scar disfigured the right cheek. The brand, “Gunman,” was written all
over him and for that reason Slim put him down as both interesting and
dangerous. He was also the Newt who had tried to bushwhack Chuck on the
trail.
Maxie Denkman, in introducing the others, had failed to mention his own
business, but Slim knew he was allied with the rustlers.
The last man and the hardest of them all to catalog was Hal Titzell. He
might be thirty-five and again he might be almost fifty. His skin was a
clear tan, and his hands and fingernails much better kept than the
average. He might be a cattle buyer, but Slim also put him down as a
gambler, a man of rare courage and ability, which also meant an
exceedingly dangerous man.
The pie finished, the group pushed their chairs away from the table and
went to the stoop, where a dozen chairs were ranged along the wall of
the hotel.
The sun had dropped behind the Three Soldiers and shadows were
thickening. Titzell sat down beside Slim and pointed across the valley.
“Watch the shadows and you’ll see why this country is known as the
Creeping Shadows.”
The shadows from the foothills of the Three Soldiers were extending
further into the valley in a steady, visible movement. They were alive,
creeping out and out until the entire basin was folded in their
softness. Hard behind them came the deeper cloak of the night. Down the
street a light flared in the window of Pike Carberry’s general store and
further along raucous voices sounded in the Elite Pool Hall. Several
horses splashed across the creek and their riders disappeared inside the
portals of the pool hall.
“Quiet night,” said Titzell. “Things liven up Saturdays when the boys
come in off the range.”
“You must get around the country quite a bit. Maybe you know where
they’re needing help.”
“Most of the outfits are cutting down instead of adding men on the
payroll,” said Titzell smoothly. “The Box B, Adam Marks’ outfit, claims
to be having trouble with rustlers, so you might get on with him but it
would be a chance I wouldn’t want to take if what Adam says is true.”
Slim wondered if Titzell was giving him a friendly warning or trying to
scare him.
“I didn’t figure there was much rustling being done these days,” said
Slim.
“All I know is the talk that’s current in the valley. Adam claims he’s
being stolen blind and of course that makes all of the other ranchers
touchy. They think he’s accusing them of being cattle thieves because
Adam has the biggest outfit.”
“It looks like good cattle country.”
“There’s none better in the world,” said Titzell softly. “It would be a
prize worth risking your life to get. Adam Marks once had the chance to
control the whole valley, but he’s getting older and losing his grip.
The man who succeeds the Box B can run this little cattle empire about
as he desires.”
“Unless,” thought Slim to himself, “he happens to be an ambitious
rustler and runs up against the law.”
Chuck, who had been making a tour of the town, returned and dropped into
a chair beside Slim. It was quiet and peaceful, a far cry from the
bitter cattle war which Old Bill Needham had told them was raging in the
valley. They talked for another half hour with Titzell and were about to
go up to their room when the sound of wildly drumming hoofs came from
across the creek.
“Someone’s coming mighty fast,” said Titzell, half rising from his chair
and shielding his eyes in an attempt to peer into the darkness beyond
the creek.
“Two horses,” said Chuck, adding quickly, “they’re pulling a wagon of
some kind.”
“Must be from one of the ranches, then,” put in Titzell. The cattle
buyer stood up and hurried down toward the creek. Slim and Chuck
followed.
Out of the night lurched a lather-covered team, a spring wagon careening
behind them. The horses fairly leaped the stream and started a mad dash
up the bank.
Chuck without waiting to learn who was in the wagon or what was
happening, hurled himself at the team, grasping the bit of the horse on
the left. The Circle Four cowboy was lifted from his feet by the wild
charge of the horses, but he came down with his legs in motion and
dragging hard on the bit. It was 195 pounds of bone and muscle against a
tired team, and Chuck soon won, the horses slowing down to a walk. They
came to a halt in front of the hotel where the feeble light from the
lamp in the main room cast its rays over the wagon, where a man was
huddled on the seat.
Hal Titzell vaulted into the wagon and lifted the man’s face.
“It’s Adam Marks,” he cried. “He’s been shot.”
The words drummed into Slim’s brain. Adam Marks, owner of the Box B and
the man they had come to help, had been shot! The rustlers were striking
out boldly, bidding for a quick finish in their fight to ruin the
rancher and win control of his rich grazing lands.
Chapter Eleven
Slim Rides Alone
Slim vaulted over the wheel and into the wagon. He picked up the body of
the rancher and passed the inert form down to Chuck. The news of the
runaway spread rapidly and a crowd was gathering. Hal Titzell shouted
for the doctor and the only physician in the entire valley, “Doc”
Baldridge, appeared in the doorway of his office, a half block down the
street from the Palace Hotel.
“Bring him over here,” he called.
Chuck, carrying the unconscious rancher, hurried to the physician’s
office where he placed Adam Marks on the old cot. The white hair of the
cattleman was streaked with dried blood and his breathing was slow and
irregular.
“Looks bad,” said Hal Titzell, shaking his head.
Slim was watching the doctor, now working over his patient with
practiced hands. He called for hot water from the hotel and a bystander
hurried away to return shortly with a steaming kettle of water.
There was nothing Slim and Chuck could do in the doctor’s office and
they stepped outside.
“I’ll see that the team’s cared for,” said Chuck, leading the exhausted
animals back toward the stable.
Slim, leaning against the hitching rail in front of the doctor’s office,
stared into the blackness across Stony creek, wondering what secret it
held of the attack which had struck down the cattleman. Chuck returned
presently and they conversed in low tones.
“I found his rifle and revolver in the bottom of the wagon,” said Chuck.
“The six gun must have fallen out of his holster. Neither one had been
fired, which means he was ambushed.”
“I expected as much. The gang we’re up against doesn’t give a man a
chance.”
Slim paused suddenly. Hal Titzell emerged from the doctor’s office.
“What’s the news?” asked Chuck.
“A little too early to say definitely,” replied the cattle buyer.
“Adam’s been creased pretty deeply by a rifle bullet along the right
side of his head. Doc thinks he may pull through but it’s going to be
tough going.”
“Maybe we ought to ride outside and get a better doctor,” suggested
Chuck, who had little faith in Dirty Water or anyone connected with it.
“No need to do that,” assured Titzell. “Doc Baldridge may not look like
much, but when it comes to fixing up gunshot wounds he’s a marvel.”
It was evident that it would be a good many hours before Adam Marks
regained consciousness and could tell what had happened, so the small
group gradually dispersed leaving Slim and Chuck.
“You’d better roll in,” said Slim. “I’m going to hang around until I can
find what’s happened.”
“All night?”
“If necessary. If the fellow that wounded him finds he didn’t do a
thorough job, he may decide to sneak back and finish him.”
Chuck whistled softly. “That’s an idea. Tell you what. I’ll turn in for
a few hours and then come down around two and relieve you.”
Chuck went to the hotel and Slim re-entered the doctor’s office. Doc
Baldridge had drawn a chair up beside a table on which a kerosene lamp
burned softly. On the cot across the room was the motionless form of the
owner of the Box B.
“One of Adam’s riders?” asked the doctor.
“Nope. Just drifting and looking for a job. I’d kind of hoped to get on
with the Box B.”
Doc Baldridge laid down his book and stared thoughtfully at Slim over
his spectacles.
“Don’t be a fool,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“Just what I said. It’s doggoned near fatal to start riding for the Box
B these days. Look what happened to the owner of the outfit.” He jerked
his thumb toward the rancher.
“If the pay’s good, I’m willing to take the chance,” grinned Slim. “I’ll
just stick around and when he comes to he may be crazy enough to hire me
and my pardner.”
Doc Baldridge resumed his reading and Slim sat down beside the wounded
man to begin what might be an all night vigil.
Hal Titzell looked in an hour later.
“You must want a job,” he said to Slim.
“I’m going to get one if patience will bring it,” grinned the Flying
Arrow puncher.
“Maybe I could find something for you to do,” suggested Titzell.
“Thanks. If this doesn’t pan out, I may be around.”
The cattle buyer left and Doc Baldridge, without looking up from his
book, spoke softly.
“Keep away from Titzell. He’s poison.”
Slim smiled and gave no sign that he had heard the warning from the
doctor. He had already put the suave Titzell down as a dangerous man.
It was nearly one o’clock when Adam Marks opened his eyes. His fever had
dropped and his mind seemed clear. Slim spoke to the doctor, who shut
his book and went to the cot.
“How about it, doc?” asked the cattleman.
“You’re too tough for one rifle bullet to kill,” replied the doctor,
“but you’re going to be laid up for a few days. What happened?”
“Bushwhacked,” was the slow reply. “It was almost dark and just at the
mouth of Wolf coulee. The first shot missed me. I started for my gun but
the second one got me. How’d I get here?”
“The team brought you in. They must have run all of the way. Good thing
they did.”
“This will leave the boys at the ranch in a tough spot,” said Marks.
“Maybe you could use a couple of extra hands,” said Slim hopefully.
“I could if they were good, honest men.”
“I’m one of them and I’ll vouch for my pardner. I’m off the Flying Arrow
and he’s from the Circle Four. We want work.”
“There’s more than work at my ranch. There’s apt to be fighting soon.
I’m being stolen blind and the day I catch up with the rustlers there’s
going to be bloodshed.”
“I’ll work and fight for an honest boss.”
The cattleman seemed to be mulling something over in his mind. Then he
asked, “You say you’re off the Flying Arrow?”
Slim nodded.
“Fellow named Evans used to own that outfit. Maybe you know him.”
“My name’s Evans. I’m his son.”
Marks’ eyes twinkled beneath the heavy bandage.
“Then you’re hired and so is your friend. I wish I could get a dozen
more like you.”
“I don’t think you’ll need a dozen more,” said Slim quietly. “I’ll start
for the ranch now and my pardner will come down and stay with you. When
he thinks it’s safe to leave you, give him any orders you have and he’ll
ride out.”
“Joe Haines is my riding boss. Tell Joe I sent you. I’ve only got four
men now. Others have either been shot up or scared away, but I guess you
won’t scare.”
“I don’t like to run,” grinned Slim.
The Flying Arrow rider left the doctor’s office and hurried to the
hotel. A dim light was burning in the lobby, but there was no one about.
He shook Chuck out of a deep sleep and informed him that they were on
the payroll of the Box B.
“Have any trouble getting on?” asked Chuck.
“Not a bit. I told him where I was from and he’s heard of Dad. I’m
starting for the ranch now. You stay here and keep watch on Marks. He’ll
be safe enough in the day time but don’t let him out of your sight at
night.”
Chuck pulled on his clothes, examined his six gun and rifle, and
prepared to take up his vigil at the doctor’s office.
The cowboy detectives parted outside the hotel.
“Watch your step,” cautioned Chuck. “I don’t want to see you brought
into Doc Baldridge’s office with a hole through you.”
“I’ll be careful,” promised Slim.
The Flying Arrow rider wakened the stableman and inquired the way to the
Box B.
“It’s a nine mile trip, but the trail’s clear. You’ll strike it just
across the creek.”
Slim’s low whistle brought Lightning out of the corral and he saddled
and bridled the mare with expert hands. He slipped his rifle into the
scabbard on the saddle and swung silently into the stirrups.
Dirty Water appeared asleep with only the dim light in the hotel and the
glow from the windows of Doc Baldridge’s trying to penetrate the
blackness of the night. It was the hour just before the dawn when Slim
set out for the Box B.
Chapter Twelve
War Declared
Dawn had broken over the crests of the Cajons and smoke was curling
above the cookhouse when Slim rode down on the Box B. The ranch
buildings were set almost in the shadows of the Three Soldiers, the
towering peaks looming above the huddled structures at their feet.
The foothills rose some miles behind the ranch, but the buildings
themselves were in a broad, rich valley. A fringe of cottonwoods growing
rank along a creek protected the layout from the winter winds which
swept down from the north.
The ranch house, a rambling frame structure, had once been painted gray,
but wind and rain had worn this to a sickly hue. The other buildings,
including the bunkhouse, the cookhouse, and the blacksmith shop, were
unpainted, their boards warped and burned by the sun.
A large corral was just below the buildings with a score of horses
inside. Beyond was a rich meadow through which the creek wandered, and
the grass there was thick and green. Stacks of hay, cut for winter use,
were ranged along one side. It was an ideal layout and Slim could
understand the pride of Adam Marks in the Box B and its rich, rolling
miles of range land. He could understand, with the spirit of a true
cowman, how a man would fight to the end to retain his possessions in
this last stand of the cattle frontier.
Slim spoke to Lightning and the sorrel quickened her pace. As he rode
past the pole corral, men poured out of the bunkhouse to watch his
approach.
Slim pulled Lightning up several rods from the bunkhouse and surveyed
the Box B riders with a cool eye. It was easy to pick out Joe Haines,
the foreman. He was a typical cowboy, head slightly bald as though
singed by too much exposure to the sun and face as brown as saddle
leather. He could claim any age from forty to fifty, and Slim would have
been willing to guess that he was closer to fifty. The others were
younger, but he noticed that every one of them carried guns and
well-filled cartridge belts.
“I’m looking for Joe Haines,” said Slim. “I have news for him.”
“You’re looking at him,” said the foreman, stepping forward.
Slim leaned over in his saddle and looked into the foreman’s eyes.
“Your boss was shot last night,” he said.
“What’s that?” demanded Joe, stunned by the words.
“Adam Marks was shot last night. His team brought him to Dirty Water and
Doc Baldridge patched him up.”
“How bad was he hurt?” a younger cowboy edged forward with this
question.
“A rifle ball creased one side of his forehead. He was unconscious for a
while, but Doc thinks he’ll pull through.”
“Where did it happen?” asked Haines, hitching his gun belt forward.
“Marks said it was at the mouth of Wolf coulee, wherever that is.”
Joe Haines nodded.
“That’s a bad place. Come on, boys. We’re riding for Dirty Water.”
Slim spoke quickly.
“Just a minute. I had a talk with your boss before I left town. He wants
you to stick at the ranch and watch the cattle. Maybe this is just a
ruse to get you all away so the rustlers can clean out the place.”
Pausing, the foreman turned back toward Slim. “Who in thunder are you?”
he asked.
“Name’s Evans--Slim Evans. I’ve been riding over on the Flying Arrow.
Been hired and told to report to you for work. My pardner, Chuck Meade,
is staying in Dirty Water and he’s camped right beside your boss, so you
won’t need to worry about anything happening to him there.”
“How do I know you’re telling a straight story?” countered the range
boss.
“You’ve got my word for it and people don’t question my word,” said Slim
quietly. He straightened up in his saddle and his right hand slipped
along his leg.
Joe Haines saw the move and a broad smile covered his homely features.
“No offense meant, cowboy, but we’ve had so much trouble I’m just
naturally suspicious of everyone who comes along. We’ll take your word.
Better turn your horse loose. Breakfast will be ready in a few minutes.”
Slim rode down to the corral, pulled his saddle off Lightning and turned
the sorrel loose. There was plenty of water and feed in the corral and,
satisfied that his horse was all right, Slim returned to the bunkhouse
where the cowboys were finishing their morning toilets under the pump.
“Meet the gang, or what’s left of them,” said Haines. “Here’s Pat Beals,
Doug Huston and Walt Kelly.”
Slim shook hands with the outfit as the breakfast bell clanged. A
Chinese cook, Lee Wu, brought steaming bowls of breakfast food, a
pitcher of black coffee, and then stacks of cakes and bacon. There was
little conversation as the cowboys stowed away enough food to carry them
through the day if need be.
Slim made a survey of his companions while they were eating. Pat Beals
and Walt Kelly were only a little older than himself and there was a
reckless glint in their eyes. Doug Huston was sandy-haired and Slim put
him down as probably thirty. His left eyelid drooped slightly and he
seemed to be continually squinting. He was the least likeable of the
group and Slim felt that he could not be trusted altogether.
Breakfast over, they gathered outside the cook house and Joe Haines
issued orders for the day.
“Pat, you and Doug ride along the west range and see how those cattle
along Stony creek are faring. Walt can trail over north and see if
everything is all right toward the Double O. I’ll take Evans and ride
down to Wolf coulee and see what happened there last night.”
They started for the corral, Slim and the range boss walking together.
“Your horse fit for a full day?” asked Haines.
“She’ll be all right,” smiled Slim as he thought of Lightning’s
wonderful endurance. There was no need to tell anyone of the
capabilities of his horse.
While the others had to rope their mounts to separate them from the
milling string of horses in the corral, Slim only whistled once and
Lightning responded instantly.
“My gosh!” exclaimed Pat Beals enviously. “You must have a circus horse.
I can yell my head off and I can’t get any of my mounts to come near
me.”
“Maybe they don’t like your voice,” suggested Walt Kelly, who had just
finished a battle with a calico cayuse and was badly winded.
They swung into their saddles and started out on the day’s ride, Pat and
Doug heading west to ride along the headwaters of Stony creek, Walt
riding north toward the range of the Double O and Slim and the foreman
backtracking along the trail to Dirty Water.
Joe Haines was openly admiring Lightning.
“Quite a horse,” he said. “Must be fast?”
“She can go places,” grinned Slim, but he did not encourage the
conversation along that line.
“Have any trouble getting into the Creeping Shadows country?” asked the
foreman.
“Why?”
“Rustling’s bad here and we’d heard that the gang doing most of the
dirty work had plugged up every trail coming in and were getting ready
for a final clean-up.”
“I haven’t been here long enough to find out what’s going on,” said
Slim, which was partly true. “If rustling is bad, why not appeal to the
peace officers?”
The foreman snorted. “The sheriff’s on the other side of the Three
Soldiers and he’s either been bought off or is scared to death.”
“How about the marshal at Dirty Water?”
Haines laughed bitterly. “Kovec’s nothing but a tool for the rustlers.
It’s a wonder you ever got out here alive.”
“I left when the town was asleep,” grinned Slim.
“That town never sleeps. It’s bad from top to bottom and Hal Titzell is
one of the worst of them. He rides all over the country but I never
heard of him ever buying any stock to amount to anything and Maxie
Denkman and Newt Bemis, who say they’re helping him, are nothing but
hired gunmen.”
“Maxie isn’t feeling so well,” said Slim.
“How come?”
“Well, from what I gather, Maxie and his friend Newt must have tried to
stop a couple of cowboys from riding into the valley. Seems as though
they picked the wrong targets and Maxie got a bullet through his arm.”
“You wouldn’t know who shot at Maxie, would you?” Haines asked, a broad
grin wrinkling his face.
“I might,” smiled Slim, “and then again I might not. I’ve got a bad
memory.”
“I think we’re going to get along fine,” said the foreman, “and I’m only
hoping that pardner of yours is the right kind of a hombre.”
“Don’t worry about him. He’s as steady as they make them and a dead shot
with a rifle.”
“Then I’m starting to take heart again. For a while it looked like we
would be cleaned out, but with a couple of good riders who’ve got plenty
of nerve and aren’t afraid of a struggle, we’ll fight this gang of
rustlers to the end.”
Chapter Thirteen
Fading Trails
The ride to the mouth of Wolf coulee was uneventful and the sun was
swinging high above the Cajons when they reached the scene where the
owner of the Box B had been ambushed the night before.
The mouth of Wolf coulee was broad with the trail from the ranch to
Dirty Water down the center of the draw. An outcropping of rock thrust
its way into the coulee from the right and it was obvious that from the
shelter of the rock the gunman had fired at Adam Marks.
The riders slipped from their saddles and picked their way carefully
over the broken ground, Slim taking the lead.
“It must have been almost dark when it happened,” said Slim, “for it was
some time after nightfall when the horses came galloping into Dirty
Water.”
The foreman nodded. “He left the ranch half an hour before sunset and
packing quite a roll of cash with him.”
“I didn’t see any cash when he was brought into the doctor’s office.”
“Probably not. The rustlers must have reached him after they had wounded
him and taken the money. Adam was afraid to keep the money on the ranch
and he was going to go around Dirty Water and drive all night to get to
Mopstick where he could catch a train and take the money to the bank at
Brighton.”
“If the money was in your boss’s clothes when he reached the doctor’s
office, it’s safe, for Chuck’s on the job,” said Slim.
There was a warning whir of rattles and Joe Haines called out sharply.
Slim leaped backward, his gun spouting flame. Two shots echoed across
the coulee and the body of the rattler slipped off the rock.
The foreman looked incredulously at Slim.
“Where you carrying your gun, in your hand?” he asked.
“No,” replied Slim, feeding fresh shells into the six gun and sliding
the weapon back into his holster.
Joe Haines asked no further question but in his own mind he cataloged
Slim as the fastest man he had ever seen with a gun. The weapon had been
drawn with a skill so fast and smooth that it defied the eye. It was
almost like magic, the sweep of that long arm and the accurate spurt of
the weapon.
“Here’s where our bushwhacker made himself comfortable,” said Slim,
pointing behind a rock where a half dozen cigarette butts were strewn.
He leaned down and picked up an exploded rifle shell. Turning it over
slowly in his fingers, he looked at the mark of the firing pin on the
base. Then he slipped the copper cartridge into an inner pocket. It
might come in handy later.
A few rods further back they found where the gunman’s horse had been
tethered and there was evidence written in the dust there that the rider
had mounted in great haste.
“He must have been afraid someone had overheard the shot and was coming
after him. He sure tore out of here,” said Joe Haines.
“Maybe he started out to overtake Adam Marks and get the money,” said
Slim.
“By golly, I’ll bet you’re right! We’ll get our horses and follow this
trail.”
Slim’s hunch was correct, and a short distance further the tracks left
by the lone rider merged into the dust of the main trail to Dirty Water.
The gunman had been riding hard, but the team, spurred on by an unknown
fear, had been too fast for him.
A mile and a half along the road to Dirty Water the trail of the
solitary rider swung to the right toward the Three Soldiers.
“Want to follow it?” asked Slim.
“I’m more anxious about the money. That trail won’t cool off for a few
hours. We’re riding to Dirty Water.”
It was mid morning when they reached the cow town. They splashed across
Stony creek and tied their horses to the rail in front of Doc
Baldridge’s office. Chuck emerged from the interior and Slim noticed
that he was careful to keep his rifle in his hands.
“Anything happen?” he asked anxiously.