ONE GRAY THIEF LESS
“There he goes; and it is a wolf, sure pop, Frank!” shouted Bob.
“And if you look close,” remarked his chum, “you’ll see that he wobbles
just a little with that left hind leg of his. Reckon he got a thorn in
his paw, or cut it on a sharp rock. After him, Bob!”
They gave the horses free rein. Both animals were comparatively fresh,
and eager for a mad gallop over the open country that cool day in the
Fall.
The steer did not seem to have sighted the fleeing wolf, or else must
have decided that, with the two mounted boys in swift pursuit, there was
little need of his exerting himself to overtake the hated enemy. At any
rate he remained in the vicinity of the timber, as though bent on
keeping the animal from again seeking refuge there.
“He’s heading for that swale near the rocky point; and if he reaches it
we’ll have a hard time getting him!” exclaimed Bob, after a few minutes
of racing.
“Don’t worry, he isn’t going to get there,” said Frank; “because we’re
overhauling him right now. Look at him run! Lame or not, he can lope
along as well as any wolf I ever chased. He knows he’s running for his
life, the sly varmint. And he has hopes of giving us the slip.”
“I can see him look back every little while, Frank,” Bob remarked, as he
bent low in the saddle, and felt his pulses thrill with the excitement
of the chase. “What do you suppose he does that for?”
“Looking for the flash of the smoke of a gun, perhaps,” came the reply.
“Some of these old prowlers are as wise as they make ’em. The boys
declare they can dodge a bullet, if they happen to be looking back when
you fire. Remember that, Bob, and be ready to shoot at the drop of the
hat after I’ve let loose. Perhaps we can catch him napping that way.”
Bob was aware that he had much to learn about shooting while on the full
gallop. Still, he would like to make a try. If he failed, then rather
than see the wolf escape, he meant to be the one to take first shot, and
let Frank try to nip the gray robber of the herds before he could
recover.
Already had they decreased by one-half and more the lead with which the
fleeing animal had started. Things were getting serious with the wolf
now. His observations became more frequent. Evidently he expected that
at any moment firing might begin; and he wanted to be ready to dodge.
“How about it now, Frank?” asked the Kentucky boy, as he held his rifle
in readiness for instant use.
“We might give him a try,” came the reply; and as he spoke Frank threw
his gun up to his shoulder, allowing the bridle to fall upon the neck of
Buckskin.
The sharp report of the weapon sounded; but apparently there was no
result. Quickly, after the first shot, came a second. Bob had pulled
trigger, too; but the fleeing wolf did not show the least sign of having
been struck.
“I missed him clean, Frank!” cried Bob, in dismay. “Hardly thought I’d
be smart enough to hit such a flying target while going at this pace.
But Frank, you were right; I plainly saw him dodge when you shot!”
“Well, let’s give him another round then, and see if you can do better,
Bob.”
“I’m ready; let him have it,” yelled Bob, eagerly, his sporting instinct
now fully aroused.
Again did Frank fire; and, seeing that the gray animal was still
bounding along uninjured, Bob in turn discharged his gun.
“Poor shooting; that’s what!” he exclaimed; “I mean mine, of course,
Frank; and now, you’ve just got to take your turn.”
“If you say so, all right!” answered the other.
“Something ought to be done, because we’re getting closer to that swale
all the time; and I say it’d be a shame if the old wolf got clean away
through trickery. Ready, Frank?”
“Let her go!”
Bob took a quick aim at the animal, and fired. Of course he had not the
remotest idea of hitting the wolf; but by causing him to dodge it would
open the way for his more experienced chum to get in a shot when the
beast was off his guard.
The report of Frank’s gun came so close upon that of his own that Bob
could hardly believe there had been two shots. Yet he had seen that the
wolf kept on after his discharge. It was different when Frank shot his
bolt.
“Wow! you got him that time, Frank!” shouted Bob, with great glee. “He’s
dropped in his tracks, as sure as anything. Tried that trick just once
too often, didn’t he? Look at him kicking his last! He’s paying now for
the veal he carried off all these years, the villain!”
Frank laughed, for he felt particularly well pleased because the wolf
had been kept from reaching the rocks where he might have eluded them.
They drew rein, and looked down at the now motionless form of the gaunt
animal. Even in death the big wolf had a sinister appearance, for the
lips were drawn back, exposing his cruel fangs.
“Ugh! I’d hate to meet a critter like that alone, and without more’n a
knife to defend myself with, Frank!” Bob exclaimed, as he sat in the
saddle, pushing several cartridges into the magazine of his rifle, and
looking down at the hated quarry that had rewarded Frank’s last shot.
“Oh! he’s an old one, all right,” remarked Frank. “I can see the scars
of many a fight on his hide, and about his muzzle. But wait till I fling
him across the horse. Watch Buckskin prance! No horse likes to come in
touch with a wild animal like a panther, wolf or bear, dead or alive.
The scent of blood makes ’em wild, too. Whoa! Buckskin! don’t be so
funny now. You’ve just got to carry this chap back to the ranch, because
I want dad to see him.”
“Then we head toward home, now?” remarked Bob.
“Yes, but by way of that timber. I want to take a look at Old Baldy.
When the boys hear of his return, there’ll be some tall talking. He used
to give heaps of trouble in the past; yet they all liked the old chap.
And when he disappeared, in company with a dozen head of stock, there
was more range riding to find him than I ever heard of.”
“Old Baldy is waiting for us,” remarked Bob. “Seems like he just knew
what we went for, and he wants to see what luck we had.”
“He’s a smart one, all right,” laughed Frank. “And if those rustlers
have had him penned up all this while, he’s managed to break out at
last, and come home.”
“Say, wouldn’t it be a great stunt now, if some of the boys could follow
his trail back to Where he was kept in a corral. That would tell us,
Frank, just how Pedro Mendoza manages to disappear, whenever he runs a
bunch of cattle off.”
“Well, perhaps it might be done yet, impossible as it seems,” observed
Frank.
“What makes you say so?” demanded the other.
“You see, Old Baldy has a marked hoof,” Frank went on.
“Different from those of other steers, you mean?” asked his chum.
“Yes. It’s got a queer twist that makes it look much longer than his
other hoofs. The boys all know it, too. Spanish Joe used to say the
animal must have got caught in a cleft of the rocks when small, and his
hoof grew that way.”
“But, Frank, could any cowboy track Old Baldy all the way across plain
and desert to the mountains, if he came from there, perhaps all of forty
miles?”
“Under ordinary conditions I’d say no,” Frank answered promptly; “but
you remember that we had a rain two days ago, which is quite remarkable
for this country. That laid the alkali dust; and eyes trained to that
sort of thing might do wonders. But that we’ll have to put up to dad and
Bart Heminway, the foreman of Circle Ranch.”
“Here’s Old Baldy, looking to see if you got the wolf,” remarked Bob.
The gaunt-looking old steer did indeed seem to be beset with curiosity.
Standing there, with head thrust out, he was sniffing the air, as though
possibly the scent of blood came to his nostrils. Frank tossed the body
of the wolf down on the ground, and then with his chum rode back a
little distance to see what the steer would do.
“Watch!”
“He’s going up to smell of the wolf, Frank!” exclaimed the Kentucky boy.
“That’s what he is!” echoed Frank, as he watched the big beast approach,
and finally bend his horned head to sniff at the gray-coated robber who
had, in times past, stolen many a calf, and partly grown heifer, from
the herd, as the animals grazed in some dangerous spot.
“How about the brand; has it been changed?” asked Bob, seeing the flank
of the returned steer turned toward them.
“It’s been burned out entirely; but no new one made yet,” Frank replied.
“How was that, do you suppose, Frank?”
“Perhaps Old Baldy was too much for the Mexican ropers,” the other
answered; “and they just had to give up the idea of putting another
brand on him. Then again, if Spanish Joe or his nephew Abajo happened to
be in the bunch of rustlers, they would recognize Old Baldy, and warn
the others that it would be dangerous to try and slip him through. No
matter, here he is, right side up with care, and as ready as ever to do
battle.”
“Look at him going to horn the dead wolf,” said Bob. “He’ll spoil the
skin for you, Frank, if you don’t watch out.”
“Oh! I don’t care much about that,” Frank remarked; “because it’s an old
and sunburned pelt at best; but I’d like dad to see the thief intact. So
let’s ride forward, and induce Old Baldy to stop his sport.”
The steer retreated at their advance, still shaking his head
threateningly, as though not quite convinced that he had better keep the
peace. Possibly he recognized Frank as an old acquaintance, and was so
rejoiced to be back again amid the associations of his earlier years
that he decided not to attack them. Had he tried anything of the sort he
would have rued the day, because Frank could throw the rope as well as
any cowboy, and he would speedily have rolled Old Baldy over on his
back.
Once again the dead wolf was tossed across the back of the plunging
buckskin pony. No matter how well trained a horse may be, he will never
become accustomed to the presence of a beast of prey. Even circus horses
show their nervousness, after drawing a cage containing a tiger or a
lion for weeks and months at a time.
Old Baldy trotted along after them as they rode off.
“That proves he was on his way home when he scented that lame wolf; and
perhaps chased him into that bunch of timber,” remarked Frank, as he
turned in the saddle and saw the following steer.
They soon sighted the white-washed buildings of Circle Ranch. Trees gave
a grateful shade in places; but from far off on the plain a traveler
could catch glimpses of the home of the Haywoods, and the headquarters
of the largest stock-growers in all Arizona.
When the two boys drew up in front of the ranch house they found Frank’s
father sitting in a chair on the piazza. He had not as yet fully
recovered from his broken leg.
“Hello! Frank, back again so soon?” he called out, as the boys drew rein
and jumped to the ground. “What brought you back in such a hurry? And it
seemed to me I heard some sort of firing away out to windward. Was that
you?”
“Just what it was, dad,” replied Frank. “We were chasing a wolf, and
trying to beat him at dodging. He was an old chap; but after a few
trials we knocked him over; and he’ll never pull down another calf for
us.”
“I wish we could get rid of all our troubles as easily as that, Frank,”
remarked Colonel Haywood, as he glanced at the dead animal which his boy
dragged up near the steps of the piazza.
“We never would have seen him, I reckon, sir,” Bob spoke, “only for a
steer that had him cornered in a little bunch of timber and brush, and
was daring him to come out. Frank guessed the wolf might be a little
lame, which was why he didn’t appear. That proved to be so when we
scared him into running. But Frank nailed him, all right, you may be
sure—caught him just back of the foreleg, when he turned aside at my
shot. It’s a trick I hope to learn some day.”
“So a steer held him up, eh?” went on the stockman. “It isn’t often any
of them will do that, Frank.”
“Well, you can expect anything of Old Baldy!” remarked Frank, quietly.
The stockman started, and showed great interest.
“What’s that, Frank?” he exclaimed. “Old Baldy come back again, after we
believed the rustlers got him? That’s some interesting news, now. The
boys will be tickled to know that. And perhaps Old Baldy may help us
locate Mendoza the Rustler’s secret corral!”