“Well, it’s none of my business.”
“No,” shot back Dusty coldly. “I don’t think it is!”
Dusty walked down to the doctor’s office. He was in a quandary just how
to explain the killing of Palo Huston. He had shot at a flash of colored
cloth, while riding at break-neck speed, and it was hard to believe that
he had hit his target.
And Stella had said that Palo had raved about the Sticky Ropes. Was
Palo one of them, or did he know that one of them had shot him? Weary
met Dusty at the door of the doctor’s office.
“Bullet through his shoulder, broken neck and a busted skull,”
enumerated Weary.
“Well, I reckon that’s plumb sufficient,” observed Dusty, and went on
into the room where Doctor Bevin was showing some of the bystanders the
bullet hole. The doctor looked up and nodded at Dusty.
“Would the bullet have killed him, Doc?” asked Dusty.
“Not necessarily, Corbett--not with medical assistance. The bullet was
through the left shoulder, high above the heart, and was not necessarily
fatal.”
“Been shot quite a while?”
“That’s difficult to say. Possibly was shot yesterday. He had lost
considerable blood. Still, I feel that I could have saved him.”
“Then yuh think that the fall killed him, Doc?”
“Without a doubt.”
“Hold an inquest?”
“Yes, I suppose we’ll have to. Won’t do any good, but the law requires
it, Corbett. I dug out the bullet.”
The doctor turned and picked up a bullet, which he handed to Dusty.
“Perhaps you had better keep that as evidence.”
Dusty studied the bullet closely, nodded and put it in his pocket.
“You better tell Bonn and the rest of his party to be at the inquest
tomorrow afternoon, Corbett,” stated the doctor, and Dusty nodded slowly
as he turned and went out of the door. Weary fell into step with him and
they went to the office.
“Well,” said Weary as they sat down inside the office, “you shot pretty
danged straight, Dusty. That ---- son-of-a-rooster won’t bother anybody
again.”
Dusty took the bullet from his pocket and rolled it across the desk to
Weary, who picked it up and looked closely at it.
“Well, say, this is a .38!” grunted Weary. “You don’t shoot .38’s in
your .45, do yuh, Dusty?”
Dusty shook his head.
“Can’t be did, Weary. Just when I was congratulatin’ m’self on good
shootin’, somebody steps in and ruins m’ good opinion.”
“Who shoots a .38?” asked Weary.
“Prob’ly a dozen men around here. It’s easier to ask who shoots a .45,
or a .44. ’Pears that the .38 is a popular caliber in this range; which
makes it danged hard to tell who fired that shot.”
“Too danged bad that Palo never lived to talk,” observed Weary.
Dusty got to his feet and walked to the door, where he leaned against
the wall and cogitated deeply. In front of the store, Bonn was packing
the horse. Stella was already mounted and talking to the younger Ramsey,
while the elder Ramsey watched Bonn.
Dusty surged away from the door and walked up to them. Bonn looked up
from his packing and scowled at Dusty.
“Inquest t’morrow afternoon,” stated Dusty, “and all of you folks will
have to be here.”
“----!” swore Bonn under his breath. “We’re leavin’ early in the mornin’
for the hills.”
“I reckon you’ll have to put it off, Bonn.” Bonn yanked a rope tight and
tied it off. “You reckon so, do yuh?” savagely. “Suppose we don’t?”
“Then I’ll have t’ come after yuh,” said Dusty softly. “Suit yoreself,
Bonn.”
“Blamed nuisance,” said young Ramsey. “Too bad we found the body.”
“Yeah, it is,” said Dusty. “Too danged bad.”
Bonn finished his work and swung on to his horse, leading the way out
of town. Stella looked closely at Dusty, turned her horse and rode
away beside young Ramsey, engaging him in animated conversation. But
Dusty only grinned. For some reason he felt very well satisfied with
himself.
He walked down to the telegraph office and leaned in across the counter.
The operator was reading a paper-backed novel but looked up and smiled
as he reached over on his desk and picked up a telegram, which he handed
to Dusty.
“Just came a few minutes ago,” he stated.
Dusty glanced at it and nodded his thanks, as he started away, but
turned.
“What’s the charges on this, pardner?”
The operator hesitated for a second.
“It was paid at Searchlight.”
Dusty went outside and looked at the telegram again. It read:
SHERIFF CORBETT
CALUMET MONT
JACK BONN WELL KNOWN HERE AND
GOOD REPUTATION WORKED IN CATTLE
HERE SEVERAL YEARS WELL LIKED BY
EVERY ONE AND CONSIDERED GOOD
CATTLE MAN.
(SIGNED) WILSON SHERIFF
Dusty scratched his head thoughtfully, folded up the telegram and put it
in his pocket.
“Well liked by everybody, eh?” he grunted. “Good reputation. My ----,
what kind of a town is that Searchlight? I’ll betcha this here Wilson
kissed Jack Bonn good-by when he left. Hm-m-m!”
Dusty shook his head and started back toward the office. He hadn’t the
slightest idea what he was going to do; where to begin. It looked like
a blank wall.
The range country was well represented at the inquest the next day.
Jack Bonn testified to practically the same story as he told the day
before. The two Ramseys corroborated Bonn’s testimony, while Stella
Magruder’s story was the same, except that it lacked details.
Dusty watched Bonn closely during the testimony. He knew that Bonn was
going to remind the jury that Dusty Corbett had been the last man over
the Bald Butte trail, and that Weary Willis’ horse was at the bottom of
Bald Butte cañon; so Dusty took the stand, following Stella, and told
of what had occurred on the trail.
“I just shot at a flash of color,” stated Dusty. “I wasn’t sure it was a
man, ’cause I was travelin’ fast.”
“Why should Palo Huston try to kill you?” questioned Dr. Bevin.
“I dunno.” Dusty shook his head. “Unless Palo was one of the Sticky Rope
gang. Yuh see, I’ve declared open season on them, and mebbe they realize
that I mean business.”
“Hm-m-m!” Dr. Bevin seemed to have difficulty clearing his throat.
“Have you--er--any evidence that would--uh--connect Palo Huston with the
so-called Sticky Rope gang?”
Dusty shook his head and looked at Stella.
“Miss Magruder, would yuh mind tellin’ us what Palo Huston said when yuh
found him?”
“Not at all, Mr. Corbett,” she replied seriously, which drew a grin from
the audience.
“He was plumb out of his head,” remarked Bonn.
“Is yore name Miss Magruder?” queried Dusty, and Bonn flushed hotly.
“I did not hear all that he said,” stated Stella, “but I did hear him
say, ‘Git even with Sticky Ropes.’”
“And what else did he say?” asked Dusty.
Stella thought for a moment and shook her head.
“He was just mumbling a lot of foolish words, and all at once, while
Jack Bonn and Mr. Ramsey were helping him on the horse, he bleated
like a sheep.”
The audience laughed.
“In just what way, Miss Magruder?” queried the doctor.
“Baa-a-a-a,” bleated Stella, and every one, except Dusty, laughed.
“It appears,” stated the doctor, “that Palo Huston was shot by a party
unknown, and later came to his death from an accidental fall. The bullet
was not necessarily fatal.”
“The sheriff admits shootin’ at him,” emphasized Bonn.
“The sheriff,” said Dusty slowly, “shoots a .45. Palo Huston was shot
with a .38.”
There was a shuffling of feet in the audience. A great percentage of
them were carrying .38 caliber guns.
“How long you been wearing a .45?” asked Bonn.
“Ever since I left the Cross-Anchor,” replied Dusty.
Without leaving their seats, the jury adopted the findings of Dr. Bevin
and the inquest was over. As far as Calumet was concerned the death of
Palo Huston was a closed incident. Why bother over the demise of a man
of his caliber? In the words of the majority of the cattlemen, “He got
what was comin’ to him.”
There was one man at the rear of the crowd, who had listened to the
evidence, and who was one of the first to leave the room. He was an
undersized, weazened man, with the thin face of a ferret, scraggly
hair, which hung down over his forehead, almost concealing a pair of
ape-like eyes. When he opened his mouth it disclosed a few ill-shaped,
yellow teeth, which grew in such a way that it appeared that the man
was holding something in his mouth.
He was dressed in a coarse, black shirt, overalls and well-worn
bat-winged chaps, and his sombrero was a shapeless thing of black felt,
with a chin-strap of whangleather, greasy from much handling. His thin
waist was circled with a wide cartridge belt, which hung low over his
right hip, and his tied-down holster sagged from the weight of a heavy
single-action Colt pistol.
He had been drinking heavily and seemed uncertain in his walk, but he
missed none of the testimony. Outside the place, he went slowly up the
sidewalk and sat down in front of the Eagle River stage office. The
rest of the crowd separated, going their respective ways; most of them
heading for Sapphire Smalley’s place.
Bonn, the Ramseys and Stella Magruder crossed the street to the
hitch-rack, where their horses were tied. Dusty stood in the doorway of
the doctor’s office and watched them. He wanted to talk with Stella, but
did not want to be snubbed in front of Bonn and the Ramseys.
Weary came up to him and motioned up the street.
“Snag Shirey is drunk and settin’ alone up there.”
Dusty glanced up the street and nodded, as he recognized the former
employer of Palo Huston.
“Danged old buzzard,” grunted Weary. “Mebbe he’s tryin’ to feel sorry
for himself. He ain’t spoke but fifteen words since he hit Calumet.”
“Fifteen?” queried Dusty.
“Uh-huh. Asked for whisky fifteen times!”
Weary went on into the office. Dusty swung away from the door and went
up the sidewalk toward Snag Shirey. He knew that Shirey was drunk; knew
that he was an ignorant, cold-blooded fiend when sober--and whisky does
not soften men of that nature.
Shirey squinted up at him, as Dusty sat down beside him. Across the
street, Stella was talking with young Ramsey, while Bonn and the other
Ramsey were coming across the street toward the store. They looked
sharply at Dusty and Snag Shirey, but neither of them spoke.
“How’s things with yuh, Snag?” asked Dusty.
“Awright.”
“Lotsa stock running on the upper ranges?” asked Dusty.
Shirey shuffled his feet in the dust, but did not reply.
“Understand that Bonn’s takin’ some fellers in to stay at yore place to
hunt deer.”
“Thasso?” Shirey spat dryly and did not appear interested.
“I wonder who shot Palo Huston.”
“Yeah?”
“You don’t talk much, do yuh,” observed Dusty, grinning. “Palo Huston
ran out of talk and bleated like a sheep. I wonder if you’d do that,
’f I asked yuh a few more questions.”
“Whatcha mean?” Shirey squinted closely at Dusty, and appeared
interested.
“Like a sheep,” explained Dusty. “Baa-a-a-a. Just like that. Whatcha
suppose made Palo bleat thataway?”
Shirey looked away from Dusty and appeared to consider the question.
Bonn and the elder Ramsey came out of the store and down the sidewalk,
stepping down just beyond Shirey, who looked up at Bonn.
“We’ll likely show up at your place t’morrow, Shirey,” stated Bonn.
“Awright,” nodded Shirey, and the two men went on.
Bonn looked keenly at Dusty, who grinned widely, and as they got about
half-way across the street, Dusty cupped his hands around his mouth and
bleated like a sheep--
“Baa-a-a-a-a!”
Bonn whirled on his heel, but Dusty had dropped his hands and appeared
to be in close conversation with Snag Shirey. Bonn turned back quickly
and went on toward the hitch-rack.
Shirey was looking closely at Dusty, and for a moment a ghost of a
smile seemed to flash across his homely face; a slight upward lift of
the thin lips, which disclosed a yellowed tooth, like the fang of a
wolf. Then Snag Shirey got to his feet and went across to the saloon,
weaving a trifle in his walk. When he reached the sidewalk he turned
his head and looked back at Dusty but went on into the saloon.
Bonn and his party mounted and rode out of town; none of them paying
any attention to Dusty, who leaned against a porch-post and rolled a
cigaret. For some reason he was not jealous of young Ramsey, who was
riding very close to Stella. He went back to his office and found
Weary reading a stack of old reward notices, which he had dug up in
a closet.
Dusty told him of sending the message to Searchlight, and handed Weary
the reply from Sheriff Wilson. Weary read it slowly and handed it back
to Dusty.
“What do yuh think?” queried Dusty seriously.
“I think,” said Weary slowly, “that Searchlight folks must be a trustin’
bunch of pelicans and fond of knick-knacks.”
“I just been wonderin’,” reflected Dusty, “kinda wonderin’.”
“Thinkin’?” queried Weary.
“This job requires thinkin’, Weary.”
“Yeah,” sarcastically, “and if yuh stop to think--somebody’s goin’ to
shoot yuh.”
“You want to quit the job, Weary?”
“No, I don’t want to quit, but I don’t want yuh to ask me to do any
thinkin’, Dusty. I ain’t no _Sherlock Holmes_, which goes around
deductin’ about things. I’m just a deputy--pure and simple.”
“That last part sure fits yuh, cowboy. I’ll do the thinkin’ for both of
us.”
“All right. But you’ll excuse me if I do my own runnin’ and dodgin’,
Dusty. Jist thinkin’ of these Sticky Ropes has got me doin’ a flip-flop
every time anybody even spits behind me; and if you’ll do my thinkin’
for me, mebbe I can git my nerves into shape agin.”
Dusty grinned widely. In spite of Weary’s admitted fear of the Sticky
Ropes Dusty knew that his lanky deputy, in the parlance of the range,
was just plumb loaded with guts. Few brave men admit bravery; few
cowards will admit fear.
Weary continued to look over the bunch of old reward notices, and Dusty
studied one of them, as he rolled a smoke. It was a small reward for a
cattle rustler, and was signed by Sheriff Claypool, of Carson County.
The reward offer was of recent date.
Dusty got to his feet and walked over to the opposite wall, where
several old maps were hanging. He studied the map closely for a few
moments, grinned softly and went back to the table, where he folded
up the reward notice and put it in his pocket. Weary glanced up at
him.
“Yuh never can tell what you’ll find in these old notices.”
“That’s right,” nodded Dusty. “Yuh never can tell.”
* * * * *
It was two uneventful days later that Dusty decided to ride out to the
Cross-Anchor ranch. As an excuse, he told Weary that the Mission-Cross
gray needed riding out, but Weary grinned widely and watched him saddle.
The gray humped and flinched under the weight of the saddle and the
pull of the cinching, but did not offer to buck. It seemed to realize
that its last bucking effort had brought on disaster.
Dusty rode slowly out of town, but soon shook the gray into a swift
gallop along the dusty road. He noted the length of stride, the easy
swing, which carried them along at a mile-eating pace, without effort.
Suddenly he leaned forward and spoke to the gray, which snorted, as if
in reply, and began to fairly spurn the road.
Dusty grinned widely and patted the gray’s neck.
“Gray bronc’, it takes blood to do that stuff. Yore mammy or daddy
wasn’t no cow-pony. Yore a ghost horse, that’s what yuh are! Take it
easy!”
Dusty settled back in his saddle and the gray eased back to the swinging
gallop again. There was no lost motion, no jerking; it was like the
slowing down of a well-oiled engine.
“All horse,” chuckled Dusty. “Runnin’ horse. We may not be able to catch
the Sticky Ropes, but they’ll never catch us, y’betcha.”
Scott Magruder was sitting on the porch of the ranch-house when Dusty
rode up, and he squinted closely at the gray horse. Dusty swung down
and came up on the steps, before either of them said a word.
“I reckon,” observed Scott, “that I gave away somethin’.”
“Yuh sure did,” grinned Dusty. “How’s everythin’, Scott?”
“All right,” nodded Scott. “Least I reckon she is. Was the last time I
seen her.”
Dusty grinned and rolled a smoke.
“Did Bonn and his friends get away, Scott?”
“Yeah, they’re some’ers out in the mountains back of Shirey’s place,
I reckon. I’ve listened to deer huntin’ stories until I’m all fed up
on venison.”
“What do yuh know about the Ramseys?” queried Dusty.
“Not much. I know they had the nerve to offer to buy the Cross-Anchor
for about half what it’s worth.”
“Thasso? Didn’t want it very bad, did they?”
“Not half-bad,” grinned Scott. “If my ankle had been real good, I reckon
I’d ’a’ kicked him.”
“Where’s Ma Magruder today?”
“Takin’ a nap. Now ask me where Stell is, Dusty. She went ridin’ a while
ago--hour or so. I kinda think she’s stuck on that young Ramsey.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Don’t seem to faze you any.”
“Stell is old enough to know what she wants.”
“Like ---- she is!” snorted Scott. “No woman ever gets old enough to
know what she wants.”
“Well,” grinned Dusty, “yuh don’t need to get mad at me, Scott. I never
asked Stell to marry me.”
Scott grunted indignantly and filled his pipe. As a matrimonial agent
he found himself a failure. He had hoped for a rise out of Dusty when
he mentioned young Ramsey, but the rise did not materialize; and Scott
was really just a bit worried for fear that Stella might want to marry
young Ramsey.
Suddenly Dusty’s attention was attracted by a horse and rider, which
came swiftly down the point of a low hog-back ridge and into the dusty
road, where they proceeded to leave a high-flung cloud of dust in their
wake, as they came swiftly toward the Cross-Anchor.
“Somebody’s in a hurry,” remarked Dusty.
Scott got up from his chair and grasped the railing of the porch. A
moment later the rider swerved through the open gate and galloped
toward the house.
“It’s Stell!” grunted Scott. “What’s she racin’----”
The girl jerked her mount to a stop almost against the porch, and fairly
fell out of the saddle. Dusty was off the porch and down to her as she
hit the ground.
“Rustlers!” she panted, grasping him by the arm. “Look!”
She turned and pointed at her horse, which was blowing heavily. Across
the hip of her sorrel was a jagged, bloody furrow, where a bullet had
plowed just through the skin.
“They--they took a whack at me!” she blurted. “Several whacks, but
that’s the only one to hurt anything.”
“Where were they?” asked Dusty.
“On that big flat across Cedar Cañon,” explained Stella. “I came up one
of the draws and ran into a bunch of cattle, which were being driven
pretty fast. They were cleaning the whole range, as far as I could see.
I rode out of the draw and saw a lot more cattle, all traveling the
same way. When I rode further out to see what was going on, they began
to shoot at me; so I went back down the draw, and I went fast, too.”
“Didja see any of the rustlers?” asked Dusty.
“I never stopped to look,” declared Stella.
Dusty turned to Scott.
“Got a rifle, Scott?”
“Y’betcha. Shells and all in there by the fire-place.”
Dusty secured the gun and swung on to his horse. Stella mounted and
spurred in beside him.
“You ain’t goin’ along, Stell,” stated Dusty.
“Is that so? Let me tell you this much, Dusty Corbett: I’m going, if I
have to ride alone.”
“What did I tell yuh?” yelled Scott. “They never get old enough to have
any sense.”
Dusty’s reply was to jerk his sombrero lower over his eyes and speak to
the tall gray horse. Out of the gate they pounded, with Stella urging
her horse to keep up with the gray.
“Where’s Shorty Miles?” yelled Dusty over his shoulder.
“Went to Calumet this mornin’,” answered Stella.
Dusty held the gray to a swinging gallop and let Stella pass him and
lead the way up through the broken hills. There were no cattle in
sight as they pounded along the side of a hill and headed for Cedar
Cañon, about two miles away.
They rode cautiously down into the heavily wooded cañon and out the
other side, without seeing any cattle nor any sight of the rustlers.
There were no cattle in sight on the big flat, but Dusty knew that it
would be impossible to run the cattle for any great length of time,
and that they were not far behind the drive.
Beyond the big flat was another succession of breaks, and as they topped
the first rise, Dusty saw a man ahead of them. Dusty had stopped his
horse on the top of the rise, but Stella did not ride to the crest until
the man had turned and disappeared in the opposite direction.
“Rear guard,” pronounced Dusty, shifting the rifle to a handy position.
“I’ll rearguard him, if he thinks he can block me from findin’ out
things. You better stay out of this, Stell.”
“Since when did you get the right to tell me what to do?” demanded
Stella, riding in close to him.
“Aw, shucks!” groaned Dusty. “I don’t want yuh to get hurt. Bustin’ into
rustlers ain’t no place for a lady.”
Dusty’s gray had swung into a faster gallop, and now Dusty spoke
softly and leaned forward. He glanced over his shoulder and saw with
satisfaction that Stella and her horse were falling further and
further behind. If he was headed for trouble he had decided to get
into it in time to give her plenty of warning.
At break-neck speed he raced over the broken country, with the gray
running like a deer. Dusty stood high in his stirrups, swinging the
Winchester in one hand. He had no plan of attack; no idea of what he
was going to do beyond the fact that he was going to overtake the
stolen herd. Suddenly he saw a steer backed defiantly against a tall
granite outcropping, tired out and belligerent from the swift drive.
The herd must be close now.
He glanced back. Stella was about two hundred yards behind him now; her
horse tiring fast after its former run from the rustlers’ fire.
Over the crest of a ridge went Dusty and beyond him was a long slope
covered with sage and mesquite, broken here and there with clumps of
stunted pine. At the bottom of this slope he could see part of the
herd, which was just starting up the other side.
A bullet whistled past him, as he jerked up his horse, and he saw a
dismounted man running through the mesquite, as if to get behind him.
Dusty shot at him, but his aim was too hurried.
Another shot came from almost behind him and he whirled in his saddle
just in time to feel a crashing blow, which fairly lifted him out of
his saddle. As he fell, men seemed to rise up from among the mesquite
between him and the crest of the last hill, and into them came Stella,
trying to stop her winded horse.
It was after sundown when Dusty Corbett regained consciousness. The
awakening was painful in the extreme. His head pained him greatly and
he peered out of eyes which seemed mere slits, so badly were they
swollen.
For some little time he did not move. He was still dazed, and the events
of the day were still a hazy dream. He tried to lift an arm, but seemed
paralyzed. A rope was cutting into the flesh of his chest. He seemed to
be half-hanging to a small tree, and investigation disclosed the fact
that there was a rope under his arms, which half-suspended him.
He dug his heels into the dirt and loosened the rope sufficiently for
him to turn facing the tree. His hands and arms gradually became part
of his anatomy and he was able to untie the rope. There was another
rope around his neck, and as he removed this his hands became sticky.
It was difficult for him to see clearly, but he knew that this was
the trade-mark of the Sticky Rope gang.
He felt of his head, which was stiff with dried blood, and his exploring
fingers encountered a wide gash in his forehead about two inches above
the bridge of his nose.
“Hit me plumb between the eyes!” he told himself dazedly and sat down
on the ground to think it over. His head throbbed and extreme nausea
overcame him, but he fought against it.
“They thought I was dead,” he told himself. “Thought that bullet went
plumb through, and they hung the rope on me.”
His holster was empty. He got to his feet and tried to investigate his
surroundings, but his swollen eyes precluded any chance of seeing more
than a few yards.
“Well,” he decided, “they never packed me over the divide, that’s a
cinch; so all I’ve got to do is to go down hill to strike the valley.”
He started down the slope, stumbling along drunkenly, when he suddenly
remembered that Stella had been with him. His shocked brain worked
slowly, but he remembered that she had been quite a distance behind
him. Had she heard the shots in time to swerve back to safety?
He remembered now that he had ridden pell mell into an ambush. The rear
guard had seen to that. Dusty cursed softly.
“No wonder they couldn’t shoot out m’ brains,” he groaned bitterly. “I
never had none.”
* * * * *
There was no use searching for Stella, until he found out whether or
not she had gone back to the Cross-Anchor; so he started on down the
hill again.
It was dark when Dusty staggered into the ranch-house of the
Cross-Anchor. Scott Magruder met him at the door and helped him to a
chair, while Mrs. Magruder and Shorty Miles crowded in close and
begged for an explanation. Stella had not come home, but Dusty’s gray
bronco had drifted into the corral gate about fifteen minutes ahead
of Dusty.
“My ----, yo’re a horrible sight!” exclaimed Shorty. “By all rights, yuh
ought to be dead.”
Ma Magruder, putting her own worries aside, bathed Dusty’s head with
warm water and soft towels, while Scott, who was also practical, fed
Dusty regular doses of whisky. In broken sentences Dusty told of the
ambush and of how the rustlers had thought him dead; but he had not
the slightest idea what had become of Stella.
“But they won’t harm her,” insisted Scott. “In this day and age yuh
can’t steal wimmin’. Why would they kidnap her? ----! Why, the whole
country would rise up agin ’em for a thing like that.”
“The country,” said Dusty bitterly, “ain’t done a dang thing to shake
’em loose, Scott.”
“I know; but why would they steal a girl? It ain’t noways reasonable,
Dusty.”
“Sure it ain’t,” Dusty shook his gore-stained head and blinked
painfully.
“I don’t reckon they had any idea of stealin’ Stella, Scott. I remember
that the rear guard didn’t see her, ’cause she was down the hill a ways
when he rode away. She was behind me when they started shootin’, and I
figure that she rode plumb into ’em before she could stop.”
“And they had to capture her?” exclaimed Mrs. Magruder. “Do you think
she knew them, Dusty?”
Dusty nodded. “I reckon so, Ma. They had to steal her.”
“Then they won’t do her any harm,” Scott reassured them. “They’ll hold
her until they have their getaway framed, and then turn her loose.”
“Yeah?” Dusty was unconvinced.
“Don’t you believe that, Dusty?” asked Ma Magruder nervously.
“They was Sticky Ropes, Ma--and it’s just a question as to whether
they’re ready to leave or not. One girl ain’t never goin’ to put the
run on that gang.”
“What can we do?” demanded Shorty. “Gotta do somethin’.”
“Y’betcha,” agreed Dusty. “And we don’t want everybody in the country in
on it, Shorty. Do you know where yuh can get hold of Jack Bonn? He knows
that country back in there. Old Snag knows it, too. Do yuh think yuh can
locate ’em?”
“Well, I sure can try,” replied Shorty. “They said they was goin’ to
Shirey’s place.”
“Pull out right now,” ordered Dusty. “Get Bonn and old Snag, if yuh can,
and bring ’em down here to the ranch. We’ll work out from here; _sabe_?”
“How about the Ramseys?”
“Let ’em come along if they want to, Shorty. I don’t reckon they’ll be
worth anythin’ to us; but bring ’em along.”
“What are you going to do?” asked Mrs. Magruder.
“Goin’ t’ town,” declared Dusty. “I’ve gotta get Weary and some
artillery.”
“You ain’t in no shape to ride,” objected Scott. “Man, you’ve got a
busted head and yore eyes look like Easter-eggs.”
“But m’ heart is in the right place,” grinned Dusty, peering around
for his hat. “I may not be handsome, but I sure have got a lovin’
disposition. S’long.”
* * * * *
The tall gray was tied to the corral fence, none the worse for the
encounter with the rustlers. As Dusty swung into the saddle he saw
Shorty Miles saddling up down at the barn. They were losing no time.
Dusty whirled the gray out through the wide gate and straightened out
on the long, dim road toward Calumet.
“Need a li’l speed, bronc’,” stated Dusty, and the tall gray snorted its
answer, as the gray ribbon of road seemed to reel in beneath them.
It was just before midnight when Dusty and Weary, leading a packed
horse, rode away from Calumet. Dusty had come secretly into town, found
Weary at the office, and now they were leaving without mentioning the
fact to a single soul. Both of them were armed with rifles and in the
pack was food enough for a week.
“We’re goin’ to hit the Cross-Anchor kinda early,” remarked Weary as
they left the road for the Bald Butte trail.
“Not so early,” replied Dusty, and not another word was spoken until
they struck the bottom of the buttes and Dusty drew rein.
“Weary, there’s an old Injun trail that circles the bottom of these
hills and comes in through the breaks at the top of Cedar Cañon. Know
anythin’ about it?”
“Seems like I’ve heard of it, Dusty; but I reckon it’s wiped out by
now.”
Dusty dismounted and led his horse along the trail until he found the
spot he was looking for.
“Here’s where she starts,” he announced as he swung back onto his horse.
“We’ll try her out.”
“Ain’tcha goin’ to the Cross-Anchor, Dusty?”
“Not t’night, cowboy.”
A dim moon aided them in keeping to the old trail, which was unused,
except for an occasional range steer. It wound in and out of the
ravines, taking an easy grade toward the high breaks beyond. It was
slow traveling, and Weary wondered why Dusty was taking this dim
trail instead of going around the road. The distance would only be a
trifle longer.
About three hours later they reached the top of the divide and swung
around the head of Cedar Cañon. A cold wind was blowing from the Little
Rockies and both men humped lower in their mackinaw coats.
Dusty led the way straight to where he had been ambushed, but was
unable to find the spot where he had been tied to the tree. Much of the
swelling had been reduced around his eyes, and a wide cotton bandage
circled his forehead, which still throbbed from the impact of the heavy
bullet.
They rode to the bottom of the swale, where Dusty had seen the cattle,
and it was not difficult for them to follow the spoor of the driven
herd.
“They can’t drive ’em far,” stated Dusty. “They didn’t have more than
three hours of daylight left when they got me, and that cut in on their
time. We’ll go kinda easy.”
“Yo’re danged right we’ll go easy,” agreed Weary. “I sure don’t want ’em
to knock on my head with a bullet.”
The trail of the herd led straight back into the mountains, climbing
higher all the time, swinging around the head of the cañons, where the
mesquite and sage gave way to jack-pines and small firs.
Once the gray lunged sidewise and whirled around, as a mountain lion
flashed across an opening in front of them and snarled its defiance.
Farther on, a black-tail doe crossed their path, bounded away like a
shadow and stopped in a low thicket of jack-pines to watch them pass.
On the next cañon the herd trail turned and went angling down, instead
of cutting around the top. The two men drew rein and studied the wide
cañon.
“You ever been here before, Dusty?” asked Weary softly.
“I don’t reckon I have.”
“I have,” declared the lanky one. “This is Hardpan Creek, Dusty. She
cuts through solid rock.”
“Hardpan Creek? The one the Injuns say----”
“That’s her,” declared Weary. “Heads in Diaub Lake, below the wind
caves.”
“Ever been there, Weary?”
“Sure! I’ve been around the lower end of the lake.”
“Ain’t there an old trail between the lake and the caves?”
“Yeah, I reckon there is, but nobody ever uses it. Aw, I ain’t
superstitious, Dusty, but----”
“Just cautious,” suggested Dusty.
“Well, mebbe that’s it. The Injuns swear that no man can cross between
the caves and the lake. ’Pears that the Wind God gets angry and blows
’em into the lake. Shucks, yuh couldn’t get an Injun within a mile of
there.”
“Why specify Injuns, Weary?”
“Well, I reckon that’s true, too. None of the old-timers go up there.
The ---- place is spooky, Dusty. That lake never ripples, and when the
wind blows real hard yuh can hear the caves kinda moanin’.”
“Didja ever see them caves?”
“Nope.”
“How do yuh know there is any caves?”
“How do I know there’s a New York? How do I know there’s oceans?”
retorted Weary. “I ain’t never seen ’em, but I’m willin’ to believe
what I hear.”
“Injun superstition!” exclaimed Dusty. “Old men’s tales. Shucks!”
“All right, all right!” resignedly. “Write yore own ticket, Hard-head.
If a bullet won’t kill yuh, I don’t reckon yuh need to fear the wrath of
the Wind God. I dunno a dang thing about the caves, but I don’t blame
the Injuns for namin’ the lake after the devil.”
“Where does Hardpan Creek empty?” asked Dusty.
“It don’t--it just sinks out of sight. She ain’t so much of a stream,
but she runs about two miles down the cañon from the waterfall out of
the lake, and then she kinda soaks into the rocks. The cañon kinda
closes up, and where she comes on to the flat country you’d hardly
know it was much of a cañon. I was in here huntin’ her two years
ago.”
“Well,” observed Dusty, “it ain’t more than an hour or so until
daylight; so I reckon we’ll cross the Hardpan and see what’s beyond.”
They rode slowly down into the box cañon, which seemed to be carved out
of solid stone. There was little foliage on this account, and no water.
Once across the cañon, they began a long climb, which took them angling
toward the head of the cañon.
There was no trail now; not even the tracks of the herd, but it was
difficult to determine just where the herd had left the bottom. But
Dusty knew there were but three ways for the herd to go--up the cañon,
down the cañon, or across. To go down the cañon would bring them out
on the lower rangeland, and would be of no benefit to the rustlers. To
go up the cañon would bring them to Diaub Lake, which was surrounded
with towering cliffs. Dusty had heard of this place, and knew it to be
a _cul de sac_. No, there was only one reasonable place to look for
the herd, and that was across the cañon.
Dusty did not tear his hair and call down curses upon the outlaws who
had kidnapped Stella Magruder. In the first place, he realized that the
rustlers had not stolen her through any desire on their part to acquire
her. No doubt, he thought, she rode in on them just after he had been
shot, and they were forced to detain her because she had recognized
them.
Just what they would do with her was a question. She was interfering
with their plans, and in case she had recognized some of them, it would
not be wise on their part to release her. But Dusty felt sure that she
was in no immediate danger, and he also felt that the finding of the
cattle would furnish a clew to her whereabouts.
Daylight found them on the crest of the divide, high up among the
cliffs. Dusty had intended keeping lower down, but the character of the
country had forced them to higher levels. For an hour or more they wound
in and out of the old lava-formed cliffs, until they finally reached a
spot where it was impossible to continue with the horses.
“And this,” said Dusty sorrowfully, “is the end of the chapter. I
dunno what the ---- we ever came this far for, unless it was to hunt
mountain-sheep.”
“We’re high up, cowboy,” grinned Weary, “and the world kinda slides off
quick on every side. Lemme see----”
Weary walked out to the edge, where he squatted and studied the opposite
side of the mountain.
“Dusty, I ain’t plumb sure, but I kinda feel that we’re in them high
cliffs above the wind caves. I betcha yuh could jump off right here
and almost take a bath in Diaub Lake.”
Dusty rolled a cigaret and considered things in general. Then he
dismounted and tied his horse to a gnarled snag.
“Whatcha aim to do?” queried Weary, as he tied his horse to another snag
and looped the lead-rope around the saddlehorn.
“Kinda curious,” grinned Dusty. “I’ve heard all kinds of fool things
about these caves, and I never had a chance to investigate before.”
“Shucks, yuh can’t get down to ’em. I’ve looked up at the cliffs from
the lake, and you’d have to have wings like a buzzard to make the trip,
Dusty.”
“Thasso?”
Dusty drew his rifle from the boot, and slung it under his arm.
“C’m on, long feller. Yuh don’t have to wear wings to fall with, and
she’s down--not up.”
Weary picked up his rifle.
“I ain’t got no sense,” he declared. “Not a ---- lick of sense. I swore
to uphold the law, I did. But I never said I was goin’ to get up on top
of the world to do it. Yuh made me say, ‘So help me, Gawd,’ but there
wasn’t nothin’ said about climbin’ half-way to get His help. I came out
here to kill a rustler--not to be a mountain goat.”
“What do yuh reckon we better do?” grinned Dusty.
“Satisfy yore curiosity,” grunted Weary. “Lead on!”
It was a difficult journey across the lava cliffs, where a misstep
might prove fatal. Ages ago a volcano had lifted out a mighty mass of
molten rock, which had spewed over the mountain ridge; piling up like
a gigantic rock wall; cooling to the texture of melted glass.
And it was along this great wall that Dusty and Weary crawled. On either
side was a sheer drop of a hundred feet to other ledges, which broke
away like gigantic steps to the cañon below.
“If a feller thinks he’s kinda big in the world,” panted Weary, “he can
come up here and find out just how danged small he is, y’betcha.”
Dusty hung his feet over the edge and rolled a cigaret, while Weary
edged onward a few feet and considered the other side of the cliff.
Far below him was sort of a pothole in the cliffs and beyond that was
a rocky cañon, which seemed to lead out to the timber-line.
Dusty crawled over and sprawled beside Weary. Beyond them, the cliffs
swung rather sharply to the right, and Weary pointed out the fact that
this was the spot where the cliffs turned to circle the head of Hardpan
Cañon.
“We’re sure above Diaub Lake,” he declared, and added--
“A danged long ways above.”
Dusty was studying the formation of the cliffs beyond them and paid no
attention to Weary’s statement.
“I betcha we can get down the cliffs over there,” declared Dusty,
pointing at a crevice beyond.
“That’s sure fine,” applauded Weary, dryly. “But what in thunder good
would that do us? We’d be on the wrong side of the range, don’tcha see?”
“Couldn’t we circle the side of the mountain below the cliffs and get
back to the horses?”
“Yeah?” Weary pointed to another series of cliffs, which extended far
down the mountain to their left. “We might make a thirty-mile circle,
Dusty.”
Dusty grinned and crawled ahead to where the crevice broke their chance
of further progress. It was six feet across, with a slanting surface on
the far side.
“Prettiest place I ever seen, to commit suicide,” stated Weary. “Jump
the crevice and skid backwards. Be a cinch.”
“Here’s the cinch,” replied Dusty, pointing downward. “We can go down
here easy.”
He rolled over, slid off the edge and dropped lightly to the shelf below
them, where he studied the downward path.
“We can get up here again, if we want to,” he called up to the skeptical
Weary. “Come on.”
Swearing at Dusty for being seventeen kinds of fool, Weary followed.
From shelf to shelf they dropped down the irregular crevice. At times
they went down, with their elbows and knees bracing against the sides,
until the crevice widened into another series of broken ledges.
It took them about two hours to make the descent, and they arrived at
the bottom with elbows and knees bleeding and clothes torn, but glad
to be back to earth again. From where they landed the mountain sloped
gently back into the heavy timber; a great unused range, which broke
back to the foot-hills of another county.
Dusty led the way back along the edge of the cliffs to where the
rocky cañon opened on to the mountain slope. This was a fairly wide,
box cañon, hewn by nature out of the solid lava rock. They skirted
the edge of this around to where it opened on to the mountain, and
the cliffs echoed Dusty’s yelp of joy.
“Cows!” he yelled. “Sufferin’ sunfish! Look!”
He pointed at the upward raise of ground beyond the mouth of the cañon,
where hundreds of cloven hooves had cut deeply into the soft earth.
“Whatcha know?” gasped Weary. “Them is cow tracks, as sure as the Lord
made small, sour apples, Dusty. What are they----”
“C’mon,” grunted Dusty, and raced back up the rock cañon.
* * * * *
Everywhere was unmistakable sign that cattle had been driven through the
rocky cleft, although there were no hoof-marks. A hundred yards beyond,
the cañon opened into the pothole, which they could see above, but which
was a rocky amphitheater, at least three hundred feet across.
At the far side of this, straight into the side of the cliff, extended
the cañon, wide enough to drive a wagon through. The two men clambered
over the uneven floor and entered the cañon, which ran straight for a
few hundred feet and then began to angle back and forth.
As far as they could see, the cleft ran straight to the top of the
cliffs, but angling in such a way that no daylight came through. There
were side clefts, wide enough to squeeze through, but they kept to the
main cañon.
Suddenly there came a moaning sound, like the starting of a ponderous
machine. Dusty and Weary stopped and looked at each other.
“The Wind God!” whispered Weary. “This must be----”
“He must be mixin’ up a cyclone,” observed Dusty, dryly “Let’s go in and
see how he does it.”
And without waiting for Weary to agree to such a thing, Dusty started
ahead, with his rifle ready for quick work. The sound had changed a
trifle now, and was more like swift running water, although the moaning
continued to a certain degree.
They swung around an angle in the cañon, and ahead of them the sunlight
shafted in along the right-hand wall.
“Daylight,” grunted Dusty in amazement. “We haven’t gone all the way
through the danged mountain yet!”
The Wind God’s machine was not making so much noise now, as the two men
passed around the corner of the cliff and emerged into sunlight. For a
moment they stopped and looked at the scene before them.
They were standing at the edge of another amphitheater-like place,
larger than the other, and with the greater part of it roofed over. It
looked like a great cave, with part of the roof fallen in, and inside
this great ventilated cave were at least two hundred head of cattle.
From the opposite side was a continuation of the wide rocky cleft, and
out of this were coming more cattle. Dusty and Weary leaned against the
rock wall and studied this scene. There were Bar-O-Bar stock from the
ranges East of Calumet; Wagon-Wheel and Banjo brands from Fisher Creek,
a few Cross-Anchor and Circle S cows.
“The country is sure well represented,” observed Dusty, grinning softly.
“I thought this was the place that the wind came from, but I finds that
it’s the place where the cows go to.”
“Look out!” snapped Weary as he whirled back into the cleft and yanked
at Dusty’s sleeve.
_Pwee-e-e-e!_
A bullet ricocheted off the rock where Dusty had leaned, while the
report of a rifle crashed with thunderous echoes. A man had come out
of the opposite cleft and had fired at first sight of them. After
firing, he had darted back inside the cleft out of sight.
“Whatcha know about that?” queried Dusty. “Mebbe that’s yore Wind God,
Weary; and he’s angry with us.”
“He had on a blue shirt,” grunted Weary foolishly.
“Must be the Wind God then,” grinned Dusty. “All them kinda gods wears
blue shirts.”
They peered out, but there was no sign of the man. Dusty hung his hat on
his rifle barrel and shoved this out, but either the man was gone, or he
was not to be fooled.
“We’re in a sweet place,” declared Weary. “I betcha that was one of the
rustlers, and they’ve got a cinch to keep us where we are.”
“We can go back, can’t we?” queried Dusty.
“S’pose they sneak in behind us; what then?”
“You sure do think sweet thoughts, cowboy,” declared Dusty. “How would
they know? That jasper out there ain’t got no chance to sneak in on us,
has he?”
“Mebbe there’s others out on the other side. Ain’t nobody goin’ to stop
’em from comin’ in the same way we did.”
“What do yuh reckon we ought to do--shoot ourselves?” asked Dusty
sarcastically.
“Well, yuh gotta look at these things--” began Weary in defense of his
argument, but Dusty had swung away from the wall into the open and
called--
“Come on, Weary!”
* * * * *
A number of the cattle had drifted into a compact mass in front of the
opposite opening, and Dusty was running to gain the opposite wall before
the herd broke away from that spot. Weary raced along behind him, while
cattle scattered on either side.
They brought up against the wall, panting from the run, but no shot had
been fired at them. Weary drew in gulps of air and threw a rock at some
of the frightened cattle, which had swung in close to them.
They were now in a position where the rustler would have to expose
himself to shoot at them. Dusty took his rifle in his left hand and
drew his six-shooter. He expected close-range work now, and did not
want to depend on the longer gun.
They worked cautiously around to the entrance, but there was no sign of
the man in the blue shirt. Dusty considered the cleft, which angled out
of view beyond them. It would be an excellent ambush. The cleft was not
over eight feet wide on the bottom.
“I don’t like this proposition,” declared Dusty softly. “They’ve got a
cinch on wipin’ us out in here. You keep about fifty feet behind me,
Weary; and if they are layin’ for us, you’ll have a chance to either
help me out or to get away.”
“Aw-w-w!” protested Weary. “That ain’t no way to do. You lemme go ahead,
Dusty.”
“Nope. The county elected me to do this kinda work, and yo’re only m’
hired man. Let’s go.”
Dusty walked slowly around the corner, and after a moment Weary
followed. The cleft was but a repetition of the one on the other side
of the big cattle-cave. It angled badly and Dusty was never able to
see more than fifty feet ahead. The sounds of the bawling cattle came
to them, and Dusty grinned over the noise-machine of the Wind God.
It seemed miles out of the cleft; miles of half-light, in which they
expected momentarily to be fired upon. Dusty had relaxed his tension
by this time, but was no less cautious. At times he grinned over his
shoulder at Weary, who was moving in closer all the time.
The light began to get better and Dusty moved slower and with more
caution. Suddenly he rounded a projection and before him he could see
the fringe of trees beyond. It was only a few feet out to the mountain
side. He went out slowly, bent low and took advantage of every point
of rock. He was looking for the man in the blue shirt who he knew was
not far away.
He worked out to a fringe of bushes, and just beyond him stood this man,
looking eagerly down the cañon. He held a rifle in both hands and seemed
to be trying to locate some one. Dusty did not want to have to kill him,
but he did want to capture him.
He motioned to Weary to stay there, and began working slowly out
behind him. The man had evidently decided that they would never come
on through the cleft, after he had fired the shot at them, and was
not at all concerned with things behind him.
Dusty worked in close behind him before he spoke.
“Leggo that gun!”
Dusty’s order fairly crackled in the ear of the blue-shirted man, and he
whirled quickly. It was Wharton, the bartender, who, Dusty believed, had
given him the knockout drops in Smalley’s saloon.
At the sight of Dusty, Wharton started back, which took him to the very
edge of the incline. He seemed to slip downward, whirled as if trying to
get away, and Dusty dove into him.
For a moment they spun around, grasping at each other, and then the
earth seemed to slip from under them. Like a flash Dusty realized
what had happened. The steep hillside was all shale rock, and they
had started a miniature landslide.
There was no way to check their speed; no way to stop until they reached
more secure formation. It was like sitting on a loose piece of slate and
sliding off a roof. Faster and faster they went, until they shot into
space and seemed for a moment to hang suspended in the air, but in that
short space of time, Dusty got a flash of what was below and he knew
that they were hurtling off into Diaub Lake.
And in that short space of time he realized that the old Indian
superstition had been caused by just such a thing. The treacherous shale
rock had slid away with some Indians, and the survivors had believed it
to be the work of an evil spirit.
The speed with which they were going and the angle of their departure
was all that saved them, for they did a slanting dive into not over
four feet of water. Tradition had said that it was a bottomless lake,
but Dusty realized that tradition was not always truth.
Their holds had been broken by the fall, and Dusty came upright in the
water, coughing, wheezing, but grappling for Wharton, who had had all
the wind knocked from his lungs by hitting the water. He managed to get
Wharton’s head above water, and then looked around.
Tradition had also said that no man could ever get out of that lake,
but tradition had only viewed it from one certain spot. Dusty glimpsed
a broken place in the sloping, rocky walls, over which they had fallen,
and to this place he waded, hauling the half-conscious Wharton with
him.
It was, or rather appeared to be, merely a short cleft in the rocks, but
Dusty found it to be the entrance to a regular cave. Into the mouth of
this he dragged Wharton and laid him across a rock. Wharton’s gun was in
its holster, although he had lost his rifle. Dusty was sans either rifle
or pistol; so he lost no time in appropriating Wharton’s belt and gun.
Dusty sat down against the wall and tried to find enough dry tobacco to
make a smoke. He was still shaky from the fall into the lake and needed
a bracer.
“The only danged thing about this spooky lake that’s true, is the
moisture,” he told a limp sack of tobacco.
Came the scrape of leather on rock and Dusty whirled, gun in hand. For a
moment he squinted closely, as though not believing his eyes. He looked
down at Wharton and back toward the lake, as though trying to solve the
mystery, but his eyes came back to the dim entrance to the tunnel, where
Stella Magruder was standing, one hand braced against the rocky wall,
staring at him.
“Well,” remarked Dusty inanely, “there may not be any wind gods around
here, but there’s everythin’ else.”
“Dusty!” Stella seemed uncertain of her own voice.
“That’s me!” nodded Dusty. “Champeen high-diver of the Big Bear
country.”
“But, Dusty,” she faltered, “you--you----”
She came toward him, as if expecting him to fade into thin air, and he
got to his feet before her. She tried to smile, but failed dismally.
“You are not dead?” she whispered.
“I wouldn’t bet on it,” said Dusty slowly. “I’ve sure done everythin’ I
could to pass out.”
There was an awkward silence as they looked at each other, and then
Dusty grinned widely.
“Stell, I’ve found out where all the stolen cows have been taken, and
I’m goin’ to clean up the Sticky Ropes.”
Stella turned her head and stared out past the broken rock entrance,
where the unruffled waters of Diaub Lake shone like polished jade. Her
eyes were wide with suffering and the corners of her mouth twitched, as
if her soul were shrieking to explain things that her tongue did not
dare to tell.
Dusty looked curiously at her and put his hand on her arm.
“Whatsa matter, Stell?”
Still she did not turn her head, and Dusty squinted out across the lake.
As far as he could see there was nothing to cause such a steadfast gaze
in that direction. He repeated his question, and she turned slowly back
to him.
“Dusty, do you--you--” she faltered. “Why do you have to clean up the
Sticky Ropes?”
“Why?” Dusty almost squeaked the question. “Why, Stell, they’re a bunch
of murderin’ rustlers, that’s why. They’ve run a lot of cow-men out of
the Big Bear country, and they’ve stolen a fortune in cattle. I’ve got
’em where the hair is short right now.”
Stella had leaned back against the rocky wall and was nervously
arranging her tousled hair. Wharton lifted his head a trifle, but Dusty
was watching Stella and did not see him roll slowly over and get to his
knees.
“And they stole you, Stell’,” stated Dusty. “After they thought they
had killed me. I reckon that’s a-plenty for me to clean-up on ’em.
They was sure a slick bunch, don’tcha know it? They drove the cattle
up Hardpan Creek, over the rim-rock at the upper side of Diaub Lake
and into that rocky cut, which runs plumb through the cliffs.
“The stock never left a track, and none of the cow-men ever knew that
there was a way through the cliffs. It was the old wind caves of the
Blackfeet, which opened into Bunchgrass County, and they had a cinch
to drive out of the mountains and down to Firebaugh or Hastings.”
Dusty laughed heartily over the simplicity of it all, and his laugh
was echoed by the scrape and thump of running feet. He whirled in time
to see Wharton disappearing into the gloom of the narrow tunnel. Dusty
fired once and the bullet whined off the rock, like the shriek of a
fiddle-string.
Stella tried to clutch Dusty’s arm, as he sprang past her, but he tore
away and ran into the tunnel. He could hear Wharton running ahead of
him, but the passage was too narrow for fast work.
Suddenly the cave widened to the proportions of a room, and Dusty saw
that it was roughly furnished as a living quarters. Blankets were
strewn on the floor, together with boxes and cooking utensils, and in
one corner smoldered a small fire. An old barn-lantern was hanging to
a rocky projection.
As Dusty dashed into the room he saw Wharton’s legs just disappearing
up what appeared to be a stairway outlet, and which proved to be a
short ladder, leading to the continuation of the cave. Dusty went
cautiously up this ladder and raced on through another narrow tunnel,
which was very dark.
Then he seemed to feel the jar of a shot and the muffled echo of an
explosion. He forced his way around two almost right-angled turnings
and fairly fell out into the light of day. He stopped and stared
foolishly around. He was out at almost the exact spot where he had
tackled Wharton, and, sitting on the ground, nursing his head, was
Weary Willis.
Weary looked up at Dusty and his mouth fell open, as if some one had
severed his jaw muscles. Weary had a bruised spot over his right eye,
which was already swelled to the proportions of an egg.
“Well, I’ll be ----!” he snorted. “You’re dead, ain’t yuh, Dusty?”
“Uh-huh,” nodded Dusty. “Turned into a wind god. Did somebody come out
here a moment ago, Weary?”
Weary gawped toward the opening and back to Dusty. He nodded violently
and rubbed his forehead.
“Yo’re danged well right they did! I figured that you was dead; so I
was goin’ back through the cliffs and climb back to the horses, and I
got this far, when a evil spirit hopped out of that wall, knocked me
upside down and flitted away through the entrance. I shot at it; but,
shucks, there ain’t no use shootin’ at spirits.”
“That was Wharton, who tended bar for Sapphire Smalley,” said Dusty.
“The feller that handed me the knockout drops.”
“No?” Weary got to his feet and rubbed his head. “Do yuh mean to tell
me that I let a bartender walk all over me thataway? By cripes, I’m
goin’ ----.”
Weary stared over Dusty’s shoulder and blinked rapidly. Stella had come
out of the tunnel and was standing within a few feet of them. Weary tore
his eyes away from her and looked out toward the entrance. He cleared
his throat and hitched up his belt nervously.
“Did he get away, Dusty?” asked Stella softly.
“----!” croaked Weary hoarsely. “I’m glad yuh spoke, Miss Magruder,
’cause I was sure girdin’ m’ loins for a foot-race. I thought yuh was
a ghost.”
“Lotta ghosts around here,” observed Dusty thoughtfully, panting a
trifle from his chase through the caves.
“Did--did he get away?” faltered Stella.
“Yeah, he got away, Stell’; but I’ve got the deadwood on him, y’betcha.”
Weary turned and walked to the edge of the slide above the lake, seeking
to get a glimpse of Wharton, leaving Dusty and Stella alone, facing each
other.
“I ain’t quite sure who they all are, Stell,” stated Dusty, after a
moment’s pause. “But I reckon you can tell me a lot of things, can’t
yuh?”
Stella brushed a hand across her face, as she stared down at the rocky
floor, but looked up at Dusty and shook her head.
“No, I can’t tell you anything, Dusty.”
“You can’t?” Dusty’s face was very serious now. “You don’t know who
brought yuh here, Stell’?”
“I didn’t say that, Dusty; I said I couldn’t tell you.”
“Yeah, I----”
Dusty scratched his tousled hair and squinted into space. It was a
trifle beyond his ken.
“Yuh know who brought yuh here, but yuh can’t--” Dusty hesitated and the
lines about his wide mouth grew tense.
“Stell’, yuh mean that yuh
love--somebody--who--belongs--to--them--Sticky Ropes? Do yuh--Stell’?”
Her eyes were filled with tears, as she looked at him and nodded slowly.
“More than anything in the world, I think.”
“----!” breathed Dusty. “I--I didn’t know--that. Somehow--” Dusty turned
and stared toward Weary, who was still watching for Wharton--“somehow I
kinda hoped----”
Stella stepped in closer and put her hand on his arm.
“Dusty, you’ll do this for me? You’ll forget the Sticky Ropes, for my
sake?”
Dusty looked closely at her and his eyes dropped to the bosom of his
torn shirt, where his badge of office was pinned at an awkward angle.
He lifted his right hand and felt of the rough bandage which covered
the throbbing mark of a rustler’s bullet.
“I--I know they tried to kill you, Dusty,” said Stella softly.
“That ain’t it,” Dusty shook his head. “That’s personal, Stell. It ain’t
what they done to me; it’s what I swore I’d do, when I took office. And
I reckon a lot of folks are kinda lookin’ for me t’ make good.”
“But, Dusty, won’t you do this for my sake. It--it means a--lot, Dusty.”
“I reckon the son-of-a-gun got plumb away!” called Weary. “He was goin’
fast enough t’ be in Canada by this time.”
Dusty walked away from Stella and went out to where Weary was still
scanning the country. Weary looked back at Stella, leaning against the
rocky wall, and then at Dusty’s dejected expression.
“Whatsa matter, cowboy?” he half-whispered, seeing that something had
gone badly amiss.
“She won’t tell me who the Sticky Ropes are,” said Dusty, “and she wants
me to go away and let ’em alone.”
Weary whistled and hitched up his belt.
“What’sa big idea, Dusty?”
“Well,” Dusty compressed his lips a moment. “Well, she didn’t ask me not
to tell yuh, Weary; so I reckon yuh better know about it. She loves one
of them rustlers.”
“Aw-w-w, ----!” Weary fairly exploded.
“Sure is,” agreed Dusty. “Worse ’n that, Weary.”
“Young Ramsey?”
“I--I never thought of him, but I reckon that’s right. But what in
thunder had he got to do with the Sticky Ropes? He’s a stranger around
here.”
Stella was coming up to them now, and Weary turned away, as if he did
not want to speak to her. For a space of time she stood beside Dusty,
looking out over the sun-lit crags beyond the lake.
“I haven’t treated you very nicely, Dusty,” she said, without turning
her head. “I think I always wanted to tease you, and it is hard to ask
favors of you now.”
“Thass all right--” quickly--“I didn’t mind--much, Stell.”
“Can’t you just ride away and forget what happened yesterday and today,
Dusty?”
Dusty looked keenly at her. She was asking him to forget his sworn
duty; asking him to forget that a band of thieves and murderers were
operating in that land; asking him to do this because she loved one
of the thieves. The irony of it all struck Dusty, and he grinned
widely.
“You will do this, Dusty?” Stella had seen the grin wreath his wide
lips, and she spoke eagerly.
“I reckon,” drawled Dusty slowly, “I reckon I’m a ---- of a sheriff.
C’mon, Weary!”
And without a backward glance Dusty walked slowly back to the main
crevice of the wind cave, with Weary following him. At the entrance
Dusty looked back. Stella was standing where he had left her, watching
them. She waved her hand, but Dusty turned and went into the half-light
of the cave, without a sign to her.
Once around the protecting angle of the entrance, Dusty stopped, leaned
against the wall and began the manufacture of a cigaret. Weary shifted
his rifle to the crook of his elbow, and reached for Dusty’s “makin’s.”
“I’ve read about danged fools,” stated Weary slowly, “but yo’re the
first one I’ve ever met, Dusty.”
Dusty grinned and lit his cigaret.
“Well, yuh sure picked a champeen f’r a starter, Weary.”
“Y’betcha,” seriously. “Yuh may be a hero in the mind of that girl, but
you’d shoot me f’r what I’m thinkin’ about yuh right now, cowboy.”
“I believe in free thinkin’ m’self,” nodded Dusty, squatting down on his
heels. “I wish I had that rifle out of the lake, Weary. My six-gun is
down there, too. She’s a good thing that Wharton used the same caliber
six-gun, or I’d be half-out of shells right now.”
“Um-m-m,” Weary squinted away from the smoke of his cigaret and peered
at Dusty.
“Ain’t we goin’ back to the horses now, Dusty?”
“Nope, not now. There’s such a thing as bein’ too danged much of a
hero.”
“You told Stella you was goin’ away, didn’t yuh?”
“Nope. I told her that I was a ---- of a sheriff, and that ain’t no lie,
Weary.”
Dusty crawled back to the entrance, where he could peer out and see the
full sweep of the opening. Weary moved in behind him, grumbling softly.
“What’sa matter?” queried Dusty.
“Hungry. My gosh, we ain’t had nothin’ t’ eat since last night.”
“And the pack-horse three hours away,” grinned Dusty. “Ne’mind, cowboy.
If we get hungry enough we’ll sneak back and barbecue a steer. I betcha
them hills back there are full of stolen cattle. They must ’a’ drove ’em
in here and worked ’em slow-like back into that big cave, let ’em get
kinda used to things and then shoved ’em out the other side.”
“Got any idea who the rustlers are?”
“Jack Bonn is one of ’em, Weary. And I’m thinkin’ that the depot agent
at Calumet is another. I sent a telegram to Searchlight, askin’ about
Jack Bonn, and you see the answer I got back. It was signed by a sheriff
by the name of Wilson, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah, I ’member that, Dusty.”
“Well, I found a reward notice at the office, and the sheriff’s name
in Claypool. The reward was sent out last month and they ain’t had no
election down there. No, that danged agent faked up that telegram,
Weary. And that is what put the deadwood on Mister Bonn.
“I had a hunch that it might be a smart thing to have Shorty Miles ride
in and get Bonn and Shirey and take ’em down to the Cross-Anchor, while
we investigated things up here. No use buckin’ the whole works, unless
we have to; and they’d fall for a chance to help me hunt for Stella.
They’d get me out in this country and make a sieve out of me.”
“You ain’t such a danged fool after all,” applauded Weary.
“Well, yuh don’t need to get too enthusiastic,” reprimanded Dusty. “We
ain’t out of this yet, yuh must remember.”
Neither of them were wearing a watch, but the long shadows across the
mouth of the rock cañon showed that the sun was almost down. Stella
had gone back to the living quarters in the cave, following the
disappearance of Dusty and Weary, but now she came out again, walked
to the rocks above the lake and appeared to be scanning the country
closely. After a few minutes she went back into the cave.
“She’s lookin’ for ’em to come back,” observed Weary.
“Losin’ Wharton kinda soured my game,” grinned Dusty. “He likely spread
the glad tidin’s, which will make ’em all kinda go soft-like.”
The sun disappeared and darkness came swiftly, blotting out all detail;
yet there was no sign of the rustlers. It was getting uncomfortably cool
among the rocks and Weary complained audibly.
“Why don’t yuh sneak back to the horses and get our blankets?” asked
Dusty.
“Go through these danged caves?” queried Weary. “Not me! Climb up to
the top of the world in the dark? My gosh, it gives me goose-pimples
t’ think of it.”
It was about an hour later that something seemed to move among the
rocks; something that moved slowly along the floor of the entrance and
disappeared near the opening to the dwelling-cave.
“One of ’em came back,” chuckled Dusty. “He sure snaked his way in this
time, and he’ll sure be tickled t’ know that me and you pulled out quite
a while ago.”
About five minutes later two figures came out of the cave, carrying a
lantern. The yellow light threw grotesque shadows on the high, rocky
walls, as the two figures walked to the extreme edge above the lake.
After holding the lantern steady for a moment, the figure holding it
began to swing it in circles, causing it to look like a wheel of yellow
light. Then the light was extinguished.
“Signalin’ the rest of the wind gods,” observed Dusty.
It was impossible to see the two figures now, as they blended into the
landscape, but ten minutes later came the scrape of metal on stone, the
jingle of bit-chains, and over the rim, at the left-hand side, came a
number of horsemen. It was impossible to tell their number, but the
drone of several voices came to Dusty and Weary’s ears.
Then they went noisily across the rocky floor and into the small cave
entrance, rattling their spurs and arguing brokenly.
Dusty led the way over to the horses, of which there were five.
“This is Bonn’s horse,” whispered Dusty, rubbing the neck of a tall
sorrel. “Know any others, Weary?”
“Here’s old Snag Shirey’s glass-eyed roan,” grunted Weary.
“C’mon,” whispered Dusty, and led the way to the opening where the men
had disappeared. Once inside he cautioned Weary about the short ladder,
as it would be a fine place to take a nasty fall.
This ladder was located in such a way that Dusty and Weary were able
to reach the level of the cave floor without exposing themselves to
the men inside, but it required that they climb down the side of the
ladder, protecting themselves with the projecting ledge.
Once at the bottom they squeezed in close to the wall and listened to
the conversation of the inhabitants, who were not over twenty feet away.
The fire had been rebuilt and some one was rattling tin-ware. Out of the
jumble of conversation came Bonn’s voice angrily--
“Well, whose fault was it that things got balled up?”
“I told yuh what happened to me--” this from Wharton--“I took a shot at
’em back in the big cave, and I didn’t think they’d be fools enough to
keep on comin’.”
“You’ve told us that a hundred times,” sneered Bonn. “What do yuh reckon
we ought to do--kiss yuh?”
“Wait a minute,” this from a strange voice. “There’s no use blaming
anybody, Bonn. What happened has happened, and if we’ve got any sense
left, we’ll use it up in futures, not in pasts.”
“Futures!” sneered Bonn. “We’ve got somethin’ to look forward to, ain’t
we? Things were going all right until you thought you had to come over
and hurry things along, Rand.”
Rand! Dusty frowned over this name. That was a new one on him. Who was
Rand? Dusty did not dare to look around the corner of the rock, because
the firelight had already painted it with an orange and red glow. It
would be like putting his face into a spot-light.
“I’m the one that was paying for it,” said Rand. “It was my money, Bonn;
remember that.”
“And my scheme!” reminded Bonn.
“You can have that credit,” laughed Rand, and another voice joined in
the laugh.
“Your big mistake was that you didn’t kill that sheriff, Bonn,” again it
was a new voice entering the conversation.
There was a space of a few seconds, and Wharton’s voice whined:
“Yuh don’t need to look at me thataway, Bonn. I didn’t have nothin’ but
knockout drops to give him, but I gave him enough to kill a horse.”
Dusty grinned widely at this and nudged Weary in the ribs. Dusty was
thoroughly enjoying himself now, and cared little what happened in the
future.
“I think it was a crazy-man’s idea all the time,” declared Snag Shirey’s
voice. Snag was evidently preparing the meal, as his voice came from
over by the fire.
“What do you mean?” queried the heavy voice of Rand.
“That just because yuh cleaned up on sheep in Wyoming ain’t no reason
yuh could do it here. You hired us to steal cows and put the fear of God
into the Big Bear cow-men, but it ain’t worked out like you said.”
“Is that so? Just what did I say?”
“You said that inside of a year every ranch in Big Bear could be bought
for a third what it’s worth, didn’t yuh? You wanted to buy the whole
upper end of it for a sheep ranch, but I don’t see yuh doin’ it.”
It was plain to Dusty now. The little note-book had the code for wires
between Bonn and Rand. Their scheme was practically to force the sale of
Big Bear ranchers, and to turn the wide range into sheep. And the scheme
was also bringing them a big revenue in stolen cattle. The depot agent
was also a tool of Rand.
“What kick have you got comin’, Shirey?” queried Bonn. “You’re gettin’
yore share of the money, ain’t yuh?”
“Yeah, I s’pose so, but the game is up now. Corbett knows where the cows
went to and he likely knows who brought ’em here. This business was all
right, as long as nobody knowed how it was done. There’s only one thing
left t’ do, and that is for all of us to fade out of this country and go
a ---- long ways from here.”
Shirey’s feet scraped back to the fire and he began rattling his pans
again. To Dusty’s nostrils came the savory odors of boiling coffee.
He knew now what the main purpose of the Sticky Ropes was. He took a
chance and peered around the corner of the ledge.
The elder Ramsey was standing beside Bonn in the center of the room.
Shirey was humped over the fire, busy peeling potatoes, while the
younger Ramsey was sitting on a boulder, watching Shirey and smoking
a cigaret. Wharton leaned against the wall facing Bonn and Ramsey,
while further back, near the exit to the lake, sat Stella, paying no
attention to the others in the cave. As Dusty looked at her she got
up and went slowly out of the cave. Bonn turned his head and looked
in her direction for a moment and then laughed as he turned to
Ramsey.
“Ramsey is Rand,” mused Dusty. “Rand was in sheep in Wyoming, and
cleaned up on them.”
Young Ramsey, or Rand, turned and sauntered out of the lake exit, and
Dusty’s lips shut in a tight line. It was easy enough to grin at the
thoughts of any one else having Stella, but it was different to see her
accepted sweetheart walking out to meet her. Bonn was talking again and
Dusty stopped his painful musings to listen closely.
“Corbett is sure one plain ---- fool,” declared Bonn.
“Luckily for us,” agreed Ramsey warmly, “you don’t reckon he’ll come
back, do you?”
“Not him,” laughed Bonn. “He’s stuck on Stella and he won’t do anythin’
to hurt her feelin’s. Naw, yuh can count him out of the deal entirely.”
Shirey straightened up from the fire.
“How much did Corbett know about us--before today, Bonn?”
“Not a ---- thing, Snag.”
“Then why did he blat at yuh down in Calumet?”
“I dunno,” Bonn shook his head. “Jist happened to, I reckon.”
“Thasso?” Shirey was unconvinced. “He didn’t have no cause t’ do it, and
he winked one eye at me when he done it.”
“You gittin’ scared too?” queried Bonn sarcastically.
“Yo’re ---- right. Any old time yuh think I ain’t--think ag’in!
Every one of us has inherited a rope, yuh must remember, and if we
ain’t careful we’re goin’ t’ collect. Weary Willis was with Corbett,
and knows about it too, don’t he? Dusty might keep his mouth shut on
account of the girl, but yuh gotta remember that Weary Willis ain’t
in love with her.”
“There’s a lotta sense in that argument,” agreed Wharton. “We’re up
against a cold-deck from now on. We’ve either got to take care of
Corbett, Weary and the girl or fade pronto.”
Dusty leaned in closer. What did Wharton mean about “taking care of the
girl?” He knew that it meant an attempt to kill him and Weary, but why
kill Stella?
“Do you think I’m going to quit now?” demanded Ramsey heatedly. “I’ve
spent a lot of money getting as far as I have. Shirey’s ranch cost me
fifteen thousand dollars, alone.
“It’s a ---- shame that things broke the way they did, but I ain’t going
to quit. No ---- love-sick sheriff and a pink-faced female are going to
break up my deal--not that anybody knows about!”
“Mebbe he’s love-sick, I dunno,” Shirey shook his head. “Palo Huston
missed him and got his. Palo was m’ bunkie.”
“He bungled the job,” declared Ramsey. “Got drunk and shot high. I ain’t
got no job for a bungler.”
Shirey nodded slowly.
“I reckon so, Ramsey. Kinda funny about Palo bein’ killed with a
thirty-eight gun. Corbett don’t shoot no thirty-eight.”
“Not if yuh believe Corbett,” said Bonn meaningly.
“I do--kinda. Yuh see, he ain’t never lied to me, Bonn.”
“What’s the use of arguing about it?”
Ramsey was a trifle angry, and in spite of his boastings was not a
little worried over the outcome.
“Not a bit of use,” agreed Bonn. “Shirey would rather argue than drink
good liquor, and I was accommodatin’ him. Now, we might as well plan out
what we’re goin’ to do, eh?”
Ramsey nodded and looked toward the lake exit.
“The girl won’t be hard to dispose of, but it’s got to be done pretty
quick. Then we’ve got to make a quick job of the sheriff and deputy.
It’s not only got to be a ---- quick job, but it’s got to be a sure
job.
“Nobody, except those three, know that we’re into this. By tomorrow
morning these hills will be filled with men, hunting for that girl; and
if we don’t settle the hash of Corbett and Willis they’ll be leading the
posse into here.”
Stella and the younger Ramsey were coming back into the cave, and Bonn
turned to Stella.
“Did Dusty Corbett swear to you that he was going to forget what he knew
about us and this place?”
Stella thought for a moment and shook her head.
“No, I--I don’t think he did.”
“He didn’t?” Ramsey seemed surprized. “What did he say?”
“He said--” Stella paused and reflected back to her conversation with
Dusty--“he said, ‘I reckon I’m a ---- of a sheriff.’”
For a moment there was silence, and then Snag Shirey laughed harshly.
“What the ---- are yuh laughin’ about?” snapped Bonn nervously.
“Laughin’ about that promise,” replied Snag. “Yuh thought that Corbett
was a fool, didn’t yuh?”
Bonn snarled and turned to Stella.
“Does Corbett know who is in this gang?” Stella pointed at Wharton.
“He was here. I didn’t tell him any more names, but I think he knows.”
“Yuh think he does, eh?” Bonn sneered openly at her now. “He loved
you so much that he was willin’ to keep his mouth shut, did he? He
did, like ----! I wish your horse had fell and killed you, instead of
dumping you among us yesterday. It would have saved us all a ---- lot
of trouble.”
“Why, what do you mean?” gasped Stella stepping back from him.
“I mean that you was worth a lot more dead than alive to us, but nobody
thought of it at that time.”
Bonn turned angrily to Snag.
“I reckon it was you that proposed bringin’ her here, wasn’t it? Yeah?
And it also was you that declared Dusty Corbett too dead to skin, wasn’t
it? You sure tied a rope around our necks.”
“Hold your temper!” snapped the elder Ramsey, or Rand. “No use cursing
Shirey for making a mistake like that. I thought Corbett was dead, and
so did you.”
“But what does it mean?” asked Stella, and Dusty could see that her face
was dead white in the pale light. “You told me----”
Bonn interrupted her with a nasty laugh:
“You little fool! Go over there by the wall and set down!”
“Mr. Rand, won’t you tell me what it means?” Stella appealed to the
elder Rand, who merely grunted and turned away and spoke directly to
Shirey.
“Do you know any short-cuts out of here to Calumet?”
“No,” said Shirey shortly.
“You and Wharton have got to go to Calumet and ‘get’ Corbett and Willis
tonight. Make a clean job of it and I’ll give you a thousand dollars
apiece. If you knew a short-cut, it might save you from meeting any one
on the way.”
Shirey laughed and shook his head.
“Not me, Rand. When I go out of here I’m pointin’ the other way; _sabe_?
I’ve rustled cows for yuh and all that, but I ain’t killed nobody--yet.”
Rand was watching Shirey closely, and now he moved in closer,
menacingly.
“You dirty coward!” he gritted. “You can’t quit on me. I don’t stand for
a quitter nor a bungler. Palo Huston bungled.”
“You didn’t kill him, Rand.” Snag was grinning like a coyote now as he
slouched, half against the rocky wall.
“No, I didn’t kill him!” snapped Rand, “But, by ----, I had him killed.
Bonn bungled once, but he made good the second time.”
Shirey looked at Bonn curiously.
“You killed him, eh? Just because he missed?”
“He missed,” said Rand coldly. “He had orders to keep sober. I won’t
have a drunk nor a fool. If Bonn hadn’t dumped him over the trail he
would have talked in his delirium and put a rope around our necks.”
“It didn’t do no good,” said Shirey wearily. “We’ve got the rope comin’
just the same.”
“Not if you and Wharton bump off those two officers,” declared Rand.
“What about the girl?” this from the younger Ramsey, who broke into the
conversation for the first time.
The elder Rand looked at Stella, who had sat down on a rock near the
lake exit. She did not look up at him, and he turned to his son.
“There’s only one thing to do with her--unless you want to get hung--and
the rest of us.”
Young Rand laughed nervously.
“I don’t think I do, old man.”
“Better let her alone until we’re sure of Corbett and Willis,” suggested
Wharton. “We can keep her hid, but they’re dangerous as long as they’re
alive.”
“Keep nobody hid!” growled Bonn. “They can’t hang us any higher, can
they? We’ve got to clean up the whole bunch and be down at Shirey’s
place when the whole ---- Bear range comes huntin’ for her. Magruder
knew that we went back there.
“He knows that it was the Sticky Ropes that pulled off the job, and he
don’t know who they are. It was lucky for us that Shorty Miles found
us there at Shirey’s ranch, ’cause it proves a good alibi for us. If
they didn’t find us there now, it would prove that we was huntin’ for
the girl, but I’d rather be found there. Now, do we save our necks, or
stretch ’em?”
“Shirey and Wharton will go to Calumet,” declared Rand, “and the rest of
us will finish the job here.”
“I reckon that Wharton and me will go to Calumet,” stated Bonn. “I want
this to be a sure job and I don’t trust Shirey.”
Shirey laughed harshly. It was more of a cackle than a laugh; a
mirthless flutter of his vocal cords.
“Yuh didn’ trust m’ bunkie,” shrilled Shirey. “You killed him ’cause
yuh didn’t trust him, Bonn. Yuh didn’t give him a chance. Yuh don’t
trust me, and it’s an even break. Shoot, you coyote!”
Shirey fairly shrieked the last word, as his arm flashed down and up
from his holster. But young Rand had drawn his gun, as Shirey had
flung his challenge, and he fired as Shirey drew. Bonn’s gun whipped
from its holster and covered Shirey, as he fell, but there was no
need for a second shot.
The pistol shot thundered hollowly in the cave and seemed to echo far
out through the rocky crevices.
“Good work!” Bonn’s voice sounded weak, as he clapped a hand on Rand’s
shoulder. “He was mighty fast on the draw.”
“Now, we’ll have to explain what became of Shirey,” complained Wharton.
“This is one ---- of a mess.”
* * * * *
Dusty drew back and motioned Weary up the ladder. It was a precarious
piece of climbing, but the others inside the cave were too interested
for a moment to hear what slight noise they made. Once outside, Dusty
led the way back to the horses and collected the lariat ropes. Weary
did not ask any questions, but followed Dusty to the edge of the slide
above the lake, where they knotted the ropes together.
“---- only knows whether it’ll reach or not,” grunted Dusty, “but I’ve
gotta take a chance. Stay here, Weary.”
Dusty knotted the rope to a snag and backed down the slide cautiously,
so as not to dislodge any of the shale rock. It was a slow difficult
job, and Dusty realized the need of haste.
Once at the edge of the break he swung over and slid down to the water.
The rope barely brushed the surface of the lake. There was no visible
glow from the lighted cavern, and he was forced to grope his way along
until he could locate the entrance. The water was very cold.
Inside he crawled until he came to the almost square turn which masked
the entrance. He peered around this and found himself almost in reach
of Stella, who was sitting with her back to him. To apprize her of his
presence might startle her and warn the others. Bonn was talking and
looking toward her.
“It’ll take all night,” stated Bonn, “but we’ll do the job up right,
Rand. If anybody shows up there early, you tell ’em that me and
Shirey went out to watch a deer-lick. We’ll make a mystery out of
Shirey’s disappearance. If we ain’t back by noon--we won’t be back;
so you fellers better git goin’.”
Dusty knew that Bonn and Wharton would miss their ropes and also
discover Weary; so he took a chance and hissed softly at Stella. The
first time she started to turn her head, but turned back to look at
the elder Rand, who had started toward her. Again Dusty hissed and
whispered quickly:
“This is Dusty, Stell. Sneak out easy!”
Rand was coming toward her, and she got to her feet, as though in fear
of him, and began backing out of the cavern. Rand laughed and stopped.
“You won’t go far, I guess,” he remarked as he stopped and spoke to
Bonn, who was starting for the ladder.
Stella backed around the angle and Dusty grasped her by the arm,
hurrying her along.
“Don’t talk!” he gritted into her ear. “And don’t be afraid of the
water; it ain’t deep.”
She caught her breath, as he hurried her off the ledge and into the icy
water, but she did not break her silence. As swiftly as possible, Dusty
led her along the border of the lake, feeling for the rope-end. He had
not realized the difficulty of finding it again.
Came the scrape of boots on rocks, a moment’s silence and then a
withering curse from the lips of the elder Rand. He had reached the edge
of the lake and had not found Stella. He turned and went stumbling back
into the cavern, cursing wickedly.
Dusty swung his arm in a circle in the dark and his wrist struck the
dangling rope.
“Stell, I’ve gotta leave yuh a little while,” whispered Dusty. “Yuh
can’t climb this alone, and it ain’t long enough to tie around yuh; but
mebbe I can give yuh enough slack to do the job. If I can’t, yuh gotta
hang on with yore hands, when I git up there. I’ll give a little yank,
and when yore all ready, you yank twice; _sabe_?”
“All right, Dusty,” she whispered. “Go ahead!”
Dusty grasped the rope, but before he could pull himself out of the
water the beams of a lantern flooded the entrance to the cavern, and
the four men came out.
“You’re crazy!” growled Bonn, “She never went into the lake of her own
accord.”
He lifted the lantern above his head and peered out across the water. A
second later Dusty fired, and the lantern chimney showered glass against
the rocks. With a startled curse, Bonn dropped the wrecked lantern and
fell back into a safe place.
Other voices swore wonderingly and one of the men tried to scratch a
match.
“Don’t do that, you ---- fool!” roared Bonn. “Want to make a target of
yourself?”
“Did that girl get a gun?” queried Wharton shakily. “Which way did the
shot come from, Bonn?”
“How do I know?” snarled Bonn. “It came from the lake, that’s all I
know.”
“Well, she can’t get away, can she?” asked young Rand. “There ain’t no
way out except this way, is there?”
“No, there ain’t,” declared Bonn, “but it would be a cinch for any one
to see her from the other side of the lake. Mebbe she couldn’t stand it
to be in that water all night, but we’d be takin’ a chance.”
“Well, what’ll we do?” demanded young Rand. “Shall we roost there all
night?”
“No, that won’t do,” objected Bonn, “We’ve got to do that job in Calumet
tonight. The girl can’t get out of the lake.”
They turned and went back inside--at least some of them did, but Dusty
knew that some one of them remained at the ledge to watch.
Cautiously he lifted himself from the water and began climbing the rope,
while his dripping clothes poured a shower of water back into the lake.
There was no use in being cautious now. If any one remained on guard at
the entrance they would know that their quarry was escaping in some way.
He heard the scrape of boots, as the watcher turned and hurried inside.
Dusty dropped back into the lake, steadied himself with the rope and
grasped Stella by the arm.
“Back into the cave,” he whispered. “They think I’ve gone over the top.”
They struggled back to the ledge and in through the crevice. A straight
view through the cavern showed it to be empty, and they half-ran into
it, thinking that every one had gone out. A noise behind them caused
Dusty to whirl around and look straight into the muzzle of Bonn’s
pistol.
“Foxy, eh?” gritted Bonn triumphantly. “I figured it was somethin’ like
this. I knowed the girl didn’t have no gun, and you was my big bet.”
Bonn laughed wickedly. From outside came the whang of a shot, and his
eyes flashed to the ladder exit for a fraction of a second.
“Mebbe that’s the end of yore deputy,” he grinned. “It’s three to one
out there, Corbett. You sure saved us a trip to town.”
“You didn’t think we came back--just two of us, did yuh?” queried Dusty.
Bonn’s eyelids quivered a trifle, but the rest of his face did not
change expression. He did not know whether Dusty was bluffing or not.
“Don’t try to bluff me, Corbett. You and Weary never left here
today--and you never will leave here.”
Dusty’s eyes shifted to the body of Snag Shirey, which was acting
queerly for a dead person. Shirey was trying to get up on his hands
and knees. He was almost directly behind Bonn, who noticed the intent
expression on Dusty’s face. But Bonn was not to be fooled by any such
trick. He knew that he ought to shoot Dusty, but he wanted to talk a
while--boast a little more.
“None of that kinda stuff, Corbett,” he warned.
Dusty did not lift his eyes, as he said: “By golly, that’s funny. Yuh
ought t’ look, Bonn.”
Snag was getting to his feet now, his face distorted with pain and his
eyes fixed on Bonn’s back.
“Funny, eh?” snarled Bonn. “I’m too old in this game to be fooled by
a trick like that, Corbett; so don’t be ---- fool enough to think it.
Listen to me.”
Stella was watching Bonn, her face white. She was afraid that Bonn
might turn, and she knew that Dusty was overdoing his part of it to be
sure that Bonn would not look. Shirey had found his gun now, but his
arm muscles were uncertain, which made it dangerous for both Dusty and
Stella. He weaved on his legs, looking around dazedly, as though not
exactly sure of himself. Bonn’s face was distorted with wrath and his
knuckles were white in the firelight, as he gripped the heavy Colt
pistol.
“---- you!” snapped Bonn. “You fool, do yuh think----”
Came a harsh cackle from Shirey’s lips. He had heard Bonn’s voice and
the mists had been swept away from his numbed mind. Bonn jerked forward,
as though from an electric shock, but he did not dare to turn. He was as
a man paralyzed. Death was behind him--and to turn was to give Dusty a
chance for a quick draw. And he knew that Dusty was swift.
“He, he, he, he!” cackled Shirey. “Palo was m’ bunkie, Bonn. Do yuh want
to take it in the back or the front?”
From the outside came the thud of another shot.
“Back or the front?” cackled Shirey, “He, he, he! Yo’re a dead man,
Bonn. You’ve killed a-plenty--now take yours.”
Bonn whirled, stumbled against the uneven floor, while Shirey’s
six-shooter spouted flame in the dim light. Dusty flung Stella aside
and dove into Shirey, flinging him back against the wall, where he
collapsed.
Came the thud of another shot, and two men seemed to fairly hurtle
in sight down the ladder, crashing together at the bottom, fighting,
striking. It was young Rand and Wharton. Dusty caught a whirling
glimpse of them, as he sprang away from Shirey, and then came the
third body, dropping feet first into them.
“Yee-o-o-ow!” came Weary’s yell. “Hookum cow!”
Weary was trying to do a war-dance on Wharton and young Rand and trying
to bounce his pistol barrel off their heads at the same time. Dusty ran
over to him and grasped Rand by the legs, yanking him out of the mix-up,
while Weary confined his attentions to putting Wharton _hors de combat_.
Dusty dragged Rand over near the fire. Rand’s gun had been lost in the
scuffle and he looked dazedly up at Dusty, as if not understanding what
had happened.
“I kinda hoodled ’em, didn’t I?” crowed Weary, dragging the unconscious
Wharton over to the fire.
“One of ’em musta seen me out there and snuck up on me.”
Weary glanced around over the victims and rubbed his chin.
“I reckon it was papa, after e-liminatin’ the rest. Anyway, he tackled
me out there on that slidin’ stuff, and I kicked his feet out from under
him and took a wing-shot at him as he went over the edge.
“These other two got kinda numerous and I drove ’em back into the hole.
Why didn’t yuh come on up the rope? I felt yuh yank hard on it and in a
minute yuh let loose of it.”
Rand sat up dazedly and looked around. Realization was coming back to
him, and it was not pleasant. Dusty looked at Stella and pointed at
Rand.
“Was he the one yuh meant, Stell?”
Stella stared at Dusty, as if not understanding.
“Yuh said yuh loved one of the Sticky Ropes, Stell,” reminded Dusty.
“--I don’t know,” faltered Stella wearily. “They said they were going to
kill me. He--” pointing at Rand--“was one of them, Dusty.”
“You don’t love him, do yuh?” queried Weary.
“No! Love that man?”
“Well, yuh never can tell about a woman,” said Weary.
Shirey lifted himself to a half-sitting position and looked around. He
was very weak, and his hands groped around, as though searching for
something.
“Whatcha want, Snag?” asked Dusty.
Snag looked up vacantly at him.
“M’ gun,” he whispered, “I’ve gotta shoot Bonn. Palo was m’ bunkie.”
“You got him, Snag,” said Dusty. “You got Bonn.”