THE TRAIL HORDE
From the front windows of the Wolf Saloon, Slade, the violent-mannered
rider whom Blondy Antrim had left in charge of his men the night he had
ridden away from the desert camp fire to hold a conference with Lawler
near the trail herd, had watched Sheriff Moreton lope his horse into the
soft southern twilight.
Slade was a young man, tall, swarthy, reckless-eyed. He was keen,
cynical, and jealous of the power and authority of Antrim. He grinned at
Warden, who was standing near, also watching Moreton.
The grin was crooked, expressing reluctance.
"Well the Law is hittin' the breeze, an' I reckon, accordin' to orders,
we'll be hittin' it, too."
He left Warden and walked to the bar, where he spoke lowly to several
men. Then he walked into a rear room, where several other men were
playing cards, and repeated his words. The men ceased playing and
followed him to the front door.
Half an hour later, when Sheriff Moreton had vanished into the growing
dusk, Slade and the men to whom he had spoken, went outside, clambered
upon their horses and rode slowly in the direction taken by the sheriff.
There were a score of them--rough-looking characters with eyes as
reckless as those of the man who led them; and they were silent as they
rode, as though on some stealthy mission.
They did not follow Moreton far; they veered eastward slightly after
they had traveled several miles, and finally came to a trail that
paralleled a small river, which they rode for a time.
Darkness came while they rode, and the twinkling points of stars grew
brighter in the cold blue of the sky--millions of them appeared,
distant, winking, shedding a luminous haze over the land.
After a time the riders reached a level near the river, and some low
buildings loomed out of the haze. A light glowed through a window in one
of the buildings--the largest--and toward this the men rode, dropping
from their horses at the door and filing silently inside.
In a big room, from which came the light the riders had seen, were many
other men.
Antrim, his bronzed face almost the hue of copper in the glare from the
lamp that stood on a table, was sitting in a chair near the door. Some
of the men inside were on their feet, expectant, suspicious. They
grinned when they recognized the newcomers, calling variously to them in
greeting.
Antrim got to his feet when he saw Slade at the door, looking at him
expectantly. When Slade grinned, telling Antrim that Moreton had ridden
south, Antrim's eyes glittered with satisfaction.
"Selden!" he ordered, sharply; "you slope for the Circle L trail an'
watch it! When you see Moreton an' Lawler headin' toward town, you fan
it here in a hurry!"
A tall man with two guns sagging at his hips leaped to the door and
plunged out. In the silence that followed his departure, they could hear
the thudding of hoofs that marked his going.
Antrim grinned coldly around at the other men.
"We'll clean up on Lawler tonight, boys," he said. "We've got to work
fast!"
He stood, boldly outlined in the light, a sinister figure. His cruel
lips were set tightly, his eyes were agleam. He was a symbol of passion,
rampant and unrecking--a wild, violent spirit to whom laws were irksome
shackles.
He grinned at Slade, mockingly, naked malevolence in his gaze. His voice
was harsh, vibrant.
"Slade, tonight you're goin' to get what you've been waitin' for--the
leadership! Ha, ha!" he laughed as he saw Slade's face work with the
bitter rage that instantly seized him. "You thought I didn't know you
wanted my place--eh? Bah! I've known it for a year. You're ambitious,
eh? Well, listen!
"Tonight you're leadin' this little party. You're to run off them cattle
of Lawler's--three thousand head--which he euchered me out of last fall.
You're takin' three thousand head, Slade--not a one less. If you take
less you're through with me. You'll run 'em down through Kinney's cañon,
clear through to the big basin beyond. At the other end you'll head 'em
south, to Mexico--where we've been runnin' 'em for three years past.
You'll take a receipt for them from a guy named Miguel Lomo, who will
be waitin' for you at Panya--where you knifed that Oiler last summer.
Warden arranged that.
"You'll post a dozen men in Kinney's cañon, to drop anyone that follows.
There's goin' to be no excuses, or you settle with me--afterward.
Understand?"
Slade's eyes glared with savage triumph and defiance. He grinned
felinely at the other, and when he spoke there was cold, taunting
contempt in his voice.
"I'm doin' it, Antrim! I'm tickled to get the chance. But where are you
goin' to be tonight?"
Antrim flushed darkly. He laughed. "I'm figurin' to do a man's
work--tonight or tomorrow, Slade. Somethin' that you ain't got nerve
enough to do--I'm goin' to face Kane Lawler when he's riled, with a gun
in his hand! I'm goin' to down him right here in this room!"
Slade started, his face paled. He laughed mirthlessly.
"Well," he said, watching Antrim keenly; "if he's as fast as he used to
be--before gettin' to be a big guy in this neck of the woods tamed
him--you'll have to be lightnin'--an' then some!"
He wheeled, and went out of the door, where he stood, looking toward the
plains on the other side of the river, grinning derisively.
* * * * *
Two hours later Selden clattered to the door of the cabin and
dismounted, conveying the news that Moreton and Lawler were riding
north, toward Willets. And within a few minutes after the appearance of
Selden, Slade and forty-eight of Antrim's men rode swiftly, scurrying
into the star haze, straight into the south wind that swept out of the
Wolf River valley.
The men rode close together for more than an hour, until they reached
the crest of the big valley, where they halted, closely massed, and
scanned the semi-gloom in front of them.
The big valley was silent, somber. There was no movement in it. Looking
down from the crest the Antrim men could see the dim outlines of the
Circle L buildings; and they had no trouble in distinguishing the
ranchhouse, out of which through a window, a feeble glimmer of light
came. The other buildings were dark.
One of the men laughed raucously, as he pointed out the light. "That's
mebbe Lawler's old woman, settin' up, wonderin' what her boy's been
grabbed by the law for," he sneered. "Well, she'll be wonderin'
more--after Blondy gits through with him."
Slade chuckled, but said nothing. He was hoping that by this time on the
morrow Antrim would have discovered that Kane Lawler could "sling" a gun
with the speed and accuracy he had used in the old days.
Far down in the valley, Slade pointed out the cattle. They were
scattered a little, as though perfunctorily guarded, but still massed
enough to make the task of rounding them up comparatively simple to the
big group of men in Slade's company.
"There ain't more'n half a dozen men ridin' night herd down there," said
Slade as he pointed out the forms of several horsemen in the vicinity of
the herd; "an' likely enough they ain't watchin' a hell of a lot." He
issued some orders, and the group on the crest of the valley split up.
Some of them rode west along the edge of the valley, where there was a
fringe of juniper and post oak to conceal them; others slid down into
the valley directly toward the herd, keeping in the tangled growth that
featured the sloping sides of the great hollow. They were adept at this
work, and they moved like shadows until they reached the wide floor of
the valley.
Then, spreading out, fanwise, a number of them swinging far around the
herd so that they approached it from the west, they closed in.
There was no longer any attempt at concealment. A shot from Slade's
pistol was the signal for a violent dash that instantly set the big herd
in motion. As the attack came from the west the cattle moved eastward,
bleating and bellowing with surprise. They moved slowly at first, as
though confused by the suddenness of the rush--milling in bewilderment;
detached numbers dashing here and there in wild affright.
Concerted movement came when the strange horsemen began to flank them.
Eastward there was open ground, with no dashing, shooting men to bar
their progress, and eastward they went, a dark mass that moved with
exceeding swiftness straight up the valley.
The few cowboys who had been riding night herd made a feeble, astonished
resistance. There were several shots, frenzied cries of rage and pain;
and then nothing but the thunderous rumble of hoofs; the shouts of the
driving rustlers; scattered shots and the clashing of horns. A vast
dust cloud ballooned above the herd; and five riderless Circle L horses
trotted aimlessly about, snorting with fright.
The big herd had gone with the suddenness of a cyclone. It went,
rumbling up the valley, the dust cloud hovering over it, blotting out
its movements. It roared past the Circle L bunkhouses, leaving behind it
a number of Circle L cowboys who had been awakened by the thunderous
noise. The Circle L men had plunged outside in various stages of
undress--all bootless, unprepared, amazed, and profane.
"Stampede!" yelled a hoarse voice.
"Stampede--hell!" shouted another. "It's rustlers! That damn Antrim
bunch!"
This was Shorty. The lithe giant had rushed out of the bunkhouse as the
herd thundered past. He was now running back toward the bunkhouse,
trying to tighten the waistband of his trousers with a belt whose
buckleless end persisted in eluding his grasp.
His words had spurred the other men to frenzied action. There was
confusion in the bunkhouse where men collided with their fellows as they
plunged about for discarded garments, gun-belts, and boots. But soon
they began to straggle out of the door in twos and threes and singly,
racing for the corral and for the lean-to where they kept their saddles.
Foremost among them was Shorty. His tall figure appeared first at the
corral gates, and his long legs were the first astride a horse. While
the others were running hither and yon near the bunkhouse and the
corral, Shorty raced his horse to the ranchhouse, slid off and crossed
the wide porch in two or three leaps.
He was confronted at the door by Mrs. Lawler, ashen, trembling.
"Rustlers!" he said, shortly, answering her look of interrogation.
"Where's the boss?"
The woman's voice broke. "Sheriff Moreton came after him some hours
ago--and took him to Willets--charging him with murdering those two men
at the line cabin, last winter. He isn't guilty, of course," declared
the mother; "but of course he had to go with Moreton."
Shortly swore silently. "All right, ma'am," he said, aloud; "I reckon
we'll have to handle it without him! Some of the boys of the night herd
are hurt, most likely--mebbe worse. If you'd sort of look after
them--mebbe--" He broke off short when he saw riders rushing from the
corral toward the house. "I'll stop at Joe Hamlin's place an' send Ruth
over, to help you. We can't spare any men--there's a horde of them
devils!"
He was leaping for his horse with the last words, and in an instant he
had joined the other riders who had paused, tentatively, near the edge
of the porch, having seen him. They fled, a dark mass against the dull
shadows of the valley, sweeping up the big slope toward the plains.
Blackburn, the range boss, was leading, with Shorty riding close beside
him. In the dim distance they could see the herd, spreading wide over
the level, running fast in the dust cloud that still followed them.
The Circle L men had not ridden more than a mile after striking the
level when Blackburn saw some blots detach themselves from the larger
blot--a number of them, like stray wisps of clouds straggling behind a
storm.
"They're droppin' back to pot-shot us," Blackburn said to Shorty. He
yelled at the men behind, warning them, and the group split up,
spreading out, though not reducing the breakneck speed at which they had
been riding.
They had not gone far after Blackburn shouted his warning when a puff of
white smoke dotted the luminous haze ahead, and a bullet whined close to
Blackburn.
"Rifle!" said Blackburn, grimly.
There were still three Circle L men at the line camps on the range; five
had been left behind in the valley when the attack had been made; and
only twenty others, including Blackburn, were left to cope with the
rustlers.
Blackburn cast a worried glance at them. He had plunged out of the
bunkhouse with the other men in time to catch a glimpse of the outlaws
as they went by with the herd, and he had roughly estimated their number
at fifty. The odds were great, and the advantage lay with the pursued,
for they could select ambuscades and take terrible toll from the Circle
L men.
Yet Blackburn was determined. He yelled to the others to take advantage
of whatever cover they could find; and he saw them slide from their
horses, one after another, and throw themselves into a shallow
depression that ran erratically north and south for some distance over
the plains. Before they reached the depression, however, there had come
more white puffs of smoke from the space ahead of them, and Blackburn
saw two Circle L men slide from their horses with a finality that
brought a savage glare into his eyes.
"Shorty," he said, hoarsely, to the big man at his side--who had
wriggled behind a rock at the crest of the depression and was coldly and
deliberately using the rifle he had taken from the holster on his
saddle; "we've got to have help--them scum outnumber us. You've got the
fastest horse an' you're the best rider in the bunch. An' you've got the
most sense. Barthman's ranch is the nearest, an' he's got fifteen men.
You hit the breeze over there an' tell him what's happened. Tell him
we're whipped if he don't help us. An' tell him to send a rider to
Corts, an' Littlefield, an' Sigmund, an' Lester, an' Caldwell. Tell 'em
to take that trail leadin' to Kinney's cañon--this side. That's where
they're headin' the cattle to. They'll come a-rushin', for they like the
boss.
"There's forty men in that gang that's hidin' ahead of us, tryin' to
wipe us out. But if they was a hundred we could keep 'em from makin' any
time, an' if you'll burn the breeze some, you can have Barthman an' the
others at the trail near Kinney's cañon before these guys get there!"
"Hell's fire, Blackburn," protested Shorty; "ain't there somebody else
can ride a damned horse? I'm aimin' to salivate some of them skunks!"
"Orders is orders, Shorty," growled Blackburn, coldly. "You're goin',
an' you're goin' right this minute--or I'm goin' to bust you in the
eye!"
"Well, if you put it that way," grimly grinned Shorty.
He crawled out of the depression, threw himself upon his horse and raced
southeastward, yelling, and waving his hat defiantly at the outlaws, who
were shooting at him. But the speed of Shorty's horse was too great for
accurate shooting; and Shorty kept going--waving his hat for a time, and
then, when out of range, riding hard--seeming to glide like a shadow
into the yawning gulf of distance.
The depression into which Blackburn and his men had crept was not more
than three or four feet deep, with long, sloping sides which were
covered with alkali and rotted rock. Along the edges grew greasewood and
mesquite bushes, which afforded concealment but not protection. The
shallow was wide enough for the horses, though the men were forced to
throw the animals and stake their heads down, so that they would not
show themselves above the edge of the depression and thus become targets
for the outlaws.
The firing during the night was intermittent. Once the outlaws made an
attempt to withdraw, rushing concertedly toward their horses, which they
had concealed in a sand draw slightly behind them, southward. But
Blackburn and his men were alert.
The outlaws had chosen a gully for their ambuscade, but they had made
the mistake of leaving their horses too far away from their place of
concealment. And when they rushed across the stretch of level that
extended from the gully to the draw, half a dozen of them dropped before
they had traveled a quarter of the distance. The others plunged back
into the gully, while the Circle L men yelled exultantly.
As Blackburn had told Shorty, he did not expect to rout or capture the
outlaws; the best he could hope for was that Shorty would get help in
time to head off the cattle before the other outlaws drove them into
Kinney's cañon or that he would bring help to the Circle L men in time
to prevent the sanguinary fight which would certainly occur as soon as
the day dawned.
And so Blackburn waited, grimly watchful; though worry began to wrinkle
his face as he noted that the semi-gloom of the starlit night was
lifting, and that a gray streak on the eastern horizon was slowly
broadening.