CHAPTER XXVI—KEATS FINDS “SQUINT”

Looking back after he had been riding for some minutes, Bud saw a

dozen or more horses break from the group of Arrow buildings and come

racing toward him, spreading out fanwise.

“They’ve seen me!” breathed Bud, and he leaned over King’s shoulders

and spoke to him. The animal responded with a burst of speed that

brought a smile to Bud’s face. For the puncher knew that Taylor and

Norton couldn’t have traveled more than a few miles in the short time

that had passed since their departure; and he knew also that in a

short run—of a dozen miles or so—there wasn’t a horse in the Dawes

section that could catch King, barring, of course, Spotted Tail, the

real king of range horses.

And so Bud bent eagerly to his work, not riding erect in the saddle as

is the fashion of the experienced cow-puncher in an unfamiliar

country, where pitfalls, breaks, draws, hidden gullies, and weed-grown

barrancas provide hazards that might bring disaster. Bud knew this

section of the country as well as he knew the interior of the

bunkhouse, and with his knowledge came a confidence that nothing would

happen to him or King, except possibly a slip into a gopher hole.

And Bud kept scanning the country far enough ahead to keep King from

running into a gopher town. He swung the animal wide in passing

them—for he knew it was the habit of these denizens of the plains to

extend their habitat—some venturesome and independent spirits straying

far from the huddle and congestion of the multitude.

Bud looked back many times during the first two miles, and he saw that

Keats and his men were losing ground; their horses could not keep the

pace set by the big bay flier under Bud.

And King was not going as he could go when the necessity arrived. This

ride was a frolic for the big bay, and yet Bud knew he must not force

him, that he must conserve his wind, for if Taylor and Norton had

yielded to a whim to hurry, even King would need all his speed and

endurance to hang on. For the sorrel that had accompanied Spotted Tail

was not so greatly inferior to King that the latter could take

liberties with him.

Bud gloated as he looked back after he had covered another mile. Keats

and his men were still losing ground, though they were not so very far

back, either—Bud could almost see the faces of the men. But that, Bud

knew, was due to the marvelous clarity of the atmosphere.

When the sides of the big hills surrounding the level began to sweep

inward rapidly, Bud knew that the grass level was coming to an end,

and that presently he would strike a long stretch of broken country.

Beyond that was a big valley, rich and fertile, in which, according to

report, the Arrow herd should be grazing, guarded by the men of the

outfit, under Bothwell. But Kelso Basin was still nine or ten miles

distant, and Bud did not yet dare to let the big bay horse run his

best.

Still, when they flashed by a huge promontory that stood sentinel-like

above the waters of the river—a spot well remembered by Bud, because

many times while on day duty he had lain prone on its top smoking and

dreaming—King was running as lightly as a leaf before the hurricane.

King had entered the section of broken country, with its beds of rock

and lava, and huge boulders strewn here and there, relics of gigantic

upheavals when the earth was young; and Bud was skilfully directing

King to the stretches of smooth level that he found here and there,

when far ahead he saw Taylor and Norton.

In ten minutes he was within hailing distance, and he grinned widely

when, hearing him, they pulled their horses to a halt and, wheeling,

faced him.

For Bud saw that they had reached a spot which would make an admirable

defensive position, should Taylor decide to resist Keats. The hills,

in their gradual inward sweep, were close together, so that their

crests seemed to nod to one another. And a little farther down, Bud

knew, they formed a gorge, which still farther on merged into a cañon.

It was an ideal position for a stand—if Taylor would stand and not run

for it; and he rather thought Taylor would not run.

Taylor had ridden toward Bud, and was a hundred feet in advance of

Norton when Bud pulled King to a halt, shouting:

“Keats and a dozen men are right behind me—a mile; mebbe two! He’s got

a warrant for you, chargin’ you with murderin’ Larry Harlan! I heard

one of his scum sayin’ it was to be a clean-up!”

Taylor laughed; he did not seem to be at all interested in Keats or

his men, who at that instant were riding at a pace that was likely to

kill their horses, should they be forced to maintain it.

“Who accused me of murdering Harlan?”

“Keats didn’t say. But I heard a guy sayin’ that Carrington was

wantin’ Keats to take you dead!”

The cold gleam in Taylor’s eyes and the slight, stiff grin that

wreathed his lips, indicated that he had determined that Keats would

have to kill him before taking him.

“A dozen of them, eh?” he said, looking from Bud to Norton

deliberately. “Well, that’s a bunch for three men to fight, but it

isn’t enough to run from. We’ll stay here and have it out with them.

That is,” he added with a quick, quizzical look at the two men, “if

one of you is determined to stay.”

“One of us?” flared Bud. He gazed hard at Norton, with suspicion and

belligerence in his glance. Norton flushed at the look. “I reckon

we’ll both be in at the finish,” added Bud.

“Only one,” declared Taylor. “We might hold a dozen men off here for a

good many hours. But if they were wise and patient they’d get us. One

man will light out for Kelso Basin to get the outfit. Settle it

between you, but be quick about it!”

Taylor swung down from his horse, led the animal out of sight behind a

jutting crag into a sort of pocket in the side of the gorge, where

there would be no danger of the magnificent beast being struck by a

bullet. Taylor pulled his rifle from its saddle-sheath, examined the

mechanism, looked at his pistols, and then returned to where Bud

Hemmingway and Neil Norton sat on their horses.

Bud’s face was flushed and Norton was grinning. And at just the

instant Taylor came in sight of them Norton was saying:

“Well, if you insist, I suppose I shall have to go to Kelso. There

isn’t time to argue.”

Norton wheeled his horse, and, with a quick grin at Taylor, sent the

animal clattering down the gorge.

Bud’s grin at Taylor was pregnant with guilt.

“Norton didn’t want me to stay. There’s lots of stubborn cusses in the

world—now, ain’t they?”

Taylor’s answering smile showed that he understood.

“Get King back here with Spotted Tail, Bud!” he directed. “And take

that pile of rocks for cover. They’re coming!”

By the time Bud did as he had been bidden, and was crouching behind a

huge mound of broken rock on the north side of the gorge, Taylor on

the southern side, with a twenty-foot passage on the comparatively

level floor of the gorge between them, and an uninterrupted sweep of

narrow level in front of them, except for here and there a jutting

rock or a boulder, they saw Keats and his men just entering the

stretch of broken country.

The horses of the pursuing outfit were doing their best. They came on

over the stretch of treacherous trail, laboring, pounding and

clattering; singly sometimes, two and three abreast where there was

room, keeping well together, their riders urging them with quirt and

spur. For far back on the trail they had lost sight of Bud, though

Keats had remembered that Bud had said Taylor had gone to Kelso Basin,

and therefore Keats knew he was on the right trail.

However, he did not want to let Bud get to Kelso before him to warn

the Arrow outfit; for that would mean a desperate battle with a force

equal in numbers to his own. Keats fought best when the advantages

were with him, and he knew his men were similarly constituted. And so

he was riding as hard as he dared, hoping that something would happen

to Bud’s horse—that the animal might become winded or fall. A man

could not tell what _might_ happen in a pursuit of this character.

But the thing that _did_ happen had not figured in Keats’s lurid

conjectures at all. That was why, when he heard Taylor’s quick

challenge, he pulled his horse up sharply, so that the animal slipped

several feet and came to a halt sidewise.

Keats’s unexpected halt brought confusion to his followers. A dozen of

them, crowding Keats hard, and not noticing their leader’s halt in

time, rode straight against him, their horses jamming the narrow

gorge, kicking, snorting and squealing in a disordered and

uncontrollable mass.

When the tangle had been magically undone—the magic being Taylor’s

voice again, burdened with sarcasm bearing upon their excitement—Keats

found himself nearest the nest of rocks from behind which Taylor’s

voice seemed to come.

The jutting crag behind which Taylor had concealed his horse, and

where Bud had led King, completely obstructed Keats’s view of the

gorge behind the crag, toward Kelso Basin, and Keats did not know but

that the entire Arrow outfit was concealed behind the rocks and

boulders that littered the level in the vicinity.

And so he sat motionless, slowly and respectfully raising his hands.

Noting his action, his men did likewise.

“That’s polite,” came Taylor’s voice coldly. “Hemmingway says you’re

looking for me. What for?”

“I’ve got a warrant for you, chargin’ you with murderin’ Larry

Harlan.”

“Who accused me?”

“Mint Morton, of Nogel.”

There was a long silence. Behind the clump of rock Taylor smiled

mirthlessly at Bud, who was watching him. For Taylor knew Mint Morton,

of Nogel, as a gambler, unscrupulous and dishonest. He had earned

Morton’s hatred when one night in a Nogel saloon he had caught Morton

cheating and had forced him to disgorge his winnings. His victim had

been a miner on his way East with the earnings of five years in his

pockets. Taylor had not been able to endure the spectacle of abject

despair that had followed the man’s loss of all his money.

Taylor did not know that Carrington had hunted Morton up, paying him

well to bring the murder charge, but Taylor did know that he was

innocent of murder; and by linking Morton with Carrington he could

readily understand why Keats wanted him. He broke the silence with a

short:

“Who issued the warrant?”

“Judge Littlefield.”

“Well,” said Taylor, “you can take it right back to him and tell him

to let Carrington serve it. For,” he added, a note of grim humor

creeping into his voice, “I’m a heap particular about such things,

Keats. I couldn’t let a sneak like you take me in. And I don’t like

the looks of that dirty-looking outfit with you. And so I’m telling

you a few things. I’m giving you one minute to hit the breeze out of

this section. If you’re here when that time is up, I down _you_,

Keats! Slope!”

Keats flashed one glance around at his men. Some of them already had

their horses in motion; others were nervously fingering their

bridle-reins. Keats sneered at the rock nest ahead of him.

The intense silence which followed Taylor’s warning lasted about ten

seconds. Then Keats’s face paled; he wheeled his horse and sent it

scampering over the back trail, his men following, crowding him hard.