The Range Detectives

by William W. Johnstone

  “Hold on a minute,” he said.

  “Gladly,” replied Wilbur. He was red in the face from heat and exertion.

  “You got any moisture in your dirt over there?”

  “Let me check.” Wilbur got down on his knees and reached into the hole. He picked up some of the sandy dirt and let it run through his fingers. “Not a bit. It’s as dry as it was on top.”

  Stovepipe turned his head, narrowed his eyes, and squinted toward the rim. He studied the vegetation, then said, “Come around here and dig on this side with me.”

  “What in blazes is going on in that head of yours, Stovepipe?”

  “I ain’t sure yet. Maybe nothin’.” Stovepipe grinned. “Or maybe I’m just sunstruck.”

  Wilbur blew out his breath and said, “I wouldn’t doubt it. As tall as you are, your head’s practically on the sun’s front porch to start with.”

  He moved around to the north side of the hole and he and Stovepipe worked for a few minutes extending the excavation in that direction. After throwing aside one shovelful of dirt, Stovepipe paused and said, “Lookee there.”

  A tiny, almost invisible trickle of water was seeping out of the side of the hole they had dug.

  Wilbur hunkered on his heels and frowned.

  “Usually a water hole fills in from the bottom, not the side,” he said.

  “It does if it’s spring fed,” said Stovepipe. “I got a hunch this one ain’t.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Come on.”

  They climbed out of the water hole and Stovepipe pointed toward the rim.

  “See anything?” he asked. “Look at the plants growin’ between here and the rim. Notice any difference in some of ’em?”

  For a long moment, Wilbur stared at the landscape in evident confusion, then he seemed surprised.

  “There’s a line of growth that’s thicker and looks healthier,” he said. “That’s what you’re talking about, isn’t it?”

  “Yep. And it runs from the rim right here to this water hole.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means there’s an underground stream flowin’ through here—or there was. It fed that water hole, then probably plunged deeper below the surface, which would explain why one side of the hole is dryer than the other. But somethin’ happened. The stream’s peterin’ out. That’s why the water hole looks like the dang Sahara desert. We’d likely get more water if we dug deeper, but I got a hunch it wouldn’t be enough to fill the pool that used to be there.”

  “And what does all that mean, exactly?” asked Wilbur.

  Stovepipe gazed toward the rim and said, “I don’t know.”

  “Oh, I recognize that look! Something’s intrigued you, and you’ll move heaven and earth to figure out the answer.”

  “I don’t know if I’d go that far, but I’ll admit I’m a mite puzzled. From what Bob said, the ranch has been usin’ this water hole for a good while. That means it’s been a dependable supply of water. Somethin’s happened to change that, and I’d like to know what it is.” Stovepipe nodded toward the rim. “The answer’s got to be in that direction.”

  “Well, then, let’s mosey that way and take a look, cowboy.”

  “Just my thinkin’,” Stovepipe agreed.

  They carried the shovels back to their horses and paused long enough to wipe their sweat-covered faces with bandannas and take long drinks from their canteens. Then they mounted up and rode toward the Mogollon Rim, following the line of greener vegetation that Stovepipe theorized marked the course of an underground stream.

  That led them to a beetle-browed bluff with a precarious look to it, as if the bulging rock face was poised up there, ready to fall at the slightest disturbance. In reality, it might have been like that for hundreds of years, thought Stovepipe, but the formation certainly had a threatening appearance to it.

  “Dang it, Stovepipe,” said Wilbur, “you know what that bluff looks a little like?”

  “Yeah,” said Stovepipe. “A big ol’ skull.”

  Wilbur rolled his eyes and asked, “Would it have hurt you to let me say it?”

  “Sorry, Wilbur. I thought it was a genuine question.”

  “Well, never mind that. If there really is an underground river, it comes out from under that bluff, don’t you think?”

  “I reckon it used to,” said Stovepipe. “Now, I ain’t so sure.”

  “What could have happened to interrupt its flow?”

  “Let’s take a closer look and see if we can find out.”

  As they approached the bluff, Stovepipe saw a line of thick brush along its base. He noticed something else as well: hoofprints. Bob Ridgewell had indicated that none of the HS Bar hands had been up to this isolated part of the ranch for a while, so that was puzzling.

  Wilbur saw the same thing and said with excitement creeping into his voice, “We’re onto something here, Stovepipe.”

  “Seems like it.” Stovepipe reached for his Winchester and drew the repeater from its saddle scabbard. He levered a round into the chamber. “Best be ready for trouble.”

  Wilbur followed suit. The tracks led toward the wall of brush. As they came closer, Stovepipe said, “Some of those bushes are dying, Wilbur.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “That they’ve been pulled up and put here to hide somethin’ behind ’em.”

  In fact, the bushes concealed a rather large opening, thought Stovepipe, and within minutes he and Wilbur had confirmed that as their horses pushed through the brush. The looming face of the bluff overhung a cavelike area that turned into the mouth of a tunnel not visible to casual observers.

  Stovepipe reined in and motioned for Wilbur to do likewise. He threw his right leg over the saddle and slid to the ground, rifle in hand. He told Wilbur, “Stay here. I’m gonna have me a look-see.”

  “The hell you say. I’m coming with you.”

  Stovepipe shook his head.

  “Nope. You need to be out here in case I don’t come back. If that happens, you ride for Hat Creek and bring back Sheriff Olsen and a posse. My life may depend on it.”

  “Blast it, Stovepipe, I don’t like it. I think we ought to stick together—”

  “Not this time,” Stovepipe declared. “I’ll be all right.” He flashed a grin. “I’ve never got myself in a scrape you couldn’t pull me out of, have I?”

  “No, I suppose not,” Wilbur said gruffly. “All right. But you be careful in there. How long do I wait for you to come back?”

  Stovepipe glanced at the sky. A couple of hours of daylight remained.

  “If I ain’t back by nightfall, you light a shuck for town. You can find this place again, can’t you?”

  “Of course I can. And if I have to go for help, I’ll be back by dawn.” Wilbur hesitated. “That’s a long time, though. An awful lot could happen before then.”

  “Yep. I might have the whole gang corralled by then.”

  Wilbur snorted and said, “Just make sure they don’t corral you.”

  With a grin and a wave, Stovepipe moved under the sinisterly looming rocks and headed for the tunnel.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  The area underneath the rock face wasn’t really a cave, because it was open at both ends, but it might as well have been. With all the countless tons of earth and stone above his head, Stovepipe certainly felt like he was underground before he had gone very far.

  With the time of day being what it was, light from the westering sun penetrated the area and allowed Stovepipe to see that the hooves of many horses and cattle had disturbed the dust. That was enough to tell him that his hunch was right, but he wanted to see what was up ahead with his own eyes.

  He entered the tunnel, which was about forty feet wide. The ceiling was high enough for a man on horseback, as long as he wasn’t too tall. Stovepipe thought he might have to bend over some in the saddle for his head to clear, but Wilbur wouldn’t have any trouble with it. When he told his old friend and partner what
he’d found in here, he might refrain from pointing that out, since from time to time Wilbur had been known to be a mite sensitive about his lack of height.

  The gloom around him thickened as he penetrated deeper into the bluff. There was still enough light for him to see where he was going, but eventually that faded away. If men traveled regularly through this passage, they probably carried torches with them. That would explain the dark smudges he had noted on the roof of the tunnel when he could still see it. The marks came from the smoke of the torches the gang used.

  Stovepipe had no doubt whatsoever that he and Wilbur had found the hideout the rustlers were using. Depending on what lay at the end of this tunnel, it might be the best one yet, a headquarters that would serve them for the rest of the time they were operating in the Tonto Basin.

  And Stovepipe had a feeling that that time might soon be drawing to a close. If his theory was right, the hidden goal behind the plot had been achieved already. More than likely there would be a few more moves in the game, just for appearances’ sake, but not many.

  With the darkness thick around him, Stovepipe pressed forward. He had to move slowly now, since he couldn’t see where he was going. He thought it unlikely that there were any pits or crevasses up ahead, since from all indications riders used this passage frequently, but he couldn’t be sure about that. He probed carefully with each step before he committed his weight to it.

  With no warning, he bumped into something and jerked back. A quick exploration with an outstretched hand told him he had run into an irregular stone wall. Either the tunnel had come to an end— which was difficult for him to believe, considering the circumstances—or else it had turned. A bend was the more reasonable explanation. He carried the Winchester in his right hand while he rested the left lightly against the wall and kept going.

  After several more steps, he saw a point of light in front of him. It was small, and if it marked the other end of the tunnel, as it seemed to Stovepipe that it must, it was still a considerable distance away. He moved toward it, eager to see what was out there.

  The light steadily grew bigger as he approached. He could see the walls of the tunnel now, as well as the dust on the floor, which still showed the marks of numerous hooves. Impatience tried to prod Stovepipe into a trot, but he maintained his slow, cautious pace. It was possible, even likely, that the gang had a guard posted at the entrance to the tunnel.

  When he was this close to the answers he needed, he didn’t want to ruin everything by blundering into trouble.

  He stopped about ten feet short of the opening. From here he could see that the tunnel led to a broad, steep-walled canyon that had been carved into the rim in ages past. Enough grass grew out there for cattle to graze on it. If there was water in the canyon, it would make a perfect hideout for a gang of rustlers. He had a hunch the underground stream that usually fed the water hole originated in this hidden spot, only it flowed on the surface here. The outlaws might have dammed it up to form a small lake. That would explain why the water hole had gone dry the way it had.

  That was pure speculation at this point, though, so Stovepipe edged forward to try to confirm it without exposing himself to the gaze of any sentries outside.

  He stiffened as he heard the clatter of hoofbeats coming from behind him. Riders were in the tunnel. Wilbur wouldn’t have brought the horses into the passage, so it had to be someone else coming toward him. The only ones who knew about this tunnel other than the two of them were the outlaws.

  Stovepipe pressed himself against the rough stone wall and looked back toward the bend. He thought he saw light flickering beyond it. That meant one of the riders was carrying a torch. They couldn’t fail to see him as they moved on through the tunnel.

  That meant he had to risk going out into the canyon, sentries or no sentries.

  Once his mind was made up on a course of action, he acted quickly, as always. He hurried to the tunnel mouth and paused briefly to look out. A flash of late-afternoon sunlight reflecting on water to his left confirmed his guess about the outlaws forming a lake by damming up the stream that ran through the canyon.

  More important, Stovepipe spotted a thick clump of brush not far from the entrance. He dashed to it and pushed through the branches, ignoring the thorns that scratched at him. Turning back toward the tunnel, he dropped down to one knee and then waited, silent and motionless.

  Nobody shot at him, and no cries of alarm sounded. Was it possible the rustlers felt so confident in the security of their hideout that they hadn’t posted a guard on the tunnel? Stovepipe supposed it was. The place was well hidden, after all.

  The question now was whether Wilbur had spotted the outlaws coming in time to duck out of sight. Stovepipe hoped that had been the case. But he was definitely worried as he waited for the riders to appear.

  Two men on horseback emerged from the tunnel. Stovepipe could see them through a small gap in the branches. He didn’t recognize either of the riders.

  The next face he saw was familiar, though, and the sight made his heart sink for a second before his natural determination and optimism asserted themselves. Wilbur rode behind the first two men, hatless, his face scratched and bruised from a struggle. He looked angry, but he didn’t appear to be badly hurt, so Stovepipe was thankful for that, anyway.

  Two more members of the gang, men with hard, angular faces, followed Wilbur, their guns drawn. Stovepipe had no doubt they would shoot the redhead down if Wilbur made a break for it. Evidently they preferred to keep him a prisoner, though, instead of killing him out of hand. They probably wanted to question him.

  Stovepipe didn’t see any sign of his Appaloosa. Wilbur might have sent the Palouse running off before he was captured. It was possible the outlaws didn’t know anyone else had discovered their hideout.

  That might give him at least a little chance to salvage this situation, thought Stovepipe.

  Nobody else rode out of the tunnel. The odds were pretty bad anyway—four to one—but Stovepipe knew they would get even worse if he allowed the four men to take Wilbur to their headquarters. He had to act now if he was going to. At least he had the element of surprise on his side.

  He eased forward, trying not to make too many crackling sounds in the brush.

  The two men with guns in their hands were the most immediate threat. Stovepipe waited until they had ridden past his position, then stepped out of the bushes. He probably could have shot both men off their horses before they knew what was going on, but gunning a man from behind was cold-blooded murder as far as Stovepipe was concerned.

  Besides, he didn’t want the racket of any gunshots to alert the rest of the gang that something was going on.

  Instead he leaped up, grabbed the shirt of the unsuspecting outlaw on the left, and hauled him out of the saddle. At the same time, he swung the Winchester at the other man bringing up the rear and cracked the rifle’s barrel across the side of his head.

  The man Stovepipe had unhorsed let out a startled yell. The one he’d walloped was out cold and didn’t make a sound as he toppled off his horse. Stovepipe pivoted and kicked the first man in the head, stretching him out unconscious on the ground.

  If he and Wilbur could get away without the rustlers knowing their hideout had been discovered, thought Stovepipe, they could lead Sheriff Olsen and a posse back here, bottle up the gang, and put an end to all the trouble in the Tonto Basin.

  Yeah, that was all he wanted.

  That wry thought flashed through his mind as he lifted the rifle. At the same time, Wilbur spurred his dun forward. The sturdy mount crashed shoulder to shoulder with one of the horses in front. Both horses and riders went down in a welter of flailing arms and legs.

  Stovepipe leveled the Winchester at the remaining mounted outlaw just as the man touched the butt of the gun on his hip. The rustler’s draw froze right there. Stovepipe had the drop on him, and he knew it.

  But then a grin spread across his beard-stubbled face. He said, “You can’t afford a shot, can yo
u, mister? If that rifle goes off, you’ll have the rest of us coming down on you like a ton of bricks.”

  “Not before we can get out of here,” said Stovepipe grimly, “and you’ll be just as dead either way.”

  That was true, and the outlaw knew it. He grimaced, but he didn’t pull his gun.

  A few yards away, Wilbur was on top of the other rustler, his fist rising and falling to land with solid thuds. The scrappy redhead could brawl like an hombre twice his size. The man he was battling with went limp. Wilbur pushed himself to his feet.

  “Sorry, Stovepipe,” he began. “They snuck up on me before I knew they were there—”

  That was as far as he got before the fourth and final outlaw dived out of the saddle at him without warning. Stovepipe swung the Winchester in that direction, but he couldn’t shoot because now Wilbur was in the line of fire.

  The two men rolled over on the ground. The outlaw was behind Wilbur with an arm looped around his neck in a brutal chokehold. At the same time, Wilbur served as a human shield while the outlaw finally got his gun out. He shoved the barrel under Wilbur’s arm and triggered the weapon in Stovepipe’s direction.

  Stovepipe tried to throw himself out of the way, but something struck his head with the fury and force of a sledgehammer. He felt himself dropping the rifle and spinning off his feet. As he crumpled to the ground, he heard cursing and the sound of a struggle, then a man roared, “Gun him down! Don’t let him get away!”

  Gun-thunder slammed through the red chaos in Stovepipe’s head, and that was the last thing he knew.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  The first thing Stovepipe was aware of when he came to was pain. It filled his entire body, which at this point consisted only of his head since he couldn’t feel anything else. He felt the impulse to groan, but he stifled it.

  Somewhere far in the back of his head, stirring despite the pounding agony, was a small voice warning him not to reveal that he was awake.

  He had a few bad moments when he thought he was paralyzed, but then feeling began seeping back into his arms and legs and torso. He could tell he was lying on some rough surface, maybe the puncheon floor of a cabin. He remained absolutely motionless except for his shallow breathing.