by Unknown
"Did anybody see him shoot the Ute?" asked Bob.
"Seems not. They was back of a stable. When folks got there the Ute was down, but still alive. He claimed he never made a move to draw. Houck's story was that he shot in self-defense. Looked fishy. The Injun's gun wasn't in s-sight anywheres."
"Houck's a bad actor," Dud said.
"Yes." Blister came back to the order of the day. "All right, boys. Shifts of three hours each, then. T-turn an' turn about. You two take this knoll here. If you see anything movin' that looks suspicious, blaze away. We'll c-come a-runnin'."
Bob had drunk at supper two cups of strong coffee instead of his usual one. His thought had been that the stimulant would tend to keep him awake on duty. The effect the coffee had on him was to make his nerves jumpy. He lay on the knoll, rifle clutched fast in his hands, acutely sensitive to every sound, to every hazy shadow of the night. The very silence was sinister. His imagination peopled the sage with Utes, creeping toward him with a horrible and deadly patience. Chills tattooed up and down his spine.
He pulled out the old silver watch he carried and looked at the time. It lacked five minutes of ten o'clock. The watch must have stopped. He held it to his ear and was surprised at the ticking. Was it possible that he had been on sentry duty only twelve minutes? To his highly strung nerves it had seemed like hours.
A twig snapped. His muscles jumped. He waited, gun ready for action, eyes straining into the gloom. Something rustled and sped away swiftly. It must have been a rabbit or perhaps a skunk. But for a moment his heart had been in his throat.
Again he consulted the watch. Five minutes past ten! Impossible, yet true. In that eternity of time only a few minutes had slipped away.
He resolved not to look at his watch again till after eleven. Meanwhile he invented games to divert his mind from the numbing fear that filled him. He counted the definite objects that stood out of the darkness--the clumps of sage, the greasewood bushes, the cottonwood trees by the river. It was his duty to patrol the distance between the knoll and those trees at intervals. Each time he crept to the river with a thumping heart. Those bushes--were they really willows or Indians waiting to slay him when he got closer?
Fear is paralyzing. It pushes into the background all the moral obligations. Half a dozen times the young ranger was on the point of waking Dud to tell him that he could not stand it alone. He recalled Blister's injunctions. But what was the use of throwing back his head and telling himself he was made in the image of God when his fluttering pulses screamed denial, when his heart pumped water instead of blood?
He stuck it out. How he never knew. But somehow he clamped his teeth and went through. As he grew used to it, his imagination became less active and tricky. There were moments, toward the end of his vigil, when he could smile grimly at the terror that had obsessed him. He was a born coward, but he did not need to let anybody know it. It would always be within his power to act game whether he was or not.
At one o'clock he woke Dud. That young man rolled out of his blanket grumbling amiably. "Fine business! Why don't a fellow ever know when he's well off? Me, I might be hittin' the hay at Bear Cat or Meeker instead of rollin' out to watch for Utes that ain't within thirty or forty miles of here likely. Fellow, next war I stay at home."
Bob slipped into his friend's warm blanket. He had no expectation of sleeping, but inside of five minutes his eyes had closed and he was off.
The sound of voices wakened him. Dud was talking to the jingler who had just come off duty. The sunlight was pouring upon him. He jumped up in consternation.
"I musta overslept," Bob said.
Dud grinned. "Some. Fact is, I hadn't the heart to waken you when you was poundin' yore ear so peaceful an' tuneful."
"You stood my turn, too."
"Oh, well. It was only three hours. That's no way to divide the night anyhow."
They were eating breakfast when a messenger rode into camp. He was from Major Sheahan of the militia. That officer sent word that the Indians were in Box Cañon. He had closed one end and suggested that the rangers move into the other and bottle the Utes.
Harshaw broke camp at once and started for the cañon. A storm blew up, a fierce and pelting hail. The company took refuge in a cottonwood grove. The stones were as large as good-sized plums, and in three minutes the ground was covered. Under the stinging ice bullets the horses grew very restless. More than one went plunging out into the open and had to be forced back to shelter by the rider. Fortunately the storm passed as quickly as it had come up. The sun broke through the clouds and shone warmly upon rivulets of melted ice pouring down to the Blanco.
Scouts were thrown forward once more and the rangers swung into the hills toward Box Cañon.
"How far?" Bob asked Tom Reeves.
"'Bout half an hour now, I reckon. Hope we get there before the Injuns have lit out."
Privately Bob hoped they would not. He had never been under fire and his throat dried at the anticipation.
"Sure," he answered. "We're humpin' along right lively. Be there in time, I expect. Too bad if we have to chase 'em again all over the map."
Box Cañon is a sword slash cut through the hills. From wall to wall it is scarcely forty feet across. One looks up to a slit of blue sky above.
Harshaw halted close to the entrance. "Let's make sure where Mr. Ute is before we ride in, boys. He might be up on the bluffs layin' for us. Dud, you an' Tom an' Big Bill go take a look-see an' make sure. We'll come a-runnin' if we hear yore guns pop."
Two men in uniform rode out of the gulch. At the sight of the rangers they cantered forward. One was a sergeant.
"Too late," said he. "They done slipped away from us. We took shelter from the hail under a cutbank where the cañon widens. They musta slipped by us then. We found their tracks in the wet ground. They're headin' west again, looks like."
"We've got a warm trail," Harshaw said to Blister Haines. "We better go right after 'em."
"Hot foot," agreed Blister.
"Major Sheahan's followin' them now. He said for you to come right along."
The cavalcade moved at once.
CHAPTER XXXI
"DON'T YOU LIKE ME ANY MORE?"
Harshaw's rangers caught up with the militia an hour later. The valley men were big, tanned, outdoor fellows, whereas the militia company was composed of young lads from Colorado towns, most of them slight and not yet fully developed. The state troopers were, however, brisk, alert, and soldierly. Some of them were not used to riding, but they made the best of it with the cheerful adaptability of American youth.
The trail of the Indians cut back across the mesa toward Utah. Evidently they were making for their home country again. Bob began to hope that the Utes would reach the reservation without a fight. In this desire the owner of the Slash Lazy D heartily joined. He had no impulses toward the slaughter of the tribal remnants.
Others of the party did not share this feeling. Without going into the causes of the Indian troubles, it can safely be said that the frontiersmen generally believed that the tribes were dangerous and not to be trusted. In any difficulty between a white and a red man they assumed the latter was to blame. Many old-timers held that the only way to settle the Indian question was to exterminate the tribes or at least reduce them to impotence.
The pursuers followed a hot trail. Twice they had a brush with the rear guard of the flying Utes, during which Bob heard bullets singing above his head. He felt a very unpleasant sinking in the pit of his stomach, and could hardly resist the temptation to slip out of the saddle and take refuge behind the horse he was riding.
The rangers and the soldiers reached Bear Cat long after dark. Dud and Reeves had ridden into town ahead of their companions, so that when the rest came in they found a hot supper waiting for them on the plaza.
June helped serve the weary men. Big fires had been built on the square and by the light of the flames Bob could see her slim figure flitting to and fro. Afterward, when the meal was at an end, he saw Dud
Hollister walking beside her to the hotel. The cowpuncher was carrying a load of dishes and supplies. It would have surprised Bob to learn that he was the subject of their conversation.
For the first time Dud had heard that day from Blister the story of the mad dog episode. He made June tell it to him again from her viewpoint. When she had finished he asked her a question.
"Anybody ever tell you about the fight Bob had with Bandy Walker?"
The light in her dark eyes quickened. "Did they have a fight?" she asked evenly, with not too great a show of interest.
"I dunno as you could rightly call it a fight," Dud drawled. "Bob he hammered Bandy, tromped on him, chewed him up, an' spit him out. He was plumb active for about five minutes."
"What was the trouble?"
"Bandy's one o' these mean bullies. He figured he could run on Bob. The boy took it meek an' humble for a week or so before he settled with Bandy generous an' handsome. The bow-legged guy might have got away with it if he hadn't made a mistake."
"A mistake?" repeated June.
"He had a few remarks to make about a young lady Bob knew."
June said nothing. In the darkness Dud made out only the dusky outline of her profile. He could not tell what she was thinking, had no guess that her blood was racing tumultuously, that a lump was swelling in the soft round throat.
Presently she asked her companion a question as to how Jake Houck came to be with the rangers. Dud understood that the subject was changed.
The soldiers found beds wherever they could. Some rolled up in their blankets near the fires. Others burrowed into haystacks on the meadow. Before daybreak they expected to be on the march again.
The bugle wakened them at dawn, but a good many of the cowpunchers were already up. Big Bill went to one of the haystacks to get feed for his horse. He gathered a great armful of hay and started away with it. A muffled voice inside wailed protest.
"Lemme out, doggone it."
Bill dropped the hay, and from it emerged a short and slender youth in uniform. He bristled up to the huge puncher.
"What d'you think you're doing, fellow?"
The cowpuncher sat down on a feed-rack and laughed till he was weak. "Drinks are on me, son," he gasped at last. "I 'most fed you to my hawss."
"Mebbe you think because I ain't as big as a house you can sit there an' laugh at me. I'll have you know you can't," the boy snapped.
"Fellow, I'm not laughin' at you. Napoleon was a runt, I've heard tell. But it was comical, you stickin' yore head up through the hay thataway. I'll stand pat on that, an' I ain't a-going to fight about it either."
The soldier's dignity melted to a grin. "Did you say drinks was on you, Jumbo?"
After Big Bill had fed his horse they went away arm in arm to see what Dolan could do for them in the way of liquid refreshment.
Just before the rangers and soldiers saddled for the start, Dud jingled over to his friend who was helping to pack the supply-wagons.
"Lady wants to see you, Bob. I'll take yore place here," Dud said.
Dillon lifted a barrel half full of flour into the nearest wagon and straightened a body cramped from stooping. "What lady?" he asked.
"Listen to the fellow," derided Hollister. "How many ladies has he got on the string, do you reckon?" The fair-haired cowpuncher grinned. "You meander round to the back of the hotel an' I expect you'll meet up with the lady. Mollie Larson she--"
"Oh, Mrs. Larson." For a moment a wild hope had flamed in Bob's heart. His thoughts had flashed to another woman in the hotel.
"Why, yes. Mollie runs the hotel, don't she? Was you lookin' for some other lady to send for you?" Dud asked innocently.
Bob did not answer this. He was already striding toward the hotel.
Out of the darkness of the adobe wall shadow a slim figure moved to meet the ranger. The young fellow's heart lost a beat.
"I--wanted to see you before you left," a low voice said.
A kind of palsy came over Dillon. He stood motionless, no life in him except for the eloquent eyes. No words came to help him.
"I thought--maybe--" June stopped, hesitated, and came out impetuously with what was in her mind. "Aren't we ever going to be friends again, Bob?"
A warm glow suffused him. The back of his eyes smarted with tears. He started to speak, but stopped. For he was boyishly ashamed to discover that he could not trust his voice.
"Don't you like me any more?" she asked. "Have I done something to make you mad?"
"No, you haven't." There was a rough edge to the words, put there by suppressed emotion. "You know better 'n that. I keep away from you because--because I acted like a yellow dog."
"When you fought Bandy Walker to keep clean my good name?" she asked in a murmur.
"Oh, that!" He waved her question aside as of no importance.
"Or when you fought the mad dog in the street with yore bare hands?"
"You know when, June," he answered bitterly. "When I let Jake Houck walk off with you to save my worthless hide."
"I've forgotten that, Bob," she said gently. "So much has happened since. That was foolishness anyhow, what--what we did in Blister's office. But I hate to give up the boy on Piceance Creek who was kinda like a brother to me. Do I have to lose him?"
There was no need for her big dark eyes to plead with him. His face was working. He bit his lip to keep from breaking down. This was what he wanted more than anything else in the world, but he was embarrassed and irritated at the display of emotion he could not wholly control.
"'S all right with me," he said gruffly.
"Then we'll be friends again, won't we?"
"Ump-ha!" he grunted. "I--I'd just as lief." He recognized this as cavalier and added: "I mean it's awful good of you."
"When you come back you won't forget to ask for me if I'm not where you see me. I'll want to hear all about what you do."
"Yes," he promised; and in a burst of gratitude cried: "You're a dandy girl, June. If you treated me like I deserved you'd never speak to me again."
She flushed. "That's silly. I never did feel thataway. Lots of times I've wanted to tell you that--that it needn't make any difference. But I couldn't, 'count of--what we did in Blister's office. A girl has to be awful careful, you know. If we hadn't done that foolish thing--"
"A judge'll fix you up with papers settin' you free, June," he told her. "I'll do anything to help that you want."
"Well, when you come back," she postponed. Talk on that subject distressed and humiliated her.
"I got to go," he said. "Good-bye."
"Good-bye."
She gave him her hand shyly. Their eyes met and fell away.
He stood a moment, trying to find an effective line of exit. He had missed his cue to leave, as thousands of lovers have before and since.
"Got to hit the trail," he murmured in anticlimax.
"Yes," she agreed.
Bob drew back one foot and ducked his head in a bow. A moment later he was hurrying toward the remuda.
CHAPTER XXXII
A CUP OF COLD WATER
The pursuers caught up with the Utes the third day out from Bear Cat. It was in the morning, shortly after they had broken camp, that Houck and Big Bill while scouting in advance of the troop jumped up an Indian out of the sagebrush.
He made across the mesa toward the river. Houck fired at him twice as he ran, but the sentinel disappeared from sight apparently unhit. The sound of the firing brought up rapidly the main body of the troopers. Before Major Sheahan and Harshaw could work out a programme another Indian sentry could be seen running through the sage.
The sight of him was like that of a red rag to a bull. Not waiting for orders, a dozen punchers instantly gave chase. The rest of the party followed. Houck was in the lead. Not far behind was Bob Dillon.
The mesa bench dropped sharply down a bare shale scarp to the willows growing near the river. The Indian camp below could be seen from the edge of the bluff. But the rush to cut off the Ute was so impetuous that
the first riders could not check their horses. They plunged down the bare slope at a headlong gallop.
Bob heard the ping of bullets as they sang past him. He saw little spatters of sand flung up where they struck. As his horse slithered down on its haunches through the rubble, the man just in front of him dived headlong from his horse. Bob caught one horrified glimpse of him rolling over and clutching at his breast. Next moment Dillon, too, was down. His mount had been shot under him.
He jumped up and ran for the willows, crouching low as he sped through the sage. Into the bushes he flung himself and lay panting. He quaked with fear. Every instant he expected to see the Utes rushing toward him. His rifle was gone, lost in the fall. The hand that drew the revolver from his belt trembled as with an ague.