likely to want to settle the score. Ain’t that right, Dan?”
The young cowboy didn’t answer the question. Instead, he said, “This is the place I was telling you about, right up here.”
Stovepipe looked past Dan and saw that the passage ended in a bowl-like depression with a small, spring-fed pool in the bottom of it. Grass grew around the pool, a little on the sparse side but enough for a horse or two to graze on it. There was even a little stunted cottonwood to provide some shade. Conditions here would be fairly primitive, but compared to some places in Arizona Territory, it was downright idyllic.
“I’ll show you the best way out of here,” Dan said as he stepped out of the passage into the bowl. Stovepipe and Wilbur followed him, both of them glad to get out of the narrow crack. “I reckon you fellas will want to drift—”
“Hoist ’em!” a voice ordered sharply. “Keep your hands away from that gun, Hartford, or you’ll never live to hang for Abel Dempsey’s murder!”
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Murder?” Stovepipe repeated softly.
Dan Hartford had gone pale. He looked at Stovepipe and said, “It’s a lie. I didn’t kill anybody.”
Before he could say anything else, men with guns crowded around them, emerging from behind the rocks around the bowl where they had been hidden. Clearly, they had been lying in wait, hoping to capture Dan when he returned.
They probably hadn’t figured on bagging two extra fugitives.
With this many guns pointed at them, Stovepipe knew that he and Wilbur couldn’t afford to make a play. He hoped that Dan would keep his wits about him and realize the same thing. If any gunplay broke out, it was likely that all three of them would go down.
A tall, horse-faced man wearing a badge stepped up and plucked Dan’s gun from its holster. He prodded Dan in the chest with the barrel of the revolver he held and said, “You thought you was gonna get away, didn’t you, Hartford? You didn’t figure on me knowin’ these breaks better ’n anybody else in these parts. I used to ride for the Box D years ago before I took up deputyin’. I combed many a head of stock outta here, and I told Sheriff Olsen I’d bet a hat this was where you’d hole up. That’s how come him split the posse like he done, on account o’ my advice.”
Wilbur said quietly to Stovepipe, “That fella seems almighty fond of his own voice.”
The deputy caught that comment and turned to glare at the two old friends.
“And who are you?” he demanded. “Hand over them guns, but be mighty easy-like about it! After what you done, shootin’ Alf Swenson like you did, I’d love an excuse to ventilate the both o’ you!”
“You don’t understand,” Wilbur began. “That was a—”
Stovepipe nudged him with an elbow, and Wilbur fell silent. Stovepipe reached across his body, carefully drew the ivory-handled Colt from its holster, and handed it to one of the posse members.
“Be careful with that six-shooter,” said Stovepipe. “I set a lot of store by it. It’s gotten me out of some mighty bad fixes.”
“Gunfighter, are you?” the man asked with a sneer.
“Not so’s you’d notice, but I know which end of the barrel the bullet comes out of.”
Wilbur’s snort indicated that was an understatement. Equally carefully, he removed his own gun from its holster and passed it over to one of their captors.
The deputy moved away a few steps, pointed his gun in the air, and squeezed off three rounds in what was obviously a prearranged signal.
“That’ll bring the sheriff and the rest of the boys on the run,” he said, then gave Dan a self-satisfied smirk. “You’ll be behind bars where you belong before the day’s over, Hartford, and so will these compadres of yours.”
“I don’t know these men,” Dan said. “I never saw them before, until just a little while ago. They only tried to help me because they saw I was outnumbered and thought I needed some help.”
“Well, if that’s true, that was their mistake,” said the deputy. “They mixed in on the wrong side of the law, and they shot a member of this here posse, so now they got to pay the price, too.”
Wilbur heaved a sigh. Stovepipe knew that what had happened was eating at his friend. He wished there was something he could say to make Wilbur feel better, but at the moment he sure couldn’t think of what it might be.
The echoes of the three shots rolled across the breaks and died away. It wasn’t long before they were replaced by the sound of hoofbeats. A trail led down into the bowl from one of the ridges that surrounded it, and several riders appeared at the top of that trail and started down, led by a barrel-chested man with a white, bristling mustache. The sun reflected off the badge he wore, and from the man’s air of authority, Stovepipe pegged him as Sheriff Frank Olsen.
One of the riders following the lawman was hatless and had a bloodstained rag tied around his head as a makeshift bandage. The sight of him drew a startled oath from the deputy.
“Well, what do you know? Swenson ain’t dead after all. I thought sure he would be, shot in the head like that and all.” The deputy glanced at Stovepipe and Wilbur. “You musta just creased him. You might not hang after all . . . less’n we
find some other charges outstandin’ against you, of course.”
Wilbur didn’t exactly heave a sigh of relief, but Stovepipe could tell his old friend was pleased by this development. Wilbur had gunned down a star packer or two in his time, but they’d all really been owlhoots who had it coming.
“I see you got him, Warren,” the white-mustached lawman said to the deputy. “Good job. And these are the two who were shootin’ at us and wounded Alf, I take it.”
“That’s right, Sheriff,” said the deputy. “Hartford met up with ’em, just like I figured he would. They must’ve had the whole thing planned.”
Dan said, “I’m telling you, you’ve got it all wrong—” “You’ll have a chance to tell your side of it,” the sheriff interrupted him. “Not that it’ll do you much good. Witnesses heard you shoot Abel Dempsey and found you standing over his body with a smoking gun in your hand. If ever anybody was bound for the gallows, it’s you, son.”
“There’s a thing you may have heard of, Sheriff,” said Stovepipe. “It’s called the presumption of innocence and says the law’s got to prove somebody’s guilty of a crime before he’s punished for it.”
Olsen glared at the tall, lanky range rider.
“I know damn well what the law’s responsibilities are,” he said. “Who are you? What’s your connection to this murdering saddle tramp?”
“Alleged murderin’ saddle tramp,” drawled Stovepipe. “As for my name, it’s Stewart. I sort of disremember what the legal front handle is, it’s been so long since anybody called me by it. Generally folks just know me as Stovepipe, when they ain’t callin’ me Hey, you.”
“Like to spill a lot of words when you talk, don’t you?” the deputy said.
“The same could be said of others in these parts, as I recall.”
“Never mind that,” said the sheriff. He fixed his cold-eyed glare on Wilbur. “What about you?”
“Name’s Wilbur Coleman.”
“Stewart and Coleman, eh? I don’t recall seeing those names on any wanted posters, but I’ll go through all the dodgers back at the office. Friends of Hartford, are you?”
“Dan has the right of it,” said Stovepipe. “We just met less than half an hour ago. And we don’t know a blamed thing about any murder, or anything else that’s been goin’ on in these parts.”
The Range Detectives Page 4