A raucous bawl came roaring out of the blackness ahead—a bawl half-human, half-bestial, far different from the defiant bellowing of the other hundreds. In it was terror; stark terror of inevitable death. Instantly Montana knew what had happened. One of the leaders had reached the brink of the river; had hurtled off the bluff into the darkness.
Whipped, beaten, conscious of a sense of utter, hopeless defeat, he rode to safety, climbed down from his horse, and threw himself full-length on the ground. Still the cattle thundered on. Man that he was it drove him to the verge of tears. This new tragedy at the moment seemed to spell ruin to the Buzzard’s chances of securing a foothold on Thunder range. The pounding of hoofs were the drums of destiny, beating a dirge to his hopes. To his mind flashed the pledges he had made to the dying Masterson; his defiance of Tremaine, his threats to beat the cattlemen of Thunder Basin at their own game. Those threats all seemed inane and puerile now; the mere boasting of a child about to be broken on the wheel of fate.
Still the cattle poured by, running to their doom in the raging torrent. Each terrifying bawl that rent the air tore at his heart. Little did he expect ever again to see but a remnant of the great herd.
After a seemingly endless period of time a gradual cessation of the tumult brought him to his senses. The few bawls that reached his straining ears beat faint and piteously above the taunting crash of the victorious river. A great wave of loneliness swept over him. For the moment he wished that he had gone on about his business, seen Al Cousins as he had intended, turned over the letter to him, and then with the boy returned to Montana. But in the few passing hours he had become too deeply enmeshed; even delivery of that letter seemed far away at the moment.
He thought of Whitey, of the Buzzard men. Strange he had seen nothing of them. He wondered what had become of them, if they had gone down beneath the merciless hoofs. The fear momentarily took his mind from his own predicament, seemed to steady his jumping nerves. He sprang to his feet to stand for a moment rubbing the pain from his joints and peering about in the darkness.
Then he mounted and started out to locate Whitey and the other men. On and on he rode, his horse snorting and shying violently away from a fallen critter. He paused from time to time to shout for Whitey. But no answer came out of the night save the steadily increasing roar of the flooded river, the bleating of brutes still struggling for their lives in the turbulent stream.
After an infinity of time he began to realize the utter hopelessness of searching for his companion until the Stygian darkness lifted and dawn should reveal what lay about him. Much as he hated the thought of delay, dreaded the torment of uncertainty, he finally abandoned the futile hunt for Whitey and his men.
Dismounting again, he set out to pass the time walking about.
Hours dragged by with maddening slowness. The tumult about him gradually died to a few pitiful bellows. The thunder of hoofs ceased entirely, but the roar of the raging river increased. The darkness thickened until he was hemmed in completely, unable to see even his pony in the ebon void that enveloped him. Occasionally, as he walked, he leaped back as a weary critter started up from under his feet. Yet he had small hope that the animals were other than the drags, which by reason of their very slowness, had escaped the death of the hard-running brutes in the lead of the stampede.
As quickly as it was light enough, Montana mounted and started anew his search for Whitey and the missing punchers. But now, as during the night, his hunt was in vain. He saw nothing but small bunches of cattle, lying about chewing their cuds contentedly, or struggling to their feet at the approach of his horse. The number of brutes he could see surprised him, although he shuddered to think of the countless others that had perished in the water.
Making his way to the bank of the river he swung down and sprawled full length to peer over. The point to which the leaders had led the herd was a sheer bluff that dropped away some thirty feet to the water below. The bodies of several of the cattle still swirled about in the deep, foam-crested pools beneath him. Others had been washed up on a narrow shelf. Still others, cripples, moaned and groaned on the jutting rock of the rapids a short distance below.
After several minutes spent in an idle and lonely survey he remounted and again took up the search for Whitey. Yet it was not until the sun had tipped the horizon to rout the creeping shadows from the flats and flame down upon the dreary scene that he sighted Whitey. The cowboy was stretched full-length on the ground, his horse standing guard above his motionless form.
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE TOSS OF A COIN
Roweling to the side of the prostrate man, Montana threw himself from his horse and lifted Whitey’s head in his arms. A faint pulse told him quickly that the cowboy was alive. With frantic haste he felt for broken bones. He found none. But it was not until he had examined the puncher a second time, and with greater care, and rolled him completely over that he succeeded in locating his injury—a large discolored bruise on the temple where Whitey had struck the ground with a violence that had rendered him unconscious.
Half carrying, half dragging him to the bluff above the river, Montana searched about until he found a cow trail winding to the water’s edge. Making his way down it he filled his hat with water. Returning he set to work bathing the bruise and Whitey’s colorless face. For a considerable time he rubbed the puncher’s wrists briskly, then, pulling off his boots, chafed his ankles.
Presently his efforts were rewarded with a slight show of life. Soaking his kerchief in water, he bandaged Whitey’s forehead. Making a pillow of his coat and stretching the towheaded puncher out comfortably, he waited anxiously beside him. But Whitey’s return to consciousness was slow, so slow that Montana, having exhausted his knowledge of first-aid measures, was on the point of starting back to Elbar for medical aid when, of a sudden, the cowboy’s eyes fluttered open.
“Where am I?” Whitey muttered weakly.
“Down and out along with the rest of us, I reckon,” Montana said grimly. “Your horse must have fallen with you. Lucky you didn’t cash in altogether from the looks of the bump you got on your temple. But I can’t find any busted bones. You’ll be all right in a little while, outside of a rip-snorting headache probably. I’d begun to think you never were coming to.”
“I remember now!” Whitey cried hoarsely, struggling to rise. “We were trying to mill those running Buzzards. My horse fell right on the outer edge of the stampede. Seemed like a ton of brick flew up to meet me.” He fingered the painful bruise on his temple gingerly and nursed his throbbing head. “But I reckon I’m not busted up any. Give me a lift.” With Montana’s help he lurched to his feet to stand swaying dizzily. Then he attempted to take a step which presently, with a great effort, he succeeded in doing.
“Nope,” he said gamely, despite the pain that whitened his lips, “no bones busted.” His gaze flew to the river. “Did it—”
“It got a good many of the critters,” Montana said, reading the question in his eyes. “I didn’t try to take a tally. But the whole river is littered with carcasses. These few”—he pointed to the staring brutes within range of their vision—“are what is left of the Buzzard spread, I guess. The rest of them are either dead or scattered from hell to breakfast.” A cold smile came to hover for an instant on his drawn lips. “A fine beginning on a new and hostile range, isn’t it?”
Slowly Whitey’s gaze moved back along the trail. As far as he could see the ground was dotted with carcasses of critters that had gone down in the mad rush.
“It isn’t just what a feller would call encouraging,” he remarked soberly. “But then again, I reckon it could have been worse. Buck up, Montana. There’s an old saying that ‘while there’s life there’s hope.’ And we aren’t dead yet by a devil of a ways.” He sat flat down on the ground and started pulling on his boots. “We might raise a little stink on this range yet. You can’t never tell.”
He waited a moment
for Montana to answer. When he did not, he glanced up. Montana had walked away a short distance to face the infant sun, which was swimming up over the rim of the desolate plains in a sea of metal brilliance. Presently he turned back to Whitey.
“Where are the boys?” he demanded in a hard, metallic voice.
A startled look flashed into Whitey’s eyes. His gaze whipped out anxiously over the flats.
“Hell, I haven’t even thought of them. They left camp the same time I did. I supposed they’d report to you with daylight. You don’t reckon they—”
“It isn’t probable they all went down in the stampede,” Montana put in thoughtfully. “More likely they laid down on the job, pulled their freight back to camp when they saw they couldn’t stop the critters.”
“In that case they would have tied up with the jaspers who fired the camp,” Whitey pointed out. “But I didn’t hear any shooting. They’ll show up all right. Reckon they’re of age and can take care of themselves.” Limping over to his horse he set to work straightening the saddle, which had turned underneath the patient animal’s belly.
“The way they’ve dropped from sight worries me,” Montana mused, joining him. “What do you say we take a pasear back yonder, look over what’s left of the camp and see if we can uncover anything.”
“You’ll get your foot into it if you do,” Whitey warned quickly. “That is just what Tremaine wants you to do. You’d play right into his hand, because you can make up your mind he’s got some more devilment planned by now. Our best bet is to gather what critters we can and head straight for the Dunning place.”
“How far is it and what direction is it in?” Montana asked.
“About five miles down the river. We can wait there for the men—or work out of there. Then—” He stopped abruptly to stare at one of the brutes they had killed in their attempt to halt the stampede.
“Montana,” he muttered grimly, “you were right about what started our Buzzards to running. It was some more of Tremaine’s work. We’re in for hell now. See here!” Montana looked at the animal to which he was pointing. Instead of the Buzzard brand he expected to see, a big Diamond A was burned on its upturned shoulder.
Moving quickly to the other dead animals on the bank of the river he set to work examining them. No less than a dozen were Diamond A’s.
Presently he straightened up to meet Whitey’s gaze.
“Reckon this shows where Tremaine was while I was at the inquest,” he observed. “Him and his men moved the Diamond A’s up to the yards intending to surround us. Instead of that they meet us in the dark. Our herds mixed. We killed Diamond A’s trying to stop the stampede.”
“And we’re due for merry hell now.” Whitey emitted a low whistle. “King Kent and Smokey Tremaine will play this to a fare-you-well.”
“Let them play it,” Montana flared. “Killing steers isn’t half as bad as killing Masterson. And they’ve still got that to answer for.”
“You don’t know this breed like I do,” Whitey said. “You’re framed, Montana—framed hard. We’re playing a lone hand, you and me. They’ve got the cowmen and the Stock Association behind them. When King Kent cracks the whip everybody jumps in Thunder Basin.”
“Isn’t there a square shooter in this country?” Montana demanded. “What about this Al Cousins? He owns some of the Diamond A. Does he know about all this hell Kent raises? Does he stand for it?”
“Mebbeso, mebbe not,” Whitey answered. “Some say yes, some say no. Nobody knows. Nobody ever hears about him, Kent does all the blowing. If Al does know about it and backs it up, it’s strange, for he’s a fine feller. But we’d best be shagging it. If we hang around much longer we’ll get caught with these steers. And let me tell you if we are it’s going mighty hard with us.”
“I’ve got some things I’ve got to do,” Montana said stubbornly. “First I’ve got a letter that has to be delivered to Al Cousins.”
“A letter to Al Cousins?” Whitey shot him a quick inscrutable look. “Anything to do with the Buzzard?”
“No. It’s what brought me into this country before I ever heard of the Buzzard. Don’t even know what it’s about. But I’ve got to deliver it right away in spin of hell and high water. Then there’s my little pard in Elbar; damn them, they’d better not lay a finger or that kid.”
“Well, whatever we do we’ve got to use horse sense with it,” Whitey counseled. “Once they catch you with these dead critters and get you behind bars, where you can’t light back or help yourself, they’ll prove anything against you. I know it galls like hell to run, but it’s up to us to run to cover, feller.”
“I reckon you’re right, Whitey.” Montana swung onto his horse. “A jasper would stand a damned poor show once those coyotes got him in jail.” He shifted sidewise in his saddle to look out across the flats. “I hate like the devil to skin out without first looking up the boys and explaining. But it’s a cinch they’re not hurt or we’d be able to see something of them or their horses around.” He touched his pony with the rowels “We might just as well round up what Buzzards we can and head them for the ranch. If the boys haven’t showed up by that time we can scout for them. Then I’ll slide into Elbar, get the boy and deliver this letter to Cousins.”
“What are you going to do with that kid after you get him?” Whitey demanded.
“Why, take him down to the Dunning place—and—”
“And bring him up dodging the law like we’re going to have to do until we get the Buzzard’s gathered?” Whitey snorted. “That’s a fine way to raise a kid; teaching him to be a lawbreaker, a jail dodger.”
“But I’ve got the little shaver now,” Montana argued “He’s the finest little—”
“Then give him a break. I’ve got a scheme. Sal wants to finish her nursing course in Omaha. Why not let her take the boy with her and put him in school til things settle down here.”
“That’s not a bad idea.” Montana said ponderingly. “There’s some business she can do for me in Omaha, too.” Quickly he related to Whitey what the dying Masterson had told him of a will and his papers. “I don’t know just what it will mean to us,” he finished, “but Sal—your sister can find out and post us. What are we going to use for money? I’m cleaned slick as a frog’s tooth.”
“I’ve still got the money you paid me for the hay,” Whitey said. “And I had a little besides—plenty to have Sally pull out with the boy.”
“I reckon from the way Pop spoke there’ll be some money somewhere to run the spread,” Montana said. “And probably pay wages. Your plan sounds good. You get word to Sal—your sister. Let’s gather these critters, and get going.”
Whitey’s answer was to drag himself stiffly into the saddle and start on a circle around the herd. Putting the cripples they found out of their misery, prodding the dog-tired brutes and getting them bunched required some time. When they had the cattle rounded up the two fell in side by side. Montana recounted the events from his departure from the stockyards to find Masterson, the night before, until he had ridden back to find the herd stampeding.
“The hellions!” Whitey exclaimed when Montana told him of the poker game in which the Thunder Basin cowmen had wagered Buzzard cattle. “They sure took a lot for granted, betting our stuff, didn’t they? And they blackballed us, huh? Well, I reckon we’ll have something to say about both those deals, won’t we? But tell me more about Masterson.”
Montana related the details of the killing and subsequent happenings at the inquest, which brought repeated curses from the cowboy. But he had no time to tell him of the bullet he had taken from Pop’s clothes, for Whitey drew rein suddenly and wheeled to watch several riders who had bobbed up out of a ravine far to the right and were coming toward them at a gallop.
“It will probably be our men,” Montana observed, also pulling up to watch the approaching group. “But how in hell they got way over there is more than I can
figure.”
“It isn’t our men, Montana,” Whitey observed. “It’s those damned Diamond A jaspers. And we’re in for hell. Now listen—We’re pards—There isn’t a bit of use of us both getting into this mix-up, because it’s a dead mortal cinch they’ll either have us arrested when they find these dead Diamond A steers or they’ll crack down on us. One of us has got to stay clear to care for the Buzzard herd. You go on to the Dunning place. I’ll stall them until you make your getaway. Then you can help me from under cover.”
“Like hell I will,” Montana flared. “You go. Let me talk to them.”
“It’s your duty—to Masterson and these cattle,” Whitey argued. “All our hell isn’t over by a long way. Get going.”
“If anybody goes, you will,” Montana repeated stubbornly. “I’m not running from those lobos.”
“Let’s flip a coin to see who goes or stays,” Whitey suggested. “Heads I go, tails you go. Are you on?”
“Flip her high,” Montana ordered as the cowboy drew forth a coin and covered it with his hand.
“Haven’t got time,” Whitey hedged, keeping an anxious eye on the horsemen. “This is good enough.”
“All right. What is she?”
“Tails,” Whitey announced, uncovering the coin. “It’s your move, cowboy. Head down the river—and ride like hell. If they get me you can start work. Mebbeso break into jail.”
“You didn’t flip that coin,” Montana accused hotly. “You can’t badger me. Throw it over again.”
“Somebody’s got to stay in the open and somebody’s got to stay under cover,” Whitey snapped. “Somebody’s got to get that kid before they devil him to death—turn him over to Sally and get her started for Omaha with him. If you think you can do that—” There was stark panic in the gaze Montana turned upon him.
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