Transcriber's note:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
SLIM EVANS AND HIS HORSE LIGHTNING
by
GRAHAM M. DEAN
The Goldsmith Publishing Co.
Chicago
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Copyright MCMXXXIV by
The Goldsmith Publishing Co.
Manufactured in the United States of America
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CONTENTS
I On the Sky High Trail
II Bushwhackers
III The Strange Letter
IV Trouble Looms
V The Unknown Rider
VI Lightning Returns
VII Explanations
VIII The Vanishing Camp
IX Secret Commissions
X Dirty Water
XI Slim Rides Alone
XII War Declared
XIII Fading Trails
XIV Powder To Burn
XV Dangerous Hours
XVI Telltale Marks
XVII The Night Alarm
XVIII On a New Trail
XIX More Clues
XX The Cloudburst
XXI Trapped
XXII In the Cajons
XXIII The Confession
XXIV Showdown
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Slim Evans and His Horse Lightning
Chapter One
On the Sky High Trail
The rugged peaks of the Cajons cast deepening shadows down their eastern
slopes as the July sun, a ball of fire in a cloudless sky, swung toward
the horizon.
Threading his way carefully through one of the passes of the Cajons was
a cowboy on a sorrel horse. Dust lay thick on both horse and rider, for
they had been long on the trail that day and there had been no rain in
the Cajon country for weeks.
Breasting the last steep grade leading to the summit of the pass, a new
country was unfolded. The sorrell paused as its rider dismounted more
than a little stiff from the hours in the saddle and the intense heat of
the day.
The cowboy patted the sorrel affectionately.
“It’s been a long grind, Lightning, old girl. We’ll rest here a few
minutes and then see if we can find a good place to camp tonight.”
The narrow trail had broadened at the summit and there was a swale with
a little grass that had escaped the burning rays of the midsummer heat.
The sorrel began to graze while the cowboy sat down in the shadows of a
boulder.
All day long horse and rider had been toiling up the slope from the
east, following the little-used trail. Shading his eyes, the cowboy
tried to follow the trail. It turned west and north, into a country that
was well timbered and appeared to be rich in grazing land--a country new
to both horse and rider.
For the twentieth time in the last three days the cowboy slipped his
hand into an inner pocket and drew forth an envelope. He unfolded the
letter it contained and scanned it with puzzled eyes. It was addressed
to Slim Evans, Flying Arrow Ranch, Sunfield, Wyo.
“Dear Slim,” the letter began, “I am in need of your help. Things are
going badly in the Creeping Shadows country over beyond the Cajons and I
am counting on you to straighten out the trouble. The greatest secrecy
is necessary so let no one except your father know of this message. Meet
me on the 22nd at the foot of the Sky High trail on the other side of
the Cajons. Will explain everything then.”
The message was signed by Bill Needham, secretary of the Mountain States
Cattlemen’s Association.
Slim Evans folded the letter and slipped it back into the envelope,
which was now badly creased.
It had been a summons he could not disregard and the mysterious tone of
the letter had aroused his curiosity. Once or twice in the last two
years he had been able to help Bill Needham and the Mountain States
Association in running down rustlers. Bill was an old friend of the
Evans family and Slim had hastened to roll his duffel and start for the
Sky High trail over the Cajons.
It was the best part of another day’s ride to the foot of the trail, but
he could slacken the fast pace he and Lightning had maintained for he
was well within the time limit.
Fine lines puckered Slim’s brow as he stared down from the summit of the
trail toward the Creeping Shadows country. Although less than a hundred
and fifty miles from the Flying Arrow, where he had been reared, it was
new country to him, right against the southern boundary of Montana with
the Bad Lands touching it on the east.
Slim wondered if Needham was calling him in on a case of cattle
rustling. But that seemed hardly possible, for the association had a
small staff of men who devoted all of their time and energy to running
down cattle thieves. Slim’s only work along that line had been several
small investigations near the home ranch where he had been able to save
the association the expense of sending out one of its staff detectives.
Bill Needham was the only man with the answer and Slim reluctantly left
the cool shadow of the rock. Lightning responded to his whistle and the
cowboy swung into the saddle.
“Half an hour more, Lightning, and we’ll look for a camp,” said Slim,
running his fingers through the mane of his mount.
Lightning, a beautiful horse, was tall, well built, with legs strong
enough to stand a terrific speed even in the roughness of the cow
country.
A white star stood out on her forehead and each foot had a collar of
white just above the fetlock. It was evident that horse and rider
understood each other for, from time to time, Slim spoke to Lightning
and the mare seemed to nod in reply.
The Sky High trail had been in little use for half a dozen years, the
new trail through the Cajons went nine miles south along an easier pass.
Years before the Sky High trail had been one of the main routes through
the mountains, cowboys and herds from the Creeping Shadows country
thundering along it. Now the old road was covered with weeds and only a
semblance of a trail remained.
For half an hour Slim and Lightning swung down from the summit at a
steady pace. The trail rounded a rocky promontory and a small patch of
timber ahead hinted of a suitable camping place.
A mountain stream, grown thin from lack of rain, stumbled along over its
rocky bed. There was enough grass and plenty of shelter. Slim
dismounted, loosened the cinches, and pulled the heavy saddle and
blanket from Lightning’s back. He slipped the bit out of the sorrel’s
mouth, tossed the reins over the magnificent head, and Lightning was
free to graze for whatever morsels of grass could be found in the little
valley.
Slim unfastened the slender duffel roll he carried behind the saddle and
brought out the mess kit. He was traveling light.
Before preparing his own evening meal, he slipped off the well-worn
leather chaps which protected his legs and went down to the little
stream. The water was cool and sweet and he drank deeply from the
hurrying creek. Then he washed thoroughly, finally dousing his head in
the water.
When he cleared the water from his eyes he saw Lightning standing a
little below him and looking at him reproachfully.
Slim laughed. “Better try a little water to wash off the dirt,” he
chuckled.
But Lightning snorted disdainfully, drank deeply, and returned to graze
again.
The cool water refreshed Slim greatly and he set about the task of
preparing his evening meal. There was still a half hour of daylight, but
he had been in the saddle at sun-up and, toughened though he was to the
life of the range, the heat had tired him. He was ready to roll into his
blanket as soon as he finished his meal.
There was plenty of dry wood in the patch of timber and Slim soon had a
small, smokeless fire going. Plenty of bacon, bread that now was none
too fresh, and a small pot of coffee completed food for supper.
Slim had just finished turning the bacon to a crisp, delicious brown,
and the coffee was simmering in the coals when a rifle shot echoed from
below.
The cowboy paused, bacon halfway between his tin plate and his mouth.
There was another shot, followed by a fusillade. Slim heard the sudden
scream of pain of a mortally wounded horse and he finished the bacon in
one gulp.
“Lightning!” he called.
The sorrel, now a hundred yards away, heard the cry and came at a full
gallop.
Slim leaped across the campfire and dove into the small pile of duffel
beside his saddle. From a saddlebag he drew a cartridge belt and
holster. This he buckled swiftly around his waist, pausing only long
enough to make sure that the heavy .38 in the holster was free.
From a boot fastened to the saddle he drew a Winchester 30-30. A glance
told him that the magazine was full and he swung an extra belt of
ammunition over his shoulder.
The firing down below was coming steadily. There was no time to saddle
and Slim leaped upon Lightning and went dashing down the Sky High trail.
Chapter Two
Bushwhackers
At a mad gallop, Slim and Lightning raced down the valley. Like the true
cow horse, Lightning sensed obstacles almost before they were in sight
and on more than one occasion stretched her long legs to leap across
badly washed places in the trail. At the pace they were going, a tumble
would have been fatal for both.
The valley broadened and the timber thinned out. Slim reined Lightning
in sharply. Ahead of them was a great wash strewn with boulders which
had been carried down from the peaks of the Cajons by spring torrents.
Somewhere in the mass of boulders was the secret of the steady firing.
Slim listened carefully. Three rifles were barking their song of death.
As nearly as he could tell from the firing, it was two against one and
he voted himself a ringside seat.
“You stay here,” he told Lightning. “I can’t tell what I’m up against
and you’re a pretty good sized target.”
He slipped off the sorrel and ducked in between the boulders. The sky
was a blaze of red as the sun dipped over the horizon. Already the
shadows were creeping up from the lowlands. Another fifteen minutes at
the most remained of light in which he could hope to do any kind of
shooting if he found himself in trouble.
Slim moved from boulder to boulder, drawing rapidly nearer to the scene
of the firing. It seemed to be concentrated to his right and he worked
steadily in that direction. A minute later he saw the opening of a small
draw off the main valley. Then he spotted the horse which had been shot
down. The animal was lying just in front of the smaller valley. There
was a huge boulder a little to Slim’s left and he managed to crawl on
top of it. From this point of vantage the entire scene unfolded.
The rider of the dead horse was trapped in the small wash. His cayuse
shot down, he had attempted to escape, only to find himself in a
box-like canyon with walls too steep to scale. He had taken refuge
behind the rocks and now was firing carefully and methodically at the
men who had brought him down.
A few seconds later Slim spotted the riflemen who had killed the horse.
One on each side, they were gradually closing in on the man who was
trapped in the canyon.
Slim took another look at his Winchester. The range was almost too easy,
less than two hundred yards. There was no wind, but the light was fading
fast.
He didn’t like the way the men were closing in on the trapped rider.
Their actions were too deadly, they were firing too calmly. It was
evident that they did not intend that their victim should get out alive.
It wasn’t a fair fight and Slim took a substantial interest in the
argument as he snuggled the smooth, walnut butt of the Winchester
against his cheek.
With keen eye and steady fingers, he drew a bead on the nearest
rifleman. But the man’s back was toward him. He couldn’t shoot without
warning. Slim relaxed slightly and sent a ringing call echoing over the
valley.
“Hi-yuh! Hi-yuh! What’s going on there?”
The firing ceased abruptly and two astonished riflemen swung toward him,
their weapons ready for instant action. But Slim, sprawled atop the big
boulder, was practically invisible at that distance. There was no sound
from the man trapped in the canyon.
“What’s going on here?” Slim shouted again.
He must have raised his head slightly, for one of the riflemen made a
snap shot and a bullet splattered on the boulder less than three feet
away.
That was a declaration of war and Slim accepted the challenge. He could
have shot the others down in cold blood, but he had given them a
chance--two chances.
The shot fired at Slim was still echoing over the valley when the cowboy
from the Flying Arrow fired twice. There was a sharp cry of pain from
one of the riflemen and Slim heard a gun clatter to the rocks. He had
aimed for an elbow which had appeared for just a second around one side
of a boulder. Evidently his aim had been true.
The man trapped in the canyon had joined in the fight again and the
riflemen were caught between two fires, with Slim on the one side and
the unknown on the other. They had little desire to expose themselves to
the deadly marksmanship of Slim and were content to wait until darkness.
Slim held up his own fire. It was a waste of lead to blaze away
recklessly and the chances of hitting anyone were extremely remote.
The twilight deepened and the evening star peeped down on the
boulder-strewn wash which a few minutes before had hummed with leaden
death.
Night came and with it the valley awoke to new sounds--the noise of
boots scraping on rocks as their wearers clumsily attempted to move
about in silence. Slim took off his own boots and in his stocking feet
started quietly toward the place where he had last seen the riflemen.
Sharp stones jabbed his feet, but he moved silently, pressing steadily
ahead.
In a few more minutes a new moon would shed its feeble rays over the
Cajons, but it might not penetrate this remote valley. Slim almost
stumbled over the rifle, which the man had dropped. The stock of the
weapon had been shattered by the impact of his bullet and the gun was
worthless. Slim laid it back on the ground and worked slowly toward the
mouth of the box canyon. He was curious to learn the identity of the man
who had been the target for the vicious attack of the gunmen.
The Flying Arrow cowboy was almost at the mouth of the canyon when a
thunder of flying hoofs stopped him. There was something familiar in the
leaping cadence. The wild tattoo of the hoofs sounded like Lightning.
But that couldn’t be. He had left Lightning well up the trail.
With a growing fear in his heart, Slim cast caution to the winds and
raced back along the trail. The rocks bruised his feet, but with his one
thought for Lightning there was no time to stop and hunt for the boulder
on which he had left his boots.
The trail smoothed out. Slim felt grass underneath. It was here that he
had left the beautiful sorrel; it was here that Lightning should be
waiting for him.
Slim cupped his hands and called the name of his horse.
“Lightning!” he cried. Over and over again the shout was hurled from his
anxious lips. He whistled again and again. Each time there was only the
silence of the night for an answer, while far down the trail the
drumming of flying hoofs lessened and finally vanished altogether.
Slim knew what had happened. The riflemen, cut off from their own horses
by his appearance, had been forced to seek escape up the trail. They had
come upon Lightning, awaiting the return of her master, and had mounted
the big sorrel. Picking their way around the rock-strewn wash, they had
returned to their own horses and made good their escape but Lightning,
the most valuable horse in the Flying Arrow remuda, had been taken with
them.
There was a consuming bitterness in Slim’s heart as he turned slowly
back along the rocky trail to find his boots. Lightning was his own
horse. He had trained the mare until she was the envy of every cowboy in
the Flying Arrow territory. His hands gripped the stock of the rifle
hard. Let him come within range of the men who had stolen Lightning and
there would be no warning shouts, no fancy shots aimed only to hit an
elbow.
It was in such a mood that Slim stormed back along the trail, too angry
to spare his feet as he walked over the cruel rocks.
A quiet voice brought him back from wild rage to a cool realization that
he was in a tight spot.
“Put up your hands and don’t move!”
The words were softly spoken, hardly above a whisper but there was a
ring of earnestness in them that brooked no meddling.
Slim opened his hands and his rifle clattered to the ground.
“Now raise your arms slowly. Don’t make a move for the gun in your
holster. I’ll drop you without mercy if you do.”
Carefully Slim’s hands went higher until they were above his head. His
mind worked rapidly. Could only one of the riflemen have escaped? Had
the unwounded man waited for him to walk into a trap? Or was this the
man who had been trapped in the canyon?
The questions raced through his mind. The mysterious letter from Bill
Needham of the Cattlemen’s Association had certainly led him into a peck
of trouble and he hadn’t reached the Creeping Shadows country.
The soft voice spoke again.
“Turn around now. Move slowly. Remember, I’ve got you covered.”
Chapter Three
The Strange Letter
Slim, his hands reaching toward the heavens, turned slowly around in the
moonlight. He was careful to make no false move for the bitterness in
the voice of his unknown captor almost cut the night air.
The rays of the thin moon shone full on Slim’s face. The other man was
hidden in the shadows, but Slim knew that a gun was trained on the
middle of his body. He waited patiently. There was a snort of disgust
from the unseen gunman.
“You can let your hands drop. I’ve got the wrong one. Just my luck.”
Afraid of a trick, Slim was slow in lowering his hands but once they
were at waist level he felt safe. His revolver was still in the holster
at his side and in a move almost too fast for the eye to follow he could
draw the gun and fire with amazing rapidity and accuracy.
Shoes scraped over rocks and a form loomed out of the shadows. Then the
moonlight revealed a youth about Slim’s own age. A rifle was cradled in
one arm.
“Looks like we’re a fine pair,” chuckled the newcomer. “After you saved
my hide from the skunks who tried to ambush me I turn around and show my
gratitude by bushwhacking you. Darned wonder someone didn’t get killed
in here tonight.”
“Who are you and what do you want?” snapped Slim, his anger still near
the boiling point.
“I don’t blame you for being a mite peevish,” said the stocky cowboy.
“Matter of fact, I don’t know altogether what has happened.”
“Who shot your horse down?”
“That’s another mystery. I was taking it easy down the trail when a
rifle cracked and my horse just folded up and pitched me off. The old
cayuse never knew what hit him. Then the lead started pouring my way and
I scuttled into that blind canyon.”
“About that time I came along and voted myself a hand,” put in Slim.
“That’s about right. You cut in just in time to save my hide. I’m mighty
grateful for what you did and doggone sorry that I held you up a few
minutes ago. After what had happened I wasn’t going to take any
chances.”
“Oh, I don’t blame you for that a whole lot.”
“My name’s ‘Chuck’ Meade,” the newcomer volunteered. “I’m off the Circle
Four. It’s a little better than a hundred miles south of here on the
Sweetwater.”
“I’m Slim Evans. Home brand is the Flying Arrow over near Sunfield.”
They coolly looked each other over and an almost instant liking was
struck up between them.
Slim was tall, as his name implied. A little better than five feet
eleven inches, he packed 163 pounds on a frame that was built of sinewy
muscle. His hands were long and slender and there was the grace of a
mountain lion in his walk. His blue eyes were frank and inquiring, but
at times a deadly light flickered in them, a light that warned an
opponent that here indeed was a cow hand who could take care of himself
in almost any emergency.
Chuck tipped the beams at 195 pounds and stood only five feet seven with
his boots on. His shoulders were massive and his short arms had the
power of a grizzly bear. He was champion of all wrestlers in the
Sweetwater valley and at catch-as-catch-can scrapping was without a
peer. A mop of curly hair was inclined to scatter in almost every
direction and his eyebrows were heavy. But under the bushy brows gleamed
brown eyes that were warm and friendly and he had a likeable smile.
Chuck looked down at the tattered socks on Slim’s feet.
“This is a bad place to go wandering around in your stocking feet,” he
suggested.
“I left my boots down the valley,” Slim explained. “Figured that in my
stocking feet I could creep up on the two fellows who were trying to
bushwhack you. They got away from me and stole my horse.”
“What!” exploded Chuck, quick anger darkening his face.
“While I was playing good Samaritan, those fellows doubled around behind
me and made away with my horse.”
“That’s tough. Means we’re both on foot, for my old cayuse will never
buck again.”
“Standing here won’t get us any place. Let’s get my boots.”
Slim picked up his rifle and led the way over the rocky ground. Every
step pained him and there was little left of his socks when he finally
reached the huge boulder where he had cached his boots.
He sat down and stripped off his socks, rubbing his aching feet with his
hands.
“I’ve got a change of socks in my blanket roll,” said Chuck. “I’ll slide
over and get my stuff.”
Slim massaged the soles of his feet until Chuck returned with his
bedroll. The cowboy from the Circle Four unrolled it and brought out a
pair of heavy, serviceable socks.
Slim drew them on gratefully, wiggled his toes in comfort, and then slid
his feet into his boots.
“Now I’m ready for action,” he said, standing up.
“Where you heading?” asked Chuck.
“Down the Sky High trail,” replied Slim, who in spite of his liking for
his new-found companion was cautious not to give away any essential
information.
“That’s fine. I’m heading the same way. Since we’re both going to hoof
it from now on, we might as well throw in together.”
“Suits me,” agreed Slim. “If those boys who took a little target
practice at you should show up again they may be surprised to find
they’ve got two instead of one to fight.”
Chuck surveyed the heavy gun and the well worn holster at Slim’s side.
He whistled softly.
“I’ve got a hunch that in a pinch you’d be right handy with that six
gun.”
“I can make it speak a piece,” admitted Slim. “What about your saddle?”
“It’s just on the other side of the trail. I’ll pick it up when we start
down.”
“Then we’ll go up to my camp. I was just sitting down to supper when the
firing started.”
Chuck slung his blanket roll over his shoulder and followed Slim up the
trail.
They reached the patch of timber and found that the small fire had
burned itself out. The bacon was cold and greasy and the coffee bitter.
“I’ll rustle more wood,” said Chuck and Slim set about the simple
preparations for the joint meal.
In a short time the fire was glowing again and the savory odor of frying
bacon and boiling coffee filled the night air.
“That sure smells good to me,” said Chuck, squatting on his heels on the
other side of the fire. “I’ve been traveling a little too light. Grub
ran low and I cut out my noon meal figuring that I’d be far enough down
the trail tonight to reach some ranch house and get a real supper.”
“Guess you don’t know much about this country,” said Slim as he deftly
flipped the bacon.
“Why?”
“There isn’t a ranch within miles. We’ve got a good thirty miles of
hoofing it down the trail before we’ll be anywhere near a place we can
get horses.”
“You been through this country before?” Slim thought that Chuck’s eyes
were peering at him intently from beneath the bushy eyebrows.
“Never been over the crest of the Cajons until this afternoon,” replied
the cowboy from the Flying Arrow, “but my Dad’s ridden through here once
or twice and he told me something about the lay of the land before I
started out.”
“Kind of a lonesome country, then.”
“Lonesome and darned inhospitable, especially the Creeping Shadows
country over to the northwest.”
“Yeh, I’ve heard that was a good place to stay away from.”
Slim, who was serving as cook, used a forked stick to pull the coffee
pot out of the coals. Doubling up a glove, he grasped the handle and
poured the steaming beverage into the battered tin cups each cowboy
carried in his duffel roll.
The night air near the summit of the Cajons is crisp and cool even on a
July night and the warmth from the fire was cheering. They ate in
silence, draining the last drop from the coffee pot and gleaning the
final bit of crisp bacon from the greasy pan.
“I’ll turn dish washer,” said Chuck, gathering up the simple utensils
they had needed for the meal. He went down to the creek where Slim could
hear him splashing water on the cups and the frying pan.
Slim piled more fuel on the fire and as the flames leaped higher and the
light brightened, his eyes fell on an envelope which Chuck had dropped.
Slim leaned over and picked up the letter. It was face up and the
address, “Chuck Meade, Circle Four Ranch,” stared at him. But the thing
that really caught his attention was the name of the sender of the
letter in the upper left hand corner. It was from Bill Needham,
secretary of the Mountain States Cattlemen’s Association.
There was almost an irresistible temptation to read the letter, but Slim
conquered that impulse and tossed the envelope over on Chuck’s blanket
roll.
It was strange that both should have letters from the secretary of the
cattle association and that both should be riding down the Sky High
trail at almost the same hour.
Chapter Four
Trouble Looms
Chuck returned with the handful of dishes and laid them by the fire
where the heat would dry them thoroughly.
“You dropped a letter,” said Slim. “I tossed it over on your blanket
roll.”
Chuck straightened up quickly, almost too quickly, thought Slim, and
stepped around the fire. The Circle Four cowboy picked up the letter,
glanced at it quickly but thoroughly, and slipped it into an inner
pocket.
“Thanks. It’s important, I wouldn’t want to lose it.”
“There are lots of valuable things we don’t like to lose,” said Slim.
“Once in a while they disappear and we can’t seem to do much about it.”
His eyes wandered over to the saddle which he had pulled off Lightning
only a little more than two hours before.
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning my horse, for instance. If I’d have thought for a minute that
I’d have lost Lightning when I went trailing down to help you out, I’m
not so sure I’d have gone.”
“You’re not putting a whole lot of value on my life,” smiled Chuck.
“Maybe it’s just that I’m placing a lot of value on a good horse.”
“You must have thought a deal of that animal. Now you take the cayuse
that was shot out from under me--just a plain range horse. Plenty good
for cow work, but nothing fancy, and about as ornery as you can make
them. Course I hate to lose the horse, but I’m not going to shed a whole
lot of tears.”
In spite of himself, Slim felt his eyes filling as he looked at the
saddle. His voice choked.
“You can say that all right. You had just a plain horse to lose--but I
had Lightning.”
Chuck looked at his companion sharply and saw that Slim was deeply
affected.
“I never had anything but a cayuse,” he said. “Maybe if I’d had a really
fine horse I would have some idea of how you feel.”
“Maybe you would. You see, Lightning was almost human. I could talk to
her and she’d understand almost everything I said.”
“That’s a lot more than a good many humans can do.”
“Lightning was smarter than a lot of humans.” Slim stretched his long
legs on the blanket beside the fire, pillowed his head on the saddle and
looked up toward the new moon.
A desperate ache tugged at his heart. Lightning was gone and there was
only a great void there. He had to talk, he had to tell Chuck about the
wonder of his horse. If he didn’t he knew he would burst out in tears, a
highly undignified thing for a husky young cowhand to do.
“Lightning was a sorrel with a white star on her forehead and white
feet. She was long-legged, fast as the wind, and with plenty of
endurance. There wasn’t a horse anywhere around that could make her go
her limit, and when it came time for the round-up, she could do the work
of any other three horses.”
“Sounds kinda like a wonder horse,” said Chuck as he tossed another
handful of wood on the flames.
“She was a wonder horse in every sense of the word,” went on Slim.
“Lightning was a queer mixture. Her mother just a plain cayuse on the
Flying Arrow. We never knew just exactly what kind of a horse her father
was, but my Dad swears that it must have been Nige, leader of the band
of wild horses over on the Sunfield spur of the Cajons. Nige’s never
been broken, and only a few people have ever been able to get a rope
around him. He’s a beauty--coal black and all fire and temper.”
Chuck nodded.
Even over on the Circle Four they had heard about Nige and his small
band of wild horses which roamed the eastern slope of the Cajons.
“I’ve heard there was Kentucky blood in Nige,” said the Circle Four
cowboy.
“That’s what my Dad always said,” went on Slim. “Anyway one of our
cayuses, just a plain little sorrel with a splash of white on her face
and legs, was the mother of Lightning. She was a colt in a thousand, you
could see that at a glance.”
Slim paused and looked up at the moon again for comfort. The ache was
still in his heart, but talking to Chuck, telling him about Lightning,
was easing a little of the piercing pain.
“I was just coming along to the age when I was going to need a good
horse,” went on Slim, “and Dad picked out Lightning and turned her over
to me. We seemed to get along first-rate right from the start, seemed to
understand just what the other wanted to do. Why, I remember one time in
spring round-up when Lightning went into a prairie dog’s hole and threw
me. I busted one leg and sprained the other so bad I couldn’t stand.
There I was sprawled flat on the range, five miles from the chuck wagon
and a thunderin’ big storm whooping down out of the mountains.
“Lightning took one good look at me and set out for the chuck wagon at a
full gallop. It wasn’t an hour later when she brought Dad and the boys
back with her. They got there just before the rain and believe me, I was
glad to see them.”
“I’ve heard of horses like that,” nodded Chuck, “but I never knew anyone
that owned one.”
“There’s only one Lightning. At first I trained her so she wouldn’t let
anyone else ride her, but the other boys on the ranch didn’t like it
very well so I broke her of that habit. If I hadn’t done that, she’d
never have been ridden away from here this afternoon. It used to be
she’d lash out with her feet whenever anyone came near, but that was
kinda dangerous on the ranch.”
“How do you suppose the fellows that were gunning for me got her?” asked
Chuck.
“All they had to do was to walk up and climb on, she was that gentle.
Believe me, if I ever get her back, she’s going to be a one-man horse
from now on.”
“I’m afraid there isn’t much chance you’ll ever get her back,” said
Chuck, “if this country is as sparsely settled as you say.”
“I’ll get her back somehow,” replied Slim in a tone that brooked no good
for the men who had taken Lightning.
They were silent for a time, both thinking of the long walk down the Sky
High trail that faced them with the coming of the dawn.
“Funny I didn’t see you ahead of me when you went over the summit,” said
Slim.
“I must have crossed a good hour ahead of you. My horse was pretty badly
winded and I didn’t try to make much time for the first half hour coming
down this side. Fact of the matter is, I stopped a little above here for
water and to let the cayuse graze.”
The fire was dying and there was no need to put on fresh wood for they
were ready to roll into their blankets. Slim kicked his boots off,
pulled the blanket up around his shoulders, and said good night to his
new-found companion.
He was worn out by the long ride of the day, the adventure in the
boulder-strewn wash below and the mental grief of having lost Lightning.
But sleep did not come at once.
Why had Chuck been ambushed? His thoughts centered on the letter in his
own shirt and the one that Chuck had dropped. Both were from Bill
Needham. Could they be on the same mysterious mission, could both be
answering a sudden call from the old cattleman?
Chapter Five
The Unknown Rider
Slim slept restlessly that night, his mind disturbed by the grief and
worry over the loss of his horse. He was awake with the first rosy tint
in the sky above the Cajons.
Chuck was still sleeping soundly and Slim, barefooted, walked quietly
down to the creek where he washed his face and hands. They had used up
the supply of wood gathered the night before and he picked up an armful
of dry sticks before returning to the camp.
Chuck was awake and stretching lazily when Slim dropped the wood beside
the dead ashes.
“Going to be a great day for walking,” said the Circle Four cowboy as he
pulled on his boots.
“Not for my feet after the beating I gave them running around over the
rocks in my stocking feet,” said Slim.
While Chuck was at the creek washing, Slim started the fire and checked
over their supplies. There was enough bacon for the morning meal and
four slices of bread that were so dry they now resembled hardtack. Not
much food for a couple of hungry cowpunchers.
“We’re short of grub,” he informed Chuck.
“Just enough bacon for breakfast and a snack of bread.”
“Might just as well start the day on a full stomach. We’ll need it.
How’s the coffee?”
“Plenty of coffee, but it’s going to take us at least a day to reach the
bottom of this trail.”
“Well, the coffee will help. We can drink that and think we’ve had a
meal.”
By the time the sun was up, they had finished breakfast and were about
the task of breaking their simple camp.
“What about your saddle?” Chuck asked.
“I’m going to tote it with me as far as I can. If it gets too heavy I’ll
cache it along the way. Dad gave it to me and I’m not going to take any
unnecessary chances of losing it.”
Slim made up his duffel roll and fastened it to his saddle. Then he
paused to look around the camp and make sure nothing had been
overlooked. Chuck, rifle in hand, was waiting for him.
Slim swung the heavy saddle on his back and they started down the Sky
High trail. It was covered with a fair growth of grass, for in recent
years it was used by only an occasional rider and the walking wouldn’t
have been half bad in low heeled shoes. But riding boots, with their
high heels, were never meant to pound along over a none too smooth
trail. Slim knew that he would be in agony before the day was over.
They reached the rock strewn wash where Chuck had been ambushed and
stopped while the Circle Four cowboy picked up his saddle. High above
them a buzzard was circling. In a few short hours Chuck’s cayuse would
be another skeleton along the trail, hinting at an unsolved mystery.
Chuck stuck his rifle into the boot fastened to his saddle and the
cowboys resumed their march down the trail. It was tough going over the
rocks, but they were soon out of the wash, and the footing was a little
better.
It was here that they picked up the trail of the men who had bushwhacked
Chuck. Slim recognized Lightning’s hoofprints at once. A little further
along they found where two more horses had been tethered for some time.
“They left their horses here while they went up in the draw and used me
for a target,” said Chuck bitterly.
“Think you’d be able to recognize them if you saw them again?”
“I doubt it. The distance was too great and the light was poor.”
“I’ll know one of them,” said Slim. “I put my mark on him. Unless I miss
my guess he’s got a shattered right elbow. If I ever catch up with him
he’ll have something besides an elbow busted all out of shape.”
The sun burned down over the Cajons and the thin air soon warmed.
Rivulets of perspiration streamed down Chuck’s back and his shirt was
soon soaked. Slim, not quite so heavy, felt the heat less.
They pounded along for better than an hour when Chuck called a halt.
“Let’s stop in the shade of these scrub oaks. This saddle is digging its
way right into the middle of my back.”
Slim welcomed the suggestion and they flopped down in the shade.
Chuck looked up speculatively at the clear blue of the sky. There wasn’t
a cloud in sight, and the breeze had died down to a whisper.
“How many more miles to the bottom of the trail?” he asked.
“I don’t know exactly. I’d say we’ve covered about four miles since
leaving camp. It must be 23 or 24 more.”
“I’ll never make it.”
“I’ve got to be at the foot of the trail tonight,” said Slim.
“I’m supposed to be,” admitted Chuck, “but I’ve serious doubts if my
‘dogs’ will hold out for better than 20 miles.”
“We’d better keep pounding along. Another hour and we’ll stop and make a
pot of coffee and find a creek where we can soak our feet for awhile.”
“Good idea. Mine feel like they’re burning up right now.”
Shouldering their saddles, they set off down the trail. The grade was
easing now. There was more timber but the grass was still scarce.
“Not much grazing land here,” commented Chuck.
“No. That’s up in the Creeping Shadows country. I’ve never been there
but I’ve heard there’s some of the best grass in Wyoming in that
valley.”
“Wouldn’t have to be very good to be that,” said Chuck. “We almost
burned out this summer. No rain for weeks.”
“There’s been little or no rain here, but the Creeping Shadows always
seem to get water.”
They were silent for a time and Slim wondered why Chuck, too, was
anxious to get to the bottom of the trail that night. He couldn’t help
thinking about the letter which had fallen from his companion’s pocket
the night before and there was still the unanswered question on why
Chuck had been set upon by the two gunmen.
The sun was well toward its zenith when they made their second stop
beside a small stream. There was a little grass and a few trees in the
valley, enough at least to provide them with shade.
Slim pulled off his boots and socks and looked at his feet. They were
red and swollen. Chuck’s looked to be in even worse condition.
The Circle Four cowboy crawled to the water’s edge on his hands and
knees and gratefully thrust his feet into the cool water.
“Oh boy! What a relief. I didn’t know water could feel so good. I’ve
half a mind to spend the rest of the day right here.”
“Then you’ll have to spend it alone. I’m going to push on as soon as my
feet feel a little better and we have some coffee.”
“Maybe the coffee will pep me up,” agreed Chuck. “I’ll rustle up the
wood in a little bit.”
The cool water reduced the swelling of their feet and a few minutes
later they donned their socks and boots and picked up enough dry wood
for a fire. Slim filled the coffee pot and shortly before noon they had
two cups of the steaming beverage apiece.
“Not much of a meal,” said Slim, “but it puts a little more stiffening
in my back.”
Chuck nodded, looking thoughtfully at his saddle.
“Tell you what. I’m going to cache my saddle. I don’t think we’ll make
it to the bottom of the trail tonight if we don’t. Once rid of the
saddles we’ll be able to walk a lot faster and it will ease the strain
on our feet.”
Slim looked down at his boots. The morning’s walk over the uneven ground
had done them little good. The soles had been gouged by sharp rocks and
the heels were wearing off at a crazy angle. By the end of the day he
would have to discard his expensive boots for he doubted if even the
most expert cobbler would possess the skill to repair them.
“Guess you’re right,” he agreed. “I hate to leave my saddle, but I know
I can’t carry it to the bottom of the trail tonight.”
Chuck looked at Slim sharply, each perplexed, perhaps a little alarmed,
at the insistence of the other upon reaching the trail’s end by sundown.
Slim washed the coffee grounds out of the pot and then placed the
battered tin pot and the remaining coffee in his blanket roll.
“There’s a little draw off to the left and across the creek that ought
to be a good place to leave our saddles,” said Chuck.
They tossed the saddles across the creek and then jumped after them. A
thicket in the draw which Chuck had pointed out proved ideal for a
cache. They returned to the other side of the creek and slung their
blanket rolls over their shoulders.
Both cowboys had unfastened their rifle scabbards from their saddles,
and they carried these in their right hands, the butts of the guns
protruding from the leather case.
With the burden of their saddles gone and their feet rested, they set
out down the trail again. The blinding heat of midday was upon them, but
they dared not tarry longer beside the creek.
Heads down and shoulders hunched, they plodded along the trail.
Hoofprints of three horses were still plainly visible for the men who
had stolen Lightning had ridden down the trail at a fast pace.
“Makes me boil inside every time I think of my being set afoot,” snorted
Chuck. “Maybe I’ll take a little time off and hunt around for the boys
who did me dirt. With the souvenir you left on that one chap’s arm, they
shouldn’t be so hard to find.”
They swung around a bend in the trail and came upon the ashes of a
recent campfire. Slim placed his hand in the ashes. They were cold.
“The horses were staked out and hobbled over here,” called out Chuck.
“Too bad we didn’t slip down the trail last night and take them by
surprise.”
“It’s easy to think of those things now,” grinned Slim as he picked up a
handkerchief which was covered with brown stains. “I don’t imagine one
of them passed a very comfortable night.”
In midafternoon they paused beside another mountain stream to rest and
bathe their weary feet.
“My ‘dogs’ look like they are going to explode,” said Chuck as he
wiggled his toes in the cool water.
Slim, stretched on the bank beside him, nodded. He was wondering if they
would be able to maintain their pace and make the bottom of the trail
that night. He didn’t want to disappoint Bill Needham, for the old
cattleman had written that he was counting on him.
“My stomach and backbone are so close together I’m afraid they’ll form a
union and strike on me,” grumbled Chuck, “unless I put some food inside
me quick.”
“There’s a little coffee left.”
“Then coffee it is,” said Chuck. He built a fire and brewed a bitter pot
of beverage.
“What did you drop in this? The heel of one of your boots?” asked Slim
as he sipped the black stuff.
“Don’t complain. It’s hot and it’s filling, which is the main thing.”
In spite of its poor taste, they downed the coffee, drew on their boots,
picked up the rifles, and resumed the painful downward trip.
The sun was swinging well along toward the horizon and the country was
flattening out. They had reached the foothills, but there was still no
sign of human habitation. Coming out of a patch of timber, they looked
down a long, broad valley, the grass of which had been burned out by the
sun.
“I pity cattle trying to live off this stuff,” said Slim.
“Better pity us. If we don’t find something real to eat, we may have to
take to grass.”
Chuck started down the trail again when Slim’s call stopped him.
“Wait a minute. There’s a horseman riding into the lower end of the
valley.”
Chuck halted and scanned the far end of the valley.
“Can’t see a thing. Maybe you’re going daffy.”
“I’m not daffy,” retorted Slim sharply. “Just stand still a minute. The
fellow’s coming in from the right and he’s leading another horse.”
Chuck shaded his eyes and peered intently in the direction Slim had
indicated.
“You’re right. What now?”
“Let’s drop back in the timber along the trail and wait for him to come
up where we can get a good look.”
They found shelter in a tangle of brush that had grown up around a
fallen tree. Slim pulled his rifle from the scabbard and threw open the
magazine. The weapon was ready for action.
“Not taking any chances?” Chuck asked.
“Nary a chance. I took one last night and lost Lightning.”
The rider advanced rapidly but the sun blazed in the eyes of the cowboys
and they found it difficult to see clearly.
The oncoming horseman was less than 400 yards away when Slim recognized
the horse.
“He’s riding Lightning!” he cried. “Chuck do you hear? That’s Lightning
coming up the trail!”
“Sure I hear and unless you pipe down that rider will hear you and then
Lightning may be forced to go the other way in a hurry.”
Slim, who had stood up in his moment of wild elation, crouched down
behind the tree trunk and cradled the butt of his rifle against his
cheek. The lines of his jaw snapped into straight, tense lines and his
finger crooked around the trigger. A little further and the unknown
rider of Lightning would be out of the angle of the Sun’s protecting
rays.
Chapter Six
Lightning Returns
Slim waited impatiently as the rider on Lightning pressed on up the
valley toward them. At three hundred yards his finger pressed gently on
the trigger of his Winchester.
“Better wait a bit longer,” counseled Chuck. “You might miss at this
range.”
Slim snorted. “I’ve got him lined between my sights right now. That guy
is one horse thief that isn’t going to get away.”
But Slim took Chuck’s advice and the tension of his finger on the
trigger lessened. The target loomed larger, for the man riding Lightning
was heavy and of large stature.
Rider and horse drew nearer, the second horse trailing Lightning by a
few feet. It was then that Slim noticed that the rifle of the rider on
Lightning was in the scabbard on the saddle of the second horse. If he
shot now, it would be at a man armed at the most with only a six shooter
and one unable to answer him on even terms. Slim knew that the horse
thief didn’t deserve such consideration, but in spite of his rage at
losing Lightning he couldn’t bring himself to shoot a man in cold blood.
He dropped his rifle in disgust. “That fellow hasn’t anything within
reach but a six gun. I can’t take a shot at him at this distance.”
“What you going to do?” queried Chuck.
“Wait until he comes up close and then step out and hail him. If he goes
for his six gun, we’ll be on equal terms.”
“I don’t know about that. Seems to me you ought to be kind of handy with
that six shooter of yours. You’ve got long arms and long hands and your
gun is hung just right for fast action.”
“I can make it talk,” agreed Slim, his narrowed eyes watching the
approach of the rider, now almost within hailing distance. If he
continued on the trail, he would pass within three rods of the two
cowboys.
Chuck looked down at his aching feet.
“Gosh, but it’s going to seem good to swing back into a saddle. I’ve
walked more today than in years.”
“You’ll be riding again in about five minutes, cowboy,” said Slim. “This
fellow is coming right into the center of a real unpleasant surprise
party.”
Slim shifted from his crouching position behind the fallen tree and made
sure that his gun was free in the holster. There was a good chance that
he would need it in a hurry.
The rider on Lightning was within a hundred yards of them when Slim
stood up and waited quietly beside the trail. The horseman came on
swiftly, unaware of the incensed cowboys who were awaiting him.
Suddenly Slim shifted his plans. He knew a bloodless but not altogether
painless way to capture the rider. Placing two fingers between his lips,
he sent a shrill, penetrating whistle ringing down the valley.
Lightning stopped suddenly, poised like a statue. Again the sharp
whistle came from Slim’s lips while Chuck watched in open-mouthed
astonishment.
Lightning whirled into action. The big sorrel left the ground in a wild,
twisting buck that caught her rider unawares. Lightning almost swapped
ends and came down in a rocking, jarring crash that sent the unknown
rider sprawling through the air to land with a thud at one side of the
trail.
Then the sorrel raced toward Slim, whinnying in sheer delight at
discovering her master again.
Chuck ran down the trail to the side of the fallen rider while Slim
swung onto Lightning. The sorrel fairly danced with pleasure over the
reunion and Slim reached down and stroked the beautiful mane with gentle
hands.
“Gosh, Lightning, old girl, it’s good to see you again. Darn me! I
thought last night it was all over for us when I heard those
bushwhackers riding away. From now on no one rides you but me.
Understand?”
Lightning threw up her head in a quick, angry manner that indicated
anyone except Slim would have a hard time mounting her.
From down the trail came a sharp cry from Chuck.
“Hey, Slim. Come here and meet your horse thief.”
The Flying Arrow cowboy swung Lightning about and trotted down the
trail. Chuck was bending over the fallen man, who was now showing some
signs of a returning interest in life.
“Think you can recognize him?” asked Chuck as Slim slipped out of the
saddle.
“Why it’s old Bill Needham!” exclaimed Slim. “What under the sun could
he have been doing on Lightning?”
Old Bill, tall and powerful of frame, a typical cattleman of the old
school, managed to raise his bruised body upon one elbow as he squinted
angrily at the two cowboys looking down at him.
“What’s the idea of pulling a stunt like this on me?” he demanded. Then,
recognizing Slim as the mists cleared from his ancient eyes, he added.
“My gosh, Slim. I was just riding up trail looking for you when that
horse of yours set off a stick of dynamite under my saddle. How did it
all happen?”