To a man, they looked like they wanted to whip out their six-guns and start blazing away at these interlopers on Devil’s Pitchfork range.
Sam recognized the ugly, jut-jawed face of Pete Lowry. Lowry rode near the center of the group, and beside him was a man who carried himself in the saddle with such an air of command that he had to be John Henry Boyd.
The two of them kept coming after their companions halted, not stopping until they were within twenty feet of Sam and the two range detectives. Then they reined to a stop as well.
“Look at that, boss,” Lowry said, confirming Sam’s hunch that the other man was John Henry Boyd. “We don’t have go lookin’ for those damned rustlers after all. They’ve come to us.”
“You’ve got that wrong, mister,” Stovepipe said. “We ain’t rustlers.”
“Then who are you?” Boyd demanded. He was an old man, with white hair under his black Stetson and a face like worn, cracked saddle leather. “And what in blazes are you doing on my land?”
Sam felt a flush of anger. This wasn’t Boyd’s land, and in the technical sense it wasn’t even open range, the sort of graze that hundreds of cattlemen across the frontier claimed.
No, this was Navajo land, and the only reason Boyd was able to stake such a claim on it was that the authorities looked the other way ... and probably had been paid off to do so.
However, Sam wasn’t here today to right that particular wrong. Instead he said, “We’re looking for the rustlers, too, Mr. Boyd. We want to find out what happened to your cattle and where they were taken.”
“Don’t believe him, boss,” Lowry snapped. “These are the fellas we had that run-in with in town yesterday. The redskin claims to be a Cheyenne ’breed, but I think he’s a Navajo spy.”
Boyd turned to his segundo and said, “You blasted fool. You can tell by looking at him that he’s not Navajo. Not all Indians look alike, you know.”
That surprised Sam. Before he could start feeling too kindly toward Boyd, though, the rancher went on, “But that doesn’t mean he’s not a damned rustler anyway. A couple of white men and a Cheyenne ’breed can be owlhoots just like anybody else.”
“I never stole a cow in my life,” Wilbur said angrily, “and neither did Stovepipe.”
“And if we were the rustlers, what would we be doin’ back out here?” Stovepipe added. “Comin’ back to the scene of the crime would be kind of a durned fool thing to do, wouldn’t it?”
“Not if you were lookin’ for more stock to steal,” Lowry said.
“In broad daylight?” Sam asked.
Boyd leaned forward in his saddle.
“Then what are you doing here? I asked you before, and I don’t intend to ask you again.”
“And I reckon we told you,” Stovepipe said. “We’re lookin’ for them rustled beeves.”
“What business is it of yours?”
Sam glanced at Stovepipe and wondered what the man would say. He thought it would be a mistake to reveal their real identities to Boyd and the rest of the Devil’s Pitchfork crew. For all he and his two companions knew, Boyd was behind the scheme to smuggle guns to the Navajo and start a new Indian war here in the Four Corners.
Boyd already had a foothold here with his ranch. He would be in a good position to try to take over the rest of the region. Certainly he and his men could have lied about the rustling just to stir up the settlers in Flat Rock that much more.
He shouldn’t have worried about Stovepipe, Sam realized a second later. A lazy grin spread over the range detective’s face as he said, “Shoot, we figured there might be a reward, and we’re gettin’ a little short on funds. Thought you might be more inclined to give us some ridin’ jobs, at the very least, if we found them cows for you.”
Boyd glared at them.
“That’s what you thought, is it? What I’m inclined to do is run the three of you off my land. Either that, or string you up.”
“That’s what I’d do, boss,” Lowry said as he gave Sam a baleful look.
“I don’t want to waste the time on either of those things, though,” Boyd went on. “In fact, we’ve lolly-gagged around here enough.”
Without warning, he shucked his Colt from its holster and pointed it at Sam, Stovepipe, and Wilbur.
“Drop your guns,” he ordered. “You’re coming with us.”
Lowry looked as surprised as anybody.
“John Henry, what’re you doin’? You can’t trust these varmints!”
“I never said I trusted ’em. Why do you think I told them to drop their guns?” Boyd’s voice hardened. “I won’t tell you that again, either.”
“Reckon we’d better do what the man says,” Stovepipe drawled. He gave Sam and Wilbur a look that meant Play along. Sam understood that well enough. He didn’t see what else they could do right now.
He had seen the muscles in Boyd’s arm and shoulder tense before the rancher went for his gun. Sam was confident he could have beaten Boyd to the draw if he had tried to. He might have been able to get the drop on the rancher and use him as a hostage to get past the other fifteen men in the Devil’s Pitchfork crew.
But that wouldn’t have gotten him any closer to the answers he was looking for, Sam thought as he carefully used his left hand to slide his Colt from its holster. He pitched the revolver to the ground, where it was joined by those belonging to Stovepipe and Wilbur as well.
“Now the rifles,” Boyd commanded. “And I want that knife of yours, too, redskin.”
Again Sam swallowed the anger he felt. He leaned toward the opinion that Boyd and his men weren’t the ones who had bushwhacked him and Matt. Since that bunch obviously wanted him dead, they would have gone ahead and opened fire as soon as they rode up. Sam, Stovepipe, and Wilbur would have put up a fight, but they couldn’t have stopped the bunch from the Devil’s Pitchfork from wiping them out.
That didn’t mean Boyd wasn’t an arrogant, unpleasant son of a bitch anyway.
But maybe cooperating with the rancher would make it easier for Sam and his companions to find out what they wanted to know.
For that reason, Sam drew his bowie knife and tossed it to the ground as well.
“Now back off some,” Boyd ordered. When Sam, Stovepipe, and Wilbur had done that, Boyd jerked his head at a couple of his men, who dismounted and hurried forward to collect all the discarded hardware.
“Come on,” Boyd said. “You want to find out what happened to those rustled cows, you said. Well, so do I. We’ll follow the trail together.”
Lowry said, “I still think this is a bad idea, boss. They’re part of that bunch, I tell you.”
“Well, if they are,” Boyd said, “we’ve got us some hostages, don’t we?”
He led the pack toward the northwestern corner of the valley. Following the commanding gestures Pete Lowry made with his gun, Sam, Stovepipe, and Wilbur fell in just behind Boyd. The other hard-bitten gunmen of the Devil’s Pitchfork crew kept them mostly surrounded as they followed the rancher.
“This is what we want,” Stovepipe said to Sam from the corner of his mouth. “We get to find out where those stolen cows went, and Boyd sees that we ain’t rustlers.”
Sam nodded and said, “That’s what I thought.”
Lowry snapped, “Shut up, you two. I don’t want you back here plottin’ behind the boss’s back.”
“You know, you’re a mighty touchy sort, mister,” Wilbur said. “What happened, your ma take your favorite play-pretty away from you when you were little?”
“Why, you ...” Lowry growled as he moved his horse closer to Wilbur’s paint. He lifted the revolver he still held. “I oughta bust your skull open!”
“Pete!” Boyd’s sharp tone rang out. “That’s enough.” The white-haired rancher looked back over his shoulder. “But I warn you, mister, don’t try my patience any more than it already is. If you do, I’m liable to turn Pete loose on you.”
“Sure, Wilbur here understands,” Stovepipe said quickly. “Don’t you, Wilbur?”
“I reckon,�
� Wilbur said with obvious reluctance.
Sam hoped that Wilbur would behave himself and not get them killed by potential allies.
They already had more than enough enemies who would be happy to take care of that.
Chapter 26
Zack Jardine was on his way back to the Buckingham Palace Saloon when he saw Angus Braverman and Doyle Hilliard gallop into town.
For the past half-hour, Jardine had been talking to his partner in this enterprise and the discussion hadn’t gone very well, so he was in a bad mood to start with.
His anger flared up even more at the sight of Braverman and Hilliard. He had told the two men to keep an eye on that blasted half-breed and to finish him off if they got the chance.
Now, from the way they were hurrying, Jardine figured that they had fouled up again some way.
He lifted a hand to catch their attention as they started to ride past in the street. Both men reined in sharply, sawing the bits in cruel fashion.
“What the hell’s going on now?” Jardine demanded.
“It’s that redskin,” Braverman replied, not surprisingly. “He’s gone out to the Devil’s Pitchfork.”
Jardine wasn’t expecting to hear that. As his eyes widened, he said, “Why in blazes would he do that, after the run-in he had with Lowry and that bunch the other day?”
Hilliard said, “It looked to us like he was tryin’ to find the trail of those cows that got run off a couple nights ago.”
At that news, Jardine felt like spewing a string of vile curses. Realizing that wouldn’t do any good, he said, “I hope you took care of him.”
Braverman grimaced and looked uncomfortable as he shifted in the saddle.
“We tried, Zack, we really did.”
“But?” Jardine said ominously.
“But those two drifters who sided him in that saloon brawl showed up and came mighty close to partin’ our hair with lead. We had to get out of there while we still could.”
Jardine glanced around to make sure no one else was within earshot, then said, “You stupid sons of bitches. Now not only Two Wolves is out there poking around where he doesn’t belong, but so are those two cowboys. I’ve got a bad feeling about them.”
“It gets worse, boss,” Hilliard added with a shake of his head. “We were watchin’ from a distance, and we saw Boyd and his crew come up and grab the redskin and the other two.”
“They didn’t kill Two Wolves and his friends?”
That was probably too much good luck to hope for, Jardine thought.
Hilliard confirmed that hunch by saying, “No, they disarmed the three of ’em but didn’t hurt them as far as we could tell. Then the whole bunch rode off to the northwest, the same direction those boys took the cows.”
Jardine took a deep breath and tried to reassure himself that everything would be all right.
“We figured all along that Boyd and his men would try to trail the herd,” he said. “They won’t be able to find it.”
“That’s what that Injun claimed,” Braverman said. “But we don’t know that for sure.”
“Who knows those godforsaken canyons better than a Navajo?” Jardine asked.
“But Boyd’s got Two Wolves with him now. He’s Cheyenne, but maybe he can track as well as a Navajo can.”
Jardine took off his hat and ran his fingers through his thick black hair. The whole deal had seemed so simple at first ...
All they had to do was steal those rifles before the guns made it to Fort Defiance, deliver them to the hotheads among the Navajo who wanted war with the whites, stir up the settlers by rustling a few cattle and killing a couple of punchers, and then sit back and let nature take its course.
When the fighting was all over, the redskins would be herded out of the Four Corners, and Jardine would be ready to swoop in and take over.
He scowled at Braverman and Hilliard as he recalled that if they hadn’t been so trigger-happy a week earlier, maybe none of the problems that currently plagued him would have cropped up. That incident had fouled up the delivery of the rifles, and the plan hadn’t recovered yet from having that kink thrown into it.
Now this unlikely alliance between Two Wolves, those two mysterious cowboys, and the crew from the Devil’s Pitchfork threatened to make things even worse.
Jardine sighed and settled his hat back on his head.
“There’s only one thing we can do about it now,” he said. “Angus, get a fresh horse and ride for the place where the cattle are being held as fast as you can. Warn the boys watching them that trouble may be on the way.”
“You really think I can get there before Boyd and the others do, boss?”
“I don’t know, but you can damned well try,” Jardine snapped. “There’s a good chance, because you know where you’re going and they don’t. Now get a move on.”
“You want me to go with Angus, Zack?” Hilliard asked.
Jardine shook his head.
“He’s a lot lighter than you. On a fresh horse he can move pretty fast.” He scowled at Braverman. “Didn’t you hear me? Go!”
Braverman nodded and pulled his horse around.
“You bet!”
He headed for the livery stable to change mounts.
“I’m sorry things didn’t work out, boss,” Hilliard said. “It’s like that damned Injun’s got some sort of redskin spirits lookin’ out for him! Every time we think we’re about to ventilate him, he gets out of it somehow.”
“Two Wolves’ luck can’t last forever,” Jardine said as hate filled his heart. “And when it runs out, I hope I’m looking at him over the barrel of a gun.”
Fifty cows and the half-dozen men pushing them along couldn’t help but leave a lot of tracks.
Unfortunately, even though there hadn’t been any rain in this arid country in a long time, the wind blew and sometimes wiped out marks left in the dust.
Not only that, but there were stretches of rocky ground as well where the hooves of cattle and unshod horses didn’t leave any impressions.
Because of those things, following the rustlers’ trail was more difficult than one might think it would be. However, Sam had anticipated that, so he wasn’t surprised when the tracks disappeared about five miles northwest of the ranch and the riders from the Devil’s Pitchfork had to search for them again.
As prisoners, Sam, Stovepipe, and Wilbur rode along with Boyd and the other men. They didn’t have any choice.
After an interval of futile searching, Sam suggested, “Why don’t you let me have a look, Mr. Boyd?”
The three prisoners were sitting their horses with Boyd, Lowry, and another man to guard them while the rest of the Devil’s Pitchfork hands rode back and forth across the range, looking for the trail.
“Don’t listen to him, boss,” Lowry said in response to Sam’s suggestion. “It’s bound to be a trick of some sort.”
John Henry Boyd frowned.
“What if he was to find the tracks of those rustlers?”
“Well, of course he might find ’em,” Lowry blustered. “I still say he’s probably one of ’em. He already knows where they went.”
Boyd looked at Sam, who shook his head.
“I don’t have any idea,” he said. “But I’m pretty good at finding a trail, if I do say so myself.”
“So’s Stovepipe,” Wilbur put in. “He’s got eyes like a hawk.”
Stovepipe grinned.
“Better than a nose like a buzzard, I reckon.”
Boyd frowned in thought as he rasped his fingers over the silvery stubble on his chin. After a moment, he nodded.
“All right, if you think you can find the trail, have at it,” he told Sam and the two cowboys. “But we’ll be right behind you, and if you try anything funny, you’ll wind up blasted out of the saddle quicker than you can blink.”
“No tricks,” Sam promised. “We want to find those cows as much as you do.”
“You know, I almost believe you,” Boyd said. “Which makes me wonder why you feel th
at way.”
“Because maybe then you’ll realize that we’re not your enemy, and neither are the Navajo.”
Lowry’s beefy face flushed even more.
“What about those unshod hoofprints we found? What kind of white man would ride an unshod horse?”
“The kind who’s trying to make everyone think he’s an Indian,” Sam said. He lifted his reins and heeled his mount into motion. “Come on.”
After all that, he was going to feel like an utter fool if he couldn’t find the trail, he thought wryly.
Less than fifteen minutes had gone by, however, when he spotted a rock that was a little darker than the same sort of rocks scattered all around it. The stone had been turned over recently and the burning sun hadn’t had the chance to bleach as much color out of it.
Sam reined in and swung down from his horse. As he hunkered on his heels to study the ground, John Henry Boyd called a question from behind him.
“You find something, Two Wolves?”
“Maybe,” Sam said. He spotted another darker rock a few feet away, and another after that. He straightened and walked forward slowly, leading his horse.
The signs were small, in some cases so tiny as to be almost invisible, but they were there. Sam followed them for a good fifty yards before he found an actual hoofprint. It had been left by a cow, and he came across more and more of them as the ground became softer again.
“Here,” he said, pointing. “They came through here.”
He lifted his arm and leveled it in a generally northwest direction, toward the area of buttes, ridges, and canyons where Caballo Rojo and his people lived.
“And they went that way,” Sam said, hoping he wasn’t wrong about the Navajo.
Boyd grunted.
“Then so will we,” he said as he slipped his revolver from its holster.
He pointed the gun into the air and fired three shots, signaling his widespread riders to converge on him again.
“You’re leading the way now, Two Wolves,” the rancher said.
“The redskin might be leadin’ us into a trap, boss,” Pete Lowry warned.
“I don’t care if he is,” Boyd snapped. “We’ll fight our way out of it. I want my cows back, and I want a shot at the mangy coyotes who killed my men.”
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