Dave Takes a Ride
Dave Dingwell had sauntered carelessly out of the Legal Tender on the
night of his disappearance. He was apparently at perfect ease with a
friendly world. But if any one had happened to follow him out of the
saloon, he would have seen an odd change in the ranchman. He slid
swiftly along the wall of the building until he had melted into the
shadows of darkness. His eyes searched the neighborhood for lurking
figures while he crouched behind the trunk of a cottonwood. Every
nerve of the man was alert, every muscle ready for action. One brown
hand lingered affectionately close to the butt of his revolver.
He had come out of the front door of the gambling-house because he knew
the Rutherfords would expect him, in the exercise of ordinary common
sense, to leave by the rear exit. That he would be watched was
certain. Therefore, he had done the unexpected and walked boldly out
through the swinging doors.
As his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, he made out a horse in
the clump of trees about twenty yards to the left. Whether it was
Teddy he could not be sure, but there was no time to lose. Already a
signal whistle had shrilled out from the other side of the street.
Dave knew this was to warn the guards at the rear of the Legal Tender
that their prey was in the open.
He made a dash for the tree clump, but almost as he reached it, he
swung to the left and circled the small grove so as to enter it from
the other side. As he expected, a man whirled to meet him. The
unforeseen tactics of Dingwell had interfered with the ambush.
Dave catapulted into him head first and the two went down together.
Before Dingwell could grip the throat of the man beneath him, a second
body hurled itself through space at the cattleman. The attacked man
flattened under the weight crushing him, but his right arm swept around
and embraced the neck of his second assailant. He flexed his powerful
forearm so as to crush as in a vice the throat of his foe between it
and the hard biceps. The breath of the first man had for the moment
been knocked out of him and he was temporarily not in the fight. The
ranchman gave his full attention to the other.
The fellow struggled savagely. He had a gun in his right hand, but the
fingers of Dave's left had closed upon the wrist above. Stertorous
breathing gave testimony that the gunman was in trouble. In spite of
his efforts to break the hold that kept his head in chancery, the
muscles of the arm tightened round his neck like steel ropes drawn
taut. He groaned, sighed in a ragged expulsion of breath, and suddenly
collapsed.
Before he relaxed his muscles, Dingwell made sure that the surrender
was a genuine one. His left hand slid down and removed the revolver
from the nerveless fingers. The barrel of it was jammed against the
head of the man above him while the rancher freed himself from the
weight of the body. Slowly the cattleman got to his feet.
Vaguely he had been aware already that men were running toward the tree
clump. Now he heard the padding of their feet close at hand. He ran
to the horse and flung himself into the saddle, but before the animal
had moved two steps some one had it by the bridle. Another man caught
Dingwell by the arm and dragged him from the saddle. Before Dave could
scramble to his feet again, something heavy fell upon his head and
shook him to the heels. A thousand lights flashed in zigzags before
his eyes. He sank back into unconsciousness.
The cowman returned to a world of darkness out of which voices came as
from a distance hazily. A groan prefaced his arrival.
"Dave's waking up," one of the far voices said.
"Sure. When you tap his haid with a six-gun, you're liable to need
repairs on the gun," a second answered.
The next words came to Dingwell more distinctly. He recognized the
speaker as Hal Rutherford of the horse ranch.
"Too bad the boy had to hand you that crack, Dave. You're such a bear
for fighting a man can't take any chances. Glad he didn't bust your
haid wide open."
"Sure he didn't?" asked the injured man. "I feel like I got to hold it
on tight so as to keep the blamed thing from flying into fifty pieces."
"Sorry. We'll take you to a doc and have it fixed up. Then we'll all
go have a drunk. That'll fix you."
"Business first," cut in Buck Rutherford.
"That's right, Dave," agreed the owner of the horse ranch. "How about
that gunnysack? Where did you hide it?"
Dingwell played for time. He had not the least intention of telling,
but if he held the enemy in parley some of his friends might pass that
way.
"What gunnysack, Hal? Jee-rusalem, how my head aches!" He held his
hands to his temples and groaned again.
"Your head will mend--if we don't have to give it another crack," Buck
told him grimly. "Get busy, Dave. We want that gold--_pronto_. Where
did you put it?"
"Where _did_ I put it? That willing lad of yours has plumb knocked the
answer out of my noodle. Maybe you're thinking of some one else,
Buck." Dingwell looked up at him with an innocent, bland smile.
"Come through," ordered Buck with an oath.
The cattleman treated them to another dismal groan. "Gee! I feel like
the day after Christmas. Was it a cannon the kid hit me with?"
Meldrum pushed his ugly phiz to the front. "Don't monkey away any
time, boys. String him to one of these cottonwoods till he spits out
what we want."
"Was it while you was visiting up at Santa Fe you learnt that habit of
seeing yore neighbors hanged, Dan?" drawled Dingwell in a voice of
gentle irony.
Furious at this cool reference to his penitentiary days, Meldrum kicked
their captive in the ribs. Hal Rutherford, his eyes blazing, caught
the former convict by the throat.
"Do that again and I'll hang yore hide up to dry." He shook Meldrum as
if he were a child, then flung the gasping man away. "I'll show you
who's boss of this _rodeo_, by gum!"
Meldrum had several notches on his gun. He was, too, a
rough-and-tumble fighter with his hands. But Hal Rutherford was one
man he knew better than to tackle. He fell back, growling threats in
his throat.
Meanwhile Dave was making discoveries. One was that the first two men
who had attacked him were the gamblers he had driven from the Legal
Tender earlier in the evening. The next was that Buck Rutherford was
sending the professional tinhorns about their business.
"Git!" ordered the big rancher. "And keep gitting till you've crossed
the border. Don't look back any. Jest burn the wind. _Adios_."
"They meant to gun you, Dave," guessed the owner of the horse ranch.
"I reckon they daren't shoot with me loafing there across the road.
You kinder disarranged their plans some more by dropping in at their
back door. Looks like you'd 'a' rumpled up their hair a few if you
hadn't been in such a hurry to make a get-away. Which brings us back
to the previous question. The unanimous sense of the meeting is that
you come through with some information, Dave. Where is that gunnysack?"
Dave, still sitting on the ground, leaned his back against a tree and
grinned amiably at his questioner. "Sounds like you-all been to school
to a parrot. You must 'a' quituated after you learned one sentence."
"We're waiting for an answer, Dave."
The cool, steady eyes of Dingwell met the imperious ones of the other
man in a long even gaze. "Nothing doing, Hal."
"Even split, Dave. Fifty-fifty."
The sitting man shook his head. "I'll split the reward with you when I
get it. The sack goes back to the express company."
"We'll see about that." Rutherford turned to his son and gave brisk
orders. "Bring up the horses. We'll get out of here. You ride with
me, Jeff. We'll take care of Dingwell. The rest of you scatter.
We're going back to the park."
The Rutherfords and their captive followed no main road, but cut across
country in a direction where they would be less likely to meet
travelers. It was a land of mesquite and prickly pear. The sting of
the cactus bit home in the darkness as its claws clutched at the riders
winding their slow way through the chaparral.
Gray day was dawning when they crossed the Creosote Flats and were seen
by a sheep-herder at a distance. The sun was high in the heavens
before they reached the defile which served as a gateway between the
foothills and the range beyond. It had passed the meridian by the time
they were among the summits where they could look back upon rounded
hills numberless as the billows of a sea. Deeper and always deeper
they plunged into the maze of canons which gashed into the saddles
between the peaks. Blue-tinted dusk was enveloping the hills as they
dropped down through a wooded ravine into Huerfano Park.
"Home soon," Dave suggested cheerfully to his captors. "I sure am
hungry enough to eat a government mailsack. A flank steak would make a
big hit with me."
Jeff looked at him in the dour, black Rutherford way. "This is no
picnic, you'll find."
"Not to you, but it's a great vacation for me. I feel a hundred per
cent better since I got up into all this ozone and scenery." Dingwell
assured him hardily. "A man ought to take a trip like this every once
in a while. It's great for what ails him."
Young Rutherford grunted sulkily. Their prisoner was the coolest
customer he had ever met. The man was no fool. He must know he was in
peril, but his debonair, smiling _insouciance_ never left him for a
moment. He was grit clear through.