GUNSIGHT PASS
The pursuit took the riders across a wide, undulating plain above which
danced the dry heat of the desert. Lizards sunned themselves on flat
rocks. A rattlesnake slid toward the cover of a prickly pear. The
bleached bones of a cow shone white beside the trail.
The throats of the cowpunchers filled with alkali dust and their eyes
grew red and sore from it. Magnificent mirages unfolded themselves: lakes
cool and limpid, stretching to the horizon, with inviting forests in the
distance; an oasis of lush green fields that covered miles; mesquite
distorted to the size of giant trees and cattle transformed into
dinosaurs. The great gray desert took on freakish shapes of erosion.
Always, hour after hour beneath a copper sky, they rode in palpitating
heat through sand drifts, among the salt bushes and the creosote, into
cowbacked hills beyond which the stark mountains rose.
Out of the fiery furnace of the plain they came in late afternoon to
the uplands, plunging into a land of deep gorges and great chasms. Here
manzanita grew and liveoaks flourished. They sent a whitetail buck
crashing through the brush into a cañon.
When night fell they built a fire of niggerheads and after they had eaten
found its glow grateful. For they were well up in the hills now and the
night air was sharp.
In the sandy desert they had followed easily the trail of the thieves,
but as they had got into the hills the tracks had become fainter and
fewer. The young men discussed this while they lay in their blankets in
a water-gutted gulch not too near the fire they had built.
"Like huntin' for a needle in a haystack," said Bob. "Their trail's done
petered out. They might be in any one of a hundred pockets right close,
or they may have bore 'way off to the right. All they got to do is hole
up and not build any fires."
"Fat chance we got," admitted Dave. "Unless they build a fire like we
done. Say, I'd a heap rather be sleepin' here than by that niggerhead
blaze to-night. They might creep up and try to gun us."
Before they had been in the saddle an hour next day the trail of the
thieves was lost. The pursuers spent till sunset trying to pick it up
again. The third day was wasted in aimless drifting among the defiles
of the mountains.
"No use, Bob," said his friend while they were cooking supper. "They've
made their getaway. Might as well drift back to Malapi, don't you
reckon?"
"Looks like. We're only wastin' our time here."
Long before day broke they started.
The cañons below were filled with mist as they rode down out of the
mountains toward the crystal dawn that already flooded the plain. The
court-house clock at Malapi said the time was midnight when the
dust-covered men and horses drew into the town.
The tired men slept till noon. At the Delmonico Restaurant they found
Buck Byington and Steve Russell. The trail herd had been driven in an
hour before.
"How's old Alkali?" asked Dave of his friend Buck, thumping him on the
back.
"Jes' tolable," answered the old-timer equably, making great play with
knife and fork. "A man or a hawss don't either one amount to much after
they onct been stove up. Since that bronc piled me at Willow Creek I
been mighty stiff, you might say."
"Dug's payin' off to-day, boys," Russell told them. "You'll find him
round to the Boston Emporium."
The foreman settled first with Hart, after which he, turned to the page
in his pocket notebook that held the account of Sanders.
"You've drew one month's pay. That leaves you three months, less the week
you've fooled away after the pinto."
"C'rect," admitted Dave.
"I'll dock you seven and a half for that. Three times thirty's ninety.
Take seven and a half from that leaves eighty-two fifty."
"Hold on!" objected Dave. "My pay's thirty-five a month."
"First I knew of it," said the foreman, eyes bleak and harsh. "Thirty's
what you're gettin'."
"I came in as top hand at thirty-five."
"You did not," denied Doble flatly.
The young man flushed. "You can't run that on me, Dug. I'll not stand for
it."
"Eighty-two fifty is what you get," answered the other dogmatically. "You
can take it or go to hell."
He began to sort out a number of small checks with which to pay the
puncher. At that time the currency of the country consisted largely of
cattlemen's checks which passed from hand to hand till they were grimy
with dirt. Often these were not cashed for months later.
"We'll see what the old man says about that," retorted Dave hotly. It was
in his mind to say that he did not intend to be robbed by both the Doble
brothers, but he wisely repressed the impulse. Dug would as soon fight as
eat, and the young rider knew he would not have a chance in the world
against him.
"All right," sneered the foreman. "Run with yore tale of grief to
Crawford. Tell him I been pickin' on you. I hear you've got to be quite
a pet of his."
This brought Dave up with a short turn. He could not take advantage of
the service he had done the owner of the D Bar Lazy R to ask him to
interfere in his behalf with the foreman. Doble might be cynically
defrauding him of part of what was due him in wages. Dave would have to
fight that out with him for himself. The worst of it was that he had no
redress. Unless he appealed to the cattleman he would have to accept
what the foreman offered.
Moreover, his pride was touched. He was young enough to be sensitive on
the subject of his ability to look out for himself.
"I'm no pet of anybody," he flung out. "Gimme that money. It ain't a
square deal, but I reckon I can stand it."
"I reckon you'll have to. It's neck meat or nothin'," grunted the
foreman.
Doble counted him out eighty dollars in cattlemen's checks and paid him
two-fifty in cash. While Dave signed a receipt the hook-nosed foreman,
broad shoulders thrown back and thumbs hitched in the arm-holes of his
vest, sat at ease in a tilted chair and grinned maliciously at his
victim. He was "puttin' somethin' over on him," and he wanted Dave to
know it. Dug had no affection for his half-brother, but he resented
the fact that Sanders publicly and openly despised him as a crook. He
took it as a personal reflection on himself.
Still smouldering with anger at this high-handed proceeding, Dave went
down to the Longhorn Corral and saddled his horse. He had promised
Byington to help water the herd.
This done, he rode back to town, hitched the horse back of a barber shop,
and went in for a shave. Presently he was stretched in a chair, his boots
thrown across the foot rest in front of him.
The barber lathered his face and murmured gossip in his ear. "George
Doble and Miller claim they're goin' to Denver to run some skin game at
a street fair. They're sure slick guys."
Dave offered no comment.
"You notice they didn't steal any of Em Crawford's stock. No, sirree!
They knew better. Hopped away with broncs belongin' to you boys because
they knew it'd be safe."
"Picked easy marks, did they?" asked the puncher sardonically.
The man with the razor tilted the chin of his customer and began to
scrape. "Well, o'course you're only boys. They took advantage of that
and done you a meanness."
Dug Doble came into the shop, very grim about the mouth. He stopped to
look down sarcastically at the new boots Sanders was wearing.
"I see you've bought you a new pair of boots," he said in a heavy,
domineering voice.
Dave waited without answering, his eyes meeting steadily those of the
foreman.
The big fellow laid a paper on the breast of the cowpuncher. "Here's a
bill for a pair of boots you charged to the old man's account--eighteen
dollars. I got it just now at the store. You'll dig up."
It was the custom for riders who came to town to have the supplies they
needed charged to their employers against wages due them. Doble took it
for granted that Sanders had done this, which was contrary to the orders
he had given his outfit. He did not know the young man had lost his boots
while rescuing Crawford and had been authorized by him to get another
pair in place of them.
Nor did Dave intend to tell him. Here was a chance to even the score
against the foreman. Already he had a plan simmering in his mind that
would take him out of this part of the country for a time. He could no
longer work for Doble without friction, and he had business of his own to
attend to. The way to solve the immediate difficulty flashed through his
brain instantly, every detail clear.
It was scarcely a moment before he drawled an answer. "I'll 'tend to it
soon as I'm out of the chair."
"I gave orders for none of you fellows to charge goods to the old man,"
said Doble harshly.
"Did you?" Dave's voice was light and careless.
"You can go hunt a job somewheres else. You're through with me."
"I'll hate to part with you."
"Don't get heavy, young fellow."
"No," answered Dave with mock meekness.
Doble sat down in a chair to wait. He had no intention of leaving until
Dave had settled.
After the barber had finished with him the puncher stepped across to a
looking-glass and adjusted carefully the silk handkerchief worn knotted
loosely round the throat.
"Get a move on you!" urged the foreman. His patience, of which he never
had a large supply to draw from, was nearly exhausted. "I'm not goin' to
spend all day on this."
"I'm ready."
Dave followed Doble out of the shop. Apparently he did not hear the
gentle reminder of the barber, who was forced to come to the door and
repeat his question.
"Want that shave charged?"
"Oh! Clean forgot." Sanders turned back, feeling in his pocket for
change.
He pushed past the barber into the shop, slapped a quarter down on the
cigar-case, and ran out through the back door. A moment later he pulled
the slip-knot of his bridle from the hitching-bar, swung to the saddle
and spurred his horse to a gallop. In a cloud of dust he swept round the
building to the road and waved a hand derisively toward Doble.
"See you later!" he shouted.
The foreman wasted no breath in futile rage. He strode to the nearest
hitching-post and flung himself astride leather. The horse's hoofs
pounded down the road in pursuit.
Sanders was riding the same bronco he had used to follow the
horsethieves. It had been under a saddle most of the time for a week and
was far from fresh. Before he had gone a mile he knew that the foreman
would catch up with him.
He was riding for Gunsight Pass. It was necessary to get there before
Doble reached him. Otherwise he would have to surrender or fight, and
neither of these fitted in with his plans.
Once he had heard Emerson Crawford give a piece of advice to a hotheaded
and unwise puncher. "Never call for a gun-play on a bluff, son. There's
no easier way to commit suicide than to pull a six-shooter you ain't
willin' to use." Dug Doble was what Byington called "bull-haided." He had
forced a situation which could not be met without a showdown. This meant
that the young range-rider would either have to take a thrashing or draw
his forty-five and use it. Neither of these alternatives seemed worth
while in view of the small stakes at issue. Because he was not ready to
kill or be killed, Dave was flying for the hills.
The fugitive had to use his quirt to get there in time. The steepness of
the road made heavy going. As he neared the summit the grade grew worse.
The bronco labored heavily in its stride as its feet reached for the
road ahead.
But here Dave had the advantage. Doble was a much heavier man than he,
and his mount took the shoulder of the ridge slower. By the time the
foreman showed in silhouette against the skyline at the entrance to the
pass the younger man had disappeared.
The D Bar Lazy R foreman found out at once what had become of him. A
crisp voice gave clear directions.
"That'll be far enough. Stop right where you're at or you'll notice
trouble pop. And don't reach for yore gun unless you want to hear the
band begin to play a funeral piece."
The words came, it seemed to Doble, out of the air. He looked up. Two
great boulders lay edge to edge beside the path. Through a narrow rift
the blue nose of a forty-five protruded. Back of it glittered a pair
of steady, steely eyes.
The foreman did not at all like the look of things. Sanders was a good
shot. From where he lay, almost entirely protected, all he had to do was
to pick his opponent off at his leisure. If his hand were forced he would
do it. And the law would let him go scot free, since Doble was a fighting
man and had been seen to start in pursuit of the boy.
"Come outa there and shell out that eighteen dollars," demanded Doble.
"Nothin' doin', Dug."
"Don't run on the rope with me, young fellow. You'll sure be huntin'
trouble."
"What's the use o' beefin'? I've got the deadwood on you. Better hit the
dust back to town and explain to the boys how yore bronc went lame,"
advised Dave.
"Come down and I'll wallop the tar outa you."
"Much obliged. I'm right comfortable here."
"I've a mind to come up and dig you out."
"Please yoreself, Dug. We'll find out then which one of us goes to hell."
The foreman cursed, fluently, expertly, passionately. Not in a long time
had he had the turn called on him so adroitly. He promised Dave sudden
death in various forms whenever he could lay hands upon him.
"You're sure doin' yoreself proud, Dug," the young man told him evenly.
"I'll write the boys how you spilled language so thorough."
"If I could only lay my hands on you!" the raw-boned cattleman stormed.
"I'll bet you'd massacree me proper," admitted Dave quite cheerfully.
Suddenly Doble gave up. He wheeled his horse and began to descend the
steep slope. Steadily he jogged on to town, not once turning to look
back. His soul was filled with chagrin and fury at the defeat this
stripling had given him. He was ready to pick a quarrel with the first
man who asked him a question about what had taken place at the pass.
Nobody asked a question. Men looked at him, read the menace of his
sullen, angry face, and side-stepped his rage. They did not need to be
told that his ride had been a failure. His manner advertised it. Whatever
had taken place had not redounded to the glory of Dug Doble.
Later in the day the foreman met the owner of the D Bar Lazy R brand
to make a detailed statement of the cost of the drive. He took peculiar
pleasure in mentioning one item.
"That young scalawag Sanders beat you outa eighteen dollars," he said
with a sneer of triumph.
Doble had heard the story of what Dave and Bob had done for Crawford and
of how the wounded boy had been taken to the cattleman's home and nursed
there. It pleased him now to score off what he chose to think was the
soft-headedness of his chief.
The cattleman showed interest. "That so, Dug? Sorry. I took a fancy to
that boy. What did he do?"
"You know how vaqueros are always comin' in and chargin' goods against
the boss. I give out the word they was to quit it. Sanders he gets a pair
of eighteen-dollar boots, then jumps the town before I find out about
it."
Crawford started to speak, but Doble finished his story.
"I took out after him, but my bronc went lame from a stone in its hoof.
You'll never see that eighteen plunks, Em. It don't do to pet cowhands."
"Too bad you took all that trouble, Dug," the old cattleman began mildly.
"The fact is--"
"Trouble. Say, I'd ride to Tombstone to get a crack at that young smart
Aleck. I told him what I'd do to him if I ever got my fists on him."
"So you _did_ catch up with him."
Dug drew back sulkily within himself. He did not intend to tell all he
knew about the Gunsight Pass episode. "I didn't say _when_ I told him."
"Tha's so. You didn't. Well, I'm right sorry you took so blamed much
trouble to find him. Funny, though, he didn't tell you I gave him the
boots."
"You--what?" The foreman snapped the question out with angry incredulity.
The ranchman took the cigar from his mouth and leaned back easily. He was
smiling now frankly.
"Why, yes. I told him to buy the boots and have 'em charged to my
account. And the blamed little rooster never told you, eh?"
Doble choked for words with which to express himself. He glared at his
employer as though Crawford had actually insulted him.
In an easy, conversational tone the cattleman continued, but now there
was a touch of frost in his eyes.
"It was thisaway, Dug. When he and Bob knocked Steelman's plans hell west
and crooked after that yellow skunk George Doble betrayed me to Brad, the
boy lost his boots in the brush. 'Course I said to get another pair at
the store and charge 'em to me. I reckon he was havin' some fun joshin'
you."
The foreman was furious. He sputtered with the rage that boiled inside
him. But some instinct warned him that unless he wanted to break with
Crawford completely he must restrain his impulse to rip loose.
"All right," he mumbled. "If you told him to get 'em, 'nough said."