AN INDIAN COULEE
By four o'clock in the morning the fifteen hundred head of cattle had
crossed the ford of the Big Horn and were bedded down on the other side.
When this hazardous business had been completed, Bud Larkin ordered the
sheep brought up and kept on the eastern bank among the cool grass of the
bottoms.
The captive rustlers, under guard, were being held until daylight, when,
it had been decided, they would be taken to the almost deserted Bar T
ranch, and kept there until further action could be determined on in
regard to them.
When dawn finally came Bud looked at the stolid faces of the men, and
recognized most of them as having belonged to the party that had so nearly
ended his earthly career. He called them by their names, and some of them
grinned a recognition.
"Hardly expected to meet yuh again," said one amiably. "Thought it might
be t'other side of Jordan, but not this side of the Big Horn."
"That's one advantage of raising sheep," retorted Bud. "Mine are so well
trained they stampede in time to save my life. You fellows ought to have
joined me in the business then."
"Wisht we had," remarked another gloomily. "'Tain't so hard on the neck in
the end."
Bud wondered at the hardihood of a man who, facing sure death, could still
joke grimly about it.
Directly after breakfast the rustlers were mounted on their horses, with
their arms tied behind them, and, under a guard of six men, started on
their journey to the Bar T. In charge of the outfit was a gray-haired
sheep-owner from Montana, and to his care Bud entrusted a long letter to
Juliet that he had added to day by day with a pencil as opportunity
offered.
It was such a letter as a lonely girl in love likes to get, and Bud's only
thought in sending it was to prove that she was ever in his mind, and that
he was still safe and well.
Weary and sleepless, Bud then prepared for the ordeal with Stelton. From
Sims, who seemed to know the country thoroughly, he learned that Indian
Coulee was almost thirty miles south-east, and could be distinguished by
the rough weather-sculpture of an Indian head on the butte that formed one
side of the ravine.
Lest there be a misunderstanding, it should be said here that this was the
second day after the battle of Welsh's Butte, as it came to be known. The
first day the punchers had been busy burying the dead and attending to the
numerous things to which such an occasion gives rise. It was on the
morning of this day that Stelton, giving as an excuse his urgent desire to
return to the Bar T, had ridden away, commanding his cowboys to remain and
do their portion of the work.
Late in the afternoon he had met Smithy Caldwell in a secret place, and
given him a note to the leader of the band of rustlers. This Caldwell,
with his usual tricky foresight, did not deliver, giving the message by
word of mouth, and keeping the piece of paper as evidence in case Stelton
should turn against him.
Stelton, anxious to hear how the commencement of the drive fared before
returning to the Bar T ranch, camped in the hills that night, and moved on
to Indian Coulee the next morning to await the messenger.
Just previous to starting on the long ride, Larkin called Sims to him.
"Now, I'll tell you why I want these cows," he said. "We've got to rush
the sheep up the range. As soon as I'm gone start 'em, but surround the
sheep with a line of cows, and keep a good bunch ahead. From a distance
it will look like a cattle-drive, and may serve to throw the punchers off
the track if they're anywhere in sight."
"By Michaeljohn! That's a good idea!" exclaimed Sims; "but I don't allow
either of them will feed much."
"Let 'em starve, then; but keep 'em moving," said Bud. "We win or bust on
this effort. Fact is, we've got to keep those cows anyhow, to return them
to their owners if possible, and you might as well make some good use of
them."
Mike Stelton, meanwhile, who had often used the place as a rendezvous
before, went into the usual shady spot, dropped the reins over his horse's
head, and lay down.
Stelton's heart was at peace, for the sheepmen he considered defeated at
every angle. Jimmie Welsh, half dead and delirious, was on his way to the
Circle Arrow ranch under Billy Speaker's care. Consequently, it was
impossible that Bud Larkin should know anything of the battle at Welsh's
Butte.
Larkin would go on about his plans, dreaming the cowmen still in
captivity, and the pursuing punchers on a false trail, Stelton calculated.
Then he chuckled at the surprise in store for the ambitious sheepmen, for
the remaining cowboys under Beef Bissell had already begun to talk of a
war of extermination and revenge.
When he had disposed of Larkin to his satisfaction, the foreman
recollected with delight that the rustlers must have the fifteen hundred
cows well up the range by this morning. The chance of their being
intercepted by the cowboys was small, and the probabilities were that they
would be at the northern shipping-point and well out of the way before the
punchers had finished with the miserable sheep.
Two things Mike Stelton had not counted on. One was the prompt and daring
action of Larkin in risking his all on one forced march up the range; the
other was the treachery of Smithy Caldwell in not burning the note
according to instructions.
From the first Stelton had "doped" Caldwell out all wrong. He took him for
a really evil character supplied with a fund of sly cunning and clever
brains that would benefit the rustlers immensely, and for that reason had
warmly supported his application for membership. Somehow he did not see
the cowardly streak and dangerous selfishness that were the man's two
distinguishing traits.
Now, as Stelton lay in the shade with his hat over his face, steeped in
roseate dreams, the weariness of a week of long marches and an
afternoon's hard fighting oppressed him. He had been riding nights of
late, and just to lie down was to feel drowsy. He would like to get a nap
before the sun got directly above and left no shade whatever, but he did
not permit himself this luxury, although, like all men with uneasy
consciences, he was a very light sleeper.
He figured that he could hear the trotting of a horse in plenty of time to
prepare for any possible danger, and remained flat on his back in the warm
sun, half-asleep, but yet keenly alert.
Bud Larkin, sighting the coulee and Stelton's horse at a considerable
distance, dismounted and promptly got out of range. Then he continued
stealthily to approach, wondering why Stelton did not put in an appearance
somewhere and start hostilities.
A quarter of a mile from the spot where Stelton's horse stood dejectedly
Larkin left his own animal and proceeded on foot. Nearer and nearer he
approached, and still there was no sign of Stelton.
Bud unslung his glasses, and scanning the rocks near the horse carefully,
at last made out the small outline of a booted foot along the ground. Then
he drew his revolver and crept forward, choosing every step with care.
At a distance of thirty yards his foot unconsciously crunched a bit of
rotten stone. There was a scrambling behind the rock, and a moment later
Stelton's head appeared. Bud had him covered with two revolvers, and on
sight of the dark face ran forward to finish the job.
But the foreman was no mollycoddle, and with one lightning-like motion
unlimbered his .45 and began to shoot. Like most Western gun-handlers, his
revolver commenced to spit as soon as its mouth was out of the holster,
and the bullets spurted up the sand twice in front of Bud before the
muzzle had reached a dangerous angle, so swiftly was it fired.
But the sheepman was not idle, and had both guns working so accurately
that at last Stelton drew in his head, but left his hand around the corner
of the rock, still pulling the trigger. He would never have done this with
any other man, but he still considered Larkin a "dude" and a sheepman, and
knew that neither was much of a shot.
With a ball through his right foot, Bud hopped out of the path of the
stream of lead and discharged each revolver once at the same spot. The
result was a broken hand and a wrecked gun for Stelton, who,
unfortunately, did not know that Larkin, on occasions, had split the edges
of playing cards with dueling pistols.
Before the Bar T foreman could reach his Winchester, Bud was around the
rock, and had him covered. Stelton gave one look at the hard, determined
eyes of the sheepman and thought better of the impulse to bolt for the
rifle on a chance. He slowly hoisted his hands.
"Well, darn it, what do yuh want?" he snarled.
"First I want you to back up against that rock and keep your hands in the
air until I tell you to take 'em down," said Bud, in a tone that meant
business.
Stelton obeyed the command sullenly. Then Larkin, keeping him covered,
picked up the Winchester and found another .45 in an extra holster thrown
over the pommel of the saddle. Next he took down Stelton's rope.
Larkin was satisfied with his investigations. "Turn around and face the
rock, and hold your hands out behind you!" he ordered.
With the wicked glitter of an animal at bay in his eye, Stelton did as he
was told, and in a moment Larkin had him bound and helpless, and on the
end of a tether. Still covering his man, he mounted Stelton's horse and
told him to march ahead.
[Illustration: But the sheepman was not idle, and had both guns working
so accurately that at last Stelton drew in his head.]
In this manner they traveled the quarter-mile to Bud's animal. There they
exchanged beasts, and started on the long ride back to the sheep camp.
"What're yuh doin' this for?" stormed Stelton, at a loss to explain the
sudden appearance of Larkin in Caldwell's place, but beginning to have a
terrible fear.
"Don't you know?"
"No, I don't." His tone was convincing.
"Well, I'll tell you. All the rustlers are taken, and I have absolute
proof that you are their leader," replied Bud coolly. "I allow old Bissell
will be glad to see you when you're brought in, eh?"
Stelton laughed contemptuously.
"What proof?" he demanded.
"A note to Smithy Caldwell that he forgot to burn. He tried to swallow it
when I captured him, but I saw him first."
Stelton stood the blow well and made no answer, but Larkin, watching him,
saw his head drop a trifle as though he were crushed by some heavy weight.
"What're yuh goin' to do with me now?" he asked at last.
"Ship you under guard to the Bar T ranch, where the rest have gone. Then
the cattlemen can settle your case when they come back from their
vacation."
For an instant it was on Stelton's tongue to blurt out what had happened
two days previous, but an instinctive knowledge that Larkin would profit
by the information restrained him, and he continued riding on in silence,
a prey to dismal thoughts better imagined than described.