THE LOCOED STEER.
The daring attempt to abduct the Indian girl made a strong impression on
every one of the Moon Valley outfit, and they resolved that they would
not be caught napping in that manner again.
The herd continued to move forward slowly toward the north, with nothing
to vary the monotony.
The long, grassy slopes of Montana furnished the best of feed, and the
country was plentifully watered with clear, flashing mountain streams,
and, all in all, it was an ideal cow country.
The herd was now well up toward the northeast corner of Montana, and not
far away was the Missouri, near the banks of which Ted intended to hold
the cattle until they were in fine condition, and then drive them by
easy stages to the railroad.
One day Bud rode up to Ted with a very serious face, so unusual a thing
that Ted looked at him with a grin.
"What's the grouch about now, Bud?" he asked.
"I ain't got no grouch," answered Bud.
"No? You look as if some one had handed you a lemon."
"No lemons in mine, but I jest got a hunch that this yere outfit is
being follered, an' that thar's some dirty work doin'."
"What makes you think that?"
"I found a couple o' dead steers back a bit with our brand on them."
"Great Scott! What seemed the matter with them?"
"All swelled up."
"Poison?"
"That's what makes them swell up. There's no disease in ther herd, what
I kin diskiver. All healthy enough. But some o' them is showin' signs o'
loco, an' thar ain't no loco weed on this range."
"That's mighty strange. I hadn't noticed it. What do you think of it?"
"I believe that dog Woofer is follerin' us, an' has been spreadin'
poison o' some kind on ther range what either kills or makes ther steers
crazy."
"If that is true, it is the most serious thing that has come our way in
a long time. It wouldn't take much of that sort of work to put the whole
bunch out of business and leave us with not enough cattle to pay to
drive back to the road."
"That's right. We'd be in a pretty fix with the best o' our herd rottin'
out here on the prairie. And about all we've got is tied up in it, too."
"What do you think is behind it?"
"Barrows, the dirty little coward of an officer back there at Fort
Felton, striking back-hand blows at us through his money, by hirin'
crooks and murderers to do his dirty work. There's more than one man at
work at this."
"I've no doubt you're right. By Jove! I'm going to take a look at the
situation myself."
"Be careful about goin' too far away from the herd alone."
"I will; and, say, warn Stella and Miss Croffut about going out of sight
of the herd, and to always fire a signal if strange men approach them
when away from camp."
"I'll put everybody on, and warn them to be on their guard."
As Ted rode on, he turned the matter over in his mind.
Not knowing exactly if poison had been given the cattle, or if they had
eaten of a poisonous weed, of which he had no knowledge, Ted was in a
quandary. But it was questions like this that came before cowmen on the
range, and it was the successful ones who solved them.
Ted felt, therefore, that it was up to him to get at the cause of the
trouble which had unexpectedly come to him.
If he was being followed by a band of cattle poisoners who worked in the
night, the sooner he knew it the better, for he could then lay plans to
put them out of their nefarious business.
As he rode, he came across three swollen bodies of steers, and examined
them. Clearly they had been poisoned, as Bud had said.
Far out on the range he saw a lone steer. Thinking that it was a stray,
he rode toward it, with the intention of driving it back toward the
herd.
For a herd steer, it was acting in an unaccountable manner. At times it
galloped away in a frantic sort of way, throwing its head from side to
side, then as suddenly stopping, and, with drooping head, standing
quietly. Then away it would go again, charging at some unseen foe, only
to become stupid once more.
"Something wrong with that brute," said Ted to himself. "Either it has
got into a nest of rattlesnakes and has been bitten and is charging
them, or it is locoed. We'll soon see."
He kept on fearlessly toward the steer, which continued its strange
conduct.
When he was still several feet away the steer noticed him for the first
time, apparently. It lowered its head and looked at him in a dazed sort
of way.
This steer was known as Blue Eyes, on account of the curious bluish
patch of hair that grew around one of its eyes. It had always been known
as a particularly intelligent and tractable beast.
But now it was a very demon, with gleaming, blood-shot eyes and pawing
hoofs, uttering deep, guttural bellows, and throwing the sand up over
its back to the accompaniment of its thrashing tail.
"You look pretty dangerous, old fellow," muttered Ted, stopping his pony
and gazing at it from a safe distance.
"No signs of rattlesnakes around here, or I'd smell them," soliloquized
Ted. "Wonder what's the matter with you."
For answer, the steer gave an extra flip to its tail, and, without
further warning, charged upon Ted with head down and wicked horns
gleaming like bayonets. Ted's horse gave a snort of fear, and trembled
in every muscle.
Ted at once realized his danger, and wheeled his horse like a
bullfighter as Blue Eyes dashed past him, its horn scraping his leg.
"It's fight or run," thought Ted, "with a poor chance to get away from
the brute. When they're in that condition they can run like an
automobile."
Again the steer, having recovered itself, turned to the attack.
"I'll have to put a few bullets into that brute, if this thing keeps up
much longer. It's just crazy enough not to be afraid of a man on
horseback, besides, it's a good deal more active than usual." Ted's
thoughts were keeping time with the swift actions of the brute, which
was wheeling and charging like mad, so that it took all his agility and
superb horsemanship to keep clear of it.
Now the horse was getting tired, and was almost useless because it was
losing whatever sense it had had, and was becoming awkward and
unmanageable.
The steer stood off for several minutes looking at Ted in a lowering
way, but when Ted tried to run from it, it was close to his heels in a
minute, and he had to simply throw the horse to one side, bringing it to
its knees, to avoid the brute.
"That settles it," said Ted, taking his forty-five from its holster and
advancing slowly upon the frantic steer.
As it started to charge again he fired directly at the middle of its
forehead.
But the animal was hardly staggered, as the missile flattened on its
skull and fell harmlessly to the ground.
"This won't do," said Ted. "I've got to get into this game myself. No
more peek-a-boo goes with Blue Eyes. I'll do the tackling for a while."
He wheeled out of the way, then turned suddenly and rode after the
steer, firing four balls in rapid succession into its body.
But this did not seem to affect the animal's spirits at all, and Ted
rode off a short distance and reloaded.
When he turned again toward the beast it was charging, and was so close
to him that he hardly had time to get out of its way.
He might have made it had not the horse caught the smell of blood, which
was running from the steer in several places.
This rattled him so that he lost his footing, and the next instant he
was struck on the withers by the steer's horns and went rolling over and
over on the prairie, while Ted Strong flew from his back, and landed
heavily on the sod, with his revolver knocked from his hand.
The locoed steer stood a few feet away pawing the earth and looking at
him with dim eyes, all blood-shot and crazy, not making a move toward
him, yet always seeming about to do so.
Stealthily, inch by inch, Ted crawled toward where his forty-five lay on
the ground.
It was six feet from where he lay to that gun, and he prayed silently
that he could reach it before the steer changed its mind and rushed him.
He knew it would do no good for him to rise and go toward the weapon. If
he did, the steer would immediately rush him, and that would be the end
of things for him, for he would stand no chance whatever against that
terrible beast, crazed, and powerful beyond its ordinary strength.
As long as he crept gently the steer seemed not to notice him.
Now he was within five feet of the revolver with his arm stretched out
at full length. It was only four feet now, and still the steer did not
make any move to attack him.
He was trying to think where he would shoot it. In the throat, ranging
so that the bullet would pierce its heart; or through the eye, and so
reach its brain.
Now his fingers closed around the weapon, and he clutched it
convulsively, leaping to his feet like an acrobat.
At the same moment the steer, bellowing like an insane thing, charged
upon him, and he fired into its blue eye.
The ball pierced the brain and killed the brute instantly, but did not
stop the headlong flight of it, and before Ted could step out of its
way, it struck him with the force of a locomotive. As he went to the
ground, the dead steer fell on top of him.
Ted's fight with the steer had been seen, and across the prairie two
flying figures simply split the air. When they reached the side of the
prostrate steer, they flung themselves to the earth and flew to the
rescue of Ted. One was Stella and the other was Bud.
"Is he dead?" asked Stella breathlessly.
"I reckon not," answered the cow-puncher, who, secretly, was very much
afraid he was; he didn't see how Ted could help being dead, having been
charged by a steer, and having gone down beneath its weight.
He was struggling like a demon to lift the heavy animal from Ted's body.
The bulk of the steer was lying across Ted's chest, whose face was black
from the congestion, so that Stella dared not look at him.
"Pump yer gun fer all it's worth," commanded Bud, in a rough voice.
"Keep shootin' till yer bring 'em on ther run. We've got ter get him
from under this steer soon, er he'll be all in."
Stella had snatched her Winchester from the boot of her saddle, and
fired it in rapid succession into the air until the magazine was empty.
Then she refilled it, and began shooting again.
Presently she heard answering shots from the direction of the camp, and
in a few minutes several horsemen came tearing over the top of a distant
hill, to disappear into a valley and come into sight again on a nearer
hill. Soon, with a shout that fairly split the air, six of the boys, led
by Ben and Kit, threw themselves from their saddles in front of her.
"What's the matter?" they yelled in unison.
"Throw that steer off Ted," she commanded.
Then they saw what the matter was, and altogether they hoisted the
steer, and Ted was freed of the terrible weight.
He was scarcely breathing, for the wind had been completely knocked out
of him. Ben laid him flat on his back, and, straddling him, with his
knees on the ground, began to work Ted's arms with an upward, backward,
and outward motion, as if he was restoring the breath to a half-drowned
person. Soon a flush came into Ted's face, and he gave a gasp, and his
breath came in short, painful inhalations. As Ben continued the
exercise, his breathing became regular, and he opened his eyes with
surprise, to see so many of his friends about him, and particularly big
Ben straddling him and apparently holding him down. He thought at first
that Ben was responsible for his prostrate condition, or that he had
struck him.
"What are you doing?" Ted said angrily. "Let me up, dog-gone you."
But when he saw the dead steer on the ground beside him he remembered
what had happened, and sat up and laughed with the others.
It did not take him long to recover after this.
"I'm going to try to find out what caused this beast to go mad," said
Ted. "There's certainly something wrong about it."
"How are you going to find that out?" asked Ben.
"I don't know yet, but I will," Ted answered. "Come on, two or three of
you fellows. The rest of you ride back to the camp. You may be needed
there. We can't guard things too closely these days."
The party separated, and Ted, with Bud, Ben, and Kit, rode away, but
they had gone only a little ways when they heard a noise behind them. It
was Stella galloping toward them.
"I'm going, too," she said, and go she did.
Riding about half a mile west they came to a deep coulee, into which
they descended and followed its course for a short distance, when
suddenly Ted held up his hand as a signal to halt.
"I smell burning paper," he said, and, getting down from his saddle,
went forward alone on foot, as silently as an Indian.
Suddenly he bent forward, examining something on the ground, and
motioned the others forward. They rode to his side, and saw him looking
at a small, dead camp fire.
"Some one camped here last night," he said, thrusting his hand into the
warm ashes. "And whoever it was burned papers in it before he went away
this morning; the smell of them is still in the air." But no nose in the
party was keen-scented enough to detect it except Ted's.
Ted was still pawing among the ashes, when a change in expression swept
over his face, and soon he pulled out several small pieces of charred
paper. They were only burned on their curled-up edges, and Ted saw that
they were covered with writing, evidently part of a letter.
"What's this?" he exclaimed, after he had spread them out, and studied
them attentively. "Here are some words. There is not very much sense in
them, though."
"What do they read?" asked Stella.
"This is all I can make out of it: 'I *end you *** **nds of ***is **een.
***tter it on *** *rass. nce rr ws,'. Sounds as crazy as the steer,
doesn't it?"
"That's as easy as living on a farm," said Stella, who had been looking
over Ted's shoulder.
"All right, Miss Smarty, what is it?" said Ted laughingly.
"See, it's part of instructions to some one, and the way I read it is
like this: 'I send you so many pounds'--I don't know just how many, but
from the spaces the weight is expressed in three letters or three
figures. The next is presumably a poison, although I wouldn't have
thought of it if you hadn't spoken of it. What does two words, the first
ending in 'is' and the other in 'een' mean, I wonder?"
They all scratched their heads for an answer.
"Why, sure, I have it," said Ted. "It is Paris green."
"That's it. Clever boy. Then there's 'tter,' which simply shouts
'scatter' at you. After that 'rass.' That's not hard. It reads so far:
'I send you, say six, pounds of Paris green,' although it must have been
more than that. 'Scatter it on the grass.'"
"But the rest of it. That will stump you," said Ben.
"That's what caused me to get next to it first. It's Clarence Barrows,
as sure as you're born!"
"Stella, you're right, by jinks!" shouted Bud. "Ther sweet-scented
Lieutenant Barrows has sent men out yere ter poison our critters, and
we've caught him with ther goods on."