The cowpunchers had frozen in their advance when the Negro shifted his position. Move forward and down again as soon as the black man masked his face with the hat. But after a minute or so, halted in an arcing line some two hundred and fifty yards away from and above the fire. Perhaps nine of them responding to a signal from the tenth, or maybe pausing at predetermined positions. Where, from the attitudes adopted by the seven men Edge was now able to see, they were prepared to bide their time for as long as was needed. Each of them with a clear shot at the four men beside the fire—and with a good chance of scoring if he used the repeater rifle he carried, rather than the revolver which one or two eased nervously from their holsters and set on the ground nearby.
Then the fourth duster-coated man was through with eating and Edge saw signs of both relief and impatience among the cow-punchers—or perhaps was able only to sense the reactions of the men in hiding to the moves of the man at the fire as he finished his meal and made to stretch out and sleep for awhile.
But then the wind veered suddenly and gusted more strongly than it had done since Edge moved in off the open rangeland—to curl over one of the tree topped rims of the basin and drive down into it. To fan the flames of the fire and snatch at three hats which it sent end over end among the abruptly unsettled Long-horns. The trio of men who had been dozing beneath the hats came up off the ground with snarls of anger while the one who had been about to stretch out vented a shrill burst of derisive laughter.
Then the wind backed off from the depths of the basin as abruptly as it had rushed down into there and ten second later abated totally. And only as this happened did Edge discover what a perfect amphitheater was formed by the enormous depression below him—when the foliage of the trees elsewhere around the rim ceased to rustle at what had come close to being a roar and he heard a man snarl:
"The hell with it! Let's get the critters marked and move on out of this spooky place!"
There had been a moment of utter silence before the words were spoken. And a longer period of several stretched seconds passed on without another sound as the men, the animals and even the fire seemed to be transfixed in some kind of limbo where movement and noise were forbidden. Until a log on the fire cracked, a horse whinnied, and steers jostled each other and the Negro growled:
"Spooky's right, Leroy. I ain't never in my life before—"
Edge crouched lower as all four men raked their fear-filled gazed over the cliff faces and across the slope. This as the black rapist's nervousness expanded to an extent where he was unable to voice any more words that were amplified with perfect clarity to many times their original volume by the nature of the surrounding terrain.
"Son-of-a-bitch!" the youngest member of the quartet said slowly, shuffling around in a full circle. Just a boy, as Helen Rochford had said. Seventeen or eighteen, maybe. A broad grin on his unbristled face as he listened to the odd effect that the arc of cliffs and the facing slope had on his voice.
"I don't friggin' like none of this!" the most senior of the men said, attempting to whisper which served to create an even more eerie sound. "Could be what we're sayin’ is reachin’ for friggin' miles! Leroy's right, let's get our chores done and hightail it outta here!"
He was the slow eater who had not lost his hat in the gust of wind before the norther ceased to blow. So, the one who had first crack at the Englishwoman after bringing her into the camp in the fork of the trail in the distant timber. Token top hand of the quartet from the way in which the other three went along with his suggestion, then did as he instructed in the matter of preparing for the branding of the Longhorns. Or maybe it was just that he was the brains and they the brawn. And he also had a patently good excuse for not getting involved in the heavy work—he had a lame right leg that Helen Rochford had failed to mention.
It appeared to be rigid from above the knee all the way down to the foot. But this did not hamper him from sitting close to the fire, one hand thickly wrapped in rag so that he could from time to time shift without burning himself on the two branding irons that Edge had not noticed were in the fire before. Moving them from one hot spot in the glowing ashes to another while the Negro, the boy and a short, fat, totally bald headed man struggled inexpertly to separate one steer from the other six without allowing all of them to escape the rope corral.
Which was a snorting and cursing, kicking and slapping, spitting and sweating episode the concealed cowpunchers would probably have relished under different circumstances. But these experts at handling recalcitrant Longhorns were in no mood to see the funny side of what was happening below them: were more concerned with the possibility of getting their heads blown off if something should go wrong with their plan to trap the four duster-coated men.
Then the three cut one steer out of the bunch and hustled the frightened animal toward the fire. The Negro gripping one horn, the boy the other and the bald headed man hanging on the tail
"Not too damn close!" the man with the lame leg snarled as he got awkwardly to his feet using one of the branding irons as a supporting crutch. "Don't you crazy fools even know that critters is scared of fire? Get him down right there!"
"Get him down right here the man says, like it was a friggin' itty bitty old rooster we had hold of to put in the friggin' pot!" the Negr| growled sarcastically.
"Quit with the mouth and do it, Toby!" bald headed Leroy snapped. And tried to knock the animal's hind legs out from under him with a booted foot as he yanked at the tail.
Toby whirled suddenly to give as good as he got, but managed only a glower without venomous words before the steer wrenched his head around in the opposite direction, at the same time as he lashed out with his hind legs to kick at the man tugging on his tail. The Negro left it too late in letting go of the horn and was sent full length to the ground with a yell of alarm that lengthened and changed the key to express pain. This as the kid retained his hole on the other horn and was thudded hard into the shoulder of the steer by the fast and powerful turn of the animal's head. And vented snarling curse that was matched by one from Leroy who leapt clear of the cloven hooves of the hindlegs but did not release his double handed grip on the tail.
And, unbalanced, frightened and in pain, the steer crashed heavily down on to his side. Taking the cursing kid with him. Narrowly missing the Negro who dragged himself clear of the tumbling animal just in time.
"That's it!" the lame man yelled in a shrill-voiced excitement as he scampered away from the fire, pulling the glowing iron clear and waving it in the air. "You got him, Sonny! Hold him now! Leroy, get on the critter's ass! Toby, give the kid a hand! Move it now!"
The unfortunate Longhorn was making his own contribution to the bedlam of noise that resounded at such high volume up from the bottom of the acoustically strange basin. And then the animal's cry, changed in tone from terror to agony, became abruptly loud enough to blot out every other sound—even the sizzle of the branding iron as it cooled on the coat, skin and then the tissue as the lame man pressed too hard and too deep against the hind-quarter.
When he heard this, saw the smoke and steam rising from the point of the brand and in imagination caught the scent of burnt flesh in his nostrils, the impassive set of Edge's features altered to show a grimace. And he tightened his fisted grips around the frame and barrel of the cocked Winchester as, just for a part of a second, he felt a near-overwhelming compulsion to swing the rifle to the aim and blast a bullet into the man who caused the helpless steer such suffering.
But then the brutal branding was finished. The iron was jerked free, hung with pieces of cooked meat torn from the living animal. The cry of agony was reduced to a whimper, over which Leroy snarled as he rose from beside the distressed Longhorn:
"You are one mean-hearted sonofabitch Hayden!"
The kid and the Negro sprang away from the head of the steer, which struggled to rise jus| as fast but was awkward and then unsteady obviously disorientated.
"Bein' one of them kinda men is the first step
to gettin' rich!" the lame man answered through teeth clenched in a vicious grin as he turned toward the fire. "Which none of us ain't gonna be unless you guys do your shares of what needs to be done! So best you put this critter back behind that rope and bring out another!"
He stooped to thrust the cooled iron back into the glowing ashes and then checked that the other one was ready. This while Leroy scowled at what the first had done to the hindquarters of the steer. And the kid and the Negro gripped a horn apiece again, to start to urge the no longer struggling animal back toward the rope corral.
"Move your ass, Leroy!" the youngest of the quartet snapped. "Ain't no way to change the C-bar S brand without goin' deep! Not if it ain't gonna be spotted by a Selmar hand for a—"
"If you're so friggin' squeamish, Leroy Engels, you never oughta have gotten in this business!" the Negro cut in.
While the heated, ill-tempered exchange was taking place, every nuance of the men's voices amplified and emphasized by the sound-box qualities of the basin, Edge shifted his attention to those members of the ambuscade party whom he could see. And saw that they, in turn, were looking towards one of their number who was hidden from his sight—obviously waiting for a signal to make their presence known to the rapists become rustlers.
A signal which came just as the scowling Leroy Engels made an entrance into the rope corral so that Toby and Sonny could lead the subdued Longhorn inside. A silent signal at which every man on the slope rose—all of them in clear view of Edge now. But unseen by the rustlers for a few moments as they remained busy with their chores. Until a man above them called:
"Where there's life there's hope, you thievin' bastards!"
Engels released the rope and the Negro and the kid let go of the steer—all three whirling to look toward the man who had spoken. Each dropping into a half crouch as he clawed aside his duster at the waist. This as the man at the fire turned with less haste, lame leg swinging wide, one hand still gripping the hot iron that was dragged out of the fire.
"Try to draw a gun and get yourselves killed here and now!" the top man among the cow-punchers went on evenly. "Or take your chances on beatin' the rap in the Fallon courthouse and not gettin' your scrawny neck stretched!"
"Sonofabitch!" Sonny rasped.
"Bastards!" Toby snarled.
"Aw shit!" Engels growled.
"I'm with you, Mr. Selmar, sir," Hayden said evenly, allowing the branding iron to fall to the ground as he raised both arms high in the air "While there's life there's—"
"You've gotten to be a little wiser as you got older, Arch," Selmar interrupted the lame man, "But not wise enough to know ain't anyone gets away with rustlin' my stock. You figure your men wanna die here or take the chance at Fallon?"
Edge was able to see just the back of the rancher and from this judged him to be about the oldest of the ambushers. Was certainly the shortest and fattest. Aiming a Winchester from the hip and now raking it away from Arc Hayden to cover the trio of men at the rope corral as the Negro snarled:
"We ain't his men, mister! We do what we want and take no account of what he tells—"
"Show the man, Floyd," Selmar said evenly.
"Sure thing, Clark," the cowpuncher at one end of the arcing line answered. And threw the stock of his Winchester up to his shoulder, aligned the sights and squeezed the trigger as part of a single fluid move.
The report sounded with crystal clarity in every part of the basin. The same as the cry that ripped from Toby's lips as the heel of his left boot was partially blasted off. And Floyd vented an amplified grunt of satisfaction as he pumped the action of the repeater to eject the spent shell case and jack a fresh bullet into the breech. Had no need to provide another exhibition of his marksmanship because the Negro and the two whites flanking him suddenly had their arms high and straight above their heads.
"Fine and dandy," Clark Selmar said in the same even tone he had always used. "Now you understand that you men are my men—in a manner of speakin'. Which means you do what I tell you when I tell you."
He turned as if to speak to the men on his right. But then, canting his rifle to his shoulder, he completed a full half turn and tilted back his head. And Edge, knowing he had been spotted, made no attempt to back off the few paces that would have taken him out of the elderly man's angle of vision. Instead, took four steps toward the top of the slope—to show enough of himself so that Selmar could see he was holding the Winchester in an unthreatening attitude across the base of his belly.
"Goes for you up there as well, mister!" the rancher called, raising his voice now. "If you're one of them or have in mind to get your snout in this mess of swill?"
Several of the cowpunchers were as surprised as the rustlers to see the tall, lean man with the rifle up on the rim of the basin. And all these peered hard at the half-breed—with nervousness in some cases and hope in others. Not so Floyd who remained like a stone statue with his cocked Winchester at his shoulder. Then there was a mixture of relief and dejection see on the upturned faces as Edge let go of the barrel and moved the rifle to slope it to shoulder—and with his free hand touched the brim of his hat. Thus acknowledged that Selmar had first claim to the prisoners before he backed off from where the men below could see him, and muttered for his own ears:
"First come gets all there is, I guess. Have to rustle up something for myself."
Chapter Nine
Back at the mouth of the ravine, the half-breed swung up into the saddle on the chestnut gelding and slid his Winchester into the boot. Then chewed on some jerked beef as he listened to the voices from below—not so distinctly heard now he was away from the top of the slope—and watched the smoke of the fire get thicker. Then he wheeled his mount slowly and started back the way he had come: as easy riding and cautiously alert as before. Just briefly and without resentment envious of Clark Selmar and his men who were going to boil up some coffee before they set off with their prisoners and the evidence of rustling for Fallon.
Just off the trail to the distant town, Edge found a stand of timber in which he was able to watch from cover for the captors and captives to emerge from the expanse of rock-rugged country which fringed the basin: this over a distance of some mile and a half. And, perhaps an hour and a half after he lowered his rump on to a tree root and leaned his back against the trunk, he saw the men ride out from between flanking cliffs.
Selmar was at the front of the column which moved at an easy trot, with the duster-coated quartet of prisoners two abreast behind him. Then came the nine C-bar-S hands: eight of them riding in a double file while the odd man brought up the rear—the steer with the changed brand on a lead line behind him.
There was an almost cavalry-like orderliness about the formation and its progress toward and then along the trail. An impression that was heightened by the uniform style of the riders' garb—ten of the men attired in the outfits of working cowpunchers that varied so little one from another while the other four looked even more like troopers in their identical dusters. Albeit dejected by defeat as they rode in the custody of the victors, shoulders slumped and heads hung low. Astride mounts that were roped together, both side by side and front to rear. The woebegone attitudes of Hayden, Engels, the Negro and the kid emphasized by the obvious sense of triumph that was being experienced by the rancher and his hands.
Edge was about to lead the gelding deeper into the timber as the column drew close, but a dark cloud that had been threatening rain for almost an hour suddenly let loose a downpour to restrict visibility and deaden sound. And the deluge acted, too, to wash out all recent signs on the trail—signs that Edge knew the watchful Clark Selmar had spotted. Left most recently by the chestnut gelding, the hoof-prints of the horse superimposed on the tracks made—also not too long ago—by a four-wheeled wagon with a pair of animals in the traces.
The rain ceased as abruptly as it had started, but the wind that came with it continued to blow as the half-breed moved off in the wake of the column. And for the rest of t
he afternoon and into early evening the norther did not let up. While, at irregular intervals, low scudding clouds—near black against the unmoving grayness above them—unleashed short and sharp, flesh stinging showers of icy rain.
During much of this time, Edge could not always see the men he was following. But he did see them frequently enough—and from close enough—to know that the cowpunchers were all still in the column. That one or more had not been ordered by Selmar to break away and check if the unknown man at the rim of the basin was still close by. While, when the steadily riding bunch was out of sight, the rain-softened ground only ever temporarily failed to show sign: for the most part retained clear impressions of hoofprints.
It was a cold and uncomfortable ride across the broad and shallow valley, but the half-breed had no reservations about what he was doing there as he sat his saddle with the collar of the sodden sheepskin coat turned up to brush the brim of a hat that often spilled rainwater with the slightest movement of his head. The chance of him earning four thousand dollars was all but blasted away when the shot from Floyd's rifle caused all four rapists to surrender to Clark Selmar. And with every yard that was covered toward due process of law at Fallon the odds against the prisoners making a successful escape grew longer. But that ever more slender chance did exist, and he intended to be close enough to take advantage of such a turnabout if it should happen.
And if it did not, then Fallon would probably serve as an adequate substitute for Tucson in terms of supplying him with what he needed to ride the next trail. And also, the Rochfords would surely be waiting in town: to see that he had not fallen down on the job they gave him. Had simply been beaten to the punch, but stayed with it until the last chance to win was gone.
EDGE: The Blind Side Page 7