Produced by Audrey Longhurst, Barbara Kosker and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
Rimrock
Trail
[Illustration]
[Illustration: The girl drooped, tired from the long climb]
RIMROCK TRAIL
By J. ALLAN DUNN
Author of
_"A Man to His Mate," etc._
[Illustration]
A. L. BURT COMPANY
Publishers New York
Published by arrangement with The Bobbs-Merrill Company
Printed in U. S. A.
COPYRIGHT 1921
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY
COPYRIGHT 1922
J. ALLAN DUNN
_Printed in the United States of America_
ARTHUR SULLIVANT HOFFMAN
To his loyal friendship, his sincerity and the caustic
but kindly criticism which has made my stuff printable.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I GRIT 1
II CASEY 11
III MOLLY 32
IV SANDY CALLS THE TURN 46
V IN THE BED OF THE CREEK 67
VI PASO CABRAS 81
VII BOLSA GAP 97
VIII THE PASS OF THE GOATS 111
IX CAROCA 119
X SANDY RETURNS 129
XI PAY DIRT 135
XII WHITE GOLD 159
XIII A ROPE BREAKS 187
XIV A FREE-FOR-ALL 202
XV CASEY TOWN 232
XVI EAST AND WEST 266
XVII WESTLAKE BRINGS NEWS 291
XVIII DEHORNED 310
XIX THE HIDEOUT 345
XX MOLLY MINE 377
XXI THE END OF THE ROPE 389
XXII THE VERY END 396
Rimrock Trail
[Illustration]
Rimrock Trail
CHAPTER I
GRIT
"Mormon" Peters carefully shifted his weighty bulk in the chair that he
dared not tilt, gazing dreamily at the saw-toothed mountains shimmering
in the distance, sniffing luxuriously the scent of sage.
"They oughter spell Arizona with three 'C's,'" he said.
"Why?" asked Sandy Bourke, wiping the superfluous oil from the revolver
he was meticulously cleaning.
"'Count of Climate, Cactus, Cattle--an' Coyotes."
"Makin' four, 'stead of three," said the managing partner of the Three
Star Ranch.
Came a grunt from "Soda-Water" Sam as he put down his harmonica on which
he had been playing _The Cowboy's Lament_, with variations.
"Huh! You got no more eddication than a horn-toad, an' less common
sense. You don't spell Arizony with a 'C.' You can't. 'Cordin' to yore
argymint you should spell Africa with a 'Z' 'cause they raise zebras
there, 'stead of mustangs. Might make it two 'R's,' 'count of rim-rock
an'--an' revolvers."
Mormon snorted.
"That's a hell of a name for a man born in Maricopa County to call a
gun. _Revolver!_ You 'mind me of the Boston perfesser who come to
Arizona tryin' to prove the Cliff Dwellers was one of the Lost Tribes of
Israel. He blows in with an introduction to the Double U, where I was
workin'. Colonel Pawlin's wife has a cold snack ready, it bein' middlin'
warm. The perfesser makes a pretty speech, after he'd eaten two men's
share of victuals tryin', I reckon, to put some flesh on to his bones.
An' he calls the lunch a _col-lay-shun_! Later, he asks the waitress
down to the Rodeo Eatin' House, while he's waitin' for his train, for a
serve-yet. A _serve-yet_! That's what he calls a napkin. You must have
been eddicated in Boston, Sam, though it's the first time I ever
suspected you of book learnin'."
It was Sunday afternoon on the Three Star rancheria. The riders, all the
hands--with the exception of Pedro, the Mexican cocinero, indifferent to
most things, including his cooking; and Joe, his half-breed helper,--had
departed, clad in their best shirts, vests, trousers, Stetsons and
bandannas of silk, some seeking a poker game on a neighboring rancho,
some bent on courting. Pedro and Joe lay, faces down, under the shade of
the trees about the tenaya, the stone cistern into which water was
pumped by the windmills that worked in the fitful breezes.
The three partners, saddle-chums for years, ever seeking mutual employ,
known through Texas and Arizona as the "Three Musketeers of the Range,"
sat on the porch of the ranch-house, discussing business and lighter
matters. One year before they had pooled their savings and Sandy Bourke,
youngest of the three and the most aggressive, coolest and swiftest of
action, had gloriously bucked the faro tiger and won enough to buy the
Three Star Ranch and certain rights of free range. The purchase had not
included the brand of the late owner. Originally the holding had been
called the Two-Bar-P. As certain cattlemen were not wanting who had a
knack of appropriating calves and changing the brands of steers, Sandy
had been glad enough, in his capacity of business manager, to change the
name of the ranch and brand. Two-Bar-P was too easily altered to H-B,
U-P, U-B, O-P, or B; a score of combinations hard to prove as forgeries.
There had been lengthy argument concerning the new name. Three Star, so
Soda-Water Sam--whose nickname was satirical--opined, smacked of the
saloon rather than the ranch, but it was finally decided on and the
branding-irons duly made.
Sandy Bourke had dark brown hair, inclined to be curly, a tendency he
offset by frequent clipping of his thatch. The sobriquet of "Sandy"
referred to his grit. He was broad-shouldered, tall and lean, weighing a
hundred and seventy pounds of well-strung frame. His eyes were gray and
the lids sun-puckered; his deeply tanned skin showed the freckles on
face and hands as faint inlays; his long limber legs were slightly
bowed.
Not so the curve of Soda-Water Sam's legs. You could pass a small keg
between the latter's knees without interference. Otherwise, Sam, whose
last name was Manning, was mainly distinguished by his enormous drooping
mustache, suggesting the horns of a Texas steer, inverted.
As for Mormon, disillusioned hero of three matrimonial adventures,
woman-soft where Sandy was woman-shy, he was high-stomached, too stout
for saddle-ease to himself or mount, sun-rouged where his partners were
burned brown. His pate was bald save for a tonsure-fringe of
grizzle-red.
All three were first-rate cattlemen, their enterprise bade fair for
success, hampered only by the lack of capital, occasioned by Sandy's
preference for modern methods as evidenced by thoroughbred bulls,
high-grading of his steers, the steadily growing patches of alfalfa and
the spreading network of irrigation ditches.
Business exhausted, ending with an often expressed desire for a woman
cook who could also perform a few household chores, tagged with a last
attempt to persuade Mormon to marry some comfortable person who would
act in that capacity, they had reverted to the good-humored chaff that
always marked their talks together.
Mormon, with stubby fingers wonderfully deft, was plaiting horsehair
about a stick of hardwood to form the handle of a quirt, Sandy
overhauling his two Colts and Sam furnishing orchestra on his harmonica.
Now he put it to his lips, unable to find a sufficiently crushing retort
to Mormon's diatribe against words of more than one syllable, breathing
out the burden of "My Bonnie lies over the Ocean."
Mormon, in a husky, yet musical bass, supplied the cowboy's version of
the words.
"Last night, as I lay in the per-rair-ree.
And gazed at the stars in the sky,
I wondered if ever a cowboy,
Could drift to that sweet by-an'-by.
"Roll on, roll on,
Roll on, li'l' dogies, roll----"
He broke off suddenly, staring at the fringe of the waving mesquite.
"Look at that ornery coyote!" he said. "Got his nerve with him, the
mangy calf-eater, comin' up to the ranch thataway."
Sam put down his harmonica.
"My Winchester's jest inside the door," he said. "But he'd scoot if I
moved. Slip in a shell, Sandy, mebbe you kin git him in a minute."
"Yo're sheddin' yore skin, Sam. Got horn over yore eyes. Mormon, you
need glasses fo' yore old age. That ain't a coyote, it's a dawg,"
pronounced Sandy.
The creature left the cover of the mesquite and came slowly but
determinedly toward the ranch-house, past the corral and cook shack; its
daring proclaiming it anything but a cowardly, foot-hill coyote. Its
coat was whitish gray. Its brush was down, almost trailing, its muzzle
drooped, it went lamely on all four legs and occasionally limped on
three.
"Collie!" proclaimed Sandy. "Pore devil's plumb tuckered out."
"Sheepdawg!" affirmed Sam, disgust in his voice. "Hell of a gall to come
round a cattle ranch."
The gray-white dog came on, dry tongue lolling, observant of the men,
glancing toward the tenaya where it smelled the slumbering Pedro and
Joe. It halted twenty feet from the porch, one paw up, as Sandy bent
forward and called to it.
"Come on, you dawg. Come in, ol' feller. Mormon, take that hair out of
that pan of water an' set it where he can see it."
Mormon shifted the pan in which he had been soaking the horsehair for
easier plaiting and the dog sniffed at it, watching Sandy closely with
eyes that were dim from thirst and weariness. Sandy patted his knee
encouragingly, and the tired animal seemed suddenly to make up its mind.
Ignoring the water, it came straight to Sandy, uttered a harsh whine,
catching at the leather tassel on the cowman's worn leather chaparejos,
tugging feebly. As Sandy stooped to pat its head, powdered with the
alkali dust that covered its coat, the collie released its hold and
collapsed on one side, panting, utterly exhausted, with glazing eyes
that held appeal.
Sandy reached for the pan, squatting down, and chucked some water from
the palm of his hand into the open jaws, upon the swollen tongue. The
dog licked his hand, whined again, tried to stand up, failed, succeeded
with the aid of friendly fingers in its ruff and eagerly lapped a few
mouthfuls.
Again it seized the tassel and pulled, looking up into Sandy's face
imploringly.
"Somethin' wrong," said the manager of the Three Star. "Tryin' to tell
us about it. All right, ol' feller, you drink some more wateh. Let me
look at that paw." He gently took the foot that clawed at his chaps and
examined it. The pad was worn to the quick, bleeding. "Come out of the
Bad Lands," he said, looking toward the range. "Through Pyramid Pass,
likely."
"Some derned sheepman gone crazy an' shot his-self," grumbled Sam.
"Somethin' bound to spile a quiet afternoon."
"Not many sheep over that way," said Mormon. "No range."
Sandy rolled the dog on his side and found the other pads in the same
condition. Running his fingers beneath the ruff, scratching gently in
sign of friendship, he discovered a leather collar with a brass tag,
rudely engraved, the lettering worn but legible.
GRIT. Prop. P. Casey.
"They sure named you right, son," he said. "We'll 'tend to P. Casey,
soon's we've 'tended to you. You need fixin' if you're goin' to take us
to him. You'll have to hoof it till we cut fair trail. Sam, fetch me
some adhesive, will you? An' then saddle up; Pronto fo' me, a hawss fo'
yoreself an' rope a spare mount."
"What for? The spare?"
"Don't know for sure. May have to bring him back."
"A sheepman to Three Star! I'd as soon have a sick rattler around.
Mormon, yo're elected to nurse him."
Sam went into the house for the medical tape, then to the corral. Sandy
bathed the raw pads softly, cut patches of the tape with his knife, put
them on the abrasions, held them there for the warmth of his palm to set
them. Grit licked at his hands whenever they were in reach, his
brightening eyes full of understanding, shifting to watch Sam striding
to the corral.
"One thing about a sheepman is allus good," said Mormon. "His dawg.
Reckon you aim on me tendin' the ranch, Sandy?"
"Come if you want to."
"Two's plenty, I reckon. I do more ridin' through the week than I care
for nowadays. I'll stick to the chair."
"Prod up Pedro to git some hot water ready. Keep a kittle b'ilin'. No
tellin' what time we'll git back," said Sandy. "I'll take along some
grub an' the medicine kit. Have to spare some of that whisky Sam's got
stowed away."
"Goin' to waste booze at fifteen bucks a quart on a sheepman?" grumbled
Mormon.
"Not if you an' Sam don't want I should," replied Sandy, with a smile.
He knew his partners. "Now then, Grit," he went on to the dog in a
confidential tone, "you-all have got to git grub an' wateh inside yore
ribs. Savvy? I'm goin' to rustle some hash fo' you. You stay as you are,
son."
He pressed the dog on its side once more, in the shade, and went into
the house. Mormon followed him. Grit watched them disappear, gave a
little whine of impatience, accepted the situation philosophically as he
listened to sounds from the corral that told him of horses being caught,
and drooped his head on the dirt, lying relaxed, eyes closed, gaining
strength against the return trip.
Sam rode to the porch on his roan, Sandy's pinto and a gray mare
leading, and "tied them to the ground" with trailing reins as Sandy came
out bearing a pan of food, a package and a leather case. Mormon showed
at the door.
"Where'd you hide yore bottle, Sam?" he asked.
"Where you can't find it, you holler-legged galoot. Why?"
"Fill up a flask to take along, Sam," said Sandy. "Here, Grit, climb
outside of this chuck."
He coaxed the collie to eat the food from his hand while Sam brought the
whisky.
"Load my guns, Mormon," he requested.
Mormon did it without comment. The two blued Colts were as much a part
of Sandy's working outfit as his belt, or the bridle of his horse. Sam
buckled on his own cartridge belt, holster and pistol, fixed his spurs,
tied the package of food to his saddle, filled two canteens and did the
same with them. Sandy-offered the pan of water to Grit who drank in
businesslike fashion, assured of the success of his mission. He stood up
squarely on his legs, eased by the plastering. They were only tired now.
He shook himself vigorously, sending out the dust with which he was
powdered in all directions, making Mormon sneeze. He stretched his
muzzle toward the mountains, threw it up and barked for the first time.
As Sandy and Sam mounted, the latter leading the gray mare, Grit ran
ahead of them and came back to make certain they were following. Then he
headed for the spot in the mesquite whence he had emerged, marking the
opening of a narrow trail. The horses broke into a lope, the two men,
the three mounts, and the dog, off on their errand of mercy.
Mormon watched them well into the mesquite before he put back the hair
in the water the dog had left and went on with his plaiting: As he
handled the pliant horsehairs he talked aloud, range fashion.
"On'y sheepman I ever knowed worth trubblin' about was a woman. Used ter
knit while she watched the woollies. Knit me a sweater--plumb useless
waste of time an' yarn. If I'd taken it I'd have had to take her along
with it. Wimmen is sure persistent. Seems like I must look like a dogie
to most of 'em. They're allus wantin' to marry me an' mother me. I sure
hope this one don't turn out to be a she-herder. 'P' might stand fer
Polly."