The Second Western Novel

by Matt Rand

  Possessed by passion as he was, the visitor knew that Raven was right. Save for a few of his own race and the saloon-keeper he had no friends in Lawless, and to outface the town after grievously offending it would be suicide; there was always the future. So when, in response to a message, the marshal entered the office, there was no sign of the Mexican. Raven, slumped in his chair, greeted him with a frowning brow.

  “Pretty damn mess yore blasted Injun has got us into,” he began. “What’s the idea, shootin’ strangers up thisaway?”

  The marshal’s eyes grew frosty and his jaw stiffened. “See here, Raven,” he said, and his tone had an edge, “if you think any yeller-skinned thief can pull a gun on me an’ get away with it you got another guess comin’. O’ course”—and there was a suspicion of a sneer—“I didn’t know he was a friend o’ yores.”

  “Friend nothin’,” the saloon-keeper replied testily. “He buys cows, pays a good price, an’ saves me the trouble an’ expense o’ drivin’ ’em to the rail-head. But it ain’t that I’m thinkin’ of. That hombre can raise more’n a hundred men. S’pose he comes back an’ stands the town up, what you goin’ to do?”

  “Yo’re searin’ me cold,” Green said sarcastically. “Me? I should run like hell, o’ course.”

  Raven made a gesture of impatience at this levity and his face grew a shade darker.

  “I ain’t lookin’ for trouble, but if that Mex don’t keep outa my way there’ll be a vacancy for a leader in his gang.”

  For some time after Green had gone Raven sat there deep in thought, inwardly cursing the new marshal and himself for having appointed him. It was becoming all too evident that this saturnine, self-reliant young puncher was not likely to “come to heel.” Although he had given him the position, Raven knew he could not take it away without a very good excuse, and the fracas with Moraga, far from furnishing that, had only made the marshal more popular. When at length he got up there was an ugly expression on his face.

  * * * *

  From the bunk house of the Box B, Rusty watched the approach of a horseman along the trail. Presently the visitor was sufficiently near to be identified.

  “The Vulture, huh?” murmured the cowboy. “I’m damned if he don’t look it, too.”

  And, in fact, Raven, with his dark slouched hat, and long, black coattails flapping in the light breeze, presented quite a resemblance to the bird he had been named after. He pulled up opposite the bunkhouse.

  “Andy around?” he asked curtly.

  “I reckon,” came the equally short reply. Raven nodded and rode up to the ranchhouse. His hail brought Bordene to the door.

  “‘Lo, Seth,” he greeted.

  “You got a nice place here, Andy,” he began. “Yore range must mighty near reach the Double S.”

  “Our eastern line is their western,” Andy told him, wondering what was coming. Was Raven about to make him an offer for the ranch? If so, he was doomed to disappointment; Andy would not have sold for twice the value.

  Seth nodded reflectively. “Yore dad musta sunk a lot o’ coin in it,” he said. “This cattle business is a costly one, as I’m a-findin’ out; the 88 just eats money, spite of all Jevons can do to keep down expenses; which explains why I’m here.”

  Andy began to comprehend. “You want that five thousand I owe you, is that is, Seth?” he asked.

  “Partly, my boy, partly,” the other assented. “I’m hatin’ to press you just now, but bein’ up against it myself—” He paused a moment and went on, “Unfortunately, Andy, that ain’t all; there’s what yore old man had too.”

  “Dad? He owed you some?” Bordene cried.

  Satisfaction flicked for an instant in the visitor’s eyes. He nodded and produced a paper. “You can see for yourself,” he said.

  The young rancher took the document and stared at it amazedly. It was a note of hand for fifteen thousand dollars, written out and signed by his father. Carelessly done by one who trusted others, the amount was in figures only and there was nothing to show that a deft stroke of the pen had trebled the indebtedness. For a moment he looked at it in stunned silence; it was a heavy blow, but he had enough of his sire in him to take it without wincing. He handed back the note, and said quietly:

  ‘That’s good enough, Seth. I dunno why Dad didn’t tell me, but there it is. I’m payin’ it, o’ course, but you’ll have to wait a few weeks till I’ve sold the herd I’m roundin’ up. I was goin’ to make her a thousand strong, but it’ll have to be fifteen hundred. There’ll be a buyer waitin’, an’ I reckon they’ll turn me in thirty thousand; that’ll put things straight.”

  “Suits me,” Raven returned. “I ain’t aimin’ to rush you. When you reckon to drive?”

  “Soon as I can get the extra cows—say two-three days,” the young man told him.

  “Comin’ along tonight to win some o’ that dinero back?” the saloon-keeper smiled.

  Bordene shook his head. “I gotta hustle,” he said. “Wait till I’m outa debt an’ I’ll have yore hide.”

  The visitor nodded agreement. “Well, s’long, Andy, an’ good luck with the drive,” he said.

  Jogging leisurely back to Lawless he gave vent to a sneering chuckle. On the assumption that old Bordene would not tell his son all his business, he had put up a bluff, and it had come off. It had been easy. “Pie like mother made,” he muttered, his covetous eyes sweeping the fine grazing over which he was passing. “An’ the Double S is as good—they’d shore make one fine big ranch.” He laughed raucously. “The Vulture, huh?” he rasped. “Them smart alecks what plastered that label on you, Seth, ain’t got no idea how true it’s a-goin’ to turn out, damn their dirty hides.”

  CHAPTER IX

  The marshal and his deputy, after a day of ferreting in the Tepee Mountain region, turned their horses’ heads towards home. They had discovered nothing; the black was still peacefully grazing in the little valley and there were no new hoofprints. In the west the sun had gone down in a blaze of coppery flame and black clouds were now bunching up. The wind was rising and getting colder.

  “Well, we ain’t done much, but I reckon we’ll call it a day,” Green remarked. “I wanted for you to know where that cache is in case someone takes a chance at me an’ gets away with it.”

  “Huh! You’ll need to keep an eye liftin’,” Pete said. “That Mexican’ll have friends in town.”

  The marshal nodded absently. They had worked through the foothills at the eastern end of Tepee Mountain, passing clear of the 88 ranch, and were now nearing the broad cattle-trail which led north. In the fading light they saw a cloud of dust slowly approaching from the direction of Lawless.

  “Herd a-comin’,” Barsay announced. “I guess it’ll be young Bordene.”

  “Yeah,” the marshal agreed, and scanned the sky with distrust. “There’s a storm a-comin’ too. I’m for beddin’ down with Andy tonight. We got all o’ twenty miles to cover, an’ the hosses is tired.”

  “Yo’re whistlin’,” Pete agreed. “Gee, they’re gettin’ a wiggle on that herd. I’m thinkin’ Andy has seen that storm too.”

  “An’ he wants them cows good an’ tired before they beds down—they won’t be so easy scared then,” the marshal opined.

  In fact, the herd was now coming on at a good gait and very soon the shrill cries of the cowboys and the loud bellowing of the beasts could be heard. Beneath the smother of choking dust the cattle, a compact dark mass, came on at a clumsy trot. Ahead of them was a single horseman whose right hand went to his gun when he discerned the two shadowy men waiting in the trail. The marshal held up his hand palm outwards, the Indian peace sign.

  “’Lo, Bordene, we ain’t holdin’ you up for nothin’ ’cept a meal,” he called out. “Lawless shore seems a long ways off so we’re aimin’ to throw in with you for the night.”

  “Glad to have you, gents,” the young man replied, riding aside to let the herd pass. “Fact is, I got a sorta feelin’ we might have trouble an’ two more men’d be plumb useful
.” They sat and watched the cattle go lumbering by, the thud of thousands of hoofs shaking the ground beneath them. The horse-wrangler with the remuda followed and the chuckwagon, drawn by a team of mules, and driven by a dust-choked and vituperative cook, brought up the rear.

  “A good gather,” the marshal commented.

  “The pick o’ the ranch,” Bordene told him. “Couldn’t afford to run any risk; I gotta have the money.”

  “Where you proposin’ to camp?”

  “In the Pocket, a little basin ’bout half-a-mile along; it’s sheltered a bit an’ there’s wood, good grass, an’ a pool o’ water, though where that comes from the Lord on’y knows, for there ain’t no stream.”

  “Sounds like it might ’a’ bin made for you,” Pete put in.

  “Shore does, but there’s a string tied to it,” Andy admitted. “A piece this side o’ the Pocket and trail skirts Shiverin’ Sand, an’ if the herd stampedes an’ takes the back track it’ll be plain hell.”

  “Quicksand?” Green queried.

  “Yeah, an’ the oddest I ever saw,” Bordene explained. “At a first glance she seems like any other bit o’ desert—sand, cactus, mesquite, bunch-grass an’ as safe as a board walk, but when you look close you can see a sort o’ movement, the grains o’ sand slowly slippin’ like there was somethin’ stirrin’ underneath. A fond farewell to any cow that gets bogged down in there, I’m tellin’ you.”

  “Mebbe the storm won’t break,” the marshal said, as they followed the herd.

  Arrangements for the night were well forward when they reached the camping place. The herd had been watered and now, under the ministrations of half a dozen circling riders, was quietly settling down at the far end of the valley. At the near end the cook had a big fire going and the busy rattle of pots and pans sent a cheerful message to tired and hungry men. Having given their mounts a drink, and picketed them without removing the saddles, the visitors joined the loungers by the fireside.

  Sitting cross-legged round the fire, the men rapidly dispatched the fried slabs of meat, potatoes, and beans, washing the food down with cups of coffee. Anxious eyes turned skywards, where an inky, rolling mass of cloud was wiping out the stars in a steady advance. Then came a spot or two of rain.

  “She’s a-comin’, boys, shore as shootin’,” Andy said. “Better be ready for anythin’ that breaks loose.”

  Scrambling hurriedly to their feet, the men donned slickers and got themselves mounted. The storm was traveling rapidly, straight toward them, each roll of thunder louder than the previous one.

  “If the herd comes this way it’s gotta be stopped, even if we build a wall o’ cows to do it,” Andy ordered. “Hell! They’re gettin’ panicky a’ready.”

  Between the peals of thunder they could hear the bawling of the frightened beasts and the voices of the riders striving desperately to keep them together. Andy decided that it was no use sending more men; if the six already there failed, three times the number could not succeed, and the others would be needed to stop the stampede.

  “If they run north it won’t be so bad,” he said. “We can pick ’em up on our way.”

  Even as he spoke, a jagged finger of white flame split the sky. It was followed by a deafening crash overhead and a sudden deluge of frozen rain, so fast and furious that it was like a bombardment of steel rods. Huddled in their slickers, with hat brims pulled, down to shield their faces from the stinging pellets, the cowmen sat in their saddles, struggling to quiet their maddened mounts and waiting for the dreaded thunder of pounding hoofs. It did not come.

  “Gosh!” Andy cried, “I believe we’re a-goin’ to make it.” For a moment it seemed he might be right; the storm was passing and a smaller flash of lightning showed them the herd, scared evidently and on the move, but milling. Then came something which dashed their newborn hopes. Above the howl of the wind and the bellowing of the cattle rang out a wild, eerie yell, shrill, penetrating, unmistakable to anyone who had heard it before. And most of the men there had.

  “That’s a ’Pache war cry; what the hell’s doin’?” Barsay shouted.

  Before anyone could answer, the blood-curdling screech was repeated, to be followed by pistol shots and the drumming beat of thousands of frenzied feet.

  “My God! They’re off, boys, an’ coming’ this way,” Bordene yelled. “Line out an’ drop the leaders; if that don’t stop ’em, get outa the way or keep ahead.”

  The sky was clearing, the rain had ceased, and by the murky light of a few stars they could see the herd, like a great black wave, sweeping down upon them. The sharp crack of rifles and revolvers mingled with the bawling of the terrified brutes and the clash of their great horns as they strove with one another in the mad rush. Many of the front line went down, but this did not stop the others, and the cowmen, noting this, were forced to spur desperately for the side of the valley to avoid being trampled to death.

  Green and Andy, who were in the center of the line, adopted the only alternative and swinging their horses round, raced ahead of the herd.

  “The entrance is narrow; if we can drop some there the rest may jam,” Andy gasped.

  His companion was too intent on his mount to reply; they had to keep in front of the frantic, fear-ridden herd—no light task, for the Texas longhorn has the speed of a horse in his lean, muscular limbs. A stumble and both horse and rider would be literally pounded to pieces. They reached the exit from the valley with but a few scant yards to spare, and drawing their guns, whirled round. Before they could fire, however, a spurt of flame came from a neighboring clump of brush and Bordene’s horse buckled at the knees and crashed down, flinging its rider full in the path of the on-coming herd. With an oath the marshal spurred his horse forward, and bending over, grabbed the fallen rider by the collar and jerked him to his feet by main force.

  “Take the horn an’ stirrup,” he cried, swinging his own foot free.

  Andy, though dazed by the tumble, had enough wit remaining to obey. No sooner was he off the ground than Green jumped the horse violently to the right, sent a rattle of shots at the nearest steers, and raced for safety. He was just in time; another few seconds, and they would have been under the avalanche of death-dealing hoofs. Dismounting at the top of a little knoll, they watched the stream of terror-besotted brutes, heads down and running blindly, vanish in the gloom. The young rancher held out a still shaky hand to his companion.

  “I’m shore thankin’ you, Marshal,” he said simply. “It was a mighty close call, an’ if you hadn’t drifted in tonight—”

  “Shucks! It’s all in the game,” Green said quickly. “But I’d like to meet the dirty coyote who spilled you.”

  “We can’t do a thing till daylight,” Andy said moodily. “Better go an’ see how the boys are makin’ it.”

  Riding double, they made their way back to the chuck-wagon. The cook had the fire going again and was boiling coffee for the group of fagged, disgruntled riders who stood around. Rusty’s raised voice came to them as they approached.

  “It warn’t the storm,” he said. “We was holdin’ ’em, the Injun whoop touched ’em off an’ a stone wall wouldn’t ’a’ stopped ’em then.”

  At sunrise they were in the saddle again, seeking in all directions for survivors of the stampede. They rode in couples, Andy and the marshal again pairing up. As they rode out of the valley, coyotes slunk from the carcasses of the slain steers, and vultures flapped heavily up and circled above them with raucous calls. The place from which the shot had been fired was easily found—a little group of scrub oaks, with sufficient undergrowth to conceal a horseman. The trampled ground showed shod hoofprints, and the ends of several cigarettes indicated that the watcher had waited there for some time.

  “Don’t tell us much, ’cept that he wasn’t a redskin,” Green grumbled. “We better go an’ look for yore beef, Andy.”

  The tracks showed that on leaving the valley the herd had spread widely out. Green was heading his horse to the left when Bordene stopped him. />
  “Shiverin’ Sand lays over there,” he said. “Any cows what have gone that way would have to be dug out.”

  The country to the right of the trail was open range broken only by thickets and brush-filled arroyos. Emerging from one of the latter, they came upon a rider driving twenty Box B steers. The man turned at their hail, and they saw that it was Leeson. The marshal did not miss the start of alarm as he pulled up his mount and waited for them.

  “Say, Bordene,” he greeted, “what the hell’s yore cows doin’ around here? I just happened on this bunch an’ was takin’ ’em to the 88 ’fore they rambled further.”

  The explanation was plausible enough, but the marshal did not like the haste with which it was made, nor the accompanying half-grin. Andy, however, seemed to have no suspicion.

  “Much obliged to you, Leeson, for collectin’ ’em,” he replied. “My herd stampeded outa the Pocket in the storm last night. I reckon mebbe you’ll find some more.”

  “Tough luck,” Leeson commiserated. “Didn’t know you was drivin’. That storm was shore a crackerjack.”

  “Seen any Injuns about here lately?” Green asked, and watched the man closely.

  “Why, no,” was the reply, and then, after a pause, “that is, I ain’t actually seen any, but I come upon fresh signs ’bout a mile or so north o’ here yestiddy.”

  Green suspected the statement was an afterthought, concocted for the occasion, but he affected to accept it. Bordene pointed to the cattle.

  “We’ll take these off yore hands, Leeson,” he said. “If you get any more tell Saul to let me know an’ I’ll send for ’em.”

  The sullen eyes of the 88 man followed them as they drove the little herd away. “Cuss the rotten luck,” he growled. “Why couldn’t they show a bit later?” He broke off, jabbed his heels into the flanks of his horse, and rocketed away over the plain in the direction of Raven’s ranch.

  Dusk found Bordene and his men back in the valley. The day’s hard riding had resulted in the recovery of about five hundred of the scattered cows.