THE FLANGE IN RAINBOW CLIFF
It was getting along into August. In every cup and hollow of the
Deep Heart hills the forage was deep and plentiful. Cattle,
scattered through the broken country, waxed sleek and fat. They had
nothing to do but fill their paunches in the sunlit glades and chew
their cuds on the shadowed slopes.
Bossick, riding his range one day, came upon Big Basford and Sud
Provine ambling down toward the upper reaches of Nameless.
Their horses were tired, giving evidence of hard going, and the
cattleman stopped and looked at them with hostile eyes.
“Pretty far off your stamping ground, ain’t you?” he asked.
Provine grinned.
He was a slow-moving individual with a bad black eye and a
reputation with the gun that always rode his thigh, though he had
been mild enough on Nameless. It was the little wimple of trailing
whispers which had come into the country behind him that had put the
brand upon him.
“Are so,” he answered insolently, “but hit’s free range land at
that, ain’t it?”
“In theory, yes,” said Bossick, “but it’s about time practice
changed matters. I’m about fed up on theory—and so are a few others
in this man’s country. I’d take it well if you and all your outfit
stayed on the south side of Mystery where you belong. Your stock
don’t range this far in the Upper Country.”
“Is that so,” drawled the other, “an’ who says so?”
“I do,” said Bossick quietly, “and I’m only giving you a warning,
Provine, which you’d better heed. You can take the word to Kate
Cathrew, too. Her high-handed methods don’t set any too well with
us—and we don’t care who knows it.”
“To hell with you and your warnings!” flared Big Basford, his ugly
temper rising. “Sky Line’s too strong for any damned bunch of
backwoods buckaroos, an’ don’t you forget it! We’re——”
“Shut up!” snapped Provine, and rode away.
“Selwood’s right,” mused Bossick as he looked after them, “they’re a
precious lot of cut-throats.”
At Sky Line Ranch there was activity.
Kate Cathrew was gathering beef.
Riders were coming in daily with little bunches of cattle, all in
good condition, which they herded into the corrals.
Day and night the air was resonant with the endless bawling.
It was a little early for the drive—but then Cattle Kate was always
early. And this year she had a particular reason for precipitancy.
One of those New York letters had said, “——would like to come a
little sooner, if possible, so let’s clean up promptly.”
The word of those letters was law to her. If they had said “ship” in
December, she would have tried to do so.
Now she was out on Bluefire from dawn to dark herself, and there was
little or nothing escaped her eyes. She knew to a nicety how many
yearlings were on the slopes of Mystery, the number of weaning
calves, the steers that were ready for shipping and those that were
not.
When Provine carried her Bossick’s message verbatim the red flush of
anger rose in her face again and she struck the stallion a vicious
cut with her quirt.
Bluefire rose on his hind legs, pawing, and shook his head in rage,
the wild blood struggling with the tame in him.
“If Bossick ever speaks to you again,” said Kate, “you tell him to
go to hell, and that Kate Cathrew said so.”
“I did,” said Basford, grinning, “and Sud objected.”
“Where’s your allegiance to Sky Line?” she asked Provine instantly,
“must Basford show you loyalty?”
“I can show him discretion,” said Provine, evenly, “an’ hit don’t
take much brains to see that. Do you _want_ these ranchers t’ begin
ridin’ hard on us—nights, for instance, an’ _now_?”
Kate frowned and tapped her boot.
“The devil his due,” she said presently, “you’re right, Provine,”
and turned away.
The corrals were choked with cattle.
Sky Line was ready for its drive.
On the last night before the start there was a peculiar tenseness in
everything about the busy place. Kate Cathrew was everywhere. She
saw what horses were ready for use, spoke sharply with every rider
to make sure he knew what he was to do, and told Rod Stone once more
to get out of the kitchen.
The boy laughed, but Minnie Pine glanced after her with smouldering
eyes.
“She’s a devil—the Boss,” she told Josefa, “I hate her.”
After the early supper Caldwell, Provine, Basford and four others,
saddled fresh horses and rode away.
It was dark of the moon—as it was always when Sky Line gathered
beef—a soft windy dark, ideal for the concealment of riders, the
disguising of sounds.
They dropped down the mountain at an angle, heading northwest to
circle the end of Mystery, and they followed no trail.
They were all armed and all wore dark clothing.
The only point of light about them was the grey horse which Provine
rode.
Kate Cathrew had remonstrated about that horse, but the Texan who
feared neither man, beast or devil, had slapped its rump
affectionately and refused to ride any other.
“If that damned nosey sheriff hits my trail on his long-legged bay I
want old Silvertip under me,” he had said, “I don’t aim to decorate
no records for him.”
“Are you saying you won’t obey me?” the boss had asked in a voice of
ice.
“Yes, ma’am, in this particular instance.”
“Do you know Lawrence Arnold will soon be here?”
“Well?”
“You know what he can do to you?”
“Shore. But—I’ll risk it—for Silvertip.”
So he had deliberately mounted and the woman was thankful that none
of the other riders had heard the insubordination.
Provine was invaluable, and she held her peace.
Caldwell, leading, kept well up on the slope above the river and
after two hours’ hard going they were well around the northwest end
of Mystery Ridge which flared like a lady’s old-fashioned skirt, and
heading down into the glades that broke the jumbled ridges of the
Upper Country.
Here Bossick, a rich man, ran his cattle and had his holding.
His ranch lay well back from the river and up, but his stock ranged
down. That was why it had been easy prey for the mysterious rustlers
of Nameless River.
These men did not talk.
They rode with a purpose and they were alert to every sound, their
nerves were taut as fiddle strings.
Where the slanting glades came down toward the river they dropped to
the level and presently rode up along a smooth green floor that led
directly toward Bossick’s place, though a sharp spine cut it off at
the head. The outlet from the ranch to the river lay over this ridge
and parallel to it.
As they trotted up the glade the little wind that drew down from the
cañon at its head brought the scent of cattle, and presently they
came upon a horse and rider standing like a statue in the shadows.
Caldwell drew rein sharply.
“Dickson?” he asked in a low voice.
“O. K.” came the answer as the other moved forward to join them.
“Seventy-one head,” he said quietly, “and all ready.”
“Then let’s get busy,” said the foreman, “and get out of here.”
With pre-arranged and concerted action the seven men divided and
circled the herd which was bedded and quiet. On the further edge
they were joined by another shadowy rider, and with silence and
dispatch they got the cattle up and moving.
They made little noise, drifting down the level floor of the glade
in a close-packed bunch. At its mouth they headed south along the
shore of the river and followed along the stream for a matter of
several miles. Where the western end of Mystery turned, Nameless
curved and went down along the ridge’s foot in a wide and placid
flow. It was here that the drivers forced the cattle to the water
and kept them in it, riding in a string along the edge. This was
particular work and took finesse and dispatch.
The bewildered stock tried at first to come out, but everywhere
along the shore were met with the crack of the long whips, the
resistance of the string of horsemen, so that presently, following
the several dominant steers which traveled in the lead, the whole
herd splashed and floundered along the sandy bottom of the river,
knee deep in water.
This was the trick which had baffled cattleland, and it was both
easy and clever, comparatively.
And so Bossick’s seventy-one head of steers were disappearing and
there was none to see.
That is, at this stage of the proceedings.
There _was_ one to see—one who had spent many weary weeks of night
riding, of patient watching which had seemed likely to be
unrewarded—Sheriff Price Selwood sitting high on the slope above
Kate Cathrew’s trail, as he had so often, doggedly following his
“hunch” and the prospector John Smith’s discovery.
Since that ride up Blue Stone Cañon he had taken turns with Smith in
picketing Cattle Kate’s outfit, but nothing untoward had taken
place.
Now he sat in tedious silence, listening to the night sounds,
unaware that any one was out from Sky Line, since Caldwell and his
companions had dropped diagonally down the slope in their going,
passing far above him.
For an hour he sat, slouching sidewise in his saddle, his hat pulled
over his eyes. The bay horse stood in hip-dropped rest, drowsing
comfortably.
It was well after midnight, judging by the stars in the dark sky,
when Selwood suddenly held the breath he was drawing into his lungs.
He had heard a cattle-brute bawl.
For a moment he was still as death.
Then he straightened up, every nerve taut.
He heard the sounds of cattle, the crack of whips, the unmistakable
commotion of moving bodies. As it all came nearer below him
he caught the swish and splash of water, and knew he was at
last witnessing a raid of rustlers, one of the mysterious
“disappearances” which had puzzled all the Deep Heart country for so
long.
He wished fervently that Smith were with him—that Bossick and Jermyn
and all the rest were there.
His heart was beating hard and to save his life he could not help
the excitement which took hold upon him.
And presently he heard, directly beneath him where Kate Cathrew’s
trail crossed Nameless, the trample and crack of a myriad hoofs
taking to the rocky slope. The riders were turning the steers up
toward Sky Line Ranch!
But what could they do with them there?
Where could they hide them?
He had searched every foot of the home place himself that day for
the two of Old Man Conlan, and had found not so much as a sheltered
gulch, a hidden pocket.
What, then, could Cattle Kate do with such a bunch as was coming up
her trail now?
Sheriff Selwood had food for thought but little time to use it. He
had only time for decision, and for the action which was to follow
swiftly on that decision.
As the cattle came up the slope, pushed by the many horsemen who
completely encircled them, they left a broad trail, their tracks all
going upward—all this passed through his racing mind.
What was to prevent him or any one else from riding straight up to
their destination by broad daylight?
And then on the heels of this question came like a flash of light on
a dark curtain that old _coincidence in time_!
When that ninety head had vanished Kate Cathrew had been driving
down—driving _down_ from Sky Line—three hundred head, head of her
own stock, all open and above board, properly branded clear and
fair!
Three hundred head of steers whose moiling hoofs, going down, would
trample out all trace of ninety going up!
The sheriff’s eyes were gleaming in the dark, his lips were a tight
line of determination.
He was beginning to get hold of the mystery with a vengeance.
He thought of the windy passage that opened into Blue Stone Cañon.
If he could only find its head he would, as Smith had said, have
solved the problem. And unless he missed his guess by a thousand
miles, those steers streaming past him at the moment were headed for
it now!
Here was the chance for which he had waited, for which he had ridden
the hills for months, for which he had endured the contempt and the
insinuations of the cattlemen.
Here was the chance to nail her crimes on Cattle Kate Cathrew, to
make the “killing” of his years of failure in office—and Sheriff
Price Selwood, brave man and honest officer of the law, took his
life in his hand again and fell in beside the herd.
Dark, quiet, shadowy—he was a rider among the riders, to all intents
and purposes one of Kate Cathrew’s men—and he was helping to drive
Bossick’s steers up to the foot of Rainbow Cliff!
From the few low-toned shouts and oaths he was able to identify the
two men nearest him as Sud Provine and Caldwell, the foreman.
He thanked his stars for his own dark horse, his inconspicuous
clothing.
It was hard going up the steep slants of Mystery Ridge, and kept
every one busy to keep the cattle, unaccustomed to night driving and
in strange country, headed in the right direction and all together.
But they did the trick like veterans and after a long, hard drive,
Selwood saw the rimrock of Rainbow Cliff against the stars.
The herd was headed straight for the face of the cliff, and he
expected soon to see the riders swing them east toward the corrals
of Sky Line, but they did not do so. When the foremost steers were
close under the wall Caldwell rode near and called to him, thinking
him one of his men:
“Get around to the right,” he said, “and keep close to Sud, Bill.
I’ll lead in myself. Take it slow. Don’t want ’em to jam in the
neck. When the first ones start behind th’ Flange let ’em dribble in
on their own time. All ready?”
The last two words were a high call addressed to all the men. From
all sides of the herd, come to a full stop now, came replies and
Selwood saw Caldwell ride away around to the right.
Turning his horse the sheriff followed promptly.
He was tense as a wire, alert, dreading discovery every moment, yet
filled with an excitement which sent the blood pounding in his ears.
As he neared the face of the precipice on the right, he saw Provine
sitting on his horse, saw Caldwell circle in to the wall and cutting
in before the massed cattle, go straight along its length. The faint
starlight was just sufficient to show up bulk and movement, not
detail. He heard the foreman begin to call “Coee—coo-ee—coo-ee”—and
the next moment he could not believe his eyes, for horse and rider
melted headfirst into the face of Rainbow Cliff, as a knife slices
into a surface and disappeared! Caldwell’s voice came from the heart
of the wall, far away and muffled, calling “Coo-ee—coo-ee”—Provine
edged in against the steers, shouting, he followed suit, as to
movement, though he did not speak, and the dark blot of the mass
began to flow into the solid rock of the spine that crowned Mystery
Ridge!
Sheriff Selwood had solved the mystery of the disappearing
steers—knew to a certainty who were the rustlers of Nameless
River—and he could not get away with his knowledge quickly enough.
Therefore he reined his horse away to the left, dropped back along
the herd, edged off a bit—a bit more—sidled into a shadow—slipped
behind the pine that made it—and putting the bay to a sharp walk,
went down the mountain.
As the sounds behind him lessened he drew a good breath and struck a
spur to his horse’s flank.
And right then, when there was most need, the good bay who had
served him so long and faithfully, betrayed him.
He threw up his head, flung around toward the strange horses he was
leaving, and neighed—a sharp, shrill sound that carried up the slope
like a bugle.
At the mouth of the Flange Big Basford stopped.
His own mount answered.
Once more came that challenge from below and Sud Provine came back
out of the hidden passage on the jump.
“God damn!” he shouted, “that ain’t a Sky Line horse! Boys—we’re
caught! Come quick!”
Selwood, far down the trail, knew with a surge of rage that the game
was up and that he was in for it. He knew in the same second,
however, that his own horse was fresh, while those others were not.
He clapped down hard with both spurs, got a good grip on his old
gun, and sailed down the steep trail—“hell bent for election,” as he
thought grimly.
He had a fair start and meant to make the most of it.
And he knew his horse.
Knew that this long-legged bay was the best horse in the country,
save and except Sud Provine’s grey gelding with the filed shoe, and
perhaps the rangy black which his new friend Smith rode.
He could have wished that the grey was not behind him.
It was dangerous work taking the slope of Mystery at a run, but
there was danger behind and he chose the lesser evil.
As if to make up for its defection the lean bay stretched and
doubled like a greyhound and Selwood leaned low on its neck as best
he could for the pitch—for he was listening for lead.
He knew he was out of six-gun range, but he knew also that Sud
Provine carried a rifle always on his saddle.
The roar of horses running under difficulty—leaping, stiff-legged,
sliding here and there—came down like an avalanche of sound, but
there were no voices mingled with it. The Sky Line men were riding
in a silence so grim that it sent a chill to Selwood’s heart. They
meant death—and were avid for it.
He knew he was holding his own in the breakneck race, and presently
it seemed he was gaining slightly. He came as near to praying as one
of his ilk could do, that the good bay horse might keep its feet,
for a fall now would be as fatal as capture.
The trees sailed by against the stars, rushing up from the dim
darkness below to disappear into it above, and the wind sang in his
ears like a harp.
It seemed incredible that the tediously climbed slope could be so
quickly descended—for he saw the thickening shadows of the
mountain’s foot racing up toward him, the pale gleam of water beyond
which meant the river. And then he heard what he had been
dreading—the snap of a rifle, the whine of a ball. Sky Line, giving
up capture, was trying for destruction.
It was Provine he felt sure who held the gun.
He dug in his spurs cruelly and the bay responded with a surge of
speed which seemed certain death, but kept its feet miraculously.
Once more came the snap and whine—again—and again—and again—as fast
as the man behind it could pump the rifle.
And then, just as the bay struck the waters of Nameless with a leap
and a roar, it seemed to Selwood that the heavens opened up, that
all the fire in the universe flamed in his brain.
He swung far out to the left, a terrible lever of weight to the
gallant animal floundering beneath him, and made the supreme
physical effort of his life to get back into his saddle. His fingers
dug into the wet mane like talons, he clawed desperately with his
right heel and felt the spur hook.
For what reason he could not have said, he opened his mouth and
screamed—a hoarse, wild sound, like the soul’s farewell to its
flesh. Perhaps he thought it was.
Sud Provine, sitting his shivering horse where he had drawn it to a
sliding stop on the trail above, deliberately shoved his gun into
its saddle-straps.
“I guess that’s th’ last of you, my buckko,” he gritted, “that’s
your last ride, damn you! See how you like th’ water.”
And he turned back up the slope.
At dawn McKane, who slept in the store at Cordova, heard something
untoward. It was a rapping that seemed to come from the floor of the
porch outside—an odd, irregular stroke, as if the hand that made it
was uncertain.
He rose, drew on his pants and hooking his suspenders over his
shoulders as he went, opened the front door.
A bay horse, gaunt and bedraggled, stood at the porch’s
shoulder-high edge, and hanging half out of its saddle, held only by
the right spur still caught in the hair cinch and one arm around the
pommel, was the sheriff.
His ghastly face was red with blood from the long wound which had
split his scalp from just above the left ear across the temple to
the end of the eyebrow.
The trader leaped forward, jumped to the ground and caught him in
his arms.
“My good God, Price!” he cried, “say you ain’t dead! You ain’t bad
hurt—Oh, my God!”
Selwood looked at him with eyes that seemed dull as ashes.
“——solved—mystery——” he said thickly. “——rustlers—raid—caught with
the goods—they are——”
The thick voice failed and Sheriff Price Selwood slumped down
heavily on the shoulder of his erstwhile friend.
It was to be long before he would finish his cryptic sentence.