The Range Detectives

by William W. Johnstone

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Stovepipe spent a nervous ten minutes driving the cattle south before he caught a glimpse of a familiar figure on horseback several hundred yards away. The rider was pushing some cows along a course that would intercept his. Figuring that Wilbur had spotted him, too, Stovepipe took off his hat and waved it over his head. Wilbur returned the signal, and both men hurried on.

  When they came together a few minutes later, Wilbur greeted Stovepipe by saying, “I reckon you heard that shot a little while ago, too.”

  “I sure did. Was a mite worried that it could’ve been aimed at you.”

  Wilbur shook his head and said, “No, it came from farther down along the rim, I think. I wasn’t sure it was anything to worry about, but I didn’t figure it would hurt to check it out.”

  “Same here,” said Stovepipe. “One of the other fellas could’ve killed a rattler, I reckon, since there was only one shot and there are plenty of the scaly varmints around.”

  “That’s the most likely explanation,” Wilbur said with a nod.

  Neither man looked like he really believed that, however. They pooled the cattle they had been driving and continued toward the big pasture.

  A short time later, as they were drawing closer to their destination, Stovepipe suddenly reined in and pointed.

  “Look there, Wilbur,” he said. “Over by those trees. Ain’t that a saddled hoss with no rider?”

  “It dang sure is,” snapped Wilbur. “It looks like the horse Jonas Powell was riding, too!”

  Wilbur was right. Powell’s mount was a black with a star on its face and one white stocking. From this distance, it appeared that description fit the animal they were looking at. They left the cattle they had been driving and heeled their horses into motion, galloping hard toward the riderless horse.

  A few moments later, Stovepipe was certain the horse belonged to Jonas Powell, or more likely to the HS Bar ranch, since many cowboys didn’t have personal mounts, using horses from the ranch’s remuda instead. The star-faced black was grazing peacefully, but he shied a little as Stovepipe and Wilbur raced up to it.

  Stovepipe swung down from the saddle, dropped his own reins, and caught those dangling from the black. He held tightly to them and ran his other hand over an irregular patch of something dark brown on the saddle.

  “Sticky,” he reported. “That’s blood, Wilbur.”

  The redhead loosed an oath.

  “Not much doubt about who that shot was aimed at now, is there?” he asked.

  Stovepipe mounted up quickly, and he and Wilbur rode on, leading Jonas Powell’s horse.

  It wasn’t long before they spotted a dark shape lying on the ground up ahead, underneath the spreading branches of a pine tree. Although the large splash of blood on Powell’s saddle made it unlikely, Stovepipe knew there was a chance the cowboy was still alive. He and Wilbur didn’t waste any time reaching the fallen man’s side.

  Stovepipe dismounted and dropped to a knee beside Powell, who was lying facedown. Gripping the man’s shoulders, Stovepipe carefully rolled him onto his back. Powell’s wide, sightlessly staring eyes immediately told Stovepipe that he was dead. The breast of Powell’s bib-front shirt was dark with dried blood in a large, ragged circle. Some of the blood had soaked into the ground where he had been lying, too.

  “Any powder burns around the wound?” asked Wilbur. His instincts and training were taking over.

  “Don’t look like it,” replied Stovepipe. “That sounded like a rifle we heard earlier, so I’m bettin’ he was shot from a distance.”

  Wilbur tipped his head back to gaze at the rimrock looming above them. He said, “From up there, more than likely. Powell never stood a chance.”

  “Drilled through the heart like that, he prob’ly never knew what hit him,” Stovepipe said. “I sort of hope so, anyway.”

  He put his hands on his knees and straightened, some of his joints popping a little as he did so. He looked out across the pasture to the west, where close to fifty head of cattle were grazing, undisturbed by the nearby presence of the dead man.

  “Whoever shot him, they didn’t try to run off those cows,” mused Stovepipe.

  “Maybe they just hadn’t gotten around to it yet. They probably saw some of us coming and going and knew we were around and would come to see about that shot.” Wilbur rubbed his chin and frowned in thought. “But if it was the rustlers, why gun down Powell and not try to steal the cattle—”

  Stovepipe leaped toward his friend, grabbed Wilbur’s shirt, and hauled him out of the saddle. Wilbur let out a startled squawk as he toppled to the ground. The sharp crack of a rifle served as a counterpoint to that exclamation, and it was followed instantly by the high-pitched whine of a slug traveling through the space where Wilbur had been a split second earlier.

  There were several trees nearby. Stovepipe jerked Wilbur to his feet and they scrambled for cover behind the trees. As they leaned against the rough-barked trunks, panting for breath, Stovepipe said grimly, “Bait.”

  “What?”

  “You asked how come they shot Powell. Bait to lure the rest of us in. I had just figured that out when I spotted sunlight winkin’ on a rifle barrel up yonder on the rim. Had time enough to grab you, but just barely.”

  Wilbur swallowed hard and said, “I reckon you saved my life, Stovepipe.”

  “More ’n likely,” agreed the lanky cowboy. “But you’ve saved my mangy ol’ hide plenty o’ times, too. I ain’t keepin’ count.”

  “Neither am I, but I don’t forget, either.” Wilbur drew his Colt and risked a peek past the trunk of the tree where he had taken shelter. “The range is too far for a handgun, blast it, but I feel like burning some powder anyway.”

  “Save your ammunition,” Stovepipe advised him. “We’re liable to need it later.”

  Wilbur cast a glance toward their horses. The Appaloosa and the dun were standing out in the open. Winchesters stuck up from the saddle boots.

  “Sure would like to get my hands on my rifle.”

  “Yeah, so would I, but those varmints ain’t taken any potshots at the horses yet, so let’s don’t give ’em any reason to by tryin’ to call ’em over.”

  Wilbur nodded, knowing that Stovepipe was right.

  Again, only one shot had been fired. Whoever was up there was patient. He had Stovepipe and Wilbur pinned down and could afford to wait.

  After a few moments, Wilbur said, “Hawkins and Cunningham are bound to have heard both of those shots.”

  “Yeah, and I reckon there’s a good chance they’re on their way here to see what it’s all about.”

  “That bushwhacker will cut them down.”

  “He will if he gets a chance. We can’t let ’em just ride up out in the open the way we did.”

  “You think the fella missed the shot at me on purpose?” asked Wilbur. “More bait?”

  Stovepipe shook his head and said, “Nope, he was aimin’ to part your hair with that slug, all right. It’s just good luck that he didn’t.”

  “And your reflexes,” Wilbur pointed out.

  Stovepipe chuckled and said, “Well, it was good luck that the two of us partnered up all them years ago, ain’t it?”

  “Not for all the owlhoots we’ve put behind bars or in the ground.”

  “Bad luck for owlhoots,” said Stovepipe. “I’ll take that description any day.”

  The sound of hoofbeats drumming toward them made both men look up. Gene Hawkins and Bill Cunningham must have met up on the trail the way Stovepipe and Wilbur had, because both of the older punchers were galloping toward them, side by side.

  Stovepipe pulled his Colt and fired three shots into the air, the universal signal for trouble. Normally, though, that would just prompt Hawkins and Cunningham to hurry toward them. To prevent that, now that he had their attention, Stovepipe pouched his iron, yanked the black hat off his head, and jumped out into the open. He waved the hat back and forth over his head and then motioned vigorously with it, try
ing to shoo the two riders away.

  The rifle cracked from the rimrock. Stovepipe felt a slug pluck at his vest. He whirled around and dived for the shelter of the trees. He had done what he could. It was up to Hawkins and Cunningham to understand the danger they were in.

  “They’re turning around and heading back the other way!” Wilbur exclaimed. “Are you ventilated, Stovepipe?”

  “Nope, I’m still all in one piece.” Stovepipe picked up the tail of his vest and fingered the bullet hole in it. “Gonna have to do a little mendin’, though, when I get a chance.”

  “That may not be too soon,” said Wilbur, and now he sounded worried again. “Looks like more trouble’s on the way!”

  Stovepipe looked up and saw at least a dozen riders thundering across the pasture toward them, bristling with guns.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Stovepipe hesitated for a couple of heartbeats, hoping the newcomers might be Bob Ridgewell and some of the other members of the HS Bar crew, drawn to the rim by the gunfire.

  That hope was dashed as the guns pointed at them by the riders began spouting flame and lead.

  “Come on, Wilbur!” Stovepipe called as he darted out from the shelter of the trees. “We gotta risk makin’ a run for it!”

  He heard a slug whine past his head as he dashed toward the Appaloosa. The black-and-white horse, who had been a steady mount for Stovepipe during all sorts of trouble, didn’t shy away but stood waiting for the lanky cowboy. Stovepipe grabbed the saddle horn and swung up onto the Palouse.

  A few yards away, Wilbur practically vaulted into the dun’s saddle. Both men had their horses moving before their feet even found the stirrups.

  They leaned forward to make themselves smaller targets as bullets continued to whistle around them. Caught between two fires this way, the odds against them escaping the trap were high. Neither man intended to give up, though. They would keep fighting to their last breath.

  “Hope Hawkins and Cunningham had the sense to hightail it outta these parts,” Stovepipe called over to Wilbur.

  “Maybe they’ll fetch some help!”

  “We could use it, that’s for dang sure!”

  Stovepipe couldn’t be certain, but he thought the shots from the rimrock had stopped. The bushwhacker probably didn’t have a good angle on him and Wilbur anymore.

  The men on horseback were still a threat, though, no doubt about that. As Stovepipe and Wilbur fled northward along the rim, the riders angled toward the escarpment. Their path would intersect that of the two range detectives.

  “They’re gonna cut us off, Stovepipe,” said Wilbur. “We’ll have to go up one of these canyons!”

  “Most of them don’t go anywhere,” Stovepipe pointed out as another bullet whistled over his head. “Only a few of ’em lead to the top of the rim.”

  “You got a better idea?” Wilbur asked over the drumming of their horses’ hooves.

  “Nope,” Stovepipe admitted. “Come on!”

  He swung the Appaloosa toward the mouth of the nearest canyon. This was one that Wilbur had combed for strays, not him, so he didn’t have any idea what they would find up there. Wilbur didn’t object, though, so Stovepipe figured the redhead thought it was as good a choice as any.

  The whole thing was a gamble, anyway, no matter what they did.

  The canyon mouth was clogged with stickery brush, but there were gaps in it. The two riders plunged into one of those gaps, first Wilbur and then Stovepipe. The gap turned into a twisting trail that weaved back and forth among the bushes and the clumps of cactus. Briar vines whipped and caught and raked at the men, tearing shirts and the skin underneath. Wilbur yelped a few times but kept riding. Stovepipe followed him in grim silence.

  At least the brush provided some concealment, as did the stunted trees that sprouted here and there. The growth wouldn’t stop very many bullets, but it disrupted the aim of the men trying to kill Stovepipe and Wilbur. Slugs rattled and clipped through the branches, but Stovepipe didn’t think they were coming as close as they had been.

  After a few minutes, the gunfire died away. Stovepipe heard loud, angry voices behind them. He decided that the pursuers had stopped at the canyon mouth. They sounded like they were arguing about what to do next.

  Wilbur looked back and said, “Some of them are going to follow us in here.”

  “More than likely,” agreed Stovepipe.

  “Maybe we should stop and set up a little ambush of our own. Give them a warm welcome.”

  “Not just yet,” Stovepipe decided. “Let’s keep movin’ for a while. We might find a way out of here.”

  They followed the canyon for what seemed like at least a mile before Stovepipe called a halt. They had little threads of blood on their faces and hands from numerous scratches. As they sat there listening intently, both men heard the distant sounds of riders forcing their way through the thicket of brush.

  “They’re coming after us, all right,” said Wilbur.

  “It’s worse than that.” Stovepipe pointed to his left, then his right. “I think I hear horses over yonder in both directions. They’ve split up. They’re combin’ the canyon for us, just like we did when we were chousin’ out those steers earlier.”

  “I reckon we’d better start looking for a good place to fort up, then.”

  In Wilbur’s voice was a tone of dour acceptance that they probably wouldn’t make it out of here alive. But they would go down fighting, taking as many of their enemies with them as they could.

  That resolve was cold comfort. No matter how much punishment they inflicted on the outlaws before they crossed the divide, dying here would mean they had failed at their job. That had never happened before, and the potential that it might now was a bitter pill to swallow.

  “Let’s push on a ways,” suggested Stovepipe. “I ain’t ready to give up yet.”

  “Neither am I.” Wilbur heeled the dun into motion.

  A short time later, the end of the canyon came into sight. It narrowed down and terminated in a steep cliff riven with cracks. A mountain goat could climb that cliff. A man might be able to, if he had strong muscles and icy nerves. A horse couldn’t, in a million years. Stovepipe and Wilbur weren’t likely to abandon their mounts to the outlaws. Besides, if they tried to make that climb, men with rifles would be able to pick them off without much trouble before they reached the top.

  Trees grew thickly at the base of the cliff. Stovepipe pointed to them and said, “Take the horses over there, Wilbur. Those trees should be pretty good cover.”

  “What are you gonna be doing?” Wilbur wanted to know.

  Stovepipe pointed to some slabs of rock that lay in a haphazard arrangement next to the narrow trail through the brush and said, “I thought I’d find me a hidey-hole and wait for the varmints to go past. That way I’ll be behind ’em. Might be able to whittle down the odds a little.”

  “Not enough to do much good, more than likely.”

  “There you go, bein’ a pestimist again.”

  “But any time you whittle on something, you’ve got to start somewhere, I suppose,” Wilbur went on as if Stovepipe hadn’t said anything. “Give me your reins.”

  Stovepipe dismounted and handed the Appaloosa’s reins to Wilbur. Then he began climbing into the jumble of rocks while Wilbur rode on toward the cliff, leading the Palouse.

  Stovepipe kept a close eye out for rattlesnakes as he clambered among the rocks. The scaly critters loved to den up in places like this, and just about the last thing he needed right now was to have a sidewinder sink its fangs in him.

  He worked his way through the rocks until he was no longer in sight of the trail, then looked around for a likely spot to wait for the pursuit to catch up to them. He crawled up the slanting face of one of the stone slabs, took his hat off, and chanced a look.

  He could see the trail from where he was. In fact, it passed about ten feet below him. None of the outlaws were in sight yet, but he heard the clopping of hoofbeats against the rocky ground a
s they approached.

  Stovepipe slid back down where they couldn’t see him and waited. He knew he would be able to tell by listening when they had passed him. Chances were, the pursuers were riding single file on the narrow trail, just as he and Wilbur had been forced to. Stovepipe thought maybe he could jump the last man in line and then get the drop on the others before they knew what was happening.

  Of course, this was just one group. There were others searching the canyon. But as Stovepipe had once heard a lawman acquaintance of his say, it was usually best to eat an apple one bite at a time.

  The hoofbeats got louder, then abruptly stopped. Stovepipe frowned. From the sound of it, the riders were just on the other side of the rock where he was waiting. Had they spotted him somehow, or otherwise figured out he was up here?

  Apparently, that wasn’t the case. They had stopped just to rest their horses and palaver a mite. One of the men said, “Damn, it’s hot in here.”

  “I don’t reckon there’s an inch of exposed skin that don’t have a scratch on it,” added another. “How long are we gonna chase those drifters, Benning?”

  “Until we catch them and kill them,” responded a third man. “You know what Rawson said. He doesn’t like the way they keep showing up every time something happens. He thinks they want to horn in on our game, and he wants ’em dead. If you want to go against what Rawson says . . .”

  “I never said that,” one of the other men replied hastily. His uneasy tone didn’t leave much doubt that he was afraid of the man called Rawson.

  Stovepipe frowned as he listened. From the sound of what they were saying, this hombre Rawson was the gang’s head man. The name was vaguely familiar to Stovepipe. Given his line of work, it was likely he had seen it on a wanted poster sometime in the past. Beyond that, though, he couldn’t place it.

  “All right, let’s get moving,” continued Benning. “This canyon runs out pretty soon. They can’t have gone much farther.”