ON A HOT TRAIL
Roberts picked up from the fort a Mescalero Apache famous as a trailer.
He reckoned to be rather expert in that line himself, but few white men
could boast of such skill as old Guadaloupe had.
Jumbo Wilkins was one of the posse Jack had hastily gathered. "I'm good
an' glad I was in town an' not out herdin' _vacas_, Tex. A fellow kinda
needs a little excitement oncet in a while. I got a hunch we're goin' to
git these birds this time."
"You're the greatest little optimist I ever did see, Jumbo," answered
the Ranger with a smile. "We're goin' to strike a cold trail of men who
know every inch of this country an' are ridin' hell-for-leather to make
a get-away. We're liable to ride our broncs to shadows an' never see
hair or hide of the fellows we want. I'd like to know what license
you've got for yore hunch."
"You're such a lucky guy, Tex. If you was lookin' for a needle in a
haystack you'd find it in yore mouth when you picked up a straw to chew
on."
"Lucky, nothin'. A man makes his own luck, I always did tell you, an' I
haven't bumped into any yet. You don't see any big bunch of fat cows
with my brand on 'em, do you? I'm pluggin' along for a dollar a day with
a promise from Cap Ellison that I'll probably cash in soon with my boots
on. Old Man Luck always hides behind the door when I pass, if there's
any such Santa Claus in the business."
"All the way you look at it. Didn't Clint Wadley offer you the job of
bossin' the best cow-ranch in the Panhandle?"
"An' didn't I have to turn down his offer an' hang on to a dollar-a-day
job?"
"Then you saved Miss 'Mona from that bull an' made a friend of her."
"Yes, an' then I butted in an' kept the Kiowas from mussin' up Art
Ridley, who is liable to ask me to stand up with him when he marries
Miss Ramona," added the Ranger.
"Shucks! She'll never marry Ridley so long as you're runnin' around
unbranded, son."
"A lot you know about girls, Jumbo," said Roberts with a rueful grin. "I
don't know sic' 'em about the things they like. I'm one chaparral-raised
roughneck. That little lady never wasted two thoughts on me. But Art--he
knows a lot about books an' style an' New York's four hundred. He's good
to look at, clean, knows how to talk, an' makes a sure-enough hit with
the girls."
"He's a sissy boy beside you. No Texas girl would look twice--"
"Nothin' a-tall to that. Didn't he save Clint Wadley's life? Didn't he
stay by Dinsmore when the Kiowas had 'em holed? He fought good enough to
get shot up this mo'nin', didn't he? No, sir. You'll find he's got me
backed off the map so far as Miss Ramona goes. I know it, old-timer."
"Where do you get that notion you're a roughneck, Tex?" asked Jumbo.
"You've read more books than any man on the range. You don't hell around
like most of the boys. You don't drink. Mebbe you ain't exactly pretty,
but yore face doesn't scare critters when they see it onexpected. An'
when the band begins to play--Gentlemen, watch Tex."
"If the girls would only let you do the pickin' for 'em, Jumbo,"
suggested Roberts with his sardonic smile.
Through rabbit weed and curly mesquite, among the catclaw and the
prickly pear, they followed the faint ribbon trail left by the outlaws
in their retreat from the scene of the hold-up.
When it was too late to cut sign any longer, the Ranger gave orders to
throw in to a small draw where the grass was good. At daybreak they were
on the trail again and came within the hour to the body of Overstreet.
They dug a grave in a buffalo run with their knives and buried the body
as well as they could before they picked up again the tracks of two
horses now traveling much faster.
"They're headin' for Palo Duro, looks like,'" commented Roberts.
"Looks like," agreed his friend.
Early in the afternoon the posse reached the little creek where the
outlaws had breakfasted. Old Guadaloupe crisscrossed the ground like a
bloodhound as he read what was written there. But before he made any
report Roberts himself knew that a third person had joined the fugitives
and that this recruit was a woman. The Ranger followed the Apache
upstream, guessed by some feathers and some drops of blood that one of
the outlaws had shot a prairie-hen, and read some hint of the story of
the meeting between the woman and the bandit.
Was this woman some one who had been living in Palo Duro Canon with the
outlaws? Or was this meeting an accidental one? The odd thing about it
was that there was no sign of her horse. She had come on foot, in a
country where nobody ever travels that way.
Roberts told Guadaloupe to find out where the party had gone from the
camp. He himself followed into the desert the footsteps of the woman who
had come across it toward the creek. He was puzzled and a little
disturbed in mind. She had not come from the canon. What was a woman
doing alone and on foot in this desert empty of human life for fifty
miles or more?
He found no answer to his questions and reluctantly returned to the
camp-fire. Guadaloupe was ready with his report. One man had started out
on foot along the edge of the canon. The other man and the woman had
struck on horseback across the plain.
"We'll follow those on horseback," decided the Ranger at once. He could
not have told why the urgent impulse was on him to do this, nor why he
did not split his party and send part of his men in pursuit of the foot
traveler. Later he laid it to what Jumbo would have called a hunch.
He was puzzled by the direction the two riders were taking. It led
neither to the A T O nor to Tascosa, and was making no account of the
streams where the travelers would have to find water. They seemed to be
plunging ignorantly into the desert, but since Gurley or Dinsmore was
one of the two this could not be. Either of these men could have
traveled the Panhandle blindfolded.
They followed the tracks for hours. The line of travel was so direct
that it told of purpose. Dinsmore--if the man were Dinsmore--evidently
knew just what he was doing. Then, abruptly, the tracks pointed to the
right, straight for the A T O.
But not for long. At the summit of a little rise the riders had plainly
stopped for a few moments, then had turned and galloped fast for the
southwest. The lengthening tracks, the sharpness of them, the
carelessness with which the riders took the rougher ground to follow a
straight line, all suggested an urgent and imperative reason.
That reason became plain to Roberts in another minute. A great number of
tracks swept in from the left and blotted out those of the two flying
riders.
"Chiricahua Apaches," grunted Guadaloupe. The scout had a feud with that
branch of the tribe and was at war with them.
"How many?" questioned Jack.
The Indian held up the fingers of both hands, closed them, opened them,
and a third time shut and lifted the fingers.
"Thirty?" asked the Ranger.
The Apache nodded.
"Dinsmore 's makin' for Palo Duro," remarked Wilkins as they followed at
a canter the plain trail marked for them. "I'll bet he don't throw down
on himself none on that race either. He's sure hell-bent on gettin'
there."
One of the riders called to the Rangers. "Look over to the left, Tex. We
got company."
A little group of riders--three, four, five of them--emerged from behind
a clump of Spanish bayonet and signaled with a bandana handkerchief. As
they rode closer the heart of the Ranger died under his ribs. His
stomach muscles tightened, and he felt a prickling of the skin run down
his back. For Clint Wadley rode at the head of these men, and like a
flash of lightning the truth had seared across the brain of Jack
Roberts. His daughter was the woman riding to escape from the savages.
The face of Wadley confirmed the guess of the Ranger. On the unshaven
face of the cattleman dust was caked. His eyes were red and inflamed
from the alkali and the tears he had fought back fifty times. The
expression of the man was that of one passing through the torments of
hell.
In five broken sentences he told his story. Quint Sullivan, escaping
from his pursuers after a thirty-mile run, had reached the ranch in the
middle of the night. Clint had gathered together such men as were at
hand and started at once. At Crane Lake he had found no trace of her. He
could not escape the conviction that the Apaches had captured Ramona and
taken her with them.
On this last point the Ranger offered him comfort, though it was sorry
comfort at that. Five hours ago she was still safe, but in terrible
danger.
"Dinsmore's a man--none gamer in Texas, Mr. Wadley. He won't desert
her," said Jumbo. "You couldn't 'a' picked a better man to look out for
her."
"How do you know it's Dinsmore? Perhaps it's that yellow wolf Gurley,"
answered the father out of his tortured heart.
Jack was riding on the other side of Wadley. He, too, carried with him a
private hell of fear in his heart, but he knew that the big cattleman
was nearly insane with anxiety.
"Because the man with Miss Ramona was takin' her back to the ranch when
they bumped into the 'Paches. You know Steve Gurley would never have
taken her home in the world," replied the Ranger.
"What can one man do against thirty? He'll do what Quint here did--run
to save his own hide."
Young Sullivan winced. It was the truth. He had run and left the girl to
the mercy of these devils. But his one chance of helping her had been to
run. He tried to say as much.
"I know that, Quint. I'm not blamin' you," broke out the father in his
agony. "But my little lamb--in the hands of 'Paches--God!" Wadley
covered his eyes with his hand and tried to press back from his brain
the horrible visions he kept seeing.
Jumbo stuck to his one valid point. "Bite yore teeth into this, Clint.
She's got ridin' beside her as game a man as ever threw his leg over
leather. He knows this country like you do yore ranch. He'll hole up in
Palo Duro where the 'Paches won't find 'em, an' if the devils do he'll
sure stand 'em off till we blow in."
His friend on the other side of the cattleman backed him up strongly,
but the heart of the Ranger was heavy with dread.