The Range Detectives

by William W. Johnstone

  They had filled their canteens at one of the creeks they’d crossed, so once they had the horses unsaddled and picketed, Stovepipe poured water into his hat and let both horses drink from it. While he and Wilbur tended to those chores, Dan and Laura continued to talk in low, angry voices.

  “Times like this, I’m glad I never got hitched,” Stovepipe commented quietly to his friend.

  Wilbur snorted and said, “No woman’d be fool enough to marry a long drink of water like you who’s always getting mixed up in shooting scrapes.”

  “Oh, I dunno. I seem to recollect a few widows who might’ve set their caps for me if we hadn’t shook the dust of those places off our boots. There were even a few who made eyes at you.”

  “Sitting in some house behind a white picket fence for the rest of my days . . .” Wilbur shuddered. “Nope. I think maybe that gives me the fantods worse ’n the thought of going to Yuma Prison.”

  Dan and Laura must have finished what they had to say to each other. Dan came over to Stovepipe and Wilbur and told them, “I’m not going to run. I’m going to find out who really killed Abel Dempsey and clear my name.”

  “You convinced the little lady to go along with that?” asked Stovepipe.

  “It’s my decision,” Dan said. Then he added, “But Laura sees it my way . . . for now, anyway.”

  “We’re gonna have to have a long talk, then. There are some things I need to know. But first . . . what do you think the odds are that a posse will come lookin’ in this direction?”

  “It’s possible. What direction were you going when you got chased out of town?”

  “West.”

  “It’s more likely they’ll start by searching in that direction, then. But Frank Olsen’s not a fool, just as stubborn as a mule. He’s liable to send search parties out in every direction, if he can round up enough men who are willing to volunteer.”

  “Somebody’s gonna need to keep watch, then, while Wilbur and me get a little shut-eye. We were in the saddle all night.”

  “I can do that,” Dan said, nodding. “In fact, I can climb up on top of one of these spires. From up there, if anybody starts in this direction I’ll be able to see them while they’re still several miles away.”

  “It’ll get mighty hot up there by the middle of the day.”

  “I’ll be all right.”

  “It’s your decision. I don’t suppose you and the lady have had any breakfast?”

  Dan shook his head and said, “That sort of seemed like the least of our worries.”

  “Maybe so, but you’ve got to keep your strength up,” said Stovepipe. “We’ve got some jerky in our saddlebags we can share with you. It ain’t much, but it’s better ’n nothin’.”

  “Sure wish we had some coffee, too,” Wilbur said wistfully.

  “Reckon we’ll have to settle for bein’ alive,” Stovepipe said as the orange ball of the sun began to peek over the Mogollon Rim in the east.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  After their meager breakfast of jerky washed down with canteen water, Stovepipe and Wilbur took their bedrolls off the horses and spread them in the gap between the spires. The eastern Needle would provide some shade from the rising sun. The air was still chilly, but it would heat up quickly as the morning progressed.

  They slept for several hours before Dan called from the top of the western spire, “I see some riders south of here!”

  Stovepipe roused from sleep and sat up, rubbing his rather craggy face.

  “Are they headed in this direction?” he asked Dan.

  “Sort of. Not straight at us, but drifting in this general direction.”

  “Bound to be a posse,” muttered Wilbur from where he had sat up, too. “We’d best light a shuck.”

  “And go where?” asked Stovepipe.

  “I dunno. I figured you had some ideas along those lines. There’s always a lot more percolating in that head of yours than you let on, Stovepipe.”

  That brought a chuckle from the lanky cowboy. He stood up, stretched, and looked around for Laura Dempsey. He spotted her sitting on a rock slab near the other spire with a carbine across her knees.

  “You brought that repeater with you in the buckboard, ma’am?” he asked her as he gestured at the carbine.

  “I may not have been raised on the frontier, Mr. Stewart,” she said, “but I’ve picked up some of its ways pretty quickly. Lew Martin told me never to ride out anywhere without taking a gun with me, because you never know when you might come across a rattlesnake or some other varmint.”

  “That’s good advice,” said Stovepipe. “If there’s one thing these parts are full of, it’s varmints . . . four-legged, no-legged—and them that go on two legs as well.”

  Dan was climbing down the spire where he had posted himself. The thick column of rock appeared smooth from a distance but in reality was rugged enough that there were plenty of handholds and footholds for a man to climb up and down. Dan dropped the last few feet and landed gracefully.

  “Are we pulling out?” he asked.

  “Yeah, I reckon,” said Stovepipe. “I didn’t intend to stay here all day. How far are we from Box D range?”

  Dan pointed southwest and said, “It’s seven or eight miles that way. But won’t it be awful risky going there?”

  “Seems to me like that’s one of the last places the sheriff’d think to look for you.”

  “You may have a point there,” Dan said with a shrug. “Anyway, with posses scouring the whole basin, I suppose one place is just about as good as another.” He glanced at the young woman who sat there holding the carbine. “And going there would get Laura back home.”

  “I’m not sure I’ll ever consider the Box D truly my home,” she said. “Not unless you’re there with me, Dan.”

  “Y’all can talk about that later,” said Stovepipe. “Right now, let’s get ready to move.”

  He and Wilbur hitched the horses to the buckboard, then gathered up their gear. As they worked, Wilbur said, “Remember what I said when we got here about wishing we had some coffee?”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, it goes double now. I need a pot of Arbuckle’s, good and black, along with a plate full of bacon and some fried eggs and a big ol’ stack of flapjacks and maybe some fried potatoes.”

  “You always was a bottomless pit when it comes to eatin’,” said Stovepipe with a grin. “Right now you’re just torturin’ yourself, though. I reckon we’ll get some decent grub sooner or later.”

  “If we don’t starve to death first,” muttered Wilbur.

  In a few minutes, they were ready to go. Dan helped Laura climb onto the buckboard seat, then pulled himself up beside her and took hold of the reins. The big hat that belonged to Brock Matthews was in the back of the buckboard, and Dan left it there. Stovepipe and Wilbur fell in alongside the vehicle as Dan got it rolling toward the distant ranch.

  As they rode, Stovepipe said to Dan, “I wouldn’t mind takin’ a look at that Apache Bluff place you mentioned yesterday.”

  He didn’t add anything about Apache Bluff being the spot where Dan and Laura had had their rendezvous the day that Abel Dempsey was killed. He didn’t see any point in upsetting the young woman unnecessarily.

  “I suppose I could take you there,” Dan replied. “First, though, there’s somewhere else I want to go.” He turned to Laura. “I’ve been thinking about it, and we have to take you someplace you’ll be safe. You can’t just go back to the ranch. Sheriff Olsen might ride out just to make sure you’re not there.” He frowned. “Besides, I don’t trust some of the men, like Jube Connolly. He might try to hurt me by tipping off the sheriff that you’re there.”

  “I suppose that’s possible,” said Laura. “But I can’t really think of anywhere else I can go.”

  “What about the line shack up in the high pastures?” asked Dan. “Hamp Jones and Charley Bartlett are staying up there for the summer. They’re good men. They’d look after you.”

  “I’m not so sure I need
looking after,” Laura said. “I’m the one who got you out of jail, remember?”

  “I’m not likely to forget,” Dan said grimly. “You may have ruined your whole life in the process.”

  “It’s my life to ruin if that’s what I choose to do.”

  Dan didn’t say anything to that. They rode on in silence for a few moments, then she continued, “There’s something you may not have considered, Dan. Mr. Jones and Mr. Bartlett rode for A—for my husband, for a long time. They were loyal to him. How do you know they’ll agree to help us and let me hide out there? They might try to take us prisoner and turn us over to the law.”

  “Maybe, but I’ve gotten along pretty good with them. I think they’d at least hear me out. It’s a chance we’ll have to take. You’ll be safer there than anywhere else I can think of, while Stovepipe and Wilbur and I try to figure out what to do next.”

  Stovepipe said, “Not tryin’ to stick my nose in where it don’t belong, ma’am, but Dan’s got a point. If we’re gonna figure out who really killed your husband and come up with evidence to prove it, we’re liable to need to move around in a hurry for a while. That’ll be easier—”

  “If you don’t have to worry about keeping track of me,” Laura finished for him. She sighed. “You’re right, Mr. Stewart. I know that. After everything that’s happened, I just don’t like the idea of being separated from Dan. There’s always a chance we . . . we might never see each other again.”

  “That’s not going to happen,” Dan promised as he looked over at her. “So much has happened to try to keep us apart, and yet here we are. I’m starting to think it’s our destiny to be together.”

  “I thought you said we didn’t have a future,” she reminded him.

  “I’m going to fight like a wildcat to make sure I was wrong about that,” Dan said.

  * * *

  Dan knew this range better than any of the other three, even though he hadn’t been in the area for very long, so Stovepipe let him pick their route as they headed toward the Box D. As much as possible, Dan tried to avoid trails where they might be spotted, but at the same time he had to stick to places the buckboard could negotiate. It would have been easier if they had all been on horseback.

  Dan was canny, though, and stuck to areas where they were screened by trees or ridges, and he avoided anywhere they might be skylighted. Several times, Stovepipe’s keen eyes spotted horsemen in the distance, and when that happened, Dan pulled the buckboard into cover and they waited until the distant riders were out of sight.

  Eventually, he said, “We’re back on Box D range now,” and drove the buckboard along a trail that began to climb toward the higher pastures. It wasn’t much of a trail, just a pair of faint ruts left from the times when a wagon had taken supplies up to the line shack. The buckboard jolted back and forth, throwing Laura’s shoulder against Dan’s.

  Even under the circumstances, Dan didn’t look like he minded all that much, thought Stovepipe. A faint smile curved the lanky cowboy’s mouth under the drooping mustache. There was an old saying about how love conquered all, he recalled. That might not always be true . . . but love usually put up a good fight, that was for dang sure.

  After a hard climb, the trail leveled out and crossed a meadow to where a blocky log cabin was nestled at the edge of a thick stand of pine. A creek tumbled over a rocky bed nearby, which was one reason the line shack had been located at this spot, Stovepipe surmised.

  He hipped around in the saddle and looked back in the direction they had come from. The basin spread out to the north and east, and the dark line of the Mogollon Rim was clearly visible from here. This would be a good hideout, he mused, since it was isolated and commanded a good field of view.

  The sun was high in the sky by now, almost directly overhead. Gray smoke curled from the cabin’s stone chimney, and Dan commented, “One of the boys must be here. I sort of figured they’d be out on the range right now. But that’s good, because it’ll give us a chance to talk to whoever is here and make sure they understand what’s going on.”

  As the group approached, the cabin door swung open on leather hinges and a man stepped out, balancing himself on a makeshift crutch tucked under his left arm. In his right hand he held an old cap-and-ball pistol with a muzzle so big it looked sort of like a cannon as he raised it toward them.

  The gun was just a precaution, though, because the old-timer lowered it immediately as his eyes got big with recognition.

  “Miz Dempsey!” he exclaimed. “And I’ll be da—I mean, is that you, Dan Hartford?”

  “It’s me, Hamp,” said Dan as he pulled back on the reins and brought the buckboard to a halt. “What happened to you? Are you all right?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. Danged ol’ cow stepped on my foot yesterday.” Hamp Jones grimaced. “All these years cowboyin’, and this is the first time that’s happened. But it was swole up enough this mornin’ that it wouldn’t fit in a stirrup, so Charley said he’d take care of the chores by himself today and let me rest it.”

  Laura said, “You probably need to have a doctor look at that, Mr. Jones.”

  “Naw, no offense, ma’am, but when it comes to all the aches and pains a fella can pick up workin’ with cows, I reckon I know as much about ’em as any sawbones would. Besides, the foot’s considerable better already. It’ll be back to normal by tomorrow, I expect. In the meantime, again no offense . . . but what in blazes are you folks doin’ up here?” Hamp looked at Stovepipe and Wilbur. “And who are these two rannihans?”

  “This is Stovepipe Stewart and Wilbur Coleman,” said Dan. “They helped me out when—” He stopped short and frowned. “Has anybody from headquarters been up here in the past few days, Hamp?”

  “Nope. Ain’t seen hide nor hair of anybody ’cept each other for nigh on to a week.”

  “That means you don’t know what happened,” said Laura. “Mr. Jones, I need help from you and Mr. Bartlett.”

  “Anything we can do, ma’am,” said Hamp. “You know that. You’re the boss’s wife.”

  “Actually, she’s the boss,” said Stovepipe as he caught on to what the conversation meant. “Somebody murdered Mr. Dempsey and is liable to come after the lady next, but we mean to keep her safe and round up the polecat who done it.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Hamp stared at them goggle-eyed for a couple of seconds before bursting out, “Murdered! The boss? Good Lord! What happened?”

  “We don’t know yet,” said Dan. “That’s what we want to find out. Stovepipe and Wilbur are giving me a hand with that. But we need someplace safe for Mrs. Dempsey to stay so nothing will happen to her while we’re investigating.”

  “You don’t reckon anybody’d think to look for her up here?”

  “That’s what we’re hoping.”

  Hamp nodded and said, “Sounds like a good idea to me.” He looked at Laura. “Ma’am, the conditions are plumb primitive and I’m a mite embarrassed that you’ll have to put up with a couple of old rapscallions like Charley and me, but we’d be honored to have you stay here for a spell. Got plenty of supplies on hand, and we can sleep in the shed around back with the horses so’s you can have the cabin to yourself.”

  “I hate to put you out—” Laura began.

  “Shoot, no, don’t give it another thought. Light down from that buckboard and come on in. I got a mess o’ beans cookin’. Figured since I was stuck here today I might as well put the time to good use, and Charley said he’d ride in for lunch instead of takin’ his grub with him. He ought to be showin’ up pretty soon. You other fellas are welcome to grab a surroundin’, too.”

  “Mister, you don’t know how good that sounds to me,” said Wilbur as he swung down from the dun’s saddle.

  “Yeah, ol’ Wilbur here was about to have a fadin’ spell from hunger,” added Stovepipe with a grin.

  Hamp hadn’t mentioned it, but he also had a pan of corn bread cooking, and there was still coffee in the pot. The smells inside the line shack were heavenly at the m
oment, although as the abode of two rough-and-ready cowboys, the place didn’t really resemble anything to be found on the other side of the pearly gates.

  A few minutes after everyone had gone inside, making the cabin rather crowded, Stovepipe heard a rider approaching. The swift rataplan of hoofbeats told him that the newcomer was in a hurry. He stepped into the open doorway with his Winchester in his hands.

  “Who is it?” asked Dan. He was standing beside the rough-hewn table where Laura had taken a seat in an old ladderback chair.

  “Stocky fella with a gray mustache,” Stovepipe reported.

  “That’d be Charley,” Hamp said from the potbellied stove, where he was stirring the pot of beans.

  Dan went to the door and looked out past Stovepipe. He said, “That’s Charley Bartlett, all right. He must have seen the buckboard and the strange horses and figured something was going on.”

  Dan stepped out where Charley could see him and waved to let the elderly puncher know that everything was all right. Charley slowed his horse and finished crossing the pasture at an easy trot.

  “Dan, what’re you doin’ up here?” he asked as he reined in. “And who’s this?”

  “Charley, meet Stovepipe Stewart, a friend of mine,” said Dan. Solemnly, he continued, “There’s trouble down at headquarters. Mr. Dempsey was shot and killed a couple of days ago.”

  Charley let fly with a startled oath.

  “What in blazes happened, Dan?” he asked. “Who done it?”

  “We don’t know.” Dan lowered his voice and added in a flinty tone, “But we’re damned sure going to find out.”

  Charley dismounted and came inside, where Dan introduced him to Wilbur and then told him the story they had made up on the fly earlier with Hamp. Charley was in firm agreement that Laura should stay at the line shack and added his pledge to protect her from anyone who tried to harm her.

  “It really means a lot to me that you two feel like that,” she told the old cowboys.