Guardians of the Sage

by Harry Sinclair Drago

  “I’d know all right,” he muttered pointedly.

  “There’s only one other way then—the back door, so to speak—Iron Point and Cisco.”

  “I’ve got that covered, if that’s what you’re driving at! What’s your point?”

  Montana permitted himself a grim smile. It was simple enough. If the Bar S had lost as heavily as the other side there was well on toward two hundred steers missing. If they hadn’t been driven out to a shipping-point, they were being held somewhere between the Malheurs and the Junipers. He said as much.

  “Hunh!” The old man’s grunt was sceptical now. It was not easy to hide two hundred steers.

  “And no easier to move them with as many men on the range as this! They’d have to hold ’em until the overbranding healed. If they can hold them a week, why can’t they hold them a month? I don’t believe they’ve ever been driven out. I aim to find them, if that’s the case.”

  “Where are you going to look?”

  “That’s my problem, Mr. Stall. If I succeed, I want you to reconsider your stand in the valley.”

  “What? In what way?”

  “In a dollar and cents way. There’ll never be a profit here for you as long as these Kentuckians hang on. And they’ll stick it out. They’re that kind.”

  “What, compromise with them?” The little veins in his cheeks were purple again. “Not a chance! Not a single chance!” he exclaimed, banging the table with his fist. “There’s too many ifs in your talk, Montana, and they’re all on your side!” He got up to indicate that the interview was over. “You want to grow up before you cross bows with me. I told you in Wild Horse I’d fight. That’s what I’m doing, and I don’t mean rustling cattle or burning people out of their homes by that. This thing is moving on to the end, and I’m perfectly satisfied to let it. Even if I had any reason to think of changing my mind I’d not obligate myself to anything on ifs. If ever you have any facts to present, I’ll listen to ’em; but I’m not compromising anything.”

  Jim left. Old Slick-ear had more letters to write but he sat at his desk without reaching for his pen, deep in thought. He could no longer ignore Letty’s continued interest in Montana. His frown deepened as he considered it.

  “That’s why she came here,” he told himself. “That’s why she had to make that long trip to Wild Horse. . . . Always defending him.”

  He went back to the days at Willow Vista when Jim had worked for him. He found plenty to substantiate what he was thinking.

  “Began way back there,” he mused. “. . . Breaking horses for her. Teaching her how to ride.”

  He also recalled how Montana had come to him and asked for his wages. His work had been more than satisfactory. He had not asked for more money. It had been hard to understand at the time—harder than it was now.

  “No question about her having been responsible,” he argued. Just how, he could not decide. “Evidently he figured he was over his head and took that way out.” It gave him a new respect for Montana. “Cost me a good man,” he thought, only to add, “but of course he did the right thing. He knew what I’d say about anything like that. But the nerve of him, coming here thinking I might compromise!” The very thought won a snort of contempt from him. “I’ve got the skids under them right now. I’ll show Montana what he’s up against.”

  He picked up his pen and reached for a sheet of paper. For once he found it difficult to begin his letter.

  “Biggest mistake I ever made in my life letting that man get away from me,” he muttered. “I could use him now.”

  CHAPTER XVIII THUNDERING HOOFS

  MONTANA was escorted to the Bar S line. It was indicative of the contempt in which he was held that the two men detailed to the task, both old acquaintances, chose to ride fifty yards to the rear.

  They parted without a word, down the Big Powder, and Jim continued on alone. He was well satisfied with what he had accomplished. The old man’s bluster did not disturb him.

  “He wants facts, eh?” he mused. “Well, he’ll get them. If Dan won’t play it my way I’ll dare Jubal Stark into riding with me on Quantrell’s trail. I’m going to stay with him until I’ve got him dead to rights!”

  It would have been much pleasanter to dream about Letty Stall. It was all he could do to put her out of his thoughts and confine himself to the task immediately before him.

  No premonition of disaster rested on him as he rode along, and it was not until he was within several miles of the Forks that he began to move more cautiously, thinking only to avoid being seen by some chance rider from below. Therefore, he was hardly prepared to be hailed guardedly a few minutes later. It was a rude awakening. With the agility of a cat he slid out of his saddle and leaped into the willows. Getting his bearings, he looked up and saw Plenty Eagles signing to him.

  “What are you doing down here?” Montana asked sharply.

  “All the time I am watching Quantrell,” the Piute replied stonily. “Always knowing where he goes. Thinking I have to kill him this morning.”

  It provoked Montana.

  “Didn’t I tell you to leave him to me?” he demanded.

  “He see you with the girl. One of his men with him. Want to shoot you,” the Indian informed him. “Afraid for you.”

  Jim tossed away his cigarette and gazed at him keenly for a moment.

  “Your heart is good, Cola,” he said. “Quantrell won’t make me any trouble.”

  “Making you plenty trouble right now,” Plenty Eagles insisted.

  “How?”

  Jim’s eyes clouded as the Indian began to unfold his tale of the trap into which he had been riding.

  “Not hearing what they say,” the boy went on, “except you are spy. Quantrell make plenty talk. Not living long if they seeing you.”

  The news floored Montana for a minute. What a sorry mess he had made of things! Plans? He had no plans now. In his despair he told himself he could not have more deliberately delivered himself into Quantrell’s hands had he tried. He had thought to force a showdown. Well, here was one—and he was on the wrong end of it.

  “I guess this puts me on the shelf as far as this fight is concerned,” he groaned. He made Plenty Eagles repeat his story of how Quantrell and Shorty had observed his meeting with Letty, and how the big fellow had then raced south for Gault and the others.

  “What he had to say fell on willing ears,” he thought, his mouth grim. “No use thinking I could explain. Quantrell would never wait for that. He’d stop me before I could open my mouth, and if he needed an excuse for putting a slug into me he’d claim self-defense.”

  He asked Plenty Eagles how far they were from the ambush.

  “Mebbe one mile——”

  “That’s far enough for a minute,” Jim muttered. “They can’t have seen me yet.”

  “No, not seeing you from here.”

  Montana knew nothing was to be gained by trying to slip around them. He was through down below. They’d come to the Box C and lead him out to the nearest tree. Dan Crockett was the only man he could summon to his defense.

  “If they grab me they’ll never wait for Dan to talk,” he thought.

  At Jim’s suggestion they left their horses in the bottom and climbed a hogback that gave them a view far down the creek. Montana could discover no glimpse of the men, but Plenty Eagles finally was able to point out their tethered horses.

  It was answer enough. He nodded to the boy and they returned to their ponies.

  “That’s the finish,” Jim told him, “I’m through.”

  “Mebbe you not through,” Plenty Eagles answered cryptically.

  Jim gave him a questioning glance.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You telling me watch Quantrell . . . I watch him.”

  “Yeah?” His throat was tight.

  “Plenty cattle being rustled. . . . You knowing who get them?”

  “Cola!” It was cry of relief. “. . . You know who got them, eh?”

  The Indian nodded gravel
y. “Me—I know,” he said.

  Jim caught him by the shoulders.

  “Quantrell and his bunch?” he demanded.

  “Yes—get him all.” Plenty Eagles’ face was stolid, but he was enjoying himself immensely to find himself so important.

  “You saw ’em cut them out?”

  “Plenty time. See you yesterday on cutbank. You make talk with Quantrell. He and Shorty go. . . . Get six steer from Joe Gault before come home.”

  Jim’s eyes were snapping with eagerness.

  “Well, what he’s doing with them, Plenty Eagles? Not sending them out.”

  “No——” He was not to be hurried. His information was too precious to be tossed out recklessly.

  “Where’s he got them?”

  “In the mine.”

  “What?” It took Montana’s breath away.

  “In the mine,” Plenty Eagles repeated. “My father not going to the creek for water like Quantrell say. Yesterday I think to myself: ‘Why he lie about that?’ About daylight I go to the mine. Once I work there. The upper level is cut through. Come out other side from house. I crawl in. Cattle there. Mebbe two hundred head. Soon Quantrell come. Bring more steers. Not seeing me.” The Piute shook his head regretfully. “But for you I am killing him. . . . Plenty water down below. Nobody ever finding him.”

  Words were beyond Montana. He knew he had victory and vindication in his grasp if he could take advantage of the knowledge that was now his.

  “Pretty big surprise, eh?” the boy grinned.

  “Takes my breath away,” Jim got out. “He was smarter than I thought. Smooth business using the old mine. I missed that play clean.” His head was throbbing. “I don’t know what it’s going to be worth to me now. Yesterday the information would have been priceless.”

  “Not be sure until daylight,” Plenty Eagles explained. “I stay down to find you. When I see Quantrell tracking you I think better I watch him. . . . Good thing, too.”

  “You said it, Cola! I’d be a dead mackerel right now but for you.”

  He did not intend to end the matter by running away. He had asked for cards. They had been dealt him. He was holding a royal flush now. He would play it some way.

  He considered several moves, but dismissed them as promising too little hope of success. The minutes were fleeing. He realized that he dared not tarry there much longer. He knew his play had to be a one-man stand, aside from such assistance as he might have from the Indian.

  Out of sheer desperation, he hit upon a plan that satisfied him. It was dangerous, and had to be nicely timed to be successful. But he felt he had to chance it. He outlined it to Plenty Eagles.

  Its daring appealed to the Piute, hut he shook his head. “Something go wrong,” he said.

  “What can go wrong if you do as I say?” Jim asked sharply. “We’ll trade horses. I’ll give you my hat. They won’t grow suspicious until you’re near enough to be recognized. By that time I will have cut across the hills and be almost as far as Quantrell’s house. Quantrell’s bunch will see me. The men across the creek won’t. Too many trees. There can’t he anything wrong with that.”

  “Then what I do?”

  “You stay on the east bank so you’ll run into Gault. As soon as Quantrell sees me heading for the mine he’ll know what’s up. They’ll try to stop me. And they’ll pull away from the creek without letting the rest know. When Gault questions you, give him this message: tell him the cattle are in the mine—to come quick! You savvy all that?”

  Plenty Eagles nodded weightily.

  “That’s all you’ve got to do. I’ll take care of the rest.”

  Plenty Eagles’ horse was a tough, wiry cayuse with a mean eye. He could travel, though. Montana soon was moving away from the creek, keeping to an arroyo that concealed him effectively. Three hundred yards from the house he was forced out in the open. He had no way of knowing whether anyone was there or not. He could only hope that Quantrell had drawn all of his men to the creek.

  “I’ll find out in a hurry,” he ground out as he flashed by the house.

  Nothing happened. He could look back and see the Big Powder now.

  “They haven’t spotted me yet,” he told himself. “I’ll go through with this whether they do or not.” Without looking back, he raked his horse with his spurs and drove on toward the old Adelaide. When he flung himself out of the saddle at the fence and flashed another glance toward the Big Powder, a cry of satisfaction broke from him. Seven men were streaking away from the creek and racing toward him!

  “They can’t get here for ten minutes—and that’s time enough!” he thought.

  Ten yards inside of the mouth of the mine he found another gate. He shot the lock off. His nose told him, even before his eyes, that the steers were there.

  It was dark in the tunnels. It took him a moment to get the lay of things. The cattle were on the upper level. They objected to his presence and began to bawl. Talking to them, Montana edged through.

  It took him precious minutes to reach the drift that came out on the opposite side of the mountain.

  “There’s wind enough through here to do the trick,” he muttered. The shoring and beams were dry with age. “They’ll burn, all right!”

  It was only a few seconds before the tiny blaze he kindled was licking up the timbers. The wind was carrying the smudge toward the mine entrance. Already the cattle were moving away from him, bawling loudly. Their cries echoed weirdly in his ears.

  “Another minute is all I want!” he assured himself.

  He was playing it fine. Already Quantrell and his men were coming up the side cañon. A wisp of smoke was curling out of the mouth of the mine.

  “He’s firin’ it!” Quantrell shouted as he leaped the fence. He was past wondering whether it was Montana. It couldn’t be anyone else. “We got to get in there in a hurry!”

  The others followed him over the fence. Shorty paused to glance back at the valley.

  “Here the rest come!” he yelled. “The jig’s up fer sure!”

  Quantrell stopped in his tracks. A groan of dismay broke from him. He began to curse. The wrath of the men he had duped could never be stayed now.

  “Why didn’t I let you git him this morning, Shorty?” he raged. “God a’mighty, we ain’t got a chance! We’re penned up like rats in a trap!” He began to curse incoherently.

  “Aw, shut up!” Shorty screamed at him. “Your chatter won’t git you no thin’!”

  “You said it!” another growled. “I always thought you’d fold up if it got hot. What are we gain’ to do?”

  “I’m fannin’ it!” Shorty cried. “You can stick it out here if you want to. Not me!”

  “You fool!” Quantrell screamed at him. “We’re better off here behind the planks than out there in the open! We can shoot this out and get away!”

  “By God, we’ll have to shoot it out! It’s too late to go now! You made it sweet fer us!”

  The fire was forgotten in the face of their new danger. Gault seemed to be in charge. He deployed his men up the sides of the cañon.

  “Pick ’em off!” Quantrell yelled. “Don’t let ’em get above us!”

  Guns began to bark. Both sides were firing. A slug got Shorty through the shoulder. He retrieved his rifle, and propping it into position, began to blaze away with his left hand. All of them knew they were fighting for their lives. The best they could hope for was a slug or a rope.

  Quantrell began to fall apart. Shorty cursed him. In their extremity, he was the real leader.

  Unnoticed by them, the volume of smoke pouring out of the mine had doubled and redoubled. Suddenly the cries of the maddened steers reached them.

  Quantrell understood if the others didn’t.

  It chilled the marrow in his bones. A bullet spattered against the wall beside him. It went unnoticed as he stared with mouth open at the black maw of the mine. All of his bullying was gone. He knew they didn’t have a chance. Hugging the walls, the plank fence barring the way, they were indee
d like rats in a trap! When that maddened avalanche of thundering hoofs and goring horns poured out of the mine it would grind them into the dust.

  Crazed as he was with fear, he knew his only hope of escape lay within the mine. If he could reach it before the inner gate went down, he might hope to find safety in one of the cross tunnels.

  He did not tarry. Unmindful of the guns above, he ran for the entrance. It was only a yard away when he heard the inner gate crash. It went down with a ripping, splintering sound that turned his blood to ice. With eyes starting from their sockets he plunged into the smoke.

  He was not out of the way a second too soon. With a deafening bellow the crazed cattle swept by him, heads lowered and horns flashing.

  Here was death—relentless, inexorable! A strangled scream broke from the trapped men. Horses reared and dashed away, eyes rolling with fear.

  Shorty threw away his gun and leaped for the fence. The others were only a step behind him. Gault and his neighbors, who had only within the hour come to realize that Quantrell was their real enemy, held their fire as they looked on, white of face.

  With a sickening thud the fence went down, ripped to kindling. Nothing could stop that maddened rush. The steers swept out into the valley and the dust settled down on the battered, lifeless forms they left in their wake.

  Gault and Stark and the other valley men stood petrified. The poor, lifeless wretches before them did not excite them to pity. They were thinking of Montana. It slowly dawned on them that they had played a despicable rôle. Despite their scourging and doubting of him Jim had remained faithful to their cause. In their hearts they knew they must stand ashamed before the world until they had squared themselves with him.

  “I feel like crawlin’ into a hole and draggin’ my tail in after me,” Jubal said. “I been a fool and a skunk! Montana was right from the first. I can see it now. Quantrell burned me out. He raised all this hell so he could rustle our cattle. If we’d had a drop of real faith in Jim Montana most of this misery could have been avoided.”

  “I’ll say amen to that,” Gault muttered. “He did for us what we didn’t have the brains nor courage to do ourselves. He’s in there somewhere, burnin’ to death, and I’m goin’ in ter get him! Don’t ferget Quantrell’s in there, too!”