That the rustlers were working under a well organized system was
evident. That they were directed by a master of the game was ceaselessly
beaten into the consciousness of the Association by the diversity, dash
and success of their raids. No one, save the three men whom they had
destroyed, had ever seen them. But, like Tamale Jose, they had raided
once too often.
Mr. Trendley, more familiarly known to men as “Slippery,” was the
possessor of a biased conscience, if any at all. Tall, gaunt and
weather-beaten and with coal-black eyes set deep beneath hairless
eyebrows, he was sinister and forbidding. Into his forty-five years of
existence he had crowded a century of experience, and unsavory rumors
about him existed in all parts of the great West. From Canada to Mexico
and from Sacramento to Westport his name stood for brigandage. His
operations had been conducted with such consummate cleverness that in
all the accusations there was lacking proof.
Only once had he erred, and then in the spirit of pure deviltry and in
the days of youthful folly, and his mistake was a written note. He
was even thought by some to have been concerned in the Mountain Meadow
Massacre; others thought him to have been the leader of the band of
outlaws that had plundered along the Santa Fe Trail in the late '60's.
In Montana and Wyoming he was held responsible for the outrages of the
band that had descended from the Hole-in-the-Wall territory and for over
a hundred miles carried murder and theft that shamed as being weak the
most assiduous efforts of zealous Cheyennes. It was in this last raid
that he had made the mistake and it was in this raid that Frenchy
McAllister had lost his wife.
When Frenchy had first been approached by Buck as to his going in search
of the rustlers he had asked to go alone. This had been denied by the
foreman of the Bar-20 because the men whom he had selected to accompany
the scout were of such caliber that their presence could not possibly
form a hindrance. Besides being his most trusted friends they were
regarded by him as being the two best exponents of “gun-play” that the
West afforded. Each was a specialist: Hopalong, expert beyond belief
with his Colt's six-shooters, was only approached by Red, whose
Winchester was renowned for its accuracy. The three made a perfect
combination, as the rashness of the two younger men would be under the
controlling influence of a man who could retain his coolness of mind
under all circumstances.
When Buck and Frenchy looked into each other's eyes there sprang into
the mind of each the same name--Slippery Trendley. Both had spent the
greater part of a year in fruitless search for that person, the foreman
of the Tin-Cup in vengeance for the murder of his wife, the blasting of
his prospects and the loss of his herds; Buck, out of sympathy for his
friend and also because they had been partners in the Double Y. Now that
the years had passed and the long-sought-for opportunity was believed
to be at hand, there was promised either a cessation of the outrages or
that Buck would never again see his friends.
When the three mounted and came to him for final instructions Buck
forced himself to be almost repellent in order to be capable of coherent
speech. Hopalong glanced sharply at him and then understood, Red was all
attention and eagerness and remarked nothing but the words.
“Have yu ever heard of Slippery Trendley?” Harshly inquired the foreman.
They nodded, and on the faces of the younger men a glint of hatred
showed itself, but Frenchy wore his poker countenance.
Buck continued: “Th' reason I asked yu was because I don't want yu to
think yore goin' on no picnic. I ain't shore it's him, but I've had
some hopeful information. Besides, he is th' only man I knows of who's
capable of th' plays that have been made. It's hardly necessary for me
to tell yu to sleep with one eye open and never to get away from yore
guns. Now I'm goin' to tell yu th' hardest part: yu are goin' to search
th' Staked Plain from one end to th' other, an' that's what no white
man's ever done to my knowledge.
“Now, listen to this an' don't forget it. Twenty miles north from Last
Stand Rock is a spring; ten miles south of that bend in Hell Arroyo is
another. If yu gets lost within two days from th' time yu enters th'
Plain, put yore left hand on a cactus sometime between sun-up an'
noon, move around until yu are over its shadow an' then ride straight
ahead--that's south. If you goes loco beyond Last Stand Rock, follow th'
shadows made before noon--that's th' quickest way to th' Pecos. Yu all
knows what to do in a sand-storm, so I won't bore you with that. Repeat
all I've told yu,” he ordered and they complied.
“I'm tellin' yu this,” continued the foreman, indicating the two
auxiliaries, “because yu might get separated from Frenchy. Now I
suggests that yu look around near the' Devils Rocks: I've heard that
there are several water holes among them, an' besides, they might be
turned into fair corrals. Mind yu, I know what I've said sounds damned
idiotic for anybody that has had as much experience with th' Staked
Plain as I have, but I've had every other place searched for miles
around. Th' men of all th' ranches have been scoutin' an' th' Plain is
th' only place left. Them rustlers has got to be found if we have to dig
to hell for them. They've taken th' pot so many times that they reckons
they owns it, an' we've got to at least make a bluff at drawin' cards.
Mebby they're at th' bottom of th' Pecos,” here he smiled faintly, “but
wherever they are, we've got to find them. I want to holler 'Keno.”
“If you finds where they hangs out come away instanter,” here his face
hardened and his eyes narrowed, “for it'll take more than yu three
to deal with them th' way I'm a-hankerin' for. Come right back to th'
Double Arrow, send me word by one of their punchers an' get all the rest
you can afore I gets there. It'll take me a day to get th' men together
an' to reach yu. I'm goin' to use smoke signals to call th' other
ranches, so there won't be no time lost. Carry all th' water yu can pack
when yu leaves th' Double Arrow an' don't depend none on cactus juice.
Yu better take a pack horse to carry it, an' yore grub--yu can shoot it
if yu have to hit th' trail real hard.”
The three riders felt of their accouterments, said “So long,” and
cantered off for the pack horse and extra ammunition. Then they rode
toward the Double Arrow, stopping at Cowan's long enough to spend some
money, and reached the Double Arrow at nightfall. Early the next morning
they passed the last line-house and, with the profane well-wishes of
its occupants ringing in their ears, passed onto one of Nature's worst
blunders--the Staked Plain.