Three Trails to Triangle

by Robert J. Horton

  In a flash Buck picked up the rod, broke it across his knee, and threw it over the cliff, the reel flying through the air with the line singing shrilly as it spun.

  “I guess you were faking, at that,” he said sternly. “Where’s your camp? Show it to me or I’ll drag you around by the collar till I find it.”

  The man bunched and literally flung himself into the air, his gun glinting in the starlight. But Buck had closed in on him in a twinkling and now his own weapon blazed almost in Screw-eye’s face. The man dropped his six-shooter as he felt the hot breath of pistol flame, and Buck’s gun blazed again.

  Screw-eye staggered back, his features ghastly in the weird light that shone from the illuminated heavens. His hand went quickly over his thin face and he looked at it. When he saw no blood, he rubbed his face again and stared at his hand with his jaw sagging. Then his eyes went red as he gave Buck a look in which baffled rage and intense hatred struggled for mastery.

  Buck was laughing coldly, his glances darting about the open space and back to the slope. He had fired for three reasons: to startle Screw-eye into dropping his gun; to bring anyone out who might be with the man; and to attract the attention of Davitt, who, he had reason to believe, was not far behind him on the trail since he had ridden slowly on purpose.

  “Back into the trees!” Buck commanded. “Hop along, or the next time I won’t fire to scare you. You’re not hurt. Get a move on!”

  He grasped Screw-eye with his left hand and hurled him into the shadows, bounding after him just as the man whistled so sharply that the shrill signal cut the still air with the reverberating violence of an unexpected thunderclap.

  Next instant the man’s left hand had gripped Buck’s gun wrist like a band of steel and his other hand found the cowpuncher’s throat, the fingers shutting off his wind with the painful, merciless, viselike clutch of mighty talons.

  The unexpected nature of the ferocious attack, the sudden twist of his wrist, caused Buck to release his hold of the gun. He tore at the fingers in his throat with his left hand, drove his right knee into his adversary’s stomach, and literally boosted the man up and over his shoulder.

  But his antagonist kept his hold!

  Both went to the ground on their backs with Buck partly on top of his attacker, his neck twisted under his own left arm. His head seemed swelling, roaring. The stars over them began to bunch into great fiery balls, swimming in all the colors of the rainbow. His strength was ebbing, and it drove him into a frenzy. Not for one fleeting instant would he have suspected that the man who had him in his power possessed such strength. The sweat stood out on him as he realized it was the strength of a madman he was battling.

  Buck rolled over, putting his weight on his attacker’s right arm. His left hand found one of the other’s ears and he twisted it with all the strength left in him. A hoarse cry came from Screw-eye’s throat and his hands went limp. Buck broke away, lights dancing before his eyes. He stood unsteadily looking down at the figure on the ground.

  Screw-eye lay motionless. His eyes were open, but his face was the ghostly hue of chalk. His breath came in gulps. Then he began to twitch—first his lips and eyelids, then his hands and arms and legs. Finally his whole body shook as if he were afflicted with a fit of ague.

  Buck was unable to take his eyes from this queer sight as his head cleared and the strength surged back into his muscles. In time Screw-eye stopped twitching and shaking and closed his eyes only to open them suddenly and sit bolt upright.

  “What happened?” he gasped out, wiping his lips with a hand.

  Buck swore softly, uncertainly. Had the man really been temporarily insane or in the throes of a seizure? Was the peculiar light in his eyes indicative of mental instability?

  These questions remained unanswered, for Buck suddenly heard a deep, thick voice behind him.

  “What’s the matter? Did he throw a twister?”

  Buck whirled and met the cold, evil-lighted eyes of his assailant of the morning—the man who called himself Trawler.

  Chapter Sixteen

  For several moments Buck stood motionless and silent, regarding Trawler with a steady gaze in which there was neither alarm nor surprise. But in that brief space of time Buck thought faster than ever before in his life. Screw-eye and Trawler were undoubtedly companions, and the latter’s question tended to show that Screw-eye was subject to fits. Indeed, if the man were mentally unbalanced, it might account for his presence on the bank fishing. But his position had also been an excellent lookout, and Trawler had said he was working for Lamby, a statement which the stockman had failed to confirm. Indeed, if Trawler were working for Lamby, why should he be in this desolate spot off the Triangle range? Buck decided to try the two of them out.

  “I reckon he did,” he answered. “He made a jump for me when I stopped to talk with him and tried to choke me to death. Friend of yours?”

  “Oh, everybody in these parts knows Phelps,” said Trawler with a derogatory gesture. “He gets that way from livin’ alone. He’s a hermit. What you doin’ up this way?”

  “I’m heading toward the Sweetgrass country, no thanks to you,” replied Buck coldly. “Lucky for me the drinks were behind your aim this morning.”

  Trawler chuckled. “I was afraid I might have hit you,” he said. “I even took a roundabout way home, figurin’ I could get over it before I hit the ranch and get the bad news beforehand if there was any. I’m glad to see you’re jake. Where’s your gun?”

  Buck had already glimpsed the reflection of the dull metal of his weapon in the starlight. He walked a few paces and picked the gun up from where it had fallen in the grass. He slipped it into his holster and turned to find Trawler covering him.

  Buck never batted an eyelash. He surveyed Trawler coldly. “What’s the answer?” he demanded. As he put the question he glanced past Screw-eye, who Trawler had called Phelps, and saw the slope was clear. He knew if Davitt had seen the flashes made by the gun, or had heard the reports, he would be cautious. He had been assured by the look in Davitt’s eyes and the flutter of his lids that Davitt had planned to take the Horseshoe trail. The fact that he hadn’t said as much in so many words was part of Davitt’s clumsy plan to give Buck an opportunity to withdraw from the venture with good excuse if he wished.

  “I started to test you out this mornin’ to see what you and that four-flusher you were travelin’ with were up to,” said Trawler in a mean voice. “As a matter of fact, I’m workin’ on the Lamby business myself. You busted into me for no reason a-tall except to make me think you was tough. You didn’t like the idea of my workin’ for Lamby and, for all I know, you knew I was trackin’ in this game on my own hook. I’m not lettin’ you go till I’m sure of you, that’s all, and it won’t be healthy for you to kick up any disturbance. You may as well know I didn’t intend to shoot you. I pulled that play to throw you off of any play you had in mind. If you hadn’t run into Phelps here, I’d have followed you. Now I’m just naturally goin’ to hold you tight till I know more about you.”

  “You can’t even talk like you was telling the truth,” Buck snorted. “But if I’m wrong, it won’t be the first time.”

  “If you’re wrong it may be the last time,” Trawler shot back. “Phelps! Get your gun and cover this gent.”

  Phelps did as he was told, and when he had drawn a steady bead on Buck’s heart, Trawler stepped around the puncher and took his gun.

  “Funny you’d let me pick it up,” Buck said jeeringly.

  “I wouldn’t bother lookin’ for it,” said Trawler crossly. “Now just lead your horse along behind Phelps. Go ahead, Phelps … go to the cabin. Step careful, cowboy … if you slip I’m bound to hit you once out of six shots.” He laughed as if he considered this a great joke.

  But Buck knew he wasn’t joking. Moreover, a doubt had assailed the cowpuncher. It might be that Trawler was trailing rustlers. Buck didn’t believe th
e man suspected him as being involved in the cattle thefts, but he might be taking precautions against competition. After all, Lamby hadn’t said anyone else was working on the case. Buck was puzzled and mad. And worst of all, he was helpless to do anything about it. He took up his reins and started afoot after Phelps, leading his horse.

  The trail led directly through a stand of timber and Buck could see a narrow ribbon of starlit sky that split the deep shadow ahead. As they approached this opening, it widened, as an aisle leading into the nave of a church. Suddenly a huge mass of rock loomed on the right and Phelps turned in close to this rock.

  “Push right along behind him,” came the order from Trawler.

  Buck did so and as they went halfway around the rock they struck into another trail with a sandy bottom where the horses hoofs made no sound. This by-trail led over a ridge, across a gravel-strewn gully, through some scattered firs, and brought up beside a small stream where there was a cabin almost underneath an overhanging bank, or cliff, where the knotted roots of trees showed below the undermined soil like huge ropes. Buck realized that this was a place that would be hard to find, unless one came across the little stream and followed it up.

  Phelps was fussing at the door of the cabin. Trawler stood near Buck, who had halted and was holding his horse.

  “When he makes a light, go on in,” Trawler told him. “I’ll look after your horse.”

  Buck’s eyes had accustomed themselves to the dim light and he saw a crude corral under the cutbank where were two horses that most likely belonged to Trawler and Screw-eye, or Phelps, as Buck now knew him.

  Phelps made a light and Buck entered the cabin. Phelps stood by the small table on which was the lamp and motioned Buck to the bunk with his gun that he held ready in his right hand.

  “Not so fresh now, eh?” Phelps croaked, his bulging eyes snapping.

  Buck sat down on the bunk and looked about the small room in amazement, which quickly changed to an expression of disgust. In the corners, under the table, and everywhere on the floor except in front of the small stove and a space between the table and the bunk, was a litter of innumerable objects, including old pack saddles, broken straps, empty bottles, odd bits of leather, gunny sacks, wooden stirrups, discarded clothing, cast-off hats and worn boots, limp tobacco sacks, an overturned pail and a lantern minus its glass chimney, sticks of firewood, yellowed newspapers and magazines, ends and pieces of rope, and a conglomeration of junk that represented the sum total of nothing so far as value or usefulness was concerned.

  The cowpuncher looked up from his survey and eyed Phelps with a feeling of repulsion. If the interior of the cabin should be taken as evidence, the man was crazy. Buck surmised that this was what the man Trawler wanted him to believe. Buck noticed two cane fishpoles resting on nails driven in the logs above the window. Phelps, then, was given to fishing on the riverbank after dark. But Buck could not forget that the place where he had found Phelps fishing was a vantage point from which an excellent view of the slope and rugged country below could be obtained. It was not at all unlikely that Phelps had been stationed there as a lookout and Buck had burst in upon him before he could make his escape. Trawler undoubtedly had heard the two shots and had come on the run from the cabin. Had Davitt heard them, too? Buck felt confident that Davitt would find him regardless of the blind entrance to the trail to the cabin. But there lingered the uneasy possibility that Davitt had started later than he had expected, or that some unforeseen contingency had sent him out on one of the other two trails to the Triangle Ranch.

  “Build a fire and make some coffee,” said Buck suddenly.

  Phelps took a step toward the stove and then whirled. The look in his eyes was steel-blue and clear as crystal. “You goin’ to give me orders?” he shouted wildly.

  Buck laughed. “There’s nothing the matter with you except you’ve got ears like a rat,” he said with a look of contempt.

  “I’d as lief plug you as not!” shrilled Phelps, waving the gun.

  “Why don’t you?” asked Buck coldly. “Stop juggling that gun.”

  At this juncture Trawler stepped into the cabin. He frowned at Buck and motioned to Phelps. “Let’s have some coffee,” he growled.

  He pulled a homemade stool up beside the bunk and sat down. “Where’s your pal?” he asked, favoring Buck with a searching gaze.

  “I dunno,” replied Buck, “if it’s the one I think you mean.”

  “He’ll be taken care of,” Trawler said, his voice full of meaning.

  “Sure. Lamby will see to that. He makes his deals in advance.”

  Trawler’s face darkened. “Do you ever stop to think that you maybe don’t know as much as you think you do?” he asked. “It was pretty dumb of you to follow us, and it couldn’t do you any good. You’re not sure this minute what it’s all about. You’ve just stumbled into somethin’ and you don’t know what it is. You don’t even realize that Phelps, here, is dangerous. I heard you baitin’ him before I came in.” He shot a look at Phelps, who was busying himself at the stove preparing the coffee.

  “He took me unawares,” Buck said wryly. He looked at Trawler closely. “Am I to understand that I’m a prisoner and being threatened?”

  “Not in the strict sense of the word,” Trawler returned. “But I’m not goin’ to have you chasin’ around the country, blunderin’ into places where you don’t belong and maybe gettin’ yourself shot up and me gettin’ the blame for it.” He scowled darkly, but Buck caught the glimmer of evil cunning in its depths.

  “Why not let Phelps take the blame?” he drawled, throwing a dangerous challenge into the man’s face.

  Trawler swore, and his brutal jaw snapped shut. “By snakes, I’ll just leave you with Phelps for safekeepin’,” he said.

  Buck glanced instinctively toward the figure at the stove and unexpectedly met Phelps’ eyes. He shivered involuntarily and turned his gaze away. He experienced a creepy feeling as if he had been momentarily in the spell of a snake. For the first time he was conscious of a definite sensation of misgiving. It struck him like a blow in the face that he could be done away with in this desolate spot and all traces of his disappearance concealed. So Trawler thought he had followed them, and he thought that Davitt had followed him in turn. Since Trawler was wrong, why couldn’t he be wrong himself? He shifted on the bunk uneasily.

  Phelps gave them each a hot cup of coffee and a cold biscuit.

  Trawler sipped his coffee and munched the biscuit. Buck followed his example. Phelps was swallowing noisily at the table and Buck knew without looking that the man’s eyes were fixed on him. The coffee warmed him, and his confidence gradually returned to a degree. But he didn’t like the situation he found himself in even a little bit.

  After eating the biscuit and emptying his cup, Trawler got to his feet. He put the cup on the table, wiped his lips with the back of his hand, and pointed to Buck.

  “Keep him here till I come back,” he said to Phelps.

  He slapped the holster on his left with his right hand and stepped to the door. There he peered into the darkness. Buck heard the night wind whistling through rock crevices and swishing with an unnatural sound in the scanty tree growth. Trawler looked at him curiously as if he never expected to see him again and went out.

  Buck had made no attempt to hold Trawler since he thought it would be easier to cope with one, even though that one might be crazy, than with two. Now, as he watched Phelps gurgling the dregs of his coffee, his eyes dancing brighter than ever, it struck him that if Trawler intended to keep him a prisoner, alive, it was peculiar that he hadn’t bound him hand and foot, so he would be helpless. True, he was unarmed, but he had the use of his hands. Suddenly he started and stared straight at Phelps, the lids narrowed over his eyes. He had been left unbound for a reason. Trawler expected him to try to overpower Phelps and the latter was expected to kill him at the first move.

  The c
owpuncher’s whole body went cold at the thought. Possibly Phelps was deranged. Trawler evidently had some hold over him, for the hermit, so-called, obeyed him meekly enough. Instantly Buck remembered the significant way in which Trawler had slapped his holstered gun. He stared in fascination at Phelps’ weapon, which sat on the table close to the man’s right hand, its long, cold-blue muzzle pointed in Buck’s direction. He might have imagined it, but he thought he saw a gloating, maniacal gleam in the hermit’s eyes, which, as Davitt had said, looked like glistening buttons screwed in his head.

  At this moment Buck heard a sudden clatter of hoofs on the rocks and the snort of a horse. Trawler was riding away. Buck nearly dropped his cup as a laugh sounded on the wind—short and harsh, and jeering. It might have been the cry of an owl, but Buck smiled grimly. Next there was merely the wind, and the sibilant sucking of Phelps’ lips.

  Buck gulped the remainder of his coffee. The time to act was before Phelps would reasonably expect it. Where was Trawler going? Buck’s place was on the trail where Davitt would pass, the trail that Trawler had probably taken. Buck had an uncanny feeling that he was sitting in the presence of impending death. The youth within him rebelled. He looked at a pile of rags on the floor near the head of the bunk so that Phelps could not see the look in his eyes. As chance would have it, his gaze centered on a thin, iron shaft that stuck out of the nondescript heap—a branding iron.

  Buck’s mind clicked to a decision.

  “How about another cup of coffee?” he said, managing to look up with a grin.

  Phelps looked at him coldly, put down his cup, and rested his hand on his gun. “Coffee won’t do you any good,” he croaked in a horrible voice. “You want something to eat. Dirt’s what you want to eat! You want to gnaw roots … grass roots. Only you’re goin’ to take what roots you get!” The laugh that rang through the room sent chills up Buck’s spine.

  Buck nodded toward the stove. “Shall I get it?” he asked.

  Phelps did exactly what Buck had expected. He looked at the coffee pot on the stove. In the fraction of a second that the man’s gaze was distracted, Buck hurled the cup. It struck Phelps full in the face as Buck leaped for the branding iron. He grasped it, still looking at Phelps, when the latter fired blindly. Buck’s body went hurtling across the short intervening space and the twisted brand end of the iron came down on Phelps’s head with a force that split the scalp and started the blood spurting.