A WELL-PLANNED RAID
On night shift again Pete Holbrook reached the end of his beat,
waited until his fellow-watcher on the east bulked suddenly out of
the darkness, exchanged a few words with him and turned back under
the star-filled sky, his horse having no difficulty in avoiding
obstructions, but picking its way with ease around scattered thickets,
grass-tufted hummocks, and across shallow ravines and hollows. Objects
close at hand were discernible to eyes accustomed to the darkness and
Pete's range of vision attained the enviable limits enjoyed by those
who live out-of-doors and look over long distances. An occasional patch
of sand moved slowly into his circumscribed horizon as he rode on;
vague, squatting bulks gradually revealed their vegetative nature and
an occasional more regular bulk told him where a cow was lying. These
latter more often were catalogued by his ears before his eyes defined
them and from the contentment in the sounds he nodded in satisfaction.
Soon he felt the gentle rise which swept up to the breeze-caressed
ridge which projected northward and forced the little creek to follow
it for nearly a mile before the rocky obstruction could be passed.
There had been a time when the ridge had forced the creek again as far
out of its course, but on quiet nights a fanciful listener could hear
the petulant grumblings of the stream and its constant boast. Placid
and slow above the ridge, the waters narrowed and deepened when they
reached the insolent bulk as in concentrating for the never-ending
assault. They had cut through softer resistance along the edges and
now gnawed noisily at the stone itself. Narrower grew the stream and
deeper, the pools clear and with clean rock bottoms and sides where
the hurrying water, now free from the last vestige of color imposed
by the banks further up, became crystal in the light of day. Hurrying
from pool to pool, singing around bowlders it ran faster and faster
as if eager for the final attempt against its bulky enemy, and hissed
and growled as it sped along the abrupt rock face. Loath to leave the
fight, it followed tenaciously along the other side of the ridge and at
last gave up the struggle to turn sharply south again and flow placidly
down the valley on a continuation of the line it had followed above.
This forced detour made the U-Bend, so called by Question-Mark riders,
and the sloping ground of the ridge was as much a favorite with the
cattle as were its bordering pools with the men. Here could be felt
every vagrant breeze, and while the grass was scantier than that found
on the more level pastures round about, and cropped closer, the cattle
turned toward it when darkness came. It was the best bed-ground on the
ranch.
The grunting, cud-chewing, or blowing blots grew more numerous as
Holbrook went on and when he had reached the crest of the ridge his
horse began to pick its way more and more to avoid them, the rider
chanting a mournful lay and then followed it with a song which, had
it been rightfully expurged, would have had little left to sing about.
Like another serenade it had been composed in a barroom, but the
barroom atmosphere was strongly in evidence. It suddenly ceased.
Holbrook stopped the song and his horse at the same instant and his
roving glances roved no more, but settled into a fixed stare which drew
upon itself his earnest concentration, as if the darkness could better
be pierced by an act of will.
"Did I, or didn't I?" he growled, and looked around to see if his eyes
would show him other lights. Deciding that they were normal he focussed
them again in the direction of the sight which had stopped the song.
"Bronch, I shore saw it," he muttered. "It was plain as it was short."
He glanced down at the horse, saw its ears thrust rigidly forward and
nodded his head emphatically. "An' so did you, or I'm a liar!"
He was no liar, for a second flash appeared, and it acted on him like a
spur. The horse obeyed the sudden order and leaped forward, careening
on its erratic course as it avoided swiftly appearing obstacles.
"Seems to me like it was further west th' last time," muttered
Holbrook. "What th' devil it is, I don't know; but I'm goin' to show
th' fambly curiosity. Can't be Kane's coyotes--folks don't usually show
lights when they're stealin' cows. An' it's on Charley's section, but
we'll have a look anyhow. Cuss th' wind."
The light proved to be of will-o'-the-wisp nature, but he pursued
doggedly and after a time he heard sounds which suggested that he was
not alone on the range. He drew his six-gun in case his welcome should
take that course and swung a little to the left to investigate the
sounds.
"Must be Charley," he soliloquized, but raised the Colt to a better
position. One would have thought Charley to be no friend of his. The
Colt went up a little higher, the horse stopped suddenly and its rider
gave the night's hailing signal, so well imitated that it might easily
have fooled the little animal to whom Nature had given it. It came back
like a double echo and soon Charley bulked out of the dark.
"You follerin' that, too?" he asked, entirely reassured now that his
eyes were all right, for he had had the same doubts as his friend.
"Yes; what you reckon it is?"
"Dunno," growled Charley. "Thought mebby it was some fool puncher
lightin' a cigarette. It wasn't very bright, an' it didn't last long."
"Reckon you called it," replied Holbrook. "Well, th' only animal that
lights them is humans; an' no human workin' for this ranch is lightin'
cigarettes at night, _these_ nights. Bein' a strange human where
strange humans shouldn't ought to be, I'm plumb curious. All of which
means I'm goin' to have a closer look."
"I'm with you," said Charley. "We better stick together or we'll mebby
get to shootin' each other; an' I'm frank in sayin' I'm shootin'
quick tonight, an' by ear. There ain't no honest human ridin' around
out here, day _or_ night, that don't belong here; an' them that does
belong ain't over there, lightin' cigarettes nor nothin' else. That
lightnin' bug don't belong, but he may _stay_ here. Look! There she is
again--_this_ side of where I saw it last!"
"Same place," contradicted Holbrook, pushing on.
"Same place yore hat!"
"Bet you five it is."
"Yo're on; make it ten?"
"It is. Shut yore face an' keep goin'. Somethin's happenin' over there."
Minute after minute passed and then they swore in the same breath.
"It's south!" exulted Charley. "You lose."
"He crossed in front of us, cuss him," said Holbrook.
As he spoke an answering light flashed where the first ones had been
seen and Holbrook grunted with satisfaction. "_You_ lose; there's two
of 'em. We was bettin' on th' other."
"They're signalin', an' there's mebby more'n two. What's th'
difference? Come on, Pete! We'll bust up this little party before it
starts. But what are they lightin' lights for if they're rustlin'? An'
if they ain't rustlin' what'n blazes _are_ they doin'?"
"Head over a little," said his companion, forcing his horse against his
friend's. "We'll ride between th' flashes first, an' if there's a herd
bein' collected we'll mebby hit it. Don't ask no questions; just shoot
an' jump yore cayuse sideways."
South of them another puncher was riding at reckless speed along the
chord of a great arc and although his section lay beyond Holbrook's, he
was now even with them. When they changed their course they drew closer
to him and some minutes later, stopping for a moment's silence so they
could listen for sounds of the enemy, they heard his faint, far-off
signal and answered it. He announced his arrival with a curse and a
question and the answer did not answer much. They went on together,
eager and alert.
"Heard you drummin' down th' ridge--you know that rocky ground rolls
'em out," the newcomer explained. "Knowed somethin' was wrong th' way
you was poundin', an' follered on a gamble till I saw th' lights.
Reckon Walt ain't far behind me. I'm tellin' you so you'll signal
before you shoot. He's loose out here somewhere."
When the light came again it was much further west and the answering
flash was north. The three pulled up and looked at each other.
"There ain't no cayuse livin' can cover ground like that second
feller," growled Holbrook. "He was plumb south only a few minutes ago,
an' _now_ will you look where he is!"
"Mebby they're ghostes, Bob," suggested Charley, who harbored a
tingling belief in things supernatural.
"'Ghostes'!" chuckled Holbrook. "Ghosts, you means! Th' same as
'posts!' Th' 'es' is silent, like in 'cows.' I never believed in 'em;
but I shore don't claim to know it all. There's plenty of things _I_
don't understand--an' this is shore one of 'em. My hair's gettin'
stiff!"
"Yo're a couple of old wimmin!" snorted Bob. "There's only one kind of
a ghost that'll slow me up--that's th' kind that packs hardware. Seein'
as they ain't supposed to tote guns, I'm goin' for that coyote west of
here. He don't swap ends so fast. Mebby I can turn him into a _real_
ghost. Look out where you shoot. So-long!"
"We'll assay his jumpin' friend," called Charley.
Again the flashes showed, one to the south, the other to the north, and
while the punchers marveled, the third appeared in the southwest.
"One apiece!" shouted Holbrook. "I'll take th' last. Go to 'em!" and
drumming hoofbeats rolled into silence in three directions.
Soon spitting flashes in the north were answered in kind, the reports
announcing six-guns in action; in the west a thinner tongue of flame
and a different kind of report was answered by rapid bursts of fire
and the jarring crashes of a Colt. Far to the south three stabbing
flashes went upward, Walt's signal that he was coming. From beyond
the U-Bend, far to the east, the triple signal came twice, flat and
low. Beyond them a yellow glow sprang from the black void and marked
the ranchhouse, where six sleeping men piled from their bunks and,
finishing their dressing as they ran, chased the cursing trail-boss
to the saddled, waiting horses, their tingling blood in an instant
sweeping the cobwebs of sleep from their conjecturing brains. There was
a creaking of leather, a soft, musical jingling of metal and a sudden
thunderous rolling of hoofbeats as seven bunched horses leaped at
breakneck speed into the darkness, the tight-lipped riders eager, grim,
and tense.
Through a bushy arroyo leading to Mesquite three Mexicans rode as
rapidly as they dared, laughing and carrying on a jerky, exultant
conversation. A mile behind them came a fourth, his horse running like
a frightened jack rabbit as it avoided the obstructions which seemed
to leap at them. A bandage around the rider's head perhaps accounted
for his sullenness. The four were racing to get to Red Frank's, and
safety. Out on the plain the fifth, and as Fate willed it, the only
one of the group openly allied to Kane, lay under his dead horse,
his career of thieving and murder at an end. Close to him was a dead
Question-Mark horse, and the wounded rider, wounded again by his sudden
pitch from the saddle as the horse dropped under him, lay huddled on
the ground. Slowly recovering his senses he stirred, groped and sat up,
his strained, good arm throbbing as he shakily drew his Colt, reloaded
it and fired into the air twice, and then twice more. A burst of firing
answered him and he smiled grimly and settled back as the low rumbling
grew rapidly louder. It threatened to pass by him, but his single shot
caused a quick turn and soon his friends drew up and stopped.
"Who is it?" demanded McCullough, dismounting at his side.
"Holbrook," came the answer, shaky and faint. "They got me twice, an'
my cayuse, too. Reckon I busted my leg when he went down--I shore
sailed a-plenty afore I lit."
"You got one!" called an exultant voice. A match flared and in a moment
the cheerful discoverer called again. "Sanchez, that Greaser monte
dealer of Kane's. Plumb through th' mouth an' neck, Pete! I call that
_shootin'_, with th' dark an' all----" his voice trailed off in profane
envy of the accomplishment.
But Pete, hardy soul that he was, had fainted, a fractured leg, the
impact from his flying fall and three bullet holes excuse enough for
any man.
The flaring of the match brought a distant report and a bullet whined
above the discoverer's head. Someone hurriedly fired into the air and
a little later the group heard hoofbeats, which stopped abruptly when
still some distance away. A signal reassured the cautious rider and
soon Walt joined the group, Bob and Charley coming up later. Two of the
men started back to the ranchhouse with Holbrook, the rest of the group
riding off to search the plain for the two riders who had not put in
an appearance, and to see what devilment they might discover. Both of
the missing men were found on the remote part of the western range, one
plodding stolidly toward the ranchhouse, his saddle and equipment on
his shoulders; the other lay pinned under his dead horse, not much the
worse, as it luckily happened, for his experience.
While the outfit concentrated on the western part of the ranch, events
of another concentration were working smoothly and swiftly east
of the ranchhouse, where mounted men, now free from interference,
thanks to their Mexican friends, rode unerringly in the darkness, and
drifted cattle into a herd with a certainty and dispatch born of long
experience. Steadily the restless nucleus grew in size and numbers,
the few riders who held it together chanting in low tones to keep the
nervous cattle within bounds. The efficiency of these night raiders
merited praise, nefarious as their occupation was, and the director of
the harmonious efforts showed an uncanny understanding of the cattle,
the men, and the whole affair which belongs to genius. Not a step was
taken in uncertainty, not an effort wasted. Speed was obtained which
in less experienced hands would have resulted in panic and a stampede.
Steadily the circle of riders grew shorter and shorter; steadily,
surprisingly, the shadowy herd grew, and as it grew, became more and
more compact. Further down the creek a second and smaller herd was
built up at the same time and with nearly the same smoothness, and
waited for the larger aggregate to drift down upon it and swallow it
up. The augmented trail herd kept going faster and faster, the guarding
and directing riders in their alloted places and, crossing the creek,
it swung northeast at a steadily increasing pace. The cattle had fed
heavily and drunk their fill and to this could be ascribed the evenness
of their tempers. Almost without realizing it they passed from the
Question-Mark range and streamed across the guarding hills, flowing
rapidly along the northern side. Gradually their speed was increased
and they accepted it obediently, and with a docility which in itself
was a compliment to the brains of the trail-boss. Compacted within the
close cordon of the alert riders it maintained a speed on the very edge
of panic, but went no further. Shortly before dawn two hard-riding
rustlers pounded up from the rear, reported all clear, and fell back
again, to renew their watch far back on the trail. For three hours the
herd had crossed hard ground and as it passed over a high, dividing
ridge and down the eastern slope the trail-boss sighed with relief, for
now dawn held no terrors for him. He had passed the eastern horizon
of any keen-eyed watchers of the pillaged range. On went cattle and
riders, and the paling dawn saw them following the hard bottom of a
valley which led to others ahead, and kept them from dangerous sky
lines. When the last hard-floored valley lay behind and sloping hollows
of sand lay ahead, the trail-boss dropped back, uncorked his canteen
of black coffee tempered with brandy, and drank long and deep. It was
interpreted by his men to mean that the danger zone had been left in
the rear, and they smilingly followed his example, and then leisurely
and more critically looked over the herd to see what they had gained.
The entire SV trail herd was there, a large number of Question-Mark
cattle and a score or more miscellaneous brands, which Ridley from
time to time had purchased at bargain prices from needy owners. The
trail-boss grinned broadly and waved his hand. It was a raid which
would go down the annals of rustler history and challenge strongly for
first honors. At noon the waiting caviya was picked up, and Miguel and
his three friends added four more riders to the ranks. He took his
place well ahead of the hurrying cattle, and remained there until the
first, and seldom visited, water-hole was reached, where a short rest
was taken. Then he led the way again, abruptly changing the direction
of the herd's course and, following depressions in the desert floor,
struck for Bitter Spring, which would be reached in the early morning
hours. By now the raid was a successful, accomplished fact, according
to all experience, and the matter of speed was now decided purely
upon the questions of water and food, which, however, did not let it
diminish much.
The trail-boss dropped back to his _segundo_ and smiled. "Old
Twitchell's got somethin' to put up a holler over _now_."
The other grinned expansively. "He'll mebby ante up another reward--he
shore is fond of 'em."
Back on the Question-Mark a sleepy rider jogged along the creek, idly
looking here and there. Suddenly he stiffened in the saddle, looked
searchingly along the banks of the little stream, glanced over a
strangely deserted range and ripped out an oath as he wheeled to race
back to the ranchhouse. His vociferous arrival caused a flurry, out
of which emerged Johnny Nelson, who ran to the corral, caught and
saddled his restive black, and scorning such a thing as a signal fire,
especially when he feared that he could not start it within the limits
of the time specified, raced across the valley, climbed the hills at
a more sedate pace, dropped down the further slopes like a stone, and
raced on again for the little camp on Sand Creek.