The Fighting Edge

by Raine, William MacLeod

  “I’m going back to him,” he said stubbornly.

  “Then you’re a darn fool. He wouldn’t go a step of the way for you.”

  “Maybe not. That ain’t the point. He needs me. Do I get a horse?”

  “Yes, if you’re bound an’ determined to go,” Harshaw said. After a momentary hesitation he added: “And if any of the boys want to go along they can. I’m not hinderin’ them. But my advice is for them to stick right here.”

  Bob’s eyes swept the little group round him. “Any one want to take a chance? We’ll snake Houck outa the willows an’ make a getaway sure.”

  “Or else you’ll stay there with him permanent,” Harshaw contributed. “It’s plumb foolishness, boys. Houck had his orders an’ he broke away from them deliberate. He’d ought to take what’s comin’.”

  Dud pleaded with Dillon. “If it was anybody but Houck, Bob, I’d trail along with you. I sure would. But I can’t see as there’s any call for us to take such a big risk for him. He’s got it in for us both. Said himself he was layin’ for us. You stood by him to a fare-you-well. Ain’t that enough?”

  Bob did not attempt to reason. He simply stated facts. “No, I got to go back, Dud. He’s a mighty sick man, an’ he needs me. The Utes are liable to find him any time. Maybe I could stand ’em off.”

  “An’ maybe you couldn’t,” Blister said. “It’s plumb s-suicide.”

  Dillon looked at his fat friend with a faint, dreary smile. He did not himself relish the task before him. “Thought you told me to be a wolf, to hop to it every chance I got to do some crazy thing.”

  Blister hedged. “Oh, well, a f-fellow wants to have some sense. I never see a good thing that couldn’t be r-run into the ground. Far as I know, I never told you to stand on the D. & R. G. tracks an’ try to stop the express with yore head.”

  “I’ll have to be going now,” Bob said. He turned to Harshaw. “Where’s that bronc I get to carry me back?”

  “Up there in the piñons. Dud, you see he gets a good one. I’m wishin’ you luck, son. An’ I’ll say one thing right out in meetin’. You’re a better man than Lou Harshaw.” The cattleman’s hand gripped that of Dillon firmly.

  “Shucks! Tha’s foolishness,” Bob murmured, embarrassed. “I’m scared stiff if you want to know.”

  “I reckon that’s why you’re aimin’ for to make a target of yorese’f again,” Hawks suggested ironically. “Damn ’f I’d do it for the best man alive, let alone Jake Houck. No, sir. I’ll go a reasonable way, but I quit this side of suicide. I sure do.”

  Over to the left rifles were still popping, but at this point of the ridge the firing had temporarily died down. Bob Dillon was the center of interest.

  A second time his eye traveled over the group about him. “Last call for volunteers, boys. Anybody want to take a ride?”

  Blister found in that eye some compelling quality of leadership. “Dawg-gone you, I’ll go,” his high falsetto piped.

  Bob shook his head. “Not you, Blister. You’re too fat. We’re liable to have to travel fast.”

  Nobody else offered himself as a sacrifice. There were men present who would have taken a chance for a friend, but they would not do it for Houck.

  Dud went with Bob to the piñons. While Dillon saddled one horse, Hollister put the bridle on a second.

  “What’s that for?” Bob asked.

  “Oh, I’m soft in the haid,” Dud grunted. “Gonna trail along. I’ll tell you right now I ain’t lost Houck any, but if you’re set on this fool business, why, I’ll take a whirl with you.”

  “Good old Dud,” Bob beamed. “I’ll bet we get away with it fine.”

  “Crazy old Dud,” the owner of the name grumbled. “I’ll bet we get our topknots scalped.”

  They rode down from the rim-rock, bearing to the right, as far away from the river as possible. The Utes in the blackberry fringe caught sight of them and concentrated their fire on the galloping horsemen. Presently the riders dipped for a minute behind a swell of ground.

  “A heap more comfortable ridin’ here,” Dud said, easing his horse for a few moments to a slower pace. “I never did know before why the good Lord made so much of this country stand up on end, but if I get outa this hole I’ll not kick at travelin’ over hills so frequent. They sure got their uses when Injuns are pluggin’ at you.”

  They made as wide a circuit as the foothills would allow. At times they were under a brisk fire as they cantered through the sage. This increased when they swung across the mesa toward the river. Fortunately they were now almost out of range.

  Riding along the edge of the bluff, they found a place where their sure-footed cowponies could slide and scramble down. In the valley, as they dashed across to the willows where Bob had left Houck, they were again under fire. Even after they had plunged into the thicket of saplings they could hear bullets zipping through the foliage to right and left.

  The glazed eyes in Houck’s flushed face did not recognize the punchers. Defiance glowered in his stare.

  “Where’d you get the notion, you red devils, that Jake Houck is a quitter? Torment me, will you? Burn me up with thirst, eh? Go to it an’ see.”

  Bob took a step or two toward the wounded man. “Don’t you know me, Houck? We’ve come to look after you. This is Dud Hollister. You know him.”

  “What if I did gun him?” the high-pitched voice maundered on. “Tried to steal my bronc, he did, an’ I wouldn’t stand for it a minute.... All right. Light yore fires. Burn me up, you hounds of Hades. I’m not askin’ no favors. Not none a-tall.”

  The big man’s hand groped at his belt. Brown fingers closed on the butt of a forty-five. Instantly both rescuers were galvanized to life. Dud’s foot scraped into the air a cloud of sand and dust as Bob dived forward. He plunged at Houck a fraction of a second behind his friend.

  Into the blue sky a bullet went singing. Bob had been in time to knock the barrel of the revolver up with his outflung hand.

  * * *

  CHAPTER XXXV

  THREE IN A PIT

  Wounded though he was, Houck managed to make a good deal of trouble for the punchers before they pinned him down and took the forty-five from him. His great strength was still at command, and he had the advantage that neither of his rescuers wanted to injure him during the struggle. They thrashed over the ground, arms and legs outflung wildly. Houck gave up only when his vigor collapsed.

  His surrender was complete. He lay weak and panting, bleeding from reopened wounds, for the time as helpless and submissive as a child.

  From a canteen they gave him water. Afterward they washed and tied up the wounds, bathed the fevered face, and kept the mosquitoes from him by fanning them away.

  “Expect I’d better take a pasear an’ see where Mr. Ute’s at,” Dud said. “He’s liable to drap in onexpected while we’re not lookin’—several of him, huntin’ for souvenirs in the scalp line for to decorate his belt with.”

  From the little opening he crept into the thicket of saplings and disappeared. Bob waited beside the delirious man. His nerves were keyed to a high tension. For all he knew the beadlike eyes of four or five sharpshooters might be peering at him from the jungle.

  The sound of a shot startled him. It came from the direction in which Dud had gone. Had he been killed? Or wounded? Bob could not remain longer where he was. He too crept into the willows, following as well as he could the path of Hollister.

  There came to him presently the faint crackle of twigs. Some one or something was moving in the bosk. He lay still, heart thumping violently. The sound ceased, began again.

  Bob’s trembling hand held a revolver pointed in the direction of the snapping branches. The willows moved, opened up, and a blond, curly head appeared.

  Bob’s breath was expelled in a long sigh of relief. “Wow! I’m glad to see you. Heard that shot an’ thought maybe they’d got you.”

  “Not so you can notice it,” Dud replied cheerfully. “But they’re all round us. I took a crack at one in
quisitive buck who had notions of collectin’ me. He ce’tainly hit the dust sudden as he vamosed.”

  “What’ll we do?”

  “I found a kinda buffalo wallow in the willows. We’ll move in on a lease an’ sit tight till Harshaw an’ the boys show up.”

  They carried and dragged Houck through the thicket to the saucer-shaped opening Hollister had discovered. The edges of this rose somewhat above the surrounding ground. Using their spurs to dig with, the cowpunchers deepened the hollow and packed the loose dirt around the rim in order to heighten the rampart.

  From a distance came the sound of heavy, rapid firing, of far, faint yells.

  “The boys are attackin’ the gulch,” Dud guessed. “Sounds like they might be makin’ a clean-up too.”

  It was three o’clock by Bob’s big silver watch. Heat waves were shimmering in the hollow and mosquitoes singing. Occasionally Houck’s voice rose in delirious excitement. Sometimes he thought the Utes were torturing him. Again he lived over scenes in the past. Snatches of babble carried back to the days of his turbulent youth when all men’s cattle were his. In the mutterings born of a sick brain Bob heard presently the name of June.

  “... Tell you I’ve took a fancy to you. Tell you Jake Houck gets what he wants. No sense you rarin’ around, June. I’m yore man.... Mine, girl. Don’t you ever forget it. Mine for keeps.... Use that gun, damn you, or crawl into a hole. I’m takin’ yore wife from you. Speak yore piece. Tell her to go with me. Ha! Ha! Ha!”

  The firing came nearer.

  Again Dud guessed what was taking place. “They’ve got the Utes outa the gulch an’ are drivin’ them down the valley. Right soon they’re liable to light on us hard. Depends on how much the boys are pressin’ them.”

  They had two rifles and four revolvers, for Houck had lately become a two-gun man. These they examined carefully to make sure they were in order. The defenders crouched back to back in the pit, each of them searching the thicket for an angle of one hundred and eighty degrees.

  The sound of the battle died down. Evidently the pursuers were out of contact with the natives.

  “Don’t like that,” Dud said. “If the Utes have time they’ll try to pick us up as they’re passin’.”

  Bob fired.

  “See one?” asked his friend.

  “Think so. Something moved. Down in that hollow. He’s outa sight now.”

  “They’ve got us located, then. Old Man Trouble headed this way. Something liable to start. Soon now.”

  The minutes dragged. Bob’s eyes blurred from the intensity with which he watched.

  A bullet struck the edge of the pit. Bob ducked involuntarily. Presently there was a second shot—and a third.

  “They’re gettin’ warm,” Dud said.

  He and Bob fired at the smoke puffs, growing now more frequent. Both of them knew it would be only a short time till one of them was hit unless their friends came to the rescue. Spurts of sand flew every few moments.

  There was another undesirable prospect. The Utes might charge and capture the pit, wiping out the defenders. To prevent this the cowpunchers kept up as lively a fire as possible.

  From down the valley came the sound of scattered shots and yells. Dud swung his hat in glee.

  “Good boys! They’re comin’ in on the rear. Hi yi yippy yi!”

  Firing began again on the other side. The Utes were caught between the rangers to the left and the soldiers to the right. Bob could see them breaking through the willows toward the river. It was an easy guess that their horses were bunched here and that they would be forced to cross the stream to escape.

  Five minutes later Harshaw broke through the saplings to the pit. “Either of you boys hurt?” he demanded anxiously.

  “Not a scratch on either of us,” Dud reported.

  The boss of the Slash Lazy D wrung their hands. “By Godfrey! I’m plumb pleased. Couldn’t get it outa my head that they’d got you lads. How’s Houck?”

  “He’s right sick. Doc had ought to look after him soon. He’s had one mighty bad day of it.”

  Houck was carried on a blanket to the riverbank, where camp was being made for the night. The Utes had been routed. It was estimated that ten or twelve of them had been killed, though the number could not be verified, as Indians always if possible carry away their dead. For the present, at least, no further pursuit of them was feasible.

  Dr. Tuckerman dressed the wounds of the Brown’s Park man and looked after the others who had been hurt. All told, the whites had lost four killed. Five were wounded more or less seriously.

  The wagons had been left on the mesa three miles away. Houck was taken here next day on a stretcher made of a blanket tied to willow poles. The bodies of the dead were also removed.

  Two days later the rangers reached Bear Cat. They had left the soldiers to complete the task of rounding up the Utes and taking them back to the reservation.

  * * *

  CHAPTER XXXVI

  A HERO IS EMBARRASSED

  Following the Ute War, as it came to be called, there was a period of readjustment on the Rio Blanco. The whites had driven off the horses and the stock of the Indians. Two half-grown boys appropriated a flock of several thousand sheep belonging to the Indians and took them to Glenwood Springs. On the way they sold the sheep right and left. The asking price was a dollar. The selling price was twenty-five cents, a watermelon, a slice of pie, or a jack-knife with a broken blade.

  The difficulties that ensued had to be settled. To get a better understanding of the situation the Governor of the State and a general of the United States Army with their staffs visited the White River country. While in Bear Cat they put up at the hotel.

  Mollie did a land-office business, but she had no time to rest day or night. Passing through the office during the rush of the dinner hour, she caught sight of Blister Haines sprawled on two chairs. He was talking with Bob Dillon.

  “Hear you done quit the Slash Lazy D outfit. What’s the idee?” he said.

  “Nothin’ in ridin’,” Bob told him. “A fellow had ought to get a piece of land on the river an’ run some cattle of his own. Me an’ Dud aim to do that.”

  “Hmp! An’ meanwhile?”

  “We’re rip-rappin’ the river for old man Wilson.”[4]

  Blister was pleased, but he did not say so. “Takes a good man to start on a s-shoestring an’ make it go with cattle.”

  “That’s why we’re going into it,” Bob modestly explained.

  Mollie broke in. “What are you boys loafin’ here for when I need help in the dining-room? Can either of you sling hash?”

  The fat man derricked himself out of the chairs. “We can. L-lead us to the job, ma’am.”

  So it happened that Blister, in a white apron, presently stood before the Governor ready to take orders. The table was strewn with used dishes and food, débris left there by previous diners. The amateur waiter was not sure whether the Governor and his staff had eaten or were ready to eat.

  “D-do you want a r-reloadin’ outfit?” he asked.

  The general, seated beside the Governor, had lived his life in the East. He stared at Blister in surprise, for at a council held only an hour before this ample waiter had been the chief spokesman in behalf of fair play to the Indians. He decided that the dignified thing to do was to fail to recognize the man.

  Blister leaned toward the Governor and whispered confidentially. “Say, Gov, take my tip an’ try one o’ these here steaks. They ain’t from dogy stock.”

  The Governor had been a cattleman himself. The free-and-easy ways of the West did not disturb him. “Go you once, Blister,” he assented.

  The waiter turned beaming on the officer. His fat hand rested on the braided shoulder. “How about you, Gen? Does that go d-double?”

  Upon Blister was turned the cold, hard eye of West Point. “I’ll take a tenderloin steak, sir, done medium.”

  “You’ll sure find it’ll s-stick to yore ribs,” Blister said cheerfully.

  Carr
ying a tray full of dishes, Bob went into the kitchen choking down his mirth.

  “Blister’s liable to be shot at daybreak. He’s lessie-majesting the U.S. Army.”

  Chung Lung shuffled to the door and peered through. Internal mirth struggled with his habitual gravity. “Gleat smoke, Blister spill cup cloffee on general.”

  This fortunately turned out to be an exaggeration. Blister, in earnest conversation with himself, had merely overturned a half-filled cup on the table in the course of one of his gestures.

  Mollie retired him from service.

  Alone with Bob for a moment in the kitchen, June whispered to him hurriedly. “Before you an’ Dud go away I want to see you a minute.”

  “Want to see me an’ Dud?” he asked.

  She flashed a look of shy reproach at him. “No, not Dud—you.”

  Bob stayed to help wipe the dishes. It was a job at which he had been adept in the old days when he flunkied for the telephone outfit. Afterward he and June slipped out of the back door and walked down to the river.

  June had rehearsed exactly what she meant to say to him, but now that the moment had arrived it did not seem so easy. He might mistake her friendliness. He might think there was some unexpressed motive in the back of her mind, that she was trying to hold him to the compact made in Blister Haines’s office a year ago. It would be hateful if he thought that. But she had to risk it if their comradeship was going to mean anything. When folks were friends they helped each other, didn’t they? Told each other how glad they were when any piece of good luck came. And what had come to Bob Dillon was more than good luck. It was a bit of splendid achievement that made her generous blood sing.

  This was all very well, but as they moved under the cottonwoods across the grass tessellated with sunshine and shadow, the fact of sex thrust itself up and embarrassed her. She resented this, was impatient at it, yet could not escape it. Beneath the dusky eyes a wave of color crept into the dark cheeks.

  Though they walked in silence, Bob did not guess her discomposure. As clean of line as a boy, she carried herself resiliently. He thought her beautiful as a wild flower. The lift and tender curve of the chin, the swell of the forearms above the small brown hands that had done so much hard work so competently, filled him with a strange delight. She had emerged from the awkwardness and heaviness of the hoydenish age. It was difficult for him to identify her with the Cinderella of Piceance Creek except by the eager flash of the eyes in those moments when her spirit seemed to be rushing toward him.