Life on the frontier, lived recklessly, had made of Sloan a hard-bitten realist. If possible, he meant to make a clean getaway. First, he had to avoid being shot down by the raiders, and afterward to make a wide detour of the Blunt ranch in order not to be stopped by any of those hunting the Scarface depredators. In spite of his keen watchfulness against the immediate danger, he felt a sardonic amusement at the development of the situation. The foray of one band of rustlers had imperiled him; that of a much more malignant one had brought him rescue.
A stranger to the chaparral would have found difficulty in picking a way through the dense growth, but Sloan wound in and out without once pulling to a walk the cowpony he was astride. The yucca struck at his legs with points of steel. Strong spines of the cholla and the prickly pear seemed to be clutching for him. But he was so expert a brush rider that he could miss the needles by a hair’s breadth without slackening his pace.
Back of him he heard the firing of the guns drumming defiance. They told him that the first charge had been broken and that for the time at least the battle had settled down to a siege. Later Lopez’ men would probably get tired of that and try another attack in force unless a rescue party from the ranch interfered with them.
The noise of the explosions sounded fainter as the distance between him and the wash increased. He had been traveling back into a hill country, but after a time he pulled up to decide on a course. By now he must be well south of the Blunt place and could swing around it if he kept to the brush. There was no longer any danger of pursuit by the Mexicans. Whether they had seen him at all he did not know. If so, they had let him go and concentrated on the men in the wash. He guessed that after finding that they could not rub out Ranger’s party without loss they might drive the cattle away, not stopping to exterminate the owners. Sloan had heard that though Lopez was ruthless he liked to run as little risk as possible.
There was no longer any need of haste. The young man moved down into the flats, holding the buckskin to a walk. Technically he had become a horse thief, but that did not seem important at the moment. When he did not need the animal any longer he could turn it loose and it would return to the home ranch. The rifle he would keep, at least until he had reached a place of safety.
The sun had slid down close to the jagged horizon line. Inside of two hours darkness would sift down over the land. After that he would be in little danger. During the night he could get forty miles away from here. His plan had been to stay, for reasons he did not yet want to make public. But until he had cleared up this matter of the rustling that would be madness. Even before this mischance, he had known that every hour he spent here would be perilous.
He came to a road that cut through the mesquite, not a main-traveled one. It was narrow, and in places young brush had grown up in it. The wheel tracks were faint. Upon it the wilderness brush was encroaching. Grease-wood and ocatillo reached out across it and whipped at the flanks of his horse.
As he came into the road he heard the creaking of wheels and at once drew back into the chaparral where he would not be seen. A buggy came around the bend, driven by a boy of about fourteen. There was a hole in the lad’s straw hat and through it a tuft of red hair had pushed into the open. Beside him sat a girl several years older.
Cape Sloan had read of golden girls, but he had never before seen one that fitted the mental picture he had formed. This one had honey-colored hair twisted around her head in strands. Her eyes were deep sky blue, and her cheeks had a soft peach bloom. A slant of sunlight was pouring straight at her, as if a stage had been set to throw her young beauty into relief. She was laughing, and he glimpsed a double row of shining ivory teeth. Though slenderly modeled, there was promise of strength in her straightbacked supple body.
The buggy dipped into a draw and after it had disappeared Sloan took the road again and followed. Before he had gone fifty yards he heard a jangle of voices, a whoop of jeering laughter, and a boyish treble raised in frightened protest. Trouble of some sort, he decided, and was sure of it when the scream of a girl reached him.
Swiftly he rode to the top of the rise and looked down. He saw four men surrounding the buggy. The girl was in the arms of one of them, flung across the saddle in front of him.
“We take you to Pablo, señorita,” one of them called to her. “Maybe he hold you for a nice fat ransom. Or maybe——”
He finished the sentence with a ribald laugh. There was cruel gloating in the sound of it. Sloan knew that these men were not of the kindly smiling Mexicans who made a picturesque background to this desert land. They were members of the band of Pablo Lopez, the dregs of the wild turbulent borderland.
Sloan touched his mount with the spur and charged down the slope. He knew it was a mad business, but gave that no thought. During the two or three seconds while the horse pounded down the slope his mind moved in swift stabbing flashes. The boy’s head lay against the back of the seat. He had probably been pistol-whipped. That was a game two could play—if he ever got the chance.
One of the bandits turned, shouted a startled warning, and fired wildly at the man on the galloping horse. Another bullet whistled past the ears of Sloan. A third outlaw fired just as Sloan dragged his mount to a halt.
The rifle in Sloan’s hands swung up and crashed down on the head of the man who had first seen him. The rider went out of the saddle as slack as a pole-axed bullock. A second raider spurred his pony against the cyclonic stranger. A knife flashed in the sun. The head and body of Sloan swerved, but too late to escape entirely. A red hot flame ripped through his shoulder. He drew back the Winchester and fired it from his hip.
An agonized expression distorted the face of the attacker and the knife dropped from his hand to the sand. Widestretched fingers caught at his stomach. The muscles of his back collapsed and he slid head first to the ground.
Cape Sloan lifted his voice in a shout. “Come on, fellows. We’ve got ’em.”
The remaining two bandits wanted no more of this. One flung a hurried shot at Sloan and dragged his horse around to escape. The other dropped the girl and raced down the road at the heels of his fellow.
Sloan swung from the saddle, grounded the reins, and stepped forward to see how badly the boy was hurt. Groggily the lad stared at him.
“He hit me with a gun,” the boy explained, the world still swimming before his eyes.
The girl climbed into the buggy and put an arm around him. “Are you all right, Nels? I mean—are you much hurt, dear?”
Her brother felt his head gently. “Gee, I’ll say I am.”
Sloan examined the lump above the temple. It had been a fairly light tap. The skin was not broken and there was no blood. If there was no concussion Nelson had got off easily.
“He’ll have a headache, but I don’t think he is much hurt,” Sloan decided.
Cape had kept an eye on both of the prostrate bandits. Now he examined their wounds. The one he had shot was dead. His companion showed signs of life. Sloan stripped both of them of their weapons.
“Where are the other men—the ones you called?” the girl asked.
“There are no others.” Cape smiled. “Thought I’d encourage these scoundrels to light out before they had massacred me.”
“I haven’t seen you before, have I?” she said. “You don’t live around here.”
“My name is Cape Sloan.” He added, “I’m a stranger in these parts.”
The horse of one of the raiders was grazing close to the trace. No sign of the second one could be seen. The animal had probably run down the road after the departing outlaws.
Sloan unhitched the horse from the buggy and removed the harness. The girl’s eyes followed him as he moved.
“My name is Alexandra Ranger,” she said. “This is my brother Nelson. We live at the Circle J R ranch.”
“If your father is John Ranger I think I’ve met him,” Sloan answered, his eyes grim.
She looked down at the dead man and shuddered “It’s . . . dreadful, isn’t it? Who ca
n they be? What did they want?” Her voice was low and held a moving huskiness. It stirred in him a queer emotion he did not understand. Except for diversion women had not meant much in his young life. It had been many years since he had exchanged a smile with one.
“They belong to Pablo Lopez’ gang. A mess of them are raiding this district today.” He did not mention that he had last seen a dozen of them trying to kill her father. If there was bad news waiting for her she would learn it in time without his help. “We’ve got to get out of here pronto. I don’t know how far away the rest of the gang are. Your brother can ride this horse. You’ll have to take that one.” He indicated the one the dead man had been riding.
“Yes,” she replied, taking orders from him without comment. The color had washed out of her cheeks, but she gave no evidence of hysteria. “Can you help Nels up?”
He lifted the boy to the back of the buggy horse.
“You’re all right, aren’t you?” he asked. “Not lightheaded?”
“Sure, I’m all right. Where are we going?”
“I don’t know yet. Just now into the brush.” He turned to Alexandra. “You’ll have to ride astride.”
“Yes. Will you help me up, please? It’s such a high horse.”
He put a hand under one foot and lifted. She swung into the seat and tried to pull her skirts down, but a long stretch of slender shapely leg showed.
For anything that his wooden face registered she might have been a wrinkled Indian squaw. His eyes apparently took no note of the small firm breasts or of the long curves of her gracious figure. His job was to save them and himself. He wasted no time on amenities. He whipped up his left arm and said curtly, “This way.”
Though fear was still knocking at her heart, she was full of curiosity about him. The horse he was riding bore a brand. What was he doing with one of her father’s mounts? Why had he stiffened at mention of her name? He was a man who unconsciously invited the eyes of women, not less because of his obvious indifference to them. There was strength in the bone conformation of his face and a sardonic recklessness in the expression. The motions of his body showed an easy grace, due to the poised co-ordination of mind and long flowing muscles. She had never seen one more sure of himself.
They cut into the chaparral, Sloan bringing up the rear. In silence they traveled for at least a mile before he halted the little procession.
“How far is the nearest ranch?” he inquired.
“About three miles, maybe,” Nelson answered. “The Blunt place. Wouldn’t you say about three miles, Sandra?”
Sandra thought that might be right.
The men hunting the rustlers were to rendezvous at Blunt’s. Cape guessed that would be the safest point for which to strike.
“Let’s go,” he said.
“Wait,” Sandra cried, pointing to a red stain on his shirt. “You’re wounded. Where the knife cut you.”
Sloan brushed aside her concern impatiently. “A scratch. It will wait.”
5. A Reunion at Blunt’s
THE BATTLE OF THE WASH HAD DEVELOPED INTO A SNIPERS’ contest. This suited the defenders. Time was running in their favor. Lopez had to get the stock across the line before his retreat was cut off. Soon he would decide that was more important than killing two or three gringos. Moreover, there was always the chance that cowmen riding to the rendezvous at Blunt’s would hear the firing and come to the rescue.
“All we have to do is sit tight and hold the fort,” Ranger said. “I’ve been in a lot worse holes than this.”
“What I’d like is to get a bead on old Lopez himself and watch him kick,” growled Uhlmann.
“What I’d rather see is the whole caboodle of them high-tailin’ it away from here,” McNulty differed. Though he did not feel comfortable he had settled down and was behaving better.
The words were hardly out of his mouth before the attackers began to evacuate their positions. Those in the wash could see the dust of moving cattle. There were still occasional shots from the brush, but it was an easy guess that a few men were posted to hold them until the stock could be pushed a mile or two toward the line.
It was half an hour later before the cattlemen dared leave their cover. Very cautiously they moved, fearing an ambuscade. But the raiders had cleared out.
There was no thought at present of attempting to recover the cattle. Bill Hays had to be got to a place where his wound could be properly dressed. Blunt’s ranch was the nearest.
Ranger thought the wounded man could not get that far on horseback. “One of us could go get a buckboard,” he suggested. “The rest of us could carry him out to the cow trail that runs up to Coyote Creek.”
Uhlmann offered to ride to Blunt’s.
“Keep away off to the north,” Hart advised. “I figure Lopez is skedaddlin’ for the line fast as he can push the cattle. But keep yore eyes skinned every foot of the way.”
“Better take my horse,” McNulty said. “He’s fast.”
The others waited for some minutes after Uhlmann had gone before starting with Hays. They half expected to hear the sound of shots and were relieved that none broke the stillness. By this time the German must be safely well on his way.
Two of them carried Hays, taking turns. The third walked forty yards in advance, his eyes searching the bushes, a rifle in his hands. Pablo might have left a couple of sharpshooters to pick them off when they were not expecting an ambush.
At Coyote Creek Hart and McNulty waited while Ranger went back to the wash to bring up the horses. He had not rejoined them more than a few minutes when they heard the sound of wheels and presently of voices.
Hart shouted a challenge and Uhlmann answered. Three armed men and the driver of the buckboard were with him. One of them was Joe Blunt. He drew Ranger aside.
“I don’t want to frighten you, John,” he said. “But just before I left the house I heard something that worries me. Miguel Torres met yore boy and girl in a buggy about two hours ago near Bitter Wells. They were headed toward our place, to see Elvira, likely. But they haven’t got there, or hadn’t when we left.”
Ranger’s heart died within him. Lopez would probably pass Bitter Wells on his way back to the border. Two years earlier he had been condemned to death for the murder of a settler’s family and had broken prison a few days before the execution hour. Other charges were piled against him. If he met the young people neither fear nor pity would have any weight with him.
“Did you send anyone out to—to make inquiries?” the father asked.
“Soon as we heard Pablo was on the loose Torres gathered a posse and started back toward Bitter Wells. He’s a good man, John, both game and smart He’ll do his best.”
“Yes,” Ranger agreed. But there was no confidence in his assent. Darkness was falling over the land, and there would be small chance of finding the raiders in the night. Even Torres, good trailer though he was, could not cut sign without light.
“Chances are Pablo’s men haven’t run into Sandra and Nels at all,” Blunt continued.
Again Ranger said “Yes” without conviction. If they had not been stopped his children would have reached the Blunt ranch long ago. “Ill take Uhlmann and Hart and Sid Russell with me. We’ll pass by the ranch to make sure the children haven’t been heard from, and from there we’ll strike south.”
“They may have learned Lopez was raiding and turned back to yore ranch.”
“I’ll check on that.”
Heavy-hearted, Ranger rode into the night. With any luck either his posse or that of Torres might strike the cattle drive before it reached the line. But there would be danger to Sandra and Nelson in a fight. Lopez was a merciless devil. Rather than give them up he might in sheer malice shoot them down. The best way would be to bargain with him, if that was possible.
They traveled fast. Ahead of them they could see the lights of the ranch house. They struck the main road, and after about a mile deflected from it to the private one running up to the white ranch house.
; A sentry challenged them. Ranger’s answer was a sharp question. “Anything heard of the children yet?”
“Not yet, Mr. Ranger.”
“Blunt will be back in half an hour. How many men have you here that you can spare me?”
“Lemme see. Tom Lundy could go. I can. And Buck Ferguson.”
“Slap on yore saddles. We can’t wait. Join us at Bitter Wells. Bring all the men you can.”
“If Lopez is driving a herd we can beat him to the line.”
To them there came the sound of a horse hoof striking a stone.
Ranger’s body stiffened. He stared into the gathering darkness, shifting the rifle in his hands to be ready for instant action. “Who’s there?” he demanded sharply.
The vague bulk of riders came out of the night.
“Halt where you are,” Ranger ordered.
The high boyish voice of Nelson Ranger rang out. “That’s my father.” He slid from the back of his mount and ran forward.
John Ranger took the boy in his arms. “Your sister?” he cried.
“I’m all right,” Sandra shouted. She was already out of the saddle and flying toward him.
One of her father’s arms went around her shoulders. “Thank God!” he murmured shakily. To the boy he said a moment later: “You’ve been hurt.”
“You bet.” The younster was half laughing, half crying. He was excited and a little hysterical. The dangerous adventure had shaken him, but he was proud of his wound, though only an inch of skin had been scalped from his head. “One of Pablo Lopez’ men did that. We left him lying in the road.”
A third rider had moved forward out of the shadows. Uhlmann shuffled toward him and gave a triumphant yelp. “By jimminy, it’s the rustler. Don’t move, fellow, or I’ll pump a slug into you.
“I’m a statue of patience on a monument,” Sloan jeered.
Sandra’s relaxed muscles grew taut. She broke from her father’s embrace. “Put that gun down,” she ordered Uhlmann. “He saved us from Lopez. He’s wounded.”
Clattering Hoofs Page 3