The Range Detectives

by William W. Johnstone

  “Unless they doubled back somehow,” one of the other men said.

  “They’re probably up there waitin’ to ambush us,” another outlaw put in.

  “Damn it!” grated Benning. “Are the whole lot of you turning yellow? Go on. I’ll tell Rawson how you gave up the chase.”

  That got the men moving again. Stovepipe heard the horses start along the trail.

  He crawled higher until he could see them. Three men, riding single file as he had figured, and the third and last man in line was just passing beneath the looming edge of the stone slab.

  Stovepipe didn’t pause to ponder the situation. This might well be the best chance he would get, so he seized it.

  He stood up and launched himself from the top of the rock in a dive that sent him plummeting toward the third outlaw.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Stovepipe crashed into the man and knocked him sideways in the saddle. The outlaw managed to stay mounted instead of falling off. Stovepipe perched on the back of the suddenly panicky mount, just behind the saddle. He wrapped his left arm around the man’s neck and pulled the ivory-handled Colt with his right hand.

  He had thought to wallop the outlaw on the head with the gun, but before he could do that, the hombre’s trigger-happy companions whirled their horses and opened fire. Stovepipe felt the third outlaw’s body jerk under the impacts as bullets thudded into it.

  Stovepipe thrust his revolver under the man’s arm and triggered a shot at the second man in line. The bullet drove deep in his chest. The man threw up his arms and pitched off his horse to the side, landing in a clump of cactus. From his lack of reaction to being speared with hundreds of sharp needles, Stovepipe had a hunch the outlaw was already dead.

  That left the man who had been in the lead, and he was cussing up a storm as he emptied his gun at Stovepipe. Having a prisoner to question—and to use as a hostage—struck Stovepipe as a good idea, so he drew a quick bead on the fella’s shoulder as he pulled the trigger again.

  Unfortunately, the horse he was on jittered to the side just then, as did the leader’s mount, and as a result Stovepipe’s bullet struck the man in the throat. The man rocked back in the saddle as blood sprayed from severed arteries in a grisly fountain. He made a ghastly gurgling noise, then collapsed forward over his horse’s neck. He stayed in the saddle, but the distinctive coppery smell of fresh blood flooding from his wound completely unnerved the horse. Pitching and bucking, it lunged off into the brush and screamed in pain as briars and thorns raked its hide.

  Stovepipe let go of the man he’d been holding, who fell limply to the trail. He had been shot to pieces by his overeager compadres.

  The whole ruckus had taken less than half a minute, but it had filled the canyon with resounding echoes from all the gun-thunder. Stovepipe knew the other outlaws searching for him and Wilbur had heard the shots and would be heading in this direction as quickly as they could through the thick brush.

  At least there were three fewer varmints trying to kill them now, he thought bleakly.

  Stovepipe left the horses and bodies where they were and raced along the trail to rejoin Wilbur.

  The redhead, holding his rifle, came out from the trees to greet his old friend. He said, “Dadgum it, Stovepipe, I heard all that shooting and figured you’d been ventilated for sure.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you,” Stovepipe said dryly. “But we got three less polecats who’re tryin’ to kill us now.”

  Wilbur let out a low, admiring whistle and said, “That’s pretty handy gun-work.”

  “Some of it was pure luck. In fact, it seems like me wantin’ to take one of those fellas prisoner is just pure-dee jinxed. They keep windin’ up dead no matter what I do.”

  “We can worry about that later. Come on back in the trees. I want to show you what I’ve found.”

  That sounded intriguing, to say the least. Stovepipe followed Wilbur into the trees at the base of the rim where the Appaloosa and the dun were tied.

  A crack in the cliff that wasn’t visible from farther out in the canyon formed a steeply sloping passage that led toward the top of the rim. Stovepipe eyed it and said, “You reckon it goes all the way up?”

  “I don’t know, but it’s wide enough for our horses and there’s only one way to find out.”

  Stovepipe knew his old friend was right. They went back to get the horses, then started up the fissure. Like the passage in the badlands through which Dan Hartford had led them several days earlier, this one was barely big enough for the horses to fit through. So much violent activity had been crammed into the time since then that it seemed like weeks ago they had made that trek with Dan, instead of mere days, Stovepipe reflected.

  That made him think about Dan sitting there in the jail at Hat Creek, waiting for his trial and an almost inevitable date with the hangman. Unless Stovepipe and Wilbur could come up with some proof of who really killed Abel Dempsey, the young man probably was doomed.

  “You know if this crack peters out, we’ll have to try to back these hosses outta here,” Stovepipe commented.

  “Yeah, and if we do we’ll probably find the rest of that gang of killers waiting for us, just ready to fill us full of lead.”

  “That’s one good reason to keep goin’ as long as we can, I reckon.”

  The cleft had several bends in it. From above, it would form a zigzag pattern as it penetrated into the rim, Stovepipe knew. That came in handy, because the jutting rock shielded them from any shots coming from below.

  After a while, he heard voices. They were far off and distorted, so he couldn’t make out any of the words. He heard the angry tone, though, and figured the voices belonged to more of the rustlers who had found the hidden escape route.

  “You think they’ll come up after us?” asked Wilbur.

  “They’d be fools to. In a tight space like this, one fella could just about stand off an army.” Stovepipe thought about it, then went on, “They’re more likely to try to find some other way up so they can go around and be waitin’ for us at the top.”

  “We’d better hurry, then. If they manage to do that, we’d sure enough be caught like rats in a trap.”

  They couldn’t go much faster than they were already going, however. Stovepipe listened carefully as they neared the top but didn’t hear anything. Of course, that didn’t mean much, he mused. If any of the owlhoots were waiting up there, they’d be quiet about it, watching in silence as they trained their guns on the place where the passage opened onto the rim.

  Finally, that came into view. Stovepipe passed the Appaloosa’s reins back to Wilbur and told the redhead, “You wait here while I do some scoutin’.”

  “Don’t go and get yourself killed.”

  “I’ll sure try not to.”

  Stovepipe drew his gun as he cat-footed the final twenty feet. Crouching, he stepped out onto the rim and swept his keen-eyed gaze all around, seeing nothing except rocks, yucca plants, mesquite trees, and a few scrubby pines. The landscape was flat and open, without any good places to hide as far as he could see.

  “Come on up,” he called to Wilbur. “The coast is clear, as those seafarin’ boys say.”

  Wilbur emerged from the cleft leading the horses. He looked around and said, “Huh. I thought we were a lot farther away from the rim.”

  It had seemed like they followed the passage for several hundred yards, but now as they looked back toward the southwest, they saw that they were only about a hundred yards from the edge of the Mogollon Rim. The way the crack in the cliff had twisted and bent back on itself had caused them to travel that farther distance.

  “Come on,” said Stovepipe. “Let’s go have a look.”

  “From the top of the rim, you mean?”

  “That’s right.”

  “We might get spotted up here,” warned Wilbur.

  “Well, if we do, we’ve got the high ground now. I’d like to see anybody try to knock us off of it.”

  They mounted up and rode quickly to the
edge. They could see down into the canyon where they had taken refuge from the gang. Nothing appeared to be moving down there.

  “You reckon they lit a shuck?” asked Wilbur.

  “Might have.” Stovepipe took his spyglass from his saddlebags and extended the instrument. He swept it back and forth as he gazed through the lenses. After a moment he stopped as something out in the basin caught his interest.

  Wilbur must have noticed Stovepipe’s reaction. He asked, “What is it?”

  “Dust cloud headed this way,” Stovepipe replied. “Lemme see if I can focus in on the fellas causin’ it . . .”

  He focused the spyglass on the riders but couldn’t make out any details about them. Patiently, he waited until they came closer, then reported, “Looks like Bob Ridgewell and some of the crew from the HS Bar. I see Gene Hawkins and Bill Cunningham, too. Reckon when they heard all the shootin’ and then saw those hombres chargin’ us, they turned around and rattled their hocks back to the ranch headquarters to fetch help.”

  Wilbur snorted and said, “They took their own sweet time about getting here.”

  “Well, to be fair, it’s a pretty far ride. I figure they must have run into Ridgewell and the others on the way, ’cause they ain’t had time to get to headquarters and back.”

  “Yeah, I suppose. What about those rustlers?”

  “No sign of ’em. They must’ve pulled out. They could have spotted that bunch comin’ and figured our lives weren’t worth fightin’ them.” Stovepipe lowered the telescope, closed it, and stowed it away. “Wilbur, does the name Rawson mean anything to you?”

  “Rawson,” Wilbur repeated. “Rawson. Sounds familiar for some reason, but danged if I know why.”

  “Yeah, I felt the same way. I overheard those fellas I tangled with talkin’ before I jumped ’em, and from the way they were jawin’ with each other, this fella Rawson is the ramrod of the bunch. They made him sound like a bad hombre, too. I figure we’ve seen dodgers on him, sometime in the past.”

  “More than likely. Did they say anything else interesting?”

  Stovepipe chuckled and said, “Just that Rawson wants the two of us dead. We were on the right track when we were tryin’ to figure out why they dry-gulched poor Jonas Powell. They weren’t after the cattle we’ve been combin’ outta the rough country. They just aimed to dry-gulch us.”

  “Us?”

  “You and me,” said Stovepipe, nodding gravely. “Killin’ us was more important to them than anything else right now. And you know what that tells me, Wilbur?”

  “What?”

  “We’re gettin’ too close to the truth for somebody’s comfort.” Stovepipe lifted his reins. “Let’s see if we can find a way down off this rim, so we can go meet Ridgewell and the rest of that bunch.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  They rode along the rim for half a mile before they found a wide coulee leading down into the basin. Once they were on the flats again, Stovepipe and Wilbur headed back toward the spot where they had seen the ranch crew approaching. It didn’t take long to find the group of riders from the HS Bar. Hawkins and Cunningham spurred out to meet them, accompanied by Bob Ridgewell.

  “Wasn’t sure we’d ever see you boys again, unless it was at your buryin’,” said the ever-mournful Cunningham as they all drew rein.

  “It came pretty close to that,” said Stovepipe. “They had us in a real bind for a while. Thanks to Wilbur, we got out of it.”

  Ridgewell said, “Gene and Bill tell me that Jonas Powell was shot. Is he dead?”

  “I’m afraid so. Somebody drilled him from the top of the rim while he was watchin’ over the cows the rest of us had combed out of the canyons.”

  “Is that right?” The foreman glared suspiciously at them. “You have any proof of that? Hawkins and Cunningham said they saw you kneeling over his body. For all any of us know, one of you killed Powell!”

  “Blast it, that’s not true,” said Wilbur. “We weren’t anywhere close by when we heard that shot. We were up north along the rim, looking for strays just like we were supposed to be doing. We got back to the pasture where Powell was shot just a couple of minutes before Hawkins and Cunningham did.”

  “And whoever bushwhacked Powell took some potshots at us, too,” added Stovepipe. “They durned near ventilated Wilbur, and I got a bullet hole in my vest to prove what I’m sayin’.”

  He lifted his vest and stuck a finger through the hole to demonstrate.

  “That doesn’t prove anything,” said Ridgewell with a shake of his head. “You could have gotten that hole in your vest any time.”

  Gene Hawkins said slowly, “I’m not sure about that, Bob. I don’t remember seein’ it there before.”

  “And it looked to me like they was tryin’ to help Jonas,” put in Cunningham. “They was just too late to do anything for him.”

  Wilbur nodded and said, “That’s the way it happened, all right.”

  Ridgewell didn’t seem convinced, and neither did the other members of the crew, some of whom still bore bruises from the brawl in the bunkhouse the night before. Several of them glared at Stovepipe and Wilbur as if they were ready to string the two of them up from the nearest tree.

  The word of Hawkins and Cunningham must have carried some weight with the foreman, however, because he grudgingly said to Stovepipe and Wilbur, “All right, I’ll listen to your story. Start from the beginning.”

  Stovepipe did so, explaining everything that had gone on since he’d heard the shot that killed Jonas Powell. Wilbur added a detail from time to time.

  When they were finished, Ridgewell said, “If you’re telling the truth, Stewart, the bodies of the men you killed ought to still be in that canyon.”

  “Maybe,” said Stovepipe. “Maybe not. Their pards could’ve taken the carcasses with them.”

  “Let’s go take a look anyway. What happened to the rest of that bunch you claim was trying to kill you?”

  “Seems like they lit a shuck, prob’ly when they spotted you boys comin’. They didn’t want to stay and fight a pitched battle.”

  Ridgewell let out a skeptical grunt and turned his horse.

  “Show me that canyon,” he said.

  It didn’t take long for Stovepipe and Wilbur to locate the canyon through which they had fled from the gang. Ridgewell told most of the men to wait outside and keep their eyes open in case of further trouble, then he, Hawkins, and Cunningham followed the two range detectives along the twisting trail through the brush.

  Ridgewell let out an oath as a briar scratched him, then said, “I hate this stuff. Why the cattle are stupid enough to wander up in here, I’ll never understand.”

  “Cows ain’t the smartest critters el Señor Dios put on this earth, that’s sure true,” said Stovepipe, “but I reckon there are some dumber ones.”

  “Yeah, like grub line–riding cowpokes,” Wilbur agreed dourly.

  They came to the rocks where Stovepipe had jumped the third outlaw. The man’s body was gone, as was the hombre who had fallen in the cactus after Stovepipe shot him. There was no sign of their horses, either.

  That was about what Stovepipe had expected. The rustlers had taken their dead with them. Except . . .

  Since Stovepipe had reined in, the others had followed suit. Bob Ridgewell said, “I reckon this must be where you claim to have shot it out with those owlhoots.” The way he phrased that comment made it clear he wasn’t convinced Stovepipe and Wilbur had been telling the truth.

  “Hold on a minute,” said Stovepipe as he lifted a hand. “There was a third man. His horse spooked and went buckin’ off into the brush. I thought I heard somethin’ . . . Yeah, over yonder!”

  He pointed. The other men sat up straighter in their saddles as they listened. Something was moving around in the brush, all right. Stovepipe hoped it was the other horse, drawn by the sound of human voices.

  Ridgewell frowned at the thorny brush and said, “I reckon we’d better check it out.”

  “Or wait for the
hoss to come to us,” suggested Stovepipe. He whistled, thinking that might attract the animal even more. A lot of horses were trained to come to a whistle.

  The noises in the brush got louder, and a few moments later, a big chestnut pushed through the growth and stepped onto the trail. Blood from hundreds of scratches covered its sleek hide. The dead rider still slumped forward in the saddle, arms dangling loosely on either side of the horse. The man’s clothes were ripped to shreds by the brush.

  Stovepipe was a little surprised the body hadn’t caught on something sturdy enough to drag it out of the saddle. He was glad that hadn’t happened, though. The corpse was bloody evidence of what he and Wilbur had told Ridgewell.

  “That fella’s sure enough dead,” said Hawkins. “Just like you claimed, Stovepipe.”

  Still wearing a frown, Ridgewell nudged his horse closer to the scratched-up mount. He reached out, grasped the dead man’s hair, and lifted his head.

  “I don’t recognize the hombre,” he said. “How about the rest of you?”

  “Never seen him before,” said Cunningham.

  “Me, neither, Bob,” said Hawkins.

  Stovepipe said, “And the only time I ever saw him was when he was shootin’ at me a little while ago. The fellas who packed the other two bodies away from here couldn’t find this hombre. They might not have even realized he was missin’ until they were long gone from here.”

  Ridgewell let the man’s head down and said, “This doesn’t prove you didn’t shoot Powell, but it makes me more inclined to believe your story. This fella didn’t have any reason to be on HS Bar range. Doesn’t mean he was up to no good, but he sure looks the type.”

  “You can see his holster’s empty,” Stovepipe pointed out. “If we look around, we might find the gun he dropped when my slug hit him in the throat.”

  “That’s a bloody way to go,” said Ridgewell with a grimace.

  The gun didn’t turn up, but that didn’t mean anything. It was lying somewhere in the thick brush, and it might stay there until it rusted away. After a few minutes, the men rode back out of the canyon. Hawkins led the horse carrying the body.