by Grey, Zane
"Boss, he's been beaten on the head--with a gun," said Sterl, panting for breath. "Told me Ormiston and Bedford did it--about daylight. Then they left."
"Boss, get his story," cut in Red, cool and hard. "Let him talk before he croaks or goes out of his haid."
"But now that his life is saved--" remonstrated the leader.
"Hells fire!" flashed the cowboy. "We're goin' after Ormiston. Hurry. Let him talk. Help us thet much."
"Eric, tell me," interposed Sterl. "It may help. When did you drive your wagon across to Ormiston's camp?"
"Last night--at dusk--before the storm broke," whispered Dann.
"What for?"
"I wanted to be--on that side--to go with Ormiston."
"Did you know he didn't want you?"
"Not till daylight. Then I realized--what he was. Bushranger!--Ash Pell! That's his real name. Notorious Queensland bushranger! We've heard of him. I heard Jack and Bedford call him by his name. I found out they had rushed--our mob--stolen our horses. I confronted him--then they hit me!"
"Did you know he had Beryl there?"
"He told me. She had come willingly.--When I came to--my senses--they were gone. I crawled down--to the bank."
Stanley Dann swayed like a great tree uprooted.
"God forgive my ignorance--my stubbornness! God forgive me for all except my faith in man! Shall that fail because some men are evil? Oh, my little Beryl!"
"Dann, we'll fetch her back," said Sterl. "Red, see if King's all right."
"Me go along you," said Friday, simply.
"Good.--Red, we've got some meat and bread. Dried fruit, too. They'll get wet, but no matter. Dann, how many of your drovers carry rifles on their saddles?"
"Not one of those drovers who--who deserted me--turned bushrangers--perverted by that villain's promises."
"Red, I remember Ormiston had rifles in his wagon."
"Yes. Small bore. An' he couldn't hit a barn door!"
"Sterl, let me go," entreated Larry. "They murdered my friend--Let me go."
"You bet," retorted Sterl. Larry might never have ridden on a deadly chase, but he had a light in his hawk eyes that was sufficient for Sterl.
Drake addressed himself to their leader. "Mr. Dann, I couldn't let these boys go alone. What Hazelton does we can do--or try."
"Drake, you're on," rang out Sterl. "One more man. Rollie, are you game? There'll be some hard riding--and a little gunplay."
"Hazelton, I was about to ask you," returned Roland, pale and resolute.
"Here, fellows!" ejaculated Sterl, as the other drovers chimed in eagerly. "Three men are plenty. Thanks though. You're real pards. Mr. Dann, I'd advise packing your brother back to camp."
Dann gave the order to his drover. Then he addressed the cowboys, not with his usual direct assurance.
"If you come up with Ormiston and his drovers then--there will be violence?" went on Dann, swallowing hard. He was on strange ground here.
"For cripe's sake, boss!" burst out the cowboy, "Ormiston has damn near croaked yore brother! He has killed one of our drovers and corrupted a lot of yours an' raided yore cattle! An' as for Beryl--I swear to you it's wuss than if she did elope with him. Hell no! There won't be any violence! We'll pay our respects, drink some tea with him, an'..." Here Red lost his voice.
"What will you do?" thundered Dann, roused by the cowboy's stinging irony.
Sterl, having got his boots and spurs on, rose to face their leader. He was cool as Red had been hot.
"Dann, we will hang Ormiston if possible. But kill him in any event! And his right-hand men! Your drovers will make a run for it--which may save them. With Beryl to care for we can't chase a lot of white-livered suckers all over the place. You may expect us back with Beryl by nightfall, or tomorrow at the latest."
"My God! You petrify me, Hazelton. But you have never failed me. Nor has Krehl! Go! Bring back Beryl. I leave the decision to you!"
He stalked away, leading his horse.
Chapter 19
The five white avengers, picking a relatively calm stretch, swam their horses across the river. Friday crossed by holding onto King's tail and floating behind. Ormiston, Sterl reflected, had probably assumed that the flooded river was an insurmountable barrier to pursuit. There came a slight change in the temperature, the cool air moderating, and the drizzle increasing to rain. The gray overcast sky darkened. The water level had risen another foot. Owing to the rain, Dann's wagon had not burned up completely, but the canvas cover was partly destroyed, and some of the contents. Half of the load had evidently been carried away. There was no sign of team or harness.
"Ormiston was kinda rarin' to go, huh?" drawled Red.
They rode out of the timber. Broad wheel tracks curved away to the east.
"Three wagons," said Red, thinking aloud. "All loaded heavy. Ten or twelve miles a day over this ground is about all they could do. Three drivers, which I reckon will be Ormiston, Jack, an' Bedford. They'll drive ahaid of the cattle."
"Righto, Red. Say they left camp an hour or so after daybreak," rejoined Sterl. "Anybody got the time?"
"Half after nine," replied Drake.
Sterl and his riders set off at a lope, with the aborigine running along easily. He had a marvelous stride and he covered ground as smoothly as an Indian. Red followed the wheel tracks for a mile, until they disappeared under the trampling hoofmarks of the cattle. Presently the broad, heavy track of the herd that had been raided across the river joined the main mob.
"One of them there little ridges ahaid will... Look heah!" Red leaped out of his saddle and bent to pick up something. It was one of the handkerchiefs Red had given Beryl for Christmas. When he carefully stowed the handkerchief away inside his leather coat Sterl thought he would not have been in that bushranger's boots for anything in the whole world.
They rode on to where the mob track curved to the left away from the first ridge. Once beyond that, the country was open bushland, grassy plains, patches of scrub, scattered gum trees with rolling country beyond.
Sterl took note of their three Australian companions. Drake was the only one who was not overexcited. Being a mature man, he had probably seen some hard days. But Larry and Rollie, stalwart young outdoor men though they were, had certainly never shot a man in their lives. Sterl knew how they felt. Red Krehl was always one to be cool and provocative in the face of a fight, but now he looked fierce and relentless.
The rain had let up to a fine mist when the posse climbed another rocky edge. Distance, heights, lowlands preserved their gray-green monotony, but all were magnified. And in the center of a long valley the mob of cattle stood out strikingly clear for so dark a day. The pursuers gazed in silence, each occupied with his own thoughts, until Red spoke:
"Four or five miles, mebbe. I figger they're pushin' the herd--not grazin' atall."
"I can't see any wagons," added Larry. "Too far."
Friday touched Sterl's arm. He extended his bundle of long spears.
"Wagons. Alonga dere," he pointed.
"Ahuh! How far, pard?" And Sterl thought surely that was the only instance in Red Krehl's life when the Texan had called a black man his partner.
"Close up," replied the black.
"Red, the wagons are in front of the cattle," interposed Sterl.
"Jest too bad. Mister Bushranger Ormiston shore figgers things good for us," returned the cowboy. Then he bent a keen calculating gaze upon the herd of cattle in its relation of landmarks on each side. "Reckon there's plenty of cover all along heah to the left. Come on, fellers. It's gettin' kinda hot."
They descended the ridge on its steep side.
Here Red told Friday to get up behind Sterl.
The black understood, but he shook his head.
"Come, Friday," called Sterl, and extended his hand. "Look out!--For cripe's sake don't stick me with your spears!" He helped the aborigine to a place astride King behind the saddle. "Hang on to me," he concluded.
Red led off, heading due west from that
ridge. They crossed the flat to find a pass between two low ridges, then turned east again. It was thicker bushland, through which the cowboy led in a zigzag course. Five miles, more or less, of this; then he halted to the left of another ridge.
"Reckon this heah is ahaid of the herd an' drovers. You can all wait heah while I take a look-see."
He took a slanting course up the ridge. Friday had slid off King at once, and if his dark visage could have expressed distaste it would have done so then.
"Me tinkit hoss no good," he said.
Sterl's grimness broke at this, but the perturbed drovers did not even crack a smile.
"What will we do next?" asked Larry, his voice not quite natural.
"I don't know what Red will advise. Depends on the lay of the land. But if there's any chance for a fight he'll have us in it pronto."
"We--we'll attack them?" queried Rollie. "I rather think so!"
Red appeared, riding back. As he reined Duke in, as was characteristic of him, he lighted a cigarette before he spoke.
"Jest couldn't be better. Herd about a couple miles below us, close to this side of the valley. Bunch of hosses behind. All the six drovers ridin' behind, bunched close, as if they had lots to talk about, an' they're goin' to pass less'n a hundred yards from a patch of brush right around this corner of the ridge."
He paused, puffed clouds of smoke that obscured his lean, red face and fire-blue eyes, and presently resumed, this time cooler and sharper.
"Heah's the deal. This setup will be duck soup. Sterl an' me, with Friday, will ride ahaid, hell-bent for election, an' get in front of the wagons. Drake, you take Larry an' Rollie, ride around this corner, then lead yore horses back to the thicket you'll see. Keep out of sight. Crawl through the brush to the edge, wait for the herd to pass by, an' the drovers to come up even with you, I reckon thet's about all."
"All right, Krehl. We'll do it," declared Drake, firmly. "Looks a good deal luckier than I hoped for."
"You'll have to give us the time it takes for the herd an' drovers to come up. We gotta rustle. Let's don't argue. Sterl, what say?"
"Made to order for us," returned Sterl, darkly.
Larry burst out: "Let's not waste time. We'll do it, Krehl!"
This young man had never shot at more than a kangaroo. Now he realized that he was going out to shoot at his fellow men, and be shot at. He was trembling but courageous.
"Wait!" ejaculated Rollie, hoarsely. "What will we do?"
Red eyed the big drover in supreme disdain. Then he spoke with a deadly softness. "Wal, Rollie, you might wave yore scarf an' call, Woo-hoo!"
"Don't cast aspersions upon me, you cowboy blighter!" retorted Rollie, angrily.
"Hellsfire, then! Come out of yore trance. This is a man hunt. These drovers you've hobnobbed with, mebbe, air murderin' traitors--cattle an' hoss thieves! I've had to help hang more'n one cowboy friend that I reckoned was a clean honest chap, when he'd come to be a low-down rustler. Same, mebbe, between you boys an' Dann's drovers. It'll be tough. But it's gotta be done."
"Krehl, I can take orders. Stop ranting in your lingo, and give them."
"Short an' sweet. Think of yore pard Cedric. Think of Beryl Dann, who's in Ormiston's hands. Cut loose with yore rifles an' kill them drovers. If you cain't down 'em pronto, fork yore hosses an' ride them down."
"Thanks. I understand you a little better," returned Rollie, gray of face.
"Sterl, I had to rake them, but I reckon now they'll give a good account of themselves," said Red, as he watched the three Australians ride away. "Rustle now. Get Friday up an' hang onto him."
Unwilling or not the black had to get up behind Sterl. "Hold those spears low, like that," shouted Sterl, and he reached around with his right arm to clasp Friday. "Okay, pard, see if you can run away from King."
The cowboy led off, and Sterl knew what he had suspected would be a fact--that he and Friday were in for a ride. Another hard downpour, right in their faces, made accurate vision difficult. Red Krehl ran Duke on the open stretches, loped him through the brush, jumped him over logs. Friday had a bear clutch on Sterl, yet the black all but fell off several times. The slapping of wet branches and the crackling of saplings added to the pain and discomfort, if no more. Then Red pulled Duke to a slower gait and headed to the right. They had come into bushland again. Red did not halt until he got to the edge of the timber. The three wagons were in plain sight out upon the open, the first about a mile distant, and the other two farther out, but still separated.
"Haidin' almost straight for us," soliloquized Red.
Friday fell off from behind Sterl, undoubtedly pretty much mauled. He rubbed his lean wet legs.
"Tinkit hoss bad!" he remarked.
Then, straightening up, he took a long look at the three wagons and pointed.
"Ormiston wagon dere farder. Hoses alonga 'imm," he said.
"Thet hombre last, huh? Come on, Sterl."
Red turned back into the bush, somewhat away from the course he decided the first wagon driver would take. The rain lessened again. Perhaps two miles back from the open, Red halted.
"Far enough, I reckon, pard," he said, "now... Say, where in the hell did Friday go to?"
"I never noticed. But he won't cramp us, Red. Don't worry."
"All I'm worryin' about is thet he'll get to Ormiston before I do," ground out Red. "Hurry. What's your plan?"
"I'll ride back aways. Let the first wagon go by me, onless it should happen to be Ormiston. You wait about heah someplace. An' when thet wagon comes up introduce yoreself either to Jack or Bedford... Then you better rustle back after me."
"You'll time it to meet that second wagon just about when the first one gets up to me?"
"I reckon. But it's all over 'cept the fireworks."
Red rode off under the dripping gums, keeping to the left of the expected wagon line, and soon disappeared in the gray-green bush. Sterl chose as cover some gum saplings, close together and leafy enough to make a comparatively safe hiding place. He dismounted, and drawing his rifle from its saddle sheath removed the oilskin cover and put it in his pocket. Then he leaned the rifle against the largest sapling, and with a quieting hand on King peered back through the drenched bushland.
With a tense wait like this, it was almost impossible not to think. He had, he reflected, no dislike for this job and no compunction. He would not shoot from ambush, although he had retaliated upon redskins by that very act. But here he wanted to face Jack or Bedford.
Naturally, however, he had concern for his comrade. Sterl would have prefered to be with Red, for more than one reason. Beryl's life might be at stake. Because of that, Red could be capable of any rash act, even to a sacrifice of himself. Then again, Sterl wanted powerfully to see Ormiston meet the cowboy.
King suddenly vibrated slightly and shot up his ears. He had heard something.
"Quiet!" whispered Sterl, and patted the wet neck. "Want to spoil the party?"
More moments passed before Sterl's alert ear caught a creaking of wheels. King threw up his head. He had been well trained, but not to stand still and keep silent. Sterl stepped to his head and held him. A thud of hoofs sounded through the silent bush. At last a sight of four horses plodding along, then a canvas-topped wagon, then a burly driver, reins and whip in hands. It was Jack. A slight cold chill quivered over Sterl. But he thought fast. He would wait until the team had come almost opposite him, then step out, confront Jack and force him to draw.
A distant gunshot rang out, spiteful, ripping asunder the bushland silence. Red's .45 Colt speaking. Almost at once a duller heavier shot.
The drover Jack hauled his four horses to a dead stop, and dropped the reins. He was in the clear, with the wagon on level and bare ground. Sterl saw the man sweep out a hand to grasp a rifle, then peer all around.
At this instant King let out a loud neigh, and the other horses answered. Jack's gaze fixed upon King. Quick as thought he leaped out of the wagon. As Sterl plunged to get low down behind a log the dro
ver fired from behind the left front wheel. The bullet whistled closer to King than it did to Sterl. Fearful that Jack might kill the horse, Sterl took a snap shot at the only part of the wheel he could see--the under rim and a section of spokes. His bullet struck with a thud, to spang away into the bush. It must have stung the drover's foot, or come too close, for he leaped away to the rear end of the wagon. His hoots were in plain sight down between the two right wheels. And Sterl's second shot hit one of them. The drover flopped down like a crippled chicken, bawling frightfully, and crawled behind the only gum tree near. The trunk was not broad enough wholly to protect his body. But he knelt low, risking that. He had Sterl marked but could not see him. Sterl tried a ruse as old as wars. He stuck up his sombrero. Jack fired, once and again. His second shot knocked Sterl's sombrero flat. Then the drover rashly stood up and stuck his rifle, his shoulder, and half of his head out from behind the tree. Sterl drew a careful bead on the one baleful eye visible, like a hole in a mask, and fired. Jack pitched to one side of the tree and his rifle flew to the other.
Sterl worked the lever of his rifle, waited a moment, then snatched up his sombrero and leaped on King. The excited horse was hard to hold. Sterl rode by the wagon. A glance at the drover lying on his back, one eye blank and the other set hideously, and Sterl took up the wheel tracks and raced through the bushland.
It grew more open. In less than half a mile he sighted another wagon, standing still, the foremost team of horses plunging. Sterl drew closer and was pulling King to a slower gait when again he heard gunshots, and not far away. Two revolvers of different caliber! No rifle shot! Throwing caution to the winds he struck the steel into King's flanks. As the black tore on at top speed, and reached the leading wagon, Sterl saw the drover Bedford hanging head first over the right wheel. His feet had caught somewhere. In the middle of his broad back his gray shirt showed a huge bloody patch. Red had shot him through from front to back.
The third and last wagon! It had been pulled half broadside across the line of wheel tracks. Horses tethered to the rear were plunging. Even at that distance and through a drizzling rain, Sterl recognized Jester.