THE Yaqui's strange dark glance roved over the corral, the swinging
gate with its broken fastenings, the tracks in the road, and then
rested upon Belding.
"Malo," he said, and his Spanish was clear.
"Shore Yaqui, about eight bad men, an' a traitor Indian," said Ladd.
"I think he means my herder," added Belding. "If he does, that settles
any doubt it might be decent to have--Yaqui--malo Papago--Si?"
The Yaqui spread wide his hands. Then he bent over the tracks in the
road. They led everywhither, but gradually he worked out of the thick
net to take the trail that the cowboys had followed down to the river.
Belding and the rangers kept close at his heels. Occasionally Dick lent
a helping hand to the still feeble Indian. He found a trampled spot
where the raiders had left their horses. From this point a deeply
defined narrow trail led across the dry river bed.
Belding asked the Yaqui where the raiders would head for in the Sonora
Desert. For answer the Indian followed the trail across the stream of
sand, through willows and mesquite, up to the level of rock and cactus.
At this point he halted. A sand-filled, almost obliterated trail led
off to the left, and evidently went round to the east of No Name
Mountains. To the right stretched the road toward Papago Well and the
Sonoyta Oasis. The trail of the raiders took a southeasterly course
over untrodden desert. The Yaqui spoke in his own tongue, then in
Spanish.
"Think he means slow march," said Belding. "Laddy, from the looks of
that trail the Greasers are having trouble with the horses."
"Tom, shore a boy could see that," replied Laddy. "Ask Yaqui to tell
us where the raiders are headin', an' if there's water."
It was wonderful to see the Yaqui point. His dark hand stretched, he
sighted over his stretched finger at a low white escarpment in the
distance. Then with a stick he traced a line in the sand, and then at
the end of that another line at right angles. He made crosses and
marks and holes, and as he drew the rude map he talked in Yaqui, in
Spanish; with a word here and there in English. Belding translated as
best he could. The raiders were heading southeast toward the railroad
that ran from Nogales down into Sonora. It was four days' travel, bad
trail, good sure waterhole one day out; then water not sure for two
days. Raiders traveling slow; bothered by too many horses, not looking
for pursuit; were never pursued, could be headed and ambushed that
night at the first waterhole, a natural trap in a valley.
The men returned to the ranch. The rangers ate and drank while making
hurried preparations for travel. Blanco Sol and the cowboys' horses
were fed, watered, and saddled. Ladd again refused to ride one of
Belding's whites. He was quick and cold.
"Get me a long-range rifle an' lots of shells. Rustle now," he said.
"Laddy, you don't want to be weighted down?" protested Belding.
"Shore I want a gun that'll outshoot the dinky little carbines an'
muskets used by the rebels. Trot one out an' be quick."
"I've got a .405, a long-barreled heavy rifle that'll shoot a mile. I
use it for mountain sheep. But Laddy, it'll break that bronch's back."
"His back won't break so easy.... Dick, take plenty of shells for your
Remington. An' don't forget your field glass."
In less than an hour after the time of the raid the three rangers,
heavily armed and superbly mounted on fresh horses, rode out on the
trail. As Gale turned to look back from the far bank of Forlorn River,
he saw Nell waving a white scarf. He stood high in his stirrups and
waved his sombrero. Then the mesquites hid the girl's slight figure,
and Gale wheeled grim-faced to follow the rangers.
They rode in single file with Ladd in the lead. He did not keep to the
trail of the raiders all the time. He made short cuts. The raiders
were traveling leisurely, and they evinced a liking for the most level
and least cactus-covered stretches of ground. But the cowboy took a
bee-line course for the white escarpment pointed out by the Yaqui; and
nothing save deep washes and impassable patches of cactus or rocks made
him swerve from it. He kept the broncho at a steady walk over the
rougher places and at a swinging Indian canter over the hard and level
ground. The sun grew hot and the wind began to blow. Dust clouds
rolled along the blue horizon. Whirling columns of sand, like water
spouts at sea, circled up out of white arid basins, and swept away and
spread aloft before the wind. The escarpment began to rise, to change
color, to show breaks upon its rocky face.
Whenever the rangers rode out on the brow of a knoll or ridge or an
eminence, before starting to descend, Ladd required of Gale a long,
careful, sweeping survey of the desert ahead through the field glass.
There were streams of white dust to be seen, streaks of yellow dust,
trailing low clouds of sand over the glistening dunes, but no steadily
rising, uniformly shaped puffs that would tell a tale of moving horses
on the desert.
At noon the rangers got out of the thick cactus. Moreover, the
gravel-bottomed washes, the low weathering, rotting ledges of yellow
rock gave place to hard sandy rolls and bare clay knolls. The desert
resembled a rounded hummocky sea of color. All light shades of blue
and pink and yellow and mauve were there dominated by the glaring white
sun. Mirages glistened, wavered, faded in the shimmering waves of
heat. Dust as fine as powder whiffed up from under the tireless hoofs.
The rangers rode on and the escarpment began to loom. The desert floor
inclined perceptibly upward. When Gale got an unobstructed view of the
slope of the escarpment he located the raiders and horses. In another
hour's travel the rangers could see with naked eyes a long, faint
moving streak of black and white dots.
"They're headin' for that yellow pass," said Ladd, pointing to a break
in the eastern end of the escarpment. "When they get out of sight
we'll rustle. I'm thinkin' that waterhole the Yaqui spoke of lays in
the pass."
The rangers traveled swiftly over the remaining miles of level desert
leading to the ascent of the escarpment. When they achieved the
gateway of the pass the sun was low in the west. Dwarfed mesquite and
greasewood appeared among the rocks. Ladd gave the word to tie up
horses and go forward on foot.
The narrow neck of the pass opened and descended into a valley half a
mile wide, perhaps twice that in length. It had apparently unscalable
slopes of weathered rock leading up to beetling walls. With floor bare
and hard and white, except for a patch of green mesquite near the far
end it was a lurid and desolate spot, the barren bottom of a desert
bowl.
"Keep down, boys" said Ladd. "There's the waterhole an' hosses have
sharp eyes. Shore the Yaqui figgered this place. I never seen its
like for a trap."
Both white and black horses showed against the green, and a thin
curling column of blue smoke rose lazily from amid the mesquites.
"I reckon we'd better wait till dark, or mebbe daylight," said Jim Lash.
"Let me figger some. Dick, what do you make of the outlet to this
hole? Looks rough to me."
With his glass Gale studied the narrow construction of walls and
roughened rising floor.
"Laddy, it's harder to get out at that end than here," he replied.
"Shore that's hard enough. Let me have a look.... Well, boys, it don't
take no figgerin' for this job. Jim, I'll want you at the other end
blockin' the pass when we're ready to start."
"When'll that be?" inquired Jim.
"Soon as it's light enough in the mornin'. That Greaser outfit will
hang till to-morrow. There's no sure water ahead for two days, you
remember."
"I reckon I can slip through to the other end after dark," said Lash,
thoughtfully. "It might get me in bad to go round."
The rangers stole back from the vantage point and returned to their
horses, which they untied and left farther round among broken sections
of cliff. For the horses it was a dry, hungry camp, but the rangers
built a fire and had their short though strengthening meal.
The location was high, and through a break in the jumble of rocks the
great colored void of desert could be seen rolling away endlessly to
the west. The sun set, and after it had gone down the golden tips of
mountains dulled, their lower shadows creeping upward.
Jim Lash rolled in his saddle blanket, his feet near the fire, and went
to sleep. Ladd told Gale to do likewise while he kept the fire up and
waited until it was late enough for Jim to undertake circling round the
raiders. When Gale awakened the night was dark, cold, windy. The
stars shone with white brilliance. Jim was up saddling his horse, and
Ladd was talking low. When Gale rose to accompany them both rangers
said he need not go. But Gale wanted to go because that was the thing
Ladd or Jim would have done.
With Ladd leading, they moved away into the gloom. Advance was
exceedingly slow, careful, silent. Under the walls the blackness
seemed impenetrable. The horse was as cautious as his master. Ladd did
not lose his way, nevertheless he wound between blocks of stone and
clumps of mesquite, and often tried a passage to abandon it. Finally
the trail showed pale in the gloom, and eastern stars twinkled between
the lofty ramparts of the pass.
The advance here was still as stealthily made as before, but not so
difficult or slow. When the dense gloom of the pass lightened, and
there was a wide space of sky and stars overhead, Ladd halted and stood
silent a moment.
"Luck again!" he whispered. "The wind's in your face, Jim. The horses
won't scent you. Go slow. Don't crack a stone. Keep close under the
wall. Try to get up as high as this at the other end. Wait till
daylight before riskin' a loose slope. I'll be ridin' the job early.
That's all."
Ladd's cool, easy speech was scarcely significant of the perilous
undertaking. Lash moved very slowly away, leading his horse. The soft
pads of hoofs ceased to sound about the time the gray shape merged into
the black shadows. Then Ladd touched Dick's arm, and turned back up
the trail.
But Dick tarried a moment. He wanted a fuller sense of that
ebony-bottomed abyss, with its pale encircling walls reaching up to the
dusky blue sky and the brilliant stars. There was absolutely no sound.
He retraced his steps down, soon coming up with Ladd; and together they
picked a way back through the winding recesses of cliff. The campfire
was smoldering. Ladd replenished it and lay down to get a few hours'
sleep, while Gale kept watch. The after part of the night wore on till
the paling of stars, the thickening of gloom indicated the dark hour
before dawn. The spot was secluded from wind, but the air grew cold as
ice. Gale spent the time stripping wood from a dead mesquite, in
pacing to and fro, in listening. Blanco Sol stamped occasionally,
which sound was all that broke the stilliness. Ladd awoke before the
faintest gray appeared. The rangers ate and drank. When the black did
lighten to gray they saddled the horses and led them out to the pass
and down to the point where they had parted with Lash. Here they
awaited daylight.
To Gale it seemed long in coming. Such a delay always aggravated the
slow fire within him. He had nothing of Ladd's patience. He wanted
action. The gray shadow below thinned out, and the patch of mesquite
made a blot upon the pale valley. The day dawned.
Still Ladd waited. He grew more silent, grimmer as the time of action
approached. Gale wondered what the plan of attack would be. Yet he
did not ask. He waited ready for orders.
The valley grew clear of gray shadow except under leaning walls on the
eastern side. Then a straight column of smoke rose from among the
mesquites. Manifestly this was what Ladd had been awaiting. He took
the long .405 from its sheath and tried the lever. Then he lifted a
cartridge belt from the pommel of his saddle. Every ring held a shell
and these shells were four inches long. He buckled the belt round him.
"Come on, Dick."
Ladd led the way down the slope until he reached a position that
commanded the rising of the trail from a level. It was the only place
a man or horse could leave the valley for the pass.
"Dick, here's your stand. If any raider rides in range take a crack at
him.... Now I want the lend of your hoss."
"Blanco Sol!" exclaimed Gale, more in amazement that Ladd should ask
for the horse than in reluctance to lend him.
"Will you let me have him?" Ladd repeated, almost curtly.
"Certainly, Laddy."
A smile momentarily chased the dark cold gloom that had set upon the
ranger's lean face.
"Shore I appreciate it, Dick. I know how you care for that hoss. I
guess mebbe Charlie Ladd has loved a hoss! An' one not so good as Sol.
I was only tryin' your nerve, Dick, askin' you without tellin' my plan.
Sol won't get a scratch, you can gamble on that! I'll ride him down
into the valley an' pull the greasers out in the open. They've got
short-ranged carbines. They can't keep out of range of the .405, an'
I'll be takin' the dust of their lead. Sabe, senor?"
"Laddy! You'll run Sol away from the raiders when they chase you? Run
him after them when they try to get away?"
"Shore. I'll run all the time. They can't gain on Sol, an' he'll run
them down when I want. Can you beat it?"
"No. It's great!... But suppose a raider comes out on Blanco Diablo?"
"I reckon that's the one weak place in my plan. I'm figgerin' they'll
never think of that till it's too late. But if they do, well, Sol can
outrun Diablo. An' I can always kill the white devil!"
Ladd's strange hate of the horse showed in the passion of his last
words, in his hardening jaw and grim set lips.
Gale's hand went swiftly to the ranger's shoulder.
"Laddy. Don't kill Diablo unless it's to save your life."
"All right. But, by God, if I get a chance I'll make Blanco Sol run
him off his legs!"
He spoke no more and set about changing the length of Sol's stirrups.
When he had them adjusted to suit he mounted and rode down the trail
and out upon the level. He rode leisurely as if merely going to water
his horse. The long black rifle lying across his saddle, however, was
ominous.
Gale securely tied the other horse to a mesquite at hand, and took a
position behind a low rock over which he could easily see and shoot
when necessary. He imagined Jim Lash in a similar position at the far
end of the valley blocking the outlet. Gale had grown accustomed to
danger and the hard and fierce feelings peculiar to it. But the coming
drama was so peculiarly different in promise from all he had
experienced, that he waited the moment of action with thrilling
intensity. In him stirred long, brooding wrath at these border
raiders--affection for Belding, and keen desire to avenge the outrages
he had suffered--warm admiration for the cold, implacable Ladd and his
absolute fearlessness, and a curious throbbing interest in the old,
much-discussed and never-decided argument as to whether Blanco Sol was
fleeter, stronger horse than Blanco Diablo. Gale felt that he was to
see a race between these great rivals--the kind of race that made men
and horses terrible.
Ladd rode a quarter of a mile out upon the flat before anything
happened. Then a whistle rent the still, cold air. A horse had seen
or scented Blanco Sol. The whistle was prolonged, faint, but clear.
It made the blood thrum in Gale's ears. Sol halted. His head shot up
with the old, wild, spirited sweep. Gale leveled his glass at the
patch of mesquites. He saw the raiders running to an open place,
pointing, gesticulating. The glass brought them so close that he saw
the dark faces. Suddenly they broke and fled back among the trees.
Then he got only white and dark gleams of moving bodies. Evidently
that moment was one of boots, guns, and saddles for the raiders.
Lowering the glass, Gale saw that Blanco Sol had started forward again.
His gait was now a canter, and he had covered another quarter of a mile
before horses and raiders appeared upon the outskirts of the mesquites.
Then Blanco Sol stopped. His shrill, ringing whistle came distinctly to
Gale's ears. The raiders were mounted on dark horses, and they stood
abreast in a motionless line. Gale chuckled as he appreciated what a
puzzle the situation presented for them. A lone horseman in the middle
of the valley did not perhaps seem so menacing himself as the
possibilities his presence suggested.
Then Gale saw a raider gallop swiftly from the group toward the farther
outlet of the valley. This might have been owing to characteristic
cowardice; but it was more likely a move of the raiders to make sure of
retreat. Undoubtedly Ladd saw this galloping horseman. A few waiting
moments ensued. The galloping horseman reached the slope, began to
climb. With naked eyes Gale saw a puff of white smoke spring out of
the rocks. Then the raider wheeled his plunging horse back to the
level, and went racing wildly down the valley.
The compact bunch of bays and blacks seemed to break apart and spread
rapidly from the edge of the mesquites. Puffs of white smoke indicated
firing, and showed the nature of the raiders' excitement. They were far
out of ordinary range, but they spurred toward Ladd, shooting as they
rode. Ladd held his ground; the big white horse stood like a rock in
his tracks. Gale saw little spouts of dust rise in front of Blanco Sol
and spread swift as sight to his rear. The raiders' bullets, striking
low, were skipping along the hard, bare floor of the valley. Then Ladd
raised the long rifle. There was no smoke, but three high, spanging
reports rang out. A gap opened in the dark line of advancing horsemen;
then a riderless steed sheered off to the right. Blanco Sol seemed to
turn as on a pivot and charged back toward the lower end of the valley.
He circled over to Gale's right and stretched out into his run. There
were now five raiders in pursuit, and they came sweeping down, yelling
and shooting, evidently sure of their quarry. Ladd reserved his fire.
He kept turning from back to front in his saddle.
Gale saw how the space widened between pursuers and pursued, saw
distinctly when Ladd eased up Sol's running. Manifestly Ladd intended
to try to lead the raiders round in front of Gale's position, and,
presently, Gale saw he was going to succeed. The raiders, riding like
vaqueros, swept on in a curve, cutting off what distance they could.
One fellow, a small, wiry rider, high on his mount's neck like a
jockey, led his companions by many yards. He seemed to be getting the
range of Ladd, or else he shot high, for his bullets did not strike up
the dust behind Sol. Gale was ready to shoot. Blanco Sol pounded by,
his rapid, rhythmic hoofbeats plainly to be heard. He was running
easily.
Gale tried to still the jump of heart and pulse, and turned his eye
again on the nearest pursuer. This raider was crossing in, his carbine
held muzzle up in his right hand, and he was coming swiftly. It was a
long shot, upward of five hundred yards. Gale had not time to adjust
the sights of the Remington, but he knew the gun and, holding coarsely
upon the swiftly moving blot, he began to shoot. The first bullet sent
up a great splash of dust beneath the horse's nose, making him leap as
if to hurdle a fence. The rifle was automatic; Gale needed only to pull
the trigger. He saw now that the raiders behind were in line. Swiftly
he worked the trigger. Suddenly the leading horse leaped convulsively,
not up nor aside, but straight ahead, and then he crashed to the ground
throwing his rider like a catapult, and then slid and rolled. He half
got up, fell back, and kicked; but his rider never moved.
The other raiders sawed the reins of plunging steeds and whirled to
escape the unseen battery. Gale slipped a fresh clip into the magazine
of his rifle. He restrained himself from useless firing and gave eager
eye to the duel below. Ladd began to shoot while Sol was running. The
.405 rang out sharply--then again. The heavy bullets streaked the dust
all the way across the valley. Ladd aimed deliberately and pulled
slowly, unmindful of the kicking dust-puffs behind Sol, and to the
side. The raiders spurred madly in pursuit, loading and firing. They
shot ten times while Ladd shot once, and all in vain; and on Ladd's
sixth shot a raider topped backward, threw his carbine and fell with
his foot catching in a stirrup. The frightened horse plunged away,
dragging him in a path of dust.
Gale had set himself to miss nothing of that fighting race, yet the
action passed too swiftly for clear sight of all. Ladd had emptied a
magazine, and now Blanco Sol quickened and lengthened his running
stride. He ran away from his pursuers. Then it was that the ranger's
ruse was divined by the raiders. They hauled sharply up and seemed to
be conferring. But that was a fatal mistake. Blanco Sol was seen to
break his gait and slow down in several jumps, then square away and
stand stockstill. Ladd fired at the closely grouped raiders. An
instant passed. Then Gale heard the spat of a bullet out in front, saw
a puff of dust, then heard the lead strike the rocks and go whining
away. And it was after this that one of the raiders fell prone from
his saddle. The steel-jacketed .405 had gone through him on its
uninterrupted way to hum past Gale's position.
The remaining two raiders frantically spurred their horses and fled up
the valley. Ladd sent Sol after them. It seemed to Gale, even though
he realized his excitement, that Blanco Sol made those horses seem like
snails. The raiders split, one making for the eastern outlet, the
other circling back of the mesquites. Ladd kept on after the latter.
Then puffs of white smoke and rifle shots faintly crackling told Jim
Lash's hand in the game. However, he succeeded only in driving the
raider back into the valley. But Ladd had turned the other horseman,
and now it appeared the two raiders were between Lash above on the
stony slope and Ladd below on the level. There was desperate riding on
part of the raiders to keep from being hemmed in closer. Only one of
them got away, and he came riding for life down under the eastern wall.
Blanco Sol settled into his graceful, beautiful swing. He gained
steadily, though he was far from extending himself. By Gale's actual
count the raider fired eight times in that race down the valley, and
all his bullets went low and wide. He pitched the carbine away and lost
all control in headlong flight.
Some few hundred rods to the left of Gale the raider put his horse to
the weathered slope. He began to climb. The horse was superb,
infinitely more courageous than his rider. Zigzag they went up and up,
and when Ladd reached the edge of the slope they were high along the
cracked and guttered rampart. Once--twice Ladd raised the long rifle,
but each time he lowered it. Gale divined that the ranger's restraint
was not on account of the Mexican, but for that valiant and faithful
horse. Up and up he went, and the yellow dust clouds rose, and an
avalanche rolled rattling and cracking down the slope. It was beyond
belief that a horse, burdened or unburdened, could find footing and
hold it upon that wall of narrow ledges and inverted, slanting gullies.
But he climbed on, sure-footed as a mountain goat, and, surmounting the
last rough steps, he stood a moment silhouetted against the white sky.
Then he disappeared. Ladd sat astride Blanco Sol gazing upward. How
the cowboy must have honored that raider's brave steed!
Gale, who had been too dumb to shout the admiration he felt, suddenly
leaped up, and his voice came with a shriek:
"LOOK OUT, LADDY!"
A big horse, like a white streak, was bearing down to the right of the
ranger. Blanco Diablo! A matchless rider swung with the horse's
motion. Gale was stunned. Then he remembered the first raider, the
one Lash had shot at and driven away from the outlet. This fellow had
made for the mesquite and had put a saddle on Belding's favorite. In
the heat of the excitement, while Ladd had been intent upon the
climbing horse, this last raider had come down with the speed of the
wind straight for the western outlet. Perhaps, very probably, he did
not know Gale was there to block it; and certainly he hoped to pass
Ladd and Blanco Sol.
A touch of the spur made Sol lunge forward to head off the raider.
Diablo was in his stride, but the distance and angle favored Sol. The
raider had no carbine. He held aloft a gun ready to level it and fire.
He sat the saddle as if it were a stationary seat. Gale saw Ladd lean
down and drop the .405 in the sand. He would take no chances of
wounding Belding's best-loved horse.
Then Gale sat transfixed with suspended breath watching the horses
thundering toward him. Blanco Diablo was speeding low, fleet as an
antelope, fierce and terrible in his devilish action, a horse for war
and blood and death. He seemed unbeatable. Yet to see the
magnificently running Blanco Sol was but to court a doubt. Gale stood
spellbound. He might have shot the raider; but he never thought of
such a thing. The distance swiftly lessened. Plain it was the raider
could not make the opening ahead of Ladd. He saw it and swerved to the
left, emptying his six-shooter as he turned. His dark face gleamed as
he flashed by Gale.
Blanco Sol thundered across. Then the race became straight away up the
valley. Diablo was cold and Sol was hot; therein lay the only handicap
and vantage. It was a fleet, beautiful, magnificent race. Gale
thrilled and exulted and yelled as his horse settled into a steadily
swifter run and began to gain. The dust rolled in a funnel-shaped
cloud from the flying hoofs. The raider wheeled with gun puffing
white, and Ladd ducked low over the neck of his horse.
The gap between Diablo and Sol narrowed yard by yard. At first it had
been a wide one. The raider beat his mount and spurred, beat and
spurred, wheeled round to shoot, then bent forward again. In his circle
at the upper end of the valley he turned far short of the jumble of
rocks.
All the devil that was in Blanco Diablo had its running on the downward
stretch. The strange, cruel urge of bit and spur, the crazed rider who
stuck like a burr upon him, the shots and smoke added terror to his
natural violent temper. He ran himself off his feet. But he could not
elude that relentless horse behind him. The running of Blanco Sol was
that of a sure, remorseless driving power--steadier--stronger--swifter
with every long and wonderful stride.
The raider tried to sheer Diablo off closer under the wall, to make the
slope where his companion had escaped. But Diablo was uncontrollable.
He was running wild, with breaking gait. Closer and closer crept that
white, smoothly gliding, beautiful machine of speed.
Then, like one white flash following another, the two horses gleamed
down the bank of a wash and disappeared in clouds of dust.
Gale watched with strained and smarting eyes. The thick throb in his
ears was pierced by faint sounds of gunshots. Then he waited in almost
unendurable suspense.
Suddenly something whiter than the background of dust appeared above
the low roll of valley floor. Gale leveled his glass. In the clear
circle shone Blanco Sol's noble head with its long black bar from ears
to nose. Sol's head was drooping now. Another second showed Ladd
still in the saddle.
The ranger was leading Blanco
Diable--spent--broken--dragging--riderless.