NOCTURNAL ACTIVITIES
Light gleamed from Quigley's ranch-houses and an occasional squeal came
from the corral, suggesting that "Big Jake" was getting up steam for
more deviltry. Occasionally a shadow passed across the lighted patches
of ground below the windows and the low song of Rustler Creek could
be heard as it swirled into the long, black canyon. Save for the glow
of the windows and the rectangles of light below them everything was
wrapped in darkness, and the canyon, the range, and the rims of the
cliffs were hidden.
"_A miner, 'forty-niner, and his daughter, Clementine_," came from the
middle house as Art Fleming dolefully made known the sorrowful details
of Clementine's passing out. He put his heart into it because he had
troubles of his own, for which he frankly and profanely gave Ben Gates
due discredit.
Ben, tiring of the dirge, heaved a boot with a snap-shooter's judgment
and instantly forsook the heavy inhospitality of the house for the
peace and freedom of the great outdoors. He plumped down on a bench and
immediately arose therefrom.
"Look where yo're settin', you blunderin' jackass!" snarled a hostile
voice from the same bench. "Yo're as big a nuisance as a frisky bummer
in a night herd!"
"A bull's eye for Mr. Harrison," chanted the man inside.
"You two buzzards are about as cheerful an' pleasant as a rattler in
August," snapped Gates belligerently. "Like two old wimmin, you are,
_both_ of you! Settin' around in everybody's way, tellin' yore troubles
over an' over again till everybody wishes Nelson had done a better
job. How'd _I_ know you was sprawled out, takin' up all th' room?
You reminds me of a fool dog that sets around stickin' its tail in
everybody's way, an' then howls blue murder when it's stepped on. Think
yo're th' only people on this ranch that has any troubles?"
"A miss for Mr. Gates," said the irritated voice within the house. "An'
if he will stick his infected head in that door, just for one, two,
three, he'll have more troubles," prophesied Mr. Fleming, facing the
opening with a boot nicely balanced in his upraised hand. "If it wasn't
for him, we--"
"Shut up! _Shut up!_" yelled Gates, enraged in an instant "If you says
that much more I'll bust yore fool neck! For G--d's sake, is that all
you know, Andrew Jackson?"
"If it wasn't for you," said the man on the bench very deliberately
as his hand closed over a piece of firewood, "I said,
if--it--wasn't--for--you, we'd be ridin' with the boys tonight, instead
of stayin' around these houses like three sick babies."
"Another bull's eye for Mr. Harrison," said the man inside.
Gates wheeled with an oath. "An' if it wasn't for _you_ sound asleep
in th' valley; an' Fleming sound asleep up on that butte, I wouldn't
'a' been lammed on th' head an' tied up like a sack! It's purty cussed
tough when a man with nothin' worse than a scalp wound has to lay up
this way!"
"Bull's eye for Mr. Gates," announced the man in the cabin, with great
relish.
"If you'd been wide awake yoreself," retorted Harrison, "you wouldn't
'a' been tied up! You didn't even squawk when he hit you, so we'd know
he was around. Was you tryin' to keep it a secret?" he demanded with
withering sarcasm. "An' as for them bandages, how did _I_ know th' dog
had been sleepin' on 'em? Cookie gave 'em to me!"
"Bull's eye for Mr. Harrison," said Fleming. "But he was awake," he
continued with vast conviction. "He was wide awake. He ain't got no
more sense awake than he has asleep. When he's got his boots on, his
brains are cramped an' suffocated."
"You got him figgered wrong," said Harrison. "His brains are only
suffocated when he sets down."
While the little comedy was being enacted at the bunk-houses, the main
body of rustlers followed Quigley down the steeply sloping bottom of a
concealed crevice miles north of the ranch-house of the CL. The five
men emerged quietly and paused on the edge of the curving Deepwater,
and then slowly followed their leader into the icy stream. The current,
weakened by a widening of the river at this point, still flowed with
sufficient strength to make itself felt and the slowly moving horses
leaned against it as they filed across the secret ford. Reaching the
farther bank the second and third men rode quietly to right and left,
rapidly becoming vague and then lost to sight. The three remaining
riders sat quietly in their saddles for what, to them, seemed to be
a long time. Suddenly a low whistle sounded on the left, followed
instantly by another on the right; and like released springs the
rustlers leaped into action.
Vague, ghostly figures moved over the open plain, finding cows with
uncanny directness and certainty. Two riders held the nucleus of
the little herd, which grew steadily as lumbering cows, followed
inexorably by skilled riders, pushed out of the darkness. There was
no conversation, no whistling now, nor singing, but a silence which,
coupled to the ghost-like action and the dexterous swiftness, made the
drama seem unreal.
There came an abrupt change. The two men riding herd saw no more
looming cattle or riders, which seemed to be a matter of significance
to them, for they faced southward, guns in hand, and pushed slowly back
along the flanks of the little herd. Peering into the shrouding gray
darkness, tense and alert, eyes and ears straining to read the riddle,
they waited like sooty statues for whatever might occur, rigid and
unmoving.
A sudden thickening in the night. A figure seemed to flow from
indefinable density to the outlines of a mounted man. A low voice,
profanely irritant, spoke reassuringly and grew silent as the rider
oozed back into the effacing night.
"Shore," muttered a herder, relaxing and slipping his gun into its
holster. He moved forward swiftly and turned back a venturesome cow.
His companion, growling but relieved, shrugged his shoulders and
settled back to wait.
Minutes passed and then another lumbering blot emerged out of the
dark, became a cow, and found reassurance in numbers as it willingly
joined the herd. The escorting rider kept on, pushed back his sombrero
and growled: "They're scattered to h--l an' gone tonight; but," he
grudgingly admitted, "they acts plumb do-cile. S'long."
Another wait, long and fruitless, edged anew the nerves of the herders.
Then Quigley, Ackerman, and Purdy moved out of the obscurity of the
night and took up positions around the herd, urging it forward. When
they had it started on its way, Ackerman dropped back and became lost
to sight, engaged in his characteristic patrolling, suspicious and
malevolent.
The little herd, skilfully guided over clean patches of rock which led
deviously to the water's edge and left no signs on its hard surface, at
last reached the river, where a shiver of hesitancy rippled through it
and where the rear cows pushed solidly against the front rank, which
appeared to be calling upon its inherent obstinacy. The craft and
diplomacy of Quigley's long experience won out and the uncertain front
rank slowly and grudgingly entered the stream, the others following
without noticeable hesitation. As the last cow crossed and scrambled
up the western bank, Ackerman rode down to the water's edge, pushed in
and crossed silently, only the lengthening ripple on the black surface
telling of his progress. As he climbed out he squirmed in his wet
clothes and swore from sudden anger, which called forth a low ripple
of laughter from the base of the Barrier, where the others took their
discomforts lightly.
"Scared you'll shrink, Jim?" softly said an ironic voice.
"Or dissolve, like sugar?" inquired another scoffingly.
"Sugar?" jeered a third. "Huh! He's about as sweet as a hunk of alum!"
Ackerman's retort caused grins to bloom unseen, and the miseries of wet
clothes and chilled bodies were somewhat relieved by the thought that
Ackerman felt them the most.
Up the crevice in orderly array, docile as sheep, climbed the cattle,
and when they reached the top of the plateau they moved along stolidly
under guidance and finally gained the outer valley leading to the QE
by a trail west of and parallel to the one which showed the way to
Hastings.
* * * * *
Back on the QE, Fleming and his friends, having awakened the cook at an
unseemly hour by their noise, finally turned in and found some trouble
in getting to sleep, thanks to the energetic efforts of the boss of
the kitchen, who most firmly believed in the Mosaic Law, and had the
courage of his convictions. But things finally quieted down and peace
descended upon the ranch.
Outside the bunk-house and behind it, a blot on the ground stirred
restlessly and slowly resolved itself into a man arising. He moved
cautiously along the wall toward the lighted cook shack and then sank
down again, hand on gun, as the door opened.
Cookie threw out a pan of water, scowled up at the starry sky and then
peered intently at a chicken-coop, visible in the straggling light
from the door, from which a sleepy cackle suddenly broke the silence.
Muttering suspiciously he reached behind him and then slipped swiftly
toward the shack, a shotgun in his hands. Going around the coop he
stood up and shook his fist at the darkness.
"You can dig up my traps, an' smell out my strych-nine, but you can't
dodge these buckshot if ever I lays th' sights on you. Dawg-gone you, I
owes you a-plenty!" he growled. Striking a match he looked in the coop
and around it. "Had two dozen as nice pullets as anybody ever saw, only
three weeks ago; an' now I only got sixteen left. _There_, blast you!"
he swore, as the second match revealed the telltale tracks. "There they
are! O, Lord! Just let me get my gun on that thievin' ki-yote! Just
once!"
He stared around belligerently and went slowly back to the house,
swearing and grumbling under his breath. It is the cook's fate to be
the sworn enemy of all coyotes, and let it be said without shame to him
that he seldom is a victor in that game of watchfulness and wits. And
also let it be said that often with tears of rage and mortification,
and words beyond repetition, he pays unintentional tribute to the
uncanny cunning of the four-legged thieves. With guns, dogs, traps,
and poison is he armed, but it availeth him naught. And as bad as the
defeat are the knowing grins of the rest of the outfit who, while
openly cheering on the doughty cook, are ready to wager a month's
wages on the coyote.
The man on the ground moved again, this time toward the canyon, and
soon was feeling his way along the great eastern wall. Reaching the
other end, he stopped a moment to listen, and then went on again,
groping along by the edge of the stream until he stumbled over a dead
branch, which he picked up. Then feeling for and finding a certain
rock, he stepped on it and with his foot felt for and found another,
which was partly submerged in the creek; and by means of this and
others he crossed dry-shod to the opposite bank, using the branch as a
staff.
Daylight was near when Johnny wriggled to the edge of the cliff
opposite the houses and hid behind a fringe of grass on the rim. An
hour passed and then his keen ears caught distant sounds. Below him the
cook was rearranging his traps and swearing at the cleverness of his
four-footed enemy. Suddenly he arose and hastened to the kitchen to
serve a hot breakfast to the men who soon drove a bunch of cattle out
of the canyon and into the small corral.
While the others hastened in for their breakfast, Quigley and Ackerman
loitered at the corral.
"Purty good for five men, with one of 'em playin' sentry," said
Quigley. "We'd do better if we didn't have to scout around first."
"Scoutin's necessary," replied Ackerman. "It's too wide open. This
bunch ain't worth gettin' wet for. That river's cussed cold!"
Quigley chuckled. "Huh! I've swum it when th' ice was comin' down."
"You did," retorted Ackerman. "That was th' night Logan burned our
houses. You had to swim an' freeze, or stay out an' get shot. You went
in _pronto_, that night!"
"You beat me in by forty yards, an' out by sixty!" snapped Quigley.
Ackerman ignored the remark. "Not satisfied with nestin' on a man's
range, you had to start a little herd. We didn't bring no cows with us,
nor buy any afterward--but what's th' use? Let's eat," and he led the
way toward the cook shack.
Johnny waited a few minutes and then, returning to his horse, started
for his camp. He was puzzled, for no place near Big or Little Canyons
was devoid of shelter, and he knew of no other places where cattle
could pass the Barrier. He had noticed that the backs of the cows were
dry, which meant that they had forded the river, and he was certain
that the crossing had not been made at the ford near Devil's Gap. He
had to learn the location of the place they visited and that unknown
ford; and he wanted to learn the date of their next raid.
"We'll have to trail 'em, Pepper," he growled. "An' then bust all
runnin' records to get Logan an' th' boys. Get agoin'; I'm sleepy."