Wolves of the Chaparral

by Paul Evan Lehman

  “If I’m not too curious,” said Barry, “what became of Hop and Pug?”

  “They’re layin’ on their backs meditatin’,” answered Tuck. “And Hop is dryin’ out. He was hidin’ behind the waterin’ trough, and Parsons was around the saloon corner. Nip took care of him. I snuck up behind Hop and said ‘Boo!’ so sudden that he jumped three feet. I grabbed him by the slack of the pants and spilled him in the drink; then I yanked him out, stuck my persuader against his spine and made him walk to the calaboose. Sam had some rope in his office, so we wrapped ’em up good and stretched ’em out where he would be sure to fall over them.”

  “Did they recognize you?”

  “Sure. I even told Hop I hoped that cotton shirt he was wearin’ would shrink up enough to choke him.”

  “I didn’t have no trouble with Pug,” grinned Nip. “I tickled him on the neck with my clasp knife and hissed in his ear: ‘Señor, mak won move an’ I’m cut out from you gizzard and peen heem behin’ you ears!’ He come right along.... Le’s sing, Tuck:

  CHAPTER VII

  A MYSTERY IS SOLVED

  IT WAS midnight when they reached the ranch. Barry furnished Nip and Tuck with blankets and told them to come over to the house for their meals. When they had turned in and were snoring, he rode to the creek and crossed it near the point where the stream which separated the Cinchbuckle and the Slash B joined it. He followed the east boundary of Moley’s spread clear to its southern limit, and turned into the road which skirted the south hills. If Cinchbuckle and Flying W cattle were being rustled over the Slash B, they would have to cross this road at some point.

  Slowly he rode back and forth, pausing often to listen; but nothing out of the ordinary happened, the only sounds which reached him were the chirp of crickets and the distant wail of a coyote. With the coming of dawn he was back on the Flying W. He had drawn a blank, but his hunch persisted. Rustling operations would not be conducted nightly; he might be forced to patrol that road for a week or a month or even longer before another bunch of cattle were driven into the hills. And that was just what he meant to do: ride the south boundary until his hunch was verified or he was convinced that the Slash B was innocent of collusion with Tug Groody and his rustlers.

  He decided to say nothing to his cowboys until he had something stronger than suspicion to work on. When they had eaten their breakfast he ordered them out on the range to take a rough tally of the stock; then, after caring for his mother, he slipped into the bunkhouse and snatched a few hours’ sleep.

  The report which Nip and Tuck brought in at noon was far from encouraging. They had covered enough of the range to get an idea of what the final count would be. The cream of the herd was gone, the breeding stock suffering the most severely.

  “Jest like the Cinchbuckle,” said Nip. “Tug Groody realizes that every time he rustles a cow heavy with calf he’s gittin’ two animals for the trouble of messin’ with one. And the calf would have no brand. Gosh; a fella could build up a right nice herd by jest takin’ care of the mamma cow until her calf is weaned, then turnin’ her back on her own range.”

  “Tug don’t believe in turnin’ nothin’ back,” said Tuck. “He rustles the pa too, and keeps the whole family together.”

  “It’s strange nobody has discovered where he keeps them,” observed Barry.

  “Not so strange, when you figure the territory covered by them south hills. It would take a year to comb them proper. We spent a lot of time in there, and once in a while would find some cattle sign; but the trails always petered out before we reached the end of ’em. They’d be washed out by rain, or jest vanish on a rock flat or in a creek. There for a spell Ike Wetmiller had us in the hills more ’n we were on the Cinchbuckle.”

  Several days passed uneventfully. Nip and Tuck were kept busy with the range work; Barry divided his days between caring for his mother and effecting repairs to house and outbuildings and equipment. He slept when he could, and spent his nights patrolling the south road. And at last the rustlers struck.

  He was riding parallel with the stream which separated the two spreads, being on his way to the south road. It was quite early—barely ten o’clock. The moon had just risen, and by its light he could see recumbent cattle all about him, and occasionally an animal still on its feet. Quite unexpectedly he detected, ahead of him and to his left, the distinct thud of hoofs.

  He slipped from his horse and glanced about him. The range here was flat and barren of any hiding place, and the figure of a horseman would be distinctly visible for some distance. Realizing that unless he made himself less conspicuous he would be discovered, Barry forced his horse to lie down and crouched beside the animal.

  He heard a low voice, followed by the bawl of a cow and immediately thereafter the splash of water. Cattle were being hazed across the little stream at no great distance from where he lay. Presently a horseman topped the bank, followed by several animals. The leader pointed the herd across the Slash B, passing so close to Barry that he thought he must surely be discovered. A flank rider appeared, but fortunately his attention was taken by some animals that showed an inclination to bolt, and again Barry was unobserved.

  Doubting that he would be so lucky the next time, Barry stood up, got his horse to its feet, and, mounting, boldly took his place on the flank of the herd. If he were mistaken for one of the rustlers, he might discover where they were taking the cattle; if detected, he had an even chance of escaping in the hazy moonlight.

  Across the Slash B they plodded, coming at last to the extreme southwest corner of the spread. The animals under Barry’s eye slowed to a halt on the heels of those before them, and Weston became aware that the herd was being hazed into a corral. He went about his part of the work methodically, ready at any moment to turn and run for it should some hawk-eyed rider fail to recognize him as a member of the driving crew.

  As the last of his charges passed into the inclosure, Barry drew his mount to one side of the gate, a short distance from the other right flanker. On the far side he could discern the forms of the point man and the two who had ridden the left flank. Two more came up with the drag and pushed the few remaining animals through the entrance, the gate to which was immediately swung into place. One of the drag riders spoke briefly, “Okay, boys,” and Barry identified the voice as Steve Moley’s.

  The Slash B men wheeled their horses and trotted towards the ranch buildings, Barry still among them. Nobody paid any attention to him. Two men on his right were talking, and he knew them to be the ones he had discharged from the Flying W.

  Moley called over his shoulder, “Fifty head, even. All she stuff, and each cow carryin’ a calf. Goin’ to be fifty little mavericks runnin’ around pretty soon.”

  The rustling was no longer a mystery. Some time during the night Tug Groody would collect the animals left in the corral and drive them to a park deep in the hills. Here the calves would be born, weaned, and branded with whatever mark their illegal owners desired. It was possible that many of them were turned back on the Slash B to grow to respectable maturity under a clear, unaltered brand. In time Moley’s spread should pay handsome dividends!

  Barry contrived to lag behind, finally halting his horse altogether. As the riders were swallowed by the haze, he reined to the left and headed for the Cinchbuckle.

  Two hours later his sharp knock brought a sleepyeyed Barbara Dawn to the door. Quickly he explained. “I’ll get the crew up while you dress,” he finished. “If we hurry back there we can surprise Tug Groody when he calls for them.”

  Immediately thereafter ensued a scene of orderly confusion. Horses were caught up and saddled, men appeared with rifles and six-guns. Barbara came from the house, tight-lipped and eager-eyed. In a compact group they spurred out of the yard, Barbara and Barry in the lead, Ike W etmiller and ten punchers behind them.

  They rode hard, for dawn was not far away; and presently Wetmiller and his men, their horses being fresher than Barry’s, forged to the front. Barbara remained with Weston. Day
was breaking when they reached the little corral on the Slash B, to find the Cinchbuckle crew lounging in their saddles, smoking and joking. Barbara rode swiftly beyond them, checked her horse at the corral, then turned to wait for Barry.

  “We’re too late,” she said. “They’re gone.”

  “Then we’ll pick up their trail and follow them into the hills.”

  Ike Wetmiller laughed. “Can’t pick up what ain’t there. We’ve already looked. There ain’t a fresh cattle track south of the corral.”

  Barry rode around the inclosure examining the ground. Wetmiller was right; save for the shoe marks of the Cinchbuckle horses the earth was unmarked. As he rejoined them, Wetmiller spoke again.

  “To my way of thinkin’ it’s a poor joke to get a crew up in the middle of the night on a wild-goose chase.”

  “Cinchbuckle cows were driven into this corral not five hours ago,” said Barry flatly. “I know it, for I was with the bunch that drove them.”

  “It’s a bit strange that they didn’t recognize you,” said Barbara slowly, and Barry caught the note of skepticism in her voice.

  “The moon was bright, but it was too dark to distinguish a man’s features at any distance. Later on they must have got wise; maybe somebody saw me slippin’ away. They must have come back and turned them loose. There are plenty of tracks leadin’ to and from the corral.”

  “There naturally would be,” said Wetmiller drily. “That corral was built to hold cattle.”

  “Cinchbuckle cattle?” asked Barry sharply.

  “We ain’t got nobody’s word but yours that there were Cinchbuckle cattle in it.”

  “Do you need anybody else’s word?” asked Barry gently.

  Wetmiller shrugged. “If it was too dark for them to recognize you, it seems as though it would be pretty hard to read a brand.”

  “That’s enough,” interrupted Barbara. “We’ll have no quarreling. Ike, take the boys back to the ranch. I’ll be right along.”

  “Barbara, I told you the truth,” said Barry when the crew had left them. “Fifty of your breeders were turned loose in that corral. They were driven here by Steve Moley and five of his men.”

  “The moon didn’t rise until after ten. Do you mean to tell me that Steve’s crew crossed to the Cinchbuckle and rounded up fifty breeders in the dark?”

  “I didn’t say that. It’s my hunch that they were already rounded up.”

  “By my boys? Barry, you’re carrying the thing too far!”

  He shrugged helplessly. “Let’s look inside the corral.”

  Within the inclosure they dismounted and studied the ground.

  “You can easily see that there were cows in this corral right recently. Barbara, you must admit that.”

  “I do admit it, Barry. And at least one of these cows wore a Cinchbuckle brand.” She pointed to a hoofmark which stood out plainly above the rest. “That print was made by a particularly stubborn brindle cow that I remember well. I’d know her track anywhere. But I just can’t believe that my boys were mixed up in a plot to rob their employer. Ike Wetmiller is with them all the time, and they simply couldn’t cut out a bunch of breeders and drive them to the Slash B boundary without his knowing it.”

  Barry smiled grimly. “I reckon the answer is pretty plain then.”

  Her eyes flashed indignantly. “You mean Ike Wetmiller—! Barry, I won’t let you even suggest such a thing! Ike is as honest as the day is long. He’s worked for us faithfully. If any of our boys were in it, Ike certainly doesn’t know about it.”

  “It must have been goin’ on for some time. Maybe you can figure out a way they could do it without his knowin’, but I can’t. Barbara, don’t you realize that if the Moleys want this ranch of yours, and if you refuse to sell, they’ll do anything they can to cripple it so that you will sell? I told you I believed Horace Moley is blackmailin’ you. I still believe it. And I caught Steve rustlin’ your cows. Is it too much to believe that Horace Moley, with all his money, could buy your foreman?”

  “It is!” she cried. “Oh, I do believe you want to help me, but you always go at it the wrong way. You dislike Wetmiller—you came near to quarreling with him a few minutes ago—and so you try to turn me against him. It is just like that night on the gallery—with Steve. You found him there with me, and you were—were jealous, and—”

  “Just a minute, Barbara. I got to set you right on that point. It wasn’t jealousy that forced the fight with Steve; it was the resentment that every decent man feels at seeing an innocent, sweet young girl in the company of a scavenger like Steve Moley. You didn’t know him. I did. So did Clement. That’s why Clem or myself would do again what we have done to drive him off the Cinchbuckle. I feel like I do towards Wetmiller because my common sense tells me he’s helpin’ steal you blind; and all the tales of his honesty and faithfulness that you can think up won’t change me a mite.”

  For the space of ten heartbeats they faced each other, glances locked; then Barbara turned abruptly and flung herself on her horse.

  Barry watched her ride away with a little feeling of pity. Loyalty to her foreman and her crew was inbred in Barbara; but he knew that this loyalty had been severely shaken, and to have one’s faith disturbed invariably hurts. Presently he mounted and rode slowly towards the Flying W.

  More and more the conviction grew upon him that the Moleys were after something of great value. What could it be? A thought struck him so forcibly that he exclaimed aloud. He remembered that Slater had represented himself to Barbara as a prospector. That Cinchbuckle south line cabin where he had lived for a year might yield a clue to the secret. Barry determined to investigate at the very first opportunity.

  He did not see the figure which rose from the chaparral on the hillside overlooking the corral. Steve Moley had lain in waiting ever since his men had turned the stolen stock on the range. Some sixth sense had warned him on the way back that the number of men behind him had diminished by one. A hurried check-up had disclosed that there had been two men riding the right flank where originally there had been but one, and Steve was quick to realize that a spy had in some manner contrived to mix with them. The command to release the cattle had followed.

  Now he stood looking after the vanishing Weston, his dark eyes glinting, his lips tightly compressed. Wheeling, he made his way to his horse, and riding him into the south road headed directly for Mescal.

  Barry had a visitor at dinner that day. Matt Billings of the MB came riding into the yard just as Nip and Tuck appeared for their noon meal. The four ate in the ranch house kitchen, and after the two cwboys had departed Matt lighted his pipe and spoke cautiously.

  “Got a letter from George Brent, up in Sheridan. He told me about the job you gave him, and he sure is tickled. Enclosed a letter for you, explainin’ that he don’t dare write you direct for fear Walt Bascomb might monkey with your mail. Here she is.” He passed the envelope across the table.

  Barry opened it and read:

  Dear Barry, I am sending this to Matt because it got something in it that Horace Moley would give a right hind leg to know. Hired a puncher yesterday who knows Clement Dawn. Worked with him in Cheyenne. Clem is there now, and I thought you might want to write to him. Also I reckon Barbara and Clay would like to know that he is safe and well.

  Y’rs truly, George Brent.

  Barry re-read the part about Clement, then placed the letter in his pocket. “No answer,” he said. “A little personal business that George didn’t want Moley to know about. Much obliged, Matt.”

  “No trouble, Barry. Glad of the chance to git over. You see, Harry Webb and Jeff Hope and some others have been after me to run for sheriff against Sam Hodge. I sort of honed to know how you stand on the matter.”

  “I’m with you every jump,” said Barry heartily. “Hope you beat the socks off of him.”

  “It’ll be a job,” admitted Matt. “But things in the Basin are goin’ haywire, and if I am elected I sure aim to do one thing: go after Tug Groody and keep after hi
m until I git him. He holes up somewhere, and if a fella looks hard enough and long enough he sure oughta be able to find him.”

  When he had gone, Barry walked over to the bunkhouse where his two hands were sitting on the bench, smoking.

  “You boys haven’t been over to the Cinchbuckle for your time,” he reminded them. “Reckon you’d better ride over now. And while you’re there, give this letter to Miss Barbara.” He smiled a bit grimly. “I reckon there will be no answer.”

  CHAPTER VIII

  THE HEAD LOBO SPEAKS

  IT WAS still quite early in the morning when Steve Moley drew rein before his father’s house. His face was set and inwardly he was seething. Tying quickly, he strode up the walk and rapped on the front door. It was opened by Horace Moley, still in dressing gown and carpet slippers. He took one look at his son’s countenance and motioned him into the parlor.

  “I’m glad you called,” he said. “I was going to send for you. Tug Groody was here before daylight with the complaint that when he got to the corral there were no cows awaiting him. I thought it was quite clear to you, Steve, that there must be no hitch in our plans. When I order things done, I want my orders obeyed.”

  “They were obeyed,” said Steve fiercely, “but there was a hitch just the same.” He went on to tell of the drive the night before. “It’s a good thing I turned them loose. Barry Weston would have followed a fresh trail into the hills, and gosh knows what he would have found.”

  Horace Moley’s eyes had narrowed. “Weston, eh? The fellow is becoming a nuisance. He must be dealt with—ah—severely.”

  “You had him in the jug once; why didn’t you keep him there?”

  “And you set a trap for him the other night and caught your pets in it. Next time perhaps you’ll consult me before acting. Weston must go; but he must go quietly. We can’t afford to take any risks until after election. Sam Hodge is under fire right now, and there is talk of running Matt Billings against him. I can take care of that, but only if Sam has a clean slate from now on.”