In another moment the camp was in a turmoil as the punchers caught up their horses and rode toward the pair at a gallop.
Davitt held up a hand in a commanding gesture as the men rode up. “Have any of you men seen any of Lamby’s cattle on this range?” he called out, his gaze sweeping the faces of the crew.
“I’ve already answered him about that!” cried Quigley.
Davitt saw the men nodding with puzzled expressions at their leader. “That’s all right,” he told them. “Quigley merely wanted to confirm it.” He looked narrowly at the foreman. “I’m taking you at your word,” he said sharply.
“And I’m ordering you off this range,” sang out Quigley.
“That is something in which Hull won’t back you up,” said Davitt grimly. He waited a few moments while Quigley cooled. “Now, if you’ll be so hospitable, Buck and me will have a bite of breakfast and be on our way. We’ll leave the hermit party with you.”
* * * * *
Buck and Davitt rode away from the camp with the morning sun streaming gold on the rugged crest of Horseshoe Butte. They rode southeastward, with the butte off at the left and the corner that Quigley had spoken of down to their right. The direction they were taking would bring them to a point in the badlands midway between the butte and the corner.
Davitt was in a thoughtful mood. He had dumped the injured Phelps on Quigley and the foreman had ordered him taken to the house. There had been no further words between Quigley and Davitt, for the latter had been taciturn and had ignored the foreman completely.
When they were well out of sight of the camp, Davitt called a halt. “I was wrong when I had the notion that Trawler maybe had hurried to see Quigley,” he said. “I don’t think Quigley has anything to do with this rustling business. Something is holding him back, though. There’s somebody higher up and I think it’s Hull. I let Quigley get mad, made him mad, in fact, and I know he told me the truth.”
“He seemed annoyed when I rode up with his men,” said Buck. “There were some cows pretty close in to the camp down there and I thought I spied one with a star brand on it.”
“Quigley said there were some star-branded cattle on his range,” Davitt confirmed. “Said there was a bunch of Lamby’s cattle in the corner down there right now.” He pointed off to the lower right of the tumbled district.
“Looks to me like we better find out about the stock cache, if there is one, and let guessing take care of itself for a while,” drawled Buck.
“And any man we meet is a rustler till he proves something to the contrary,” nodded Davitt. “I’ve got a hunch, Buck, that we’re going to smell powder smoke.” There was no smile in his eyes as he said this.
They rode straight for the rugged strip of the badlands. When they reached the first of the tumbled ridges, washes, gullies, and deep ravines, they took the first trail that led into the heart of the strip that ran straight to the open end of Horseshoe Butte. This brought them to the dry bed of a stream where water ran only when the snows were melting in spring or after a hard rain.
Buck now was in the lead, reading sign in the trail and keeping their course true. He drew rein in the dry gravel of the long wash. “I’ve never been in there, but I’ve heard there is a big open space in the butte, rimmed by the walls of the rock horseshoe. It would be a good place to cache cattle and they could be driven up this creek bed.”
Davitt was staring at a patch of sand in the middle of the wash. “There have been cattle in here,” he said, pointing.
The tracks were easily discernible in the sand.
Buck hitched his gun. “We’ll go up,” he said shortly. “We’ll have to walk our horses in this so’s not to make any more noise than we can help.”
As they proceeded up the dry bed of the stream they saw more and more sign that cattle had been moved there. In damp places the soil was tramped down by scores of hoofs, and at one of these spots Buck stopped and pointed downward.
“Shod tracks and fresh,” he said. “Riders.”
Davitt nodded and looked ahead. It was impossible to see any distance because of the brush, willows, and trees. There were great boulders, too, left there presumably by prehistoric avalanches or glaciers. The feeling that they were riding into a natural trap, which had been growing on him, suddenly became an absolute conviction.
“Make for that pile of rocks,” he told Buck, pointing to a mass of boulders some little distance up the wash. “It’s too open here.” He started and raised himself in the saddle as a shadow moved on the chalky white of the gravel where the branches of some trees hung low far ahead.
He drove in his spurs and whipped out his gun as a sharp report shattered the stillness. He thought a bullet fanned his cheek as his own gun blazed. Buck was to the left of him, his horse plunging in the loose gravel, his weapon spitting lead. The shadow took form as a man staggered across the wash and dropped full-length on his face.
Davitt and Buck were spurring their horses for the protection of the rocks. But guns were in action ahead and the bullets were singing in their ears. They could not see their assailants nor make out where the shots were coming from in that short interval of confusion when they were dodging overhanging branches, pitching in the saddle as their horses lunged and stumbled and rolled, protecting their eyes from whipping willows and brush. When they finally gained the shelter of the rocks, they found hard, firm footing for their horses and halted with the branches of a cottonwood interlaced above them.
Davitt was out of the saddle in a twinkling and he had hardly touched the ground when Buck, leaning from his saddle, fired twice. The gun was actually over Davitt’s left shoulder when Buck fired.
A cry came from across the wash and then a sprawling figure toppled off a cliff, rolled and bumped down the sheer slope, and landed in a crumpled heap on the gleaming, white stones.
Silence closed in.
Buck slipped noiselessly from his horse. “There’s another,” he said in a guarded tone in Davitt’s ear. “He’s up around these rocks. He can get us easy if we start out.”
Davitt pushed him back with his arm. He was looking up. “Keep out of sight,” he whispered. “Come along if I whistle twice.”
In another moment Davitt had grasped the branch of the tree and was climbing it. He gained a point where he was level with the top of the huge rock that reared itself up from the crumbled mass. Here was a great limb which reached over the rock’s rounded dome. Davitt could not see beyond the rock because of the leafy branches. He lifted his hands, grasped the big limb, and, with the branch sagging with his weight, went hand over hand across the short intervening distance to the dome.
Here he crouched and looked down. He had made no noise, and none could be aware of his presence on the rock unless the disturbance in the branches had been noticed. He managed to slip down the rock a short distance to a niche where, with his feet planted solidly, he leaned back against the stone and saw clearly below.
In some trees to the right of the wash a horse was tethered. Then, behind a rock outcropping directly beneath him, Davitt saw a man. He recognized the man as Trawler almost immediately. He was peering over the rocks. Davitt searched the wash, trees, and the other spaces among the rocks but could see no sign of other horses. It flashed through his mind that the two men who had been shot down were probably lookouts. But he dismissed this when, looking intently up the dry bed of the stream, he caught sight of the familiar outlines of feeding cattle. On the right and left, the rock walls of Horseshoe Butte rose sheer above the trees.
While he had been surveying the scene, Davitt had kept an eye on Trawler. The man held his gun in his hand and kept peering over the parapet of rock. Davitt surmised that Trawler didn’t know that his men were shot and was waiting for a signal or some kind of a move that would disclose the result of the shooting. From his position Trawler could see a short distance down the draw. If Buck were to appear around the
mass of rock, Trawler could drop him at sight.
Some six feet down the rock from where Davitt was standing was a natural shelf which he estimated was three feet wide. Below this was a sheer drop to the ground of twenty feet. Davitt decided to slide down the face of the rock and take a chance on landing on the shelf upright. He had drawn his gun, but now he slipped it into his holster, edged along the narrow niche, and let go with his hands spread out on the stone coping.
As his feet struck the shelf he whistled shrilly twice, and his hand whipped out his gun as he went to his knees on the very edge of the shelf.
Trawler looked up—looked up into the black bore of Davitt’s gun.
“Drop that six-shooter,” came Davitt’s stern command. He could hear Buck running up the wash. “There’s only two of us, Trawler, but you can take a chance if you want to. Make up your mind quick!”
Trawler’s gun clattered on the rocks at his feet. He kept looking at Davitt with a curious expression until Buck climbed over the rocks and covered him.
Davitt stood up. “Maybe you’ll tell your old friend there what the shooting was about while I climb down,” he said to Trawler.
He walked along the shelf to where he could scramble down the rocks. Trawler looked at Buck, who was scowling darkly.
“You figured the crazy hermit would bore me, eh, Trawler?” Buck said as Davitt hastened toward them. “Instead of that, I made him talk.” It was a random shot, but both Buck and Davitt saw by the look in Trawler’s eyes that it told.
“I reckon you didn’t know that I took the shells out of that crazy fool’s gun,” said Trawler easily. He actually smiled.
“Why …” Buck sputtered in his effort to get the words out quickly. “I’ve got Phelps’ gun right here,” he exploded. “You took mine and I took his when I knocked him out.”
“Yeah?” Trawler jeered. “Then you filled it with shells from your belt.” He turned to Davitt. “What happened to my men?” he demanded in a crisp, bold voice.
“They stepped into some hot lead,” returned Davitt. “I’m not going to fool around with questions, Trawler, or whatever your name is. We’ll take a look at those cattle up there and then we’ll be going.”
“I suppose you know that those are Lamby’s cattle that I’m holdin’ here till I can drive them down to the others I’ve recovered,” said Trawler. “And those two men you fired on were helpin’ me.”
“Don’t doubt it a bit,” Davitt said cheerfully. “But it’s the first time I ever heard rustled called recovered, thanks to you. Move along, Trawler.”
Buck picked up the man’s gun and thrust it into a side pocket of his coat. Trawler started for his horse and Davitt asked Buck to bring their own horses. Shortly afterward they looked over the fifty-odd head of cattle in the cache at the head of the draw. Each cow or steer bore the brand of a star on its side.
Trawler’s eyes were narrowed and dark, but he held his tongue.
Buck had dismounted near a pile of ashes. He looked carefully at the ground. “Enough sign that branding’s been done here to convince a blind man,” he snorted, giving Trawler a look of contempt.
“We won’t need it,” Davitt said. “Trawler, ride along and we’ll take a look at your friends and go on down for a look-see at the cattle in the lower corner of Hull’s range.”
Buck took up his reins in his left hand, held the stirrup in his right, and then shouted as he swung into the saddle. But Davitt was watching and saw Trawler’s hand dart inside his shirt as he gave his horse a cruel dig with the spurs. The animal leaped in a frenzy of pain as Trawler’s second gun roared. Davitt’s gun answered three times with a staccato of reports that sounded like the reverberations of thunder in the bowl of the Horseshoe.
Trawler’s right arm dangled, and curses streamed from his lips as both Davitt and Buck closed in and hazed his horse to a trembling stop.
“I’ve got a card from the Cattlemen’s Association and I got those cattle back for Lamby!” cried Trawler, his bloated face purple with rage.
“Sure you’ve got a card,” Davitt said calmly. “But it is a canceled card. I thought I’d seen your picture somewhere. But you forgot that Lamby’s Star brand is a five-pointed star. By burning one triangle over another, and a little hair-working, you made a six-pointed star! That would pass all right on the Hull range and even Lamby might overlook it, but there’s a six-star brand across the line and you could get rid of every head of stock you stole to the cutthroat outfit that own it.”
“Yeah?” Trawler sneered, looking at his helpless right arm and the blood dripping from his fingers. “You say Phelps told you this?” He flashed a look at Buck. “I suppose you know Phelps is crazy.”
“Phelps didn’t say anything about it,” Davitt said frankly. “But he got a pretty hard clout on the head, he’s delirious, and it wouldn’t surprise me but that he came out of it with a clear head, minus the cobwebs. That’ll mean he’ll talk plenty.” He frowned and then spoke again. “Listen, Trawler … which isn’t your name … you were a small-time agent with your first job with the association. You were fired for incompetence. I think you were more competent in another line than they thought. You heard that Lamby, Hull, and Quigley had gone to town. You sent Phelps in to spy around, and then made the mistake of coming in yourself and trying to scare Buck off in the bargain. You’re just not smart enough to keep out of jail. You’ve rebranded about five hundred head, and we’ll send word across the line to find out if you’ve sold any yet. Your worked brands won’t stand ‘put’ for anything like till fall comes, you know. To be a first-class cow thief, you’ve got to think of all these things.”
Trawler ground his teeth, but his black look of baffled rage only served to convince Davitt of his guilt.
“Now I’ll tie up that arm of yours,” Davitt said in a business-like tone, as he got off his horse. “Then you’ll ride in peacefully or we’ll tie you on your saddle … you can take your choice.” His tone was not so affable as he said this.
Chapter Nineteen
Buck Granger looked up from a letter he had written. He put down his pen on the table beneath the lamp and looked across the small room to where Davitt was lying on the bed, reading a book by the rays of another lamp on the bureau.
“How does this sound?” said Buck, clearing his throat.
“Sounds good so far, go ahead and read it,” Davitt said, and yawned.
Buck read slowly, moving his right forefinger up and down as if counting time.
Mr. Sylvester Graham
State Bank of Milton
Milton, Montana
Sir,
Mel Davitt and the undersigned wish to see you at the bank at ten o’clock sharp tomorrow morning on important business. Kindly be there at the time stated without fail.
Yours truly,
B. Granger
“He ought to understand that, hadn’t he?” Buck said in a satisfied tone.
“It’s plain enough,” Davitt agreed with a grin. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d be there.”
“The question is, will Lamby and Hull and Quigley be there?” Buck asked. “But Quigley promised they’d be there, when we saw him on the way down. Said he’d see to it. With Trawler in the cooler, and the cattle recovered, there’s only a little left for us to do.”
Davitt closed his book. “I think it’s time for a night’s sleep,” he said, and yawned again. “I left word with the hotel clerk downstairs to call us in time for breakfast. Take your letter down and turn in.”
* * * * *
At ten next morning, when Davitt and Buck arrived at the bank, Sylvester Graham not only was there but the door to his private office was wide open.
“Looks like you were expecting us,” said Buck as he and Davitt walked in.
Graham looked earnestly at the two of them. “Tell me what happened,” he said, but the crisp note he intended to
put into his tone fell a bit flat.
Davitt explained while Buck settled comfortably into a chair and rolled a cigarette. “I took the liberty of inviting Lamby to be here this morning,” Davitt concluded, “and I think that’s him coming in now. Yes, and we asked Hull and his foreman, Quigley, to be here, too. We reckoned you’d want this thing settled amiably between all the parties.”
Lamby entered with the same quizzical, half-doubting light in his pale blue eyes. “Good morning, Sil,” he said in a weary tone. “I got word from Hull to be here, but …” He looked questioningly at Davitt. Buck emitted a thin curl of blue smoke and smiled.
“Here come Hull and Quigley,” said Davitt. “Now we’ll have a quorum. Sit down, Lamby. Did you go around and see our prisoner?”
“I did,” growled the stockman. “I’d never seen him before.”
Hull came in with his chest thrown out and a frown on his face. Behind him was Quigley, looking cheerful.
“Now you’re satisfied, eh?” Hull said harshly, speaking to Lamby. “You’re satisfied now, huh?”
“I may not be altogether satisfied,” Lamby said, bridling.
“Now, gentlemen, just a minute,” Davitt stated curtly. “Sit down, Hull, and you too, Quigley. Buck and I got you folks here, so everything could be cleared up to your satisfaction and this range made safe for the State Bank of Milton.” He winked at Graham, who bristled and put on his best professional frown.
“It’s like this, Lamby,” Davitt began, talking slowly and earnestly. “You were losing cattle. All the cattle you were losing wore the star brand you thought. Were you sure?”
“The few strays we picked up wore the star brand,” replied Lamby.
“That’s it,” Davitt said. “So you assumed all the cattle you lost were branded with the star. You hadn’t checked up on it? No? I thought so. And the strays you caught, or saw, were on Hull’s range, were they not?”
“Sure they were!” exclaimed Hull. “And he thought I was stealing my old branded cattle back, or some of them. Probably thought I’d claim I hadn’t sold all the star cattle to him when I sold him the brand.”
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