“Thunder,” he decided. “A summer storm, I suppose.”
Somewhat hesitantly, he peered up towards the summit of the butte. The rug that concealed Sadie’s nakedness was brightly patterned and clearly visible. Was he mistaken, or was she beckoning him? By Julius Caesar—yes! And she appeared distraught, or was that only his imagination?
He broke into a run, hustled to the grade and began clambering up to join her, while, away to the west Larry lowered his glasses and stared hard at the taller Texan.
“Somethin’s gone wrong,” he growled.
“Like what, for instance?” demanded Stretch.
“I could be gettin’ jumpy,” Larry confessed, “but I’d swear I heard gunfire—far off.”
“Kinda sharp,” nodded Stretch. “Rifle-fire, maybe. What else?”
“Milty’s climbin’ that butte faster than fast,” said Larry, “and Sadie looks plumb excited.”
“You thinkin’ she maybe got bit by a rattlesnake?” prodded Stretch.
“Only one way to find out,” decided Larry.
“We can’t go up there,” argued Stretch. “If we do, Milty’ll know we were spyin’ on ’em.”
“The hell with Milty!” snapped Larry. “Listen!”
He cocked an ear. Stretch followed his example. They listened intently. The sounds were far-off, but distinct. War-whoops! Rifle-shots! They sprang to their feet, retreated to their waiting horses, unhitched them and swung astride. At breakneck speed, they made a hectic descent from the rise and moved across open ground towards the creek.
Sadie was again sprawled face down atop the butte. Only by chance did she glance backwards and sight the oncoming Texans. Milty was directly below her, still climbing, when she called to him.
“That’s Larry and Stretch! Signal ’em! Get ’em up here fast!”
Obediently, Milty turned and raised his arms, gesturing wildly. The Texans came on, fording the creek with the spray shooting up about them, then drawing rein on the east bank and hastily dismounting. At a loping run, Stretch tagged Larry to the slope.
Milty drew himself up beside the girl, flopped on his belly and stared incredulously. To his surprise, Sadie’s voice was steady. She sounded grim, but unafraid.
“Be thankful we’re a long ways off, Milty. If they could see us, our lives wouldn’t be worth a red cent.”
“The train has been wrecked!” he gasped. “Look! Indians!”
“About a dozen of ’em,” she frowned. “Well—that really does it. There’ll be no holding the army now. Little Cloud’s braves have gone too far.” She stared towards the steam and smoke arising from the arroyo.
Grunts and curses from behind and below heralded the approach of the Texans. Sweating and panting, they hauled themselves to the summit, dropped flat beside Milty and the girl. Stretch squinted intently. Larry used his field glasses to good effect, bringing the scene of chaos into close focus. The twelve war painted ‘braves’ were moving out now, leading spare horses laden with their spoils.
Eight – Man-Trackers
“Runt,” grunted Stretch, “there ain’t nothing can stop it now. Old Vinegar-Puss is just bound to raid the reservation—with his whole doggone Ninth Cavalry.”
Larry lowered his glasses and said, bluntly, “It has to be stopped.”
“Those redskins,” announced Milty, “looted the baggage-car. I saw them slinging sacks to packhorses, before they rode away.”
“The Utes,” fretted Sadie, “have a lot to answer for now. Train-wreck—killings—robbery ...”
“Not that big a war-party,” mused Larry. “I counted an even dozen of ’em.”
“We’ll have to help them folks down there,” declared Stretch. “Likely a lot of ’em hurt bad—and no way to get help from town, ’less one of us does some fast ridin’.”
“I got a better idea,” muttered Larry.
“Mr. Valentine,” frowned Milty, “we have no option but to offer assistance to those stranded travelers. Our responsibility to our fellow-man ...”
“Just this once,” growled Larry, “will you button your consarned lip and give me a chance to think?”
“That war-party,” observed Sadie, “is getting farther and farther away. I guess they’re headed back to the reservation.”
“If that’s where they’re headed,” said Larry, “they still got a lot of miles to travel.”
“What’re you thinkin’ of, runt?” demanded Stretch. “There’s only one way we can argue the colonel out of makin’ war on the Utes,” opined Larry. “It mightn’t work, because he’s a mulehead, but we have to try it. We have to trail those Utes, ambush ’em and box ’em in somewhere, grab whatever they stole off the train and hand it over to the sheriff. Maybe Stone’ll settle for the guilty parties—instead of wantin’ to hit the whole Ute nation. It’s only a ‘maybe’, but it’s all I can think of.”
“Are you actually suggesting,” gasped Milty, “that you should—uh—fight those savages—single-handed?”
“Not single-handed, Milty.” Larry grinned wryly. “Where I go, Stretch goes.”
“But,” protested Milty, “only two of you ...?”
“Well, hell,” shrugged Stretch, “there ain’t but a dozen Injuns. How many Texans d’you suppose it takes, to whup just a dozen Injuns?”
He winked at Larry, who rolled over and fired terse orders at Sadie.
“It oughtn’t take you long to drive the surrey round the butte and across to the wreck. Somebody off that train’ll want to telegraph for help, and the nearest telegraph is in Doone City. You go down there, pick up the conductor or anybody else that’s strong enough to travel—then head for town as fast as those blacks can pull you.”
“Milty’d better come with me,” she suggested.
“No!” breathed Milty.
The Texans eyed him askance.
“I have to see this thing through,” declared Milty. “All of it. Damn it all, I’m a newspaperman, and this story should be big enough to relay to the east coast—something of national importance ...!”
“You go with Sadie,” ordered Larry.
“One of your horses can carry a double-load, I’m sure,” said Milty. “Please—let me come with you. I’ll not get in your way, and I’ll not hold you back. I’ll follow your orders—anything you say, Mr. Valentine, as long as I can be on hand when you ambush those redskins. Don’t you see? I’ll be the first journalist to report an eyewitness account of a—”
“Ain’t he never gonna shuddup?” scowled Stretch.
“We got no time to argue,” frowned Larry. “He can ride with us, so long as he does like I tell him.” He added doubtfully, “Maybe he’ll be useful.”
“Him?” Stretch eyed him incredulously. “You gotta be joshin’ me!”
“Sadie,” grunted Larry, “get goin’.”
“On my way,” she murmured.
Her half-dried clothes were ignored, as she joined the Texans and the New Yorker in that hectic descent to the creek. When the rug impeded her, she merely tightened her sash and struggled on. Down below, the drifters quickly remounted. Milty swung up behind Larry and, as the sorrel began moving, threw a startled glance towards the creek. Sadie had stripped while their backs were turned and was now swimming briskly towards the west bank—one-armed, with the folded rug held above the surface.
“She’s a—a strong swimmer!” he panted. “Great Scot! Why did I have to rescue her?”
“Quit peekin’ and hang on,” growled Larry. “If you fall offa this horse, I swear we’ll leave you where you drop.” Larry wheeled the sorrel and heeled it to a run, to follow the base of the butte to its northern end, the direction taken by the fleeing wreckers. Stretch stayed abreast, urging his pinto to its utmost speed. Later, when they moved out into flat terrain, track of their quarry was clear before them. The raiding party was travelling the bank of the creek. “Where does this take us?” Stretch wanted to know. “Clear to Artega Springs,” was Larry’s sour reply, “and that’s the hell of it!”
>
At the scene of the wreck, uninjured survivors were beginning the harrowing chore of rendering rough first aid to the wounded. Three of the special guards had been slain by the raiders. The engineer had died in the crash. The fireman had fallen heavily after his leap for life and lay helpless now, his right leg broken. The conductor with a bullet-wound in his right shoulder, was incapable of taking any part in the cleaning-up operation.
Chad Werris was exerting his authority, making a convincing show of concern for the survivors and indignation at the treachery of the Utes, while secretly congratulating himself on the success of his plans. The whole project, every detail of his strategy, had worked out perfectly. Irate passengers were vehemently condemning the Utes. One of the unharmed guards was declaring:
“This is Little Cloud’s work! That crazy old skunk never did cotton to Central Utah minin’ the burial grounds!”
Very soon, the volunteer undertakers had to abandon the grim chore of extricating bodies from the wreckage. The task was too difficult. A construction-and-repair gang would have to be summoned before the track could be cleared. The last injured passenger was carried up from the arroyo, after which the survivors asked the inevitable question: “How can we send for help?”
“Somehow,” said Werris, “we have to get word to Doone City. It’s the nearest town. Bound to be a doctor there—maybe several doctors ...”
He broke off, whirled and stared towards the butte. A vehicle had just swung into view and was rolling towards the bend at high speed, drawn by two fast-running blacks, driven by a woman who might have passed for a Ute maiden—clad as she was in naught but the flapping, brightly hued rug. That first impression was, of course, discounted by the creamy white of her bare arms and the vivid auburn of her flowing hair.
The wounded conductor pulled himself to a sitting position, stared towards the oncoming surrey and wondered, “Am I seein’ things? I could swear that’s a white woman!” She rose on the seat, hauled back on her reins and brought the blacks to a slithering halt, showering alkali over the gaping passengers, then gasping a query:
“How many hurt?”
“Too many to be counted, ma’am,” frowned Werris.
“It’s ‘Miss’,” she corrected. “Miss Sadie Clifford, of Doone City. Anybody killed?”
“I’m afraid so,” nodded Werris. “Miss Clifford, you arrive at an opportune time. It’s imperative that we summon help from Doone City. If you place your rig at our disposal ...”
“The horses aren’t winded yet,” she assured him. “I’ll take as many as can get aboard, and we’ll be in Doone City in just a couple hours.”
“I gotta telegraph the Mooresburg depot,” mumbled the conductor.
“And I have to wire my headquarters,” said Werris. “You’d better come along. Just the two of us would be best. The lighter the load, the faster those horses can get us to town.”
A large, tightly corseted female passenger moved closer to the surrey and blinked up at the flushed and excited Sadie.
“Child,” she challenged, “are you so poor you can’t afford proper clothes?”
“I don’t dress this way all the time,” Sadie hastily explained. “I fell in the creek—I mean I was swimming and forgot to take off my clothes—I mean—oh, what the heck!” She pointed to Werris and the conductor. “You and you—climb up fast!”
Werris assisted the conductor up to the seat, climbed up after him and was barely settled before Sadie whooped at her team. The rig was turned sharply, almost throwing Werris clear. He clung to the seat as the redhead urged the blacks to speed.
Meanwhile, Larry was calling a temporary halt.
“From here on,” he warned, as he gestured to the hoof-prints, “we have to move slower—and a mite more cautious.”
“But why?” demanded Milty.
“Now there’s a fool question, if I ever heard one,” drawled Stretch. “Use your doggone eyes. See how the tracks lead clear into the water?”
“It’s shallow from here on,” observed Larry, “and there’s only one direction they could be travellin’. Upstream. Plenty cover up thataway.”
“Yup,” agreed Stretch. “We’ve rid this section before.”
“They’re still headed for the reservation,” guessed Larry. “All we can do is keep ridin’ the bank—hopin’ to spot ’em before they spot us.”
The Texans nudged their mounts to movement and rode on along the bank, slowly pressing northward. After several more miles, the route took them into the shelter of willows. They moved through until, bare yards from the north end of the greenery, Larry abruptly reined up again. “Spot somethin’,” asked Stretch.
Larry held a finger to his lips. They listened intently, and the sound was repeated. A clatter of hooves on rock. Cautiously, they advanced a few more feet, reined up again. The unshod ponies—eighteen of them—were scattered up the side of a rock-littered rise to their left, beyond the west bank of the waterway. Riderless, the rangy animals seemed especially frisky.
“I could be wrong,” muttered Larry, “but those critters look like the prads we saw at the wreck.”
“The Utes,” argued Stretch, “wouldn’t be fool enough to turn their horses loose. Look at ’em. You can bet they’re headed back to the reservation.”
“So maybe they had fresh horses stashed up ahead,” said Larry.
Somewhere up ahead, more horses were moving. Larry stared expectantly towards the densely-vegetated area some two hundred yards to the northeast and, one by one, the raiders reappeared. He cursed luridly and remembered his field glasses.
“Stay quiet,” he ordered Stretch and the journalist, as he slid to the ground.
At the fringe of the willows, he dropped flat and focused his binoculars on the eastbound riders. They were, he was sure, the same twelve. Still war painted—but straddling cowponies now. Every horse wore a saddle, to the horns of which were slung the buckskin sacks containing the big loot. Red men on paleface horses? It didn’t make a great deal of sense—yet. The riders moved on eastward. He scanned that area quickly, then returned to the frowning Stretch and the perplexed Milty. As he remounted, he reported:
“They’re movin’ again, and I think I know how we can head ’em off—maybe get a closer look at ’em.”
“Just like I figured,” mused Stretch, “they had fresh horses stashed.”
“Here’s somethin’ you didn’t figure,” countered Larry. “Those fresh horses are cowponies—with saddles.”
Stretch whistled softly. “What d’you make of that?”
“I’ll tell you,” promised Larry, “after I take a closer look at ’em.” He nodded to his right. “There’s a ridge over thataway. If we ride around it, we’ll be out of sight of ’em—all the way to a stretch of timber.”
“You sayin’ they’re headed for the timber?” challenged Stretch.
“We travelled that forest just the other day, remember?” prodded Larry. “There’s a trail goes clear through.”
“What’s yonder?” Stretch tried to recall.
“Cattle country,” growled Larry, as he heeled his mount to movement.
For a half-mile, they travelled the low country in the shadow of the ridge. Beyond was the thick forest, and they entered it at speed, barely in time to escape detection by the twelve men approaching from the west. In accordance with Larry’s warning, they stayed clear of the narrow track that led through the timber. When they reined up and dismounted, the track was a full twenty yards away. To Milty, Larry quietly explained the routine of keeping the horses muzzled, to prevent their nickering a greeting to the other animals. Then, tagged by Stretch, he crept to a vantage point from which they could keep the trail under observation. They bellied down, emptied their holsters and cocked their Colts.
Five minutes passed, before they heard the approaching hoofbeats. Tolin came into view with Britt following and the other hardcases strung out behind in Indian file. The Texans removed their Stetsons, raised only the top halves of their heads, the
better to study the passing riders. Snatches of conversation were carried to their ears and, if this was the Ute dialect, Messrs. Valentine and Emerson were Chinese.
“Easy pickin’s,” guffawed Hodge.
“You see how that ol’ engine leapt—’fore she pitched into the arroyo?” exulted Grady. “Man, that was really somethin’!”
Stretch dug a hard elbow into Larry’s ribs, and whispered, “We’ve heard them voices before!”
“Ain’t it the truth?” grunted Larry.
He used his eyes to good advantage and saw the telltale signs, unmistakable evidence that these men were whites—disguised as a Ute war-party. Several wore breech-clouts instead of buckskin britches. Where their bare legs had been touched by the creek water, the dark paint had blurred, showing streaks of white. He studied the bedaubed faces with great intensity and noted a bulbous nose, a profile or two. Redskins? Not a chance. Whites, all of them. Their disguises were perfect, but they were undoubtedly whites.
The tag rider was trailing a bundle of brush on the end of his lariat, to obscure their hoof prints. An old trick which could never fool a couple of veteran trackers. Stretch stifled an oath, waited for the last rider to pass out of earshot, then bitterly commented, “You never can guess what you’ll see—till you go snoopin’.”
“What outfit do those two hardcases ride for?” frowned Larry.
“Your guess,” said Stretch, “is as good as mine. So now what?”
“You saw what was hangin’ from their saddles,” muttered Larry. “The loot from that northbound train.”
“We taggin’ after ’em?” demanded Stretch.
“Bet your Texas boots,” grinned Larry. “We don’t stop till they stop—and then we close in on ’em.”
They rose to their feet, hurried back: to where the journalist awaited them. He eyed them anxiously, and asked, “Did you see anything?”
Larry chuckled satirically. Stretch assured the journalist, “We seen plenty. An even dozen fake Utes.”
Larry and Stretch 4 Page 9