started for the pool. “I’ll have a couple of one pounders in five
minutes.”
“Say, who’s going to clean the fish?” asked Slim.
“If I catch them, you ought to be willing to do the cleaning,” said
Chuck.
“But it’s my tackle you’re using,” Slim reminded him.
“You would have to suggest that,” retorted Chuck. “That being the case,
we’ll split the work. I’ll catch the fish, you build the fire, and we’ll
both clean them.”
“If any,” chuckled Slim.
Chuck strode off downstream and Slim gathered up an armful of wood for
the fire. Then he walked down to the pool. Chuck had used his knife to
cut a sapling for use as a pole and he was casting energetically with
the fly.
“How many?” asked Slim.
“Not a one so far, but just wait a minute.”
Five more casts failed to produce a strike and Chuck’s confidence
started to crumble.
“Let me have a try.” Slim took the homemade pole and moved downstream to
a point where the rays of the sun streamed warmly on the water. The fly
flicked the surface of the water, again and then again. On the fourth
cast there was a flash of silver and a trout was hooked hard.
“You’ve got him, you’ve got him!” shouted Chuck, dancing along the bank
oblivious of his tender feet. “Don’t lose him.”
“I won’t unless your shouting scares him away.”
The trout was a beauty, at least a pound and a half if Slim was any
judge, and he played the fish carefully, finally drawing it close enough
to the bank so Chuck could reach down and get it in his hands.
“What a beauty,” said the Circle Four cowboy as he held the trout in his
hands. “Some people have all the luck.”
“You mean some people have all the skill,” grinned Slim, casting the fly
back into the now quiet waters of the pool. He was patient and a fair
judge of trout water, the result being that a few minutes later he got
another strike, but this one finally eluded him. Slim got a third strike
and this time landed his fish, which was larger than the first.
Returning to camp, they set about the task of cleaning the fish. Old
Bill had left them plenty of food, and at sundown they stretched out
beside the fire to enjoy their evening meal. The trout was delicious and
there was plenty for both.
Supper over, they lolled on their blankets, watching the last light of
day fade and the evening star brighten.
The night was uneventful and in the morning Slim again fished the trout
pool. His luck held with him and he managed to land five trout in a
little more than an hour.
“We’ll have enough for supper, even with Old Bill here,” said Chuck as
he surveyed the catch of silver beauties.
During the day they kept a close watch on the trail but it was not until
late afternoon that Old Bill appeared riding up out of the valley. He
was leading a horse and his own saddlebags were bulging with articles he
had purchased on the other side of the Cajons.
Chuck looked at the horse with a critical eye.
“That’s a skinny nag you brought me,” he said, after greetings had been
exchanged.
“Maybe it will take a little of the extra weight off you; kinda saw you
down in the middle,” chuckled Old Bill as he swung out of his saddle.
They gave the cattleman a hand in unloading the saddlebags and
unfastening the boots which he had tied to his saddle.
Chuck hobbled the cayuse Old Bill had brought for him and then joined
the others in camp.
“Have to move across the creek?” asked Bill.
“A little company rode up the trail yesterday and I figured it was best
not to be seen,” said Chuck. “Slim saw them higher up the trail, but he
gave them the slip, too. They were going up to the crest of the Cajons
to make sure that no one else wanders into this country by that route.”
Old Bill nodded thoughtfully.
“They’re plugging up every trail into the Creeping Shadows country.
Lucky thing I know an old one that’s been forgotten by everyone except
myself and Adam Marks.”
“Maybe the rustlers are using that one to get the cattle out,” suggested
Chuck.
“I’d know if they were sending cattle out that way,” replied Old Bill.
Chuck unwrapped a package the cattleman tossed toward him. It contained
a change of trousers and a shirt of plain blue material.
“Why this isn’t even new,” protested Chuck.
“Of course not. Think I want you going into the valley with a brand new
outfit when you’re supposed to be a cowboy who’s nearly broke and
willing to work for just about any kind of a wage? I got the shirt and
pants from an old clothes dealer. They’re clean. Put them on.”
Chuck mournfully took off his brightly checked shirt and in its place
pulled the blue one over his head. The trousers were too large even for
Chuck, but they would do.
“How about the boots?” asked Slim.
“I got in an awful jam,” confessed Old Bill. “I knew your size but I
forgot to ask Chuck what size he wore so I just got the biggest in the
store.”
Slim found that the boots Old Bill had brought fitted comfortably. Like
the shirt and trousers for Chuck, the boots were from a second hand
store, and as a result were well broken in.
Old Bill’s guess had been good, and Chuck failed to grumble when he
eased his feet into the boots.
“Now we’ll get at the important business,” said the cattleman, producing
a pair of hair clippers.
“Is that necessary?” asked Chuck hopefully.
“We’re going to do this thing right. When I get through with you,
neither one of the hombres who jumped you up near the summit will ever
recognize you.”
Chuck sat down on the grass and Old Bill started snipping away. He
wasn’t expert as a barber, but he managed a fair job which Slim,
grinning at Chuck’s protests, watched.
The new haircut certainly made a difference in Chuck, and Slim felt that
in Old Bill they had a wise counsellor.
After the hair-cutting operation was completed, Old Bill turned to Slim.
“Bring Lightning up and we’ll get at the dyeing of her white spots.” He
opened up a can of dye and mixed it in one of the tin cups, working
until he had the mixture just the shade of Lightning’s sleek hair. Then,
with a soft cloth, he rubbed on the dye while the big sorrel stood
patiently, wondering just what it was all about.
First the star on the forehead was changed from white to sorrel, then
the white on the legs was dyed. When the task was finished, Slim stepped
a few paces from his mount. The dye had blended beautifully with the
natural shade and it would have taken an expert to have detected that
dye had been used.
Slim put the new saddle Old Bill had brought on Lightning, drew up the
cinches, and mounted. He rocked back and forth in the stirrups, then
dismounted and adjusted them. Once more he mounted, this time satisfied,
and a smile broke over his lips.
“I’m all set for whatever we run into in the Creeping Shadows country,”
he said.
“You’ll run into plenty of trouble,” promised Old Bill. “Let’s eat. I’m
half starved.”
Slim fried the trout and half an hour later, with the sun dropping down
behind the Three Soldiers and the twilight coming up out of the Creeping
Shadows, they sat down around the campfire. There was little
conversation during the meal, for to riders of the range food is too
important to mix with idle talk.
The supper over, Slim and Chuck washed up the dishes while Old Bill
stretched out on his blanket and puffed contentedly at his pipe.
“Looks like we’re all set to start in the morning,” said Chuck,
returning to the campfire.
“The earlier the better,” replied Old Bill. “It’s a good day’s jog down
to Dirty Water. That’s the one town in the Creeping Shadows and you’ll
want to hit there first and make a few inquiries about jobs. Course the
only ranch I want you to work on is the Box B, so if some misguided soul
offers you another job, you’ll have to do some quick thinking and get
out of it.”
“What will we say if someone in Dirty Water gets curious and wants to
know how we rode in?” asked Slim.
“Tell ’em the truth. Say you came down the Sky High trail, but don’t say
anything more. No one will recognize you, what with Chuck having a new
haircut and a shirt that doesn’t talk out loud.”
“What about the fellows guarding the trail?” Chuck wanted to know.
“Whoever asks will probably know about the guards and if you tell him
you came down Sky High, it will cause a little trouble for the guards,
which should be all right with you.”
“And we’re not to tell Adam Marks we’re working for you?” asked Slim.
“Not unless it is absolutely necessary. Don’t talk any more than you
have to. The less you say, the better off you’ll be. Just keep your ears
and eyes open.”
Old Bill sat up and drew a leather folder from an inner pocket. From
this he extracted two slips of heavy paper and two small silver emblems.
“When I figured I’d call on you boys to help me solve the mystery of the
Creeping Shadows, I went down to see the governor at Laramie. He’s made
you boys special agents directly under him with authority to act in any
part of the state. These slips of paper are your commissions from the
governor and the little silver shields are your badges. See that no one
gets hold of them or your life won’t be worth the paper those
commissions are written on.”
Slim took the paper and badge Old Bill handed him, and read the
commission which made him a special agent of the state. Then he folded
it carefully and placed it in the bottom of his right boot. Chuck did
likewise and both cowboys fastened the badges on the inside of their
Stetsons where the sweat band would hide them from any observer.
“Those badges mean that the entire law enforcement machinery of this
state is behind you in your quest for the rustlers,” pointed out Old
Bill. “When you learn the truth of what’s going on in the valley, send
for me. If there isn’t time for that, use the power of the law which
those badges give you.”
Slim’s fingers slid inside his hat and he fingered the tiny silver
shield. He hoped that he wouldn’t have to call on the power which the
badge represented.
Shortly after that they rolled into their blankets, for a long ride was
ahead of the young cow punchers with the dawn of the next day.
Chapter Ten
Dirty Water
Breakfast next morning was finished in quick time and they set about
breaking camp. Slim cached his own saddle and under it Chuck placed his
extra clothing.
They brought their mounts up to the camp and saddled them. Slim patted
Lightning affectionately, talking to her as he drew the cinches tight.
“We’re going on another adventure, old girl,” he said softly, “and I’m
counting on you to help me win. If we get in any tight spots, it may be
up to you and your speed. How about it?”
If Lightning didn’t understand the exact words, she sensed that her
master was praising her, and she tossed her head proudly.
Slim looked carefully at the places where Old Bill had applied the dye.
There was no trace of the pigment and to all intents and purposes
Lightning was simply another sorrel. True, she was a little larger and
longer of leg than the average range horse, but not uncommon enough to
attract unusual attention.
Chuck’s new mount was just a plain calico cayuse, a good sturdy horse
with plenty of endurance and a good trail gait.
“Fixed on cash?” asked Old Bill.
“We’re supposed to be broke,” said Chuck.
“Sure enough, but I thought you might need a bit for emergencies.”
“I’ve got enough for that,” said the Circle Four cowboy and Slim added
that he had sufficient cash to carry him along.
The sun was just topping the Cajons when they swung into their saddles
and splashed across the noisy mountain stream. They reached Sky High
trail and took the turn to the left, heading down for the valley. For an
hour they rode steadily with Old Bill in the lead. Then they came to a
fork in the trail and the cattleman halted.
“Here’s where we part. I’m going left and out beyond the Cajons by the
old trail. You boys take the way to the right. It’s a good day’s ride to
Dirty Water and unless I miss my guess, that’s where you’ll find the
rustlers. I’m counting on you boys to turn them up for us. When you need
me you can send a telegram from the railroad station at Mopstick. That’s
outside the valley, but it’s the nearest telegraph office. Good luck.”
Old Bill gave each of them a firm, warm handclasp that conveyed more
than words, swung his horse around sharply, and moved briskly down the
left fork of the trail.
Chuck and Slim watched him until a clump of aspen hid him from view.
Then they spoke to their own horses and turned onto the trail that led
to the Creeping Shadows.
The cowboy detectives rode at a steady pace that ate up miles on the
long down trail into the valley.
Through midday the sun burned down on them unmercifully, but they paused
at noon only long enough to water their horses.
Slim rode in the lead, little spurts of dust leaping up around
Lightning’s hoofs. The Flying Arrow rider kept his head bowed to shield
his face from the burning rays of the sun.
They left the foothills and entered the Creeping Shadows country, a
broad, rolling land that was sheltered between the Cajons on the east
and south and the mighty Three Soldiers range which reared its peaks in
the west.
Streams tumbling down the sides of the ranges converged in the valley
and assured the cattlemen there of plenty of water. There was ample
timber and the grass was lush and long, though now burned badly by the
long drought. It was a cattleman’s paradise and Slim, as he appraised
the worth of the valley, could realize why rustlers would make a bold
bid to steal the possessions of Adam Marks and take the valley for their
own.
Lightning seemed to sense her rider’s thoughts for she paused at the
crest of a knoll as though to give Slim a better chance to view the
country which unfolded before him.
Chuck, his clothes heavy with dust, reined in beside Slim.
“Better ease up a little,” said the Circle Four rider. “This pace is a
little more than my cayuse can stand on a day as hot as this.
“We’ve been hitting it pretty hard,” conceded Slim, “but I wanted to get
to Dirty Water before sundown. Unless I miss my guess the village is
only a couple of miles further.” Slim pointed toward the left, where a
cluster of frame buildings could be seen strewn along the banks of a
stream.
“It may be the Box B,” said Chuck.
“I don’t think so. The Box B is closer to the Three Soldiers. Whatever
it is, we’ll know in a few minutes.”
Slim spoke to Lightning and the magnificent sorrel started down the
slight grade, apparently as fresh and tireless as when they had taken
the trail early in the day.
As they neared the buildings, Slim was convinced that they were
approaching Dirty Water and he wondered just what kind of a reception
was in store for them. Old Bill Needham had said the village was the
headquarters of the rustlers.
Dirty Water was anything but impressive. It was a typical cow town. Most
of the buildings were unpainted, their cracked boards burned a dead gray
by the heat of summer and the chill blasts of winter.
Slim and Chuck pulled up on their side of the creek and surveyed the
town with critical eyes. There was only one street, the buildings
fronting along the creek and set back about fifty yards from the edge of
the stream. Many of the frame structures had false fronts, giving them
the appearance of two story buildings. There were not more than fifteen
or sixteen buildings in Dirty Water.
“Wonder where the town got its name?” mused Chuck, looking down at the
stream which flowed in front of them. It was clear and blue--the blue of
waters from the high peaks of the Three Soldiers. “It couldn’t have been
from this creek.”
“I’ll leave that information for you to dig out,” grinned Slim. “Come
on. I’m hungry, tired and dirty. There’s one place over there that
claims to be a hotel.”
They forded the stream and their horses mounted the sloping bank to the
main street. Half way down the row of buildings a two-story structure
reared its head. A faded sign proclaimed “Palace Hotel” and to the rear
was a rambling stable and large corral.
In spite of their own weariness from the long, hot day in the saddle,
their horses came first.
A hostler appeared from the shadows of the stable as they dismounted and
Slim turned Lightning over to his care.
“How much for the horses?” asked Chuck.
“Going to stay at the hotel?” asked the stableman.
“Yes,” Chuck nodded.
“Half a dollar for each horse then.”
The price was fair enough and Slim and Chuck unfastened their saddles
and rifle scabbards. They were taking no risks on the honesty of anyone
at Dirty Water. The hostler looked at Lightning with open admiration.
“Fine looking horse,” he said. “Must be mighty fast.”
“Fair,” agreed Slim, “but getting a little old to keep up a hard trail
gait very long. See that she’s given the best of care.”
The cowboys picked up their duffel and headed toward the hotel.
“What was the idea telling the hostler Lightning was old and losing her
speed?” asked Chuck.
“There’s just a chance we may find our lives depending on Lightning’s
speed and there’s no use in tipping off anyone how fast she really can
run when I give her a chance.”
“In other words, we’ll sit tight and let the other fellows do the
talking while we’re here,” grinned Chuck.
“Exactly. I’m hungry. Let’s hope the hotel doesn’t live up to the name
of the town.”
They clumped across the narrow stoop in front of the hotel and entered
the small room which served as a lobby. A fat, bald-headed man who had
been swatting flies looked around from behind the counter.
“Bed and board?” he asked.
“Providing there’s no bugs in either one,” said Chuck.
The fat man’s face turned red and he sputtered furiously.
“Tha--, tha--, that’s an insult to the Palace Hotel,” he finally managed
to say. “I never yet been accused of harboring a bed bug in my place.”
“No offense meant,” grinned Chuck. “I was just being cautious.”
The hotel man shoved a well thumbed ledger across the counter. A rusty
pen and half empty bottle of ink followed.
“Sign your monickers here,” he said, indicating several blank spaces
near the bottom of the page.
Slim picked up the pen and looked at the names which had been signed
before him. According to the register, the last guest, Maxie Denkman,
had visited the hotel three months before. Slim looked again at the name
on the register. “Maxie,” the name clicked. It was the one the riders on
the Sky High trail had mentioned as the man he had shot in the fight
near the summit when Chuck had been ambushed. Here indeed was a clue to
the mystery of the rustling in the Creeping Shadows. It might be worth
only a little, but Slim carefully cataloged it in his mind for future
reference.
“Not much travel through here,” he said, pointing to the name which had
been placed on the book three months before.
“Not enough,” grunted the hotel keeper. “Still, with the riders coming
in off the range, I manage to get along.”
“Country seems right healthy,” said Chuck, glancing through the
dust-fogged windows toward the broad expanse of the valley.
“Some inquisitive people have been known to have a touch of lead
poisoning,” said the hotel man sharply.
Slim signed his name and handed the pen to Chuck. The Flying Arrow rider
scratched his name with gusto and felt sure that no one would be able to
read the scrawl.
“You fellers didn’t put down your addresses,” said their host.
Slim looked at him calmly, yet when he spoke his voice was low.
“That,” he said, “is none of your business.” The hotel keeper decided
that as far as he was concerned the newcomers could be only one jump
ahead of a sheriff.
He handed a key over the counter. “Your room’s No. 3 on the left side as
you go down the hall.”
Slim and Chuck picked up their saddles and ascended the stairs. The
hallway was narrow, hot, and poorly lighted, but they found the door of
their own room.
The room was furnished in the usual fashion of a cow country hotel. The
bed was of cast iron, the other furnishings being two straight-backed
chairs and a wash stand that stood at a crazy angle. The mirror above
it, like the windows, had not been cleaned in months and there was a
smell of mustiness about the room.
Slim threw open the one window and a light breeze from the east riffled
the remnants of what had once been a curtain.
Chuck tested the bed.
“Not bad,” he said, “and the sheets are clean.”
There was no water in the pitcher on the washstand but the portly keeper
of the hostelry appeared with a bucketful.
“Wasn’t looking for any business today,” he said as he filled the water
pitcher. “Here’s a towel, too. Supper will be ready in about fifteen
minutes.”
He paused at the door.
“Anything you need?” he asked.
“Solitude,” said Chuck.
The door slammed hard behind the retreating figure.
Slim laughed and then sobered as he turned to Chuck.
“You’re deliberately stirring that old chap up,” he said. “What’s the
idea?”
“Nothing special. I just don’t like his looks. Maybe I can worry a
little of the excess fat off him.”
“If you keep up at the rate you started, he’ll be a skeleton by tomorrow
morning.”
They washed the grime of the day’s ride off and Slim surveyed the
washbowl with distaste.
“It’s easy to see where they got the name ‘Dirty Water’ for this town.”
The clang of a bell sounded below and shortly after footsteps thudded
heavily on the stoop.
“We’d better get down there ahead of the army,” said Chuck, throwing
open the door of their own room and starting down the stairs. Slim
followed, but at a more leisurely pace. He had heard someone moving
about in the next room and he was curious to know what their neighbor
looked like. The door opened and a man, dressed in typical cowboy
attire, stepped into the hall. His right arm was in a sling. There was
scarcely enough light to see his features clearly in the dusk of the
hall, but Slim felt certain that the man was Maxie Denkman, who had
registered three months before. He was also the Maxie he had wounded on
the Sky High trail.
“Pretty hot today,” said Slim as the other man approached.
“Yeh, a little warm. I guess I saw you riding in a while ago.”
They were at the head of the stairs where the light was better and Slim
saw that the other man was watching him keenly. His eyes shifted down to
the gun, which swung at Slim’s right hip. Then they jerked back again.
“Going to stay in this country long?” Slim thought there was just a
tinge too much anxiety in the tone.
“Hard to say. My pardner and I are just drifting, trying to find a good
outfit to tie up with.”
“Then you won’t hang around here long. Cattle business in the valley is
in a bad way. I hear lots of talk about rustlers, but I guess it’s poor
management more than anything.”
“We’re willing to work cheap if the outfit looks like it will come
through,” said Slim.
They reached the bottom of the stairs and turned into the dining room.
Half a dozen men were already seated at the one table and the food was
disappearing at a rapid rate.
Chuck had his own plate heaped high and Slim soon had his filled with
food. There was little conversation. That would come later when
appetites were satisfied and they sat back and waited for the pie to be
brought on.
The man Slim had met in the hall was making slow work of his supper, for
he was greatly handicapped with the use of only his left hand. He paused
and looked at Slim.
“Don’t believe I know your name or did I miss it coming downstairs?”
“I didn’t mention it. Name’s Evans, Slim Evans. My pardner’s Chuck
Meade.”
“Glad to know you. I’m Maxie Denkman. Meet the rest of the outfit here.”
He turned to his left and introduced the group at the table. There was
Pike Carberry, who ran the general store, and his clerk, Jim Ferris, who
also did the barbering for the whole valley. Next was Leo Kovec, whose
star on his vest proclaimed him to be the marshal and beyond him sat
Newt Bemis, whom Denkman introduced as an assistant cattle buyer. The
man at the end of the table drew Slim’s attention. He was well groomed
in spite in the heat of the day, immaculately shaved, and his linen was
fresh and white. His dark hair was slightly curly and he had a pleasant
smile.
“I’ll introduce myself,” he said. “I’m Hal Titzell, cattle buyer.”
“Glad to know you,” said Slim, and Chuck echoed the words. Just then the
pie was placed on the table and conversation died.
Between mouthfuls of pie, Slim mentally gauged the group at the table.
Pike Carberry, genial, white-haired and sixty, was just what he appeared
to be--the town storekeeper. Jim Ferris, slightly bald and about
thirty-five, was talkative.
Leo Kovec, the marshal, was about forty, heavy of face and figure and
Slim put him down as mentally slow, although he might be the local agent
of the rustlers.