TREACHERY
"Don't fall now, Crow! Don't you dare to stumble!" breathed Dave, leaning
over to speak into the very ear of his coal-black steed. "Don't step in
any holes and throw me. For if you do, it's all up with both of us!"
Yet, knowing that danger as he did, Dave never for an instant faltered. He
was going to stop that stampede and drive back the valuable cattle before
they could stray and get far out on the range or among the wild hills
where they would lose much of their prime condition that would insure a
good price. Dave was going to stop that stampede though he took his life
in his hands to do it.
And for what? he might have reflected. To save the property of a man who
was no relation to him.
Yet never for an instant did Dave ask this question of himself. It never
entered his mind. For the time being he had forgotten that Mr. Carson was
not his father.
"I'm going to save those cattle!" Dave murmured over and over again, as he
neared the frightened, tumultuous mass of steers. "But don't you stumble
with me, Crow!"
For to stumble meant, very likely, the death of horse and rider. Cattle on
the range are used to seeing mounted men--in fact they seldom see them
otherwise, and for a mounted cowpuncher it is perfectly safe to ride in
front of even a wildly running mass of steers.
But once let a man be on foot, while the cattle do not actually attack
him, they seem to lose all fear of him, and may trample ruthlessly over
him. Then is when a cowpuncher's life depends on his steed. The cattle
seem to regard horse and man as one and as a superior being to whom they
must give place. That is why Dave did not want his horse to stumble and
throw him. For his life, and that of his fine steed, Crow, would not have
lasted a minute under the pounding rush of those sharp hoofs.
While thus riding wildly at the rushing steers Dave had many thoughts in
his mind.
"How did they get out?" he mused. "The gate and fastenings were all right
five minutes ago. And I wonder if I can turn them and drive them back
alone? I've got to, that's all, for I don't see any help coming."
Dave rose in his stirrups and gave a quick frightened, tumultuous mass of
steers. "But don't glance ahead of him and over the backs of the steers.
He saw no one in sight, and settling in the saddle again, prepared for the
work ahead of him.
"Got to have some more shots, anyhow," Dave reasoned. His revolver was
empty.
Fortunately Dave had trained Crow so that he could ride him without the
use of the reins--merely by the pressure of the knees on either side of
his neck. Dropping the leather, Dave broke his gun, scattered the empty
shells out on the ground, and filled the chamber with fresh cartridges.
He depended upon the thundering reports of his forty-five, as much as on
his voice and his fearless riding straight at the oncoming steers, to
drive them back. Now again he was ready for his task, and it was high
time, for he was almost at the front line of advancing cattle.
Shouting, waving his big hat with one hand, and with the other working the
trigger of his gun, Dave sought to drive back the maddened animals. He put
into his action all the energy of which he was capable, rising in his
stirrups as though he would hurl himself over the head of his horse at the
beasts.
"Steady now, Crow!" he called into the ear of his faithful pony, leaning
over far on its neck. The front line of cattle began to divide to let Dave
through, or, rather, to pass around him. But he did not want that. He
wanted to turn the animals back.
"Oh, if I only had some one to help me!" he cried aloud.
Once more his gaze swept over the backs of the cattle. Yes, there was a
figure on horseback, but it was riding away, straight toward the
foot-hills.
"Here!" cried Dave. "Come back! Give me a hand here, whoever you are! Come
back!"
But the figure did not turn, and then Dave, with anger and disgust showing
in his face, thought he recognized in the peculiar style of the rider
something familiar.
"Len Molick!" he exclaimed, as he wheeled his horse to ride out of the
press of cattle and once more to get ahead of them.
"If that wasn't Len Molick I'll eat my hat!" he soliloquized. "But what is
he doing here, and why is he riding away instead of helping me out? I'd
help him out if he was in this pickle!"
It was queer to see Len riding away at top speed, providing that it was
Len, and Dave felt pretty sure it was. Scarcely a cowpuncher but would
render even his enemy help in an emergency of this kind. He might be on
just as unfriendly terms as before, after the work was done, but he would
give help.
"But that isn't Len's way, evidently," mused Dave, bitterly.
However he had his own work marked out for him, and no time for idle
speculation. Somehow or other he must get ahead of the freed cattle and
drive them back.
Whooping, yelling, waving his hat and shooting, Dave took after the
escaping steers.
"Oh for one man to help," he cried aloud, and it seemed as if his cry was
answered. For, riding toward him, and toward the bunch of stampeded
cattle, he descried a figure that made his heart leap with joy.
"Pocus Pete!" he cried. "Now we'll get you beasts back!"
And indeed it was the efficient foreman of Bar U ranch who rode up at top
speed, his hat off, his revolver spitting fire, and his horse lending
itself to the game with all its energies.
"Off to the left, Dave! Bear off to the left!" yelled Pete, indicating
that his friend was to head in that direction. Pete himself took the
right, and a moment later the two were riding along the front of the
steers who were not running so fast now, being somewhat exhausted.
The object of Pete, seconded by Dave, was to turn the stream of cattle--to
swing around the front ranks, and so bring those in the rear to a halt.
Often in a cattle stampede the front rank becomes exhausted, and the
animals in it would willingly give up and cease running, but there is an
irresistible pressure from those in the rear. And if those in front stop
they know they will be trampled under foot. So they must keep on or be
killed.
This bunch, however, was comparatively small, and easy to handle. Soon,
with the help of Pete, Dave had brought the animals down to a walk, and
then it was an easy matter to turn them and drive them back toward the
corral.
"Whew!" cried Dave, when he had a chance to get his breath. "That was some
job, Pete!"
"Yes, all alone, I reckon it was."
"How'd you happen to know about it?"
"I didn't. I just come over here on an errand. Your dad--"
He stopped in some confusion.
"That's all right, Pete," Dave said. "I'm going to call Mr. Carson dad
until I find my real one--if I ever do. No matter what happens, even if I
do find my real folks, I can't forget that he has been as good as a father
to me."
"That's what he has, Dave," said the foreman, solemnly. "An' I hope you
don't ever forget that. There's not many folks--not even a fellow's real
ones--who can beat th' Old Man. He's th' real stuff an' twenty-four carats
fine every time."
Together they urged the now quieted cattle toward the corral.
"As I was sayin'," resumed Focus Pete, "I come over here on a little
errand for th' Old Man, an' I thought I'd take a run out here an' see
about the prize bunch. It's good I did."
"I should say so!" Dave exclaimed, fervently.
"Wasn't there any one to help you?" asked Pocus Pete.
"Not a soul. I did see Len Molick riding off--sneaking away. I called to
him, but he didn't answer."
"How did they break out?" Pete asked next.
"That's what's puzzling me," replied the younger cowboy.
"Say! Look there!" suddenly called Pete, pointing. "That's how they got
out. A section of th' corral fence is down."
"The gate didn't come open at all," said Dave. "The steers pushed down the
fence."
"Drive 'em through the opening," directed Pete, and this was done. As the
last of the cattle passed in, Pete and Dave stood on guard astride their
ponies to prevent the animals stampeding out again, and Dave looked at the
broken fence. What he saw caused him to cry out:
"Look here, Pete! Some of those posts have been sawed almost through!"
"By the great side saddle!" exclaimed the foreman. "You're right, Dave!
There's been treachery here!"