Twenty-four hours later, four mounted men, leading a packed horse, rode
slowly through the brushy, broken hills near the border. They traveled
in single file, the front rider leading the pack animal, with no sound
except the soft creak of leather, or the faint rip of brush against boot
and chap.
The feet of the horses were muffled with sacking, which left no tracks
and also deadened their footfalls. It was as if a phantom caravan passed
through the dimly lighted hills. There was no trail, but the leader
picked his way unerringly, heading for the dark mass of hills to the
north, which separated them from Hawk Hole.
Somewhere a coyote sent up his plaintive cry, an eery sound in the
silent hills. To the left of the leader a stick snapped and he jerked up
his horse. The caravan stopped. The packhorse tried to nose past the
leader, who swore softly and struck it across the nose with a rope end.
“All right,” called the leader softly and started ahead.
From the left came the crashing report of a rifle, and the lead horse
lunged forward, falling head first, throwing its rider into the brush.
Another shot, and another, crashed out from the depths of the brush,
while the other three riders whirled their horses out of the bottom of
the swale, firing back at the flashes of powder.
The leader was running up the side of the slope, calling for one of the
men to wait for him. The packhorse whirled and ran the opposite way,
crashing through the brush. The hillside was flashing with rifle and
revolver shots, although those in ambush were still keeping under cover
and holding a decided advantage.
The riders were drawing farther away now. The leader had succeeded in
mounting behind one of the other riders. Then they disappeared over the
ridge and the firing stopped. The packhorse had crossed the ridge to the
left, lunging through the heavy brush, trying to fight its way into open
country, but a man ran out and grasped the flying rope, whirling the
horse to a stop on the rocky slope.
Three more men swiftly gathered around the pack animal, and hurried it
down through a cañon and out the other side, where four horses were
tethered. They mounted swiftly and flogged the pack animal into a run,
down across the broken slopes and onto a rutty road, which ran northwest
into the hills.
As before the lead rider took care of the packhorse, while the rest
bunched behind, swinging a rope end across the pack animal’s rump at the
least sign of slowing down.
There was nothing cautious about their progress. It seemed that above
all things they desired speed. Perhaps they were afraid that the other
riders might intercept them, as they kept a close watch at the ridges to
the north and east.
The reports of the rifle and revolver shots carried for a long way in
that thin atmosphere, and attracted the attention of three other riders,
who were following a trail farther to the west. After a hasty
consultation they swung to the right and rode as swiftly as possible,
heading northwest.
Straight up the rutty old road pounded the four men with the pack
animal, heading for a low pass in the hills where the old road wound
down to Pinnacle. They were almost to the summit, when the three riders
flashed into view, coming swiftly down a broken hogback, clearly
outlined against the sky.
The four men swore feelingly and urged the tired packhorse to greater
speed. One of the three riders yelled at them, but the four riders and
the pack animal swung into the downward road ahead, while the men from
the hogback struck the road three hundred yards behind.
All the horses were weary from their uphill run, and there was little
choice between the two factions in the race, except that those in the
lead were hampered with the packhorse, which seemed disinclined to make
it a runaway.
Near the bottom of the hill, and within half a mile of Pinnacle, the
race swung to the left, circling the bottom of the hills and heading
toward the Tumbling H Ranch. The three riders in the rear were around a
series of sharp curves when those in the lead decided to make it a
cross-country race, and as a result they raced past the turning-off
place and lost valuable time in picking up the trail again.
The packhorse was giving its captors plenty of trouble now, and they
took turns in beating it with rope ends to sustain speed. The pursuers
were gaining a little because of this drawback, but were not near enough
to make shooting accurate in that hazy light.
The chase swung nearer to the Tumbling H and the leaders circled
slightly as if to head into the cañon at the rear of the ranch. Their
horses were beginning to falter, and the pack animal was wheezing
heavily.
The pursuers swung more to the right, taking advantage of the more open
going, and their added speed caused the others to turn sharply toward
the rear of the Tumbling H.
Unfortunately for the pursuers, they had swung too wide, passing the
head of a deep washout, which angled in such a way that their course to
the Tumbling H was blocked, and they were forced to swing back and lose
much time in circling the head of it again.
Their quarry had disappeared at the rear of the Tumbling H, in the
blocky shadows of the cañon mouth, forcing the pursuers to go carefully
for fear of an ambush. It was several minutes later that the four riders
came into view again, swinging back over a ridge several hundred yards
away and heading in the general direction in which they had come.
The three riders swung their horses away from the Tumbling H, and again
took up the chase into the hills. But the chase was of short duration
this time. Only once, after crossing the ridge, did the pursuers get a
glimpse of the other riders, and then they disappeared completely. So
far away were they that the three riders drew up their jaded horses,
swore to do better next time, and headed back toward the road.
While the pursuit went into the hills, Hashknife Hartley leaned out of
their little window and listened. Sleepy was snoring loudly, unmindful
of the thud of hoofs which had brought Hashknife from the land of dreams
to investigate.
He knew that the horses had passed close to the corral, although he had
been unable to glimpse any of them. Softly he drew on his boots, buckled
on his belt, and slid out through the narrow window, which was only a
few feet above the floor.
Hashknife chuckled at his appearance and hoped that none of the
Hawkworth family might awake and see him. He was clad in a gray suit of
underwear, which had changed its original shape from many washings, a
pair of boots, and a cartridge belt.
He went slowly out across the yard and around to the corral gate,
scanning the hills for any sign of the horses which had passed. A chill
wind was blowing, which Hashknife realized was not the best thing in the
world for his rheumatism, and he was about to turn back when something
inside the corral attracted his attention.
His investigation disclosed the fact that a weary-legged packhorse was
standing in there, head hanging low, and showing every indication of
having traveled far and fast. Hashknife spoke to the animal and examined
the pack, which consisted of pack sacks, hung to a pack saddle and
lightly covered with a tarpaulin, over which a diamond hitch had been
thrown.
“Kinda queer,” observed Hashknife to himself. “Somebody sure left this
animal here in a hurry, so we better have a look.”
Swiftly he took off the hitch, threw aside the tarpaulin, and lifted
down the pack sacks. A short investigation showed him what the sacks
contained. For several moments he debated. It was a dangerous cargo to
be handling; worth a fortune in the right place. And the owners were
sure to come back after it.
He picked up the two sacks, went through the corral gate and into the
cañon, where he dumped the contents and came back with the sacks.
Hashknife knew how to throw the diamond hitch, and in a few minutes the
animal was packed again, sans contents. The rawhide pack sacks held
their shapes, and would have to be taken off the saddle before the lack
of contents would be noted.
Then he went back up the cañon and began disposing of what he had
confiscated. It was considerable of a task to put it all away in the
dark, and to obliterate all sign of the burying, and he was busy for the
greater part of an hour.
And he was so busy that he did not see a man sneak around the corner of
the barn, lead the horse out of the corral, and disappear. But he
discovered the loss of the horse when he went back past the corral. The
gate sagged open, creaking slightly in the wind. So he fastened it and
went back to the house and crawled into the window.
Sleepy’s snores still resounded in the little room, and Hashknife
grinned widely to himself, as he snuggled down into the blankets.
“Somebody’s goin’ to swear real hard when they unpack that horse,” he
told himself. “And me, like a darn fool, got so blamed excited that I
never even looked at its brand. All fools ain’t dead yet, but one of ’em
is feelin’ twinges of rheumatics.”
It was just at daylight that Baldy Kern, Jack Baum, Two-Fingers Kohler,
and Ben Horan rode in at the K-10 Ranch. Baldy was mounted behind Jack
Baum, and they were a disgruntled quartet of cowmen.
Kohler’s right cheek was streaked with blood from a bullet furrow, and
Ben Horan’s ribs were still aching from a bullet which had scored them.
They dismounted and turned their horses into the corral.
Doctor Meline met them at the corral, and his expression showed that he
was worried.
“Well?” he queried shortly.
“No ‘well’ about it!” snapped Baldy. “C’mon in the house.”
Meline followed him in, trailed by the others, and they sat down.
“Somebody got wise,” said Baldy wearily. “We lost the stuff.”
“You lost it!”
Meline almost screamed. He got to his feet and glared down at Baldy.
“You lost all that stuff, Kern?”
“Yeah.”
“My God!” Meline looked foolishly around. “It--it was a fortune.”
“Damn near misfortune,” said Kohler. “An inch nearer and I wouldn’t ’a’
had any face left.”
“Same here, and I’m ribless,” complained Horan.
“Well, well!” said Meline nervously. “Tell me about it.”
“There ain’t much to tell,” said Kern. “We got the stuff from Guadalupe
and had it packed. We muffled the horses’ hoofs and took the trail that
Guadalupe picked out. Everythin’ was fine until a little ways this side
of the border, where we runs into an ambush.
“They downed my horse the first shot and the pack animal got away. I
managed to get up behind Jack, but we didn’t have a chance. They were in
the brush, where we couldn’t see ’em, and we were out in the open. We
got away--thassall.”
“And they got the packhorse, did they?” Meline paced the floor
nervously. “Got away with a fortune!”
He turned to Baldy.
“Was it Government officers?”
“Hell, we didn’t see nobody!” snapped Baldy. “I tell yuh it was all set
for us, and we horned right into it. Do yuh suppose that Steve Guadalupe
double-crossed us?”
“Perhaps. Say, what about that greaser that brought us the note?”
“Felipe? Hell, no. He’s half-witted. He wouldn’t do anythin’ crooked,
’cause he ain’t got sense enough.”
“All right.”
Meline stopped pacing the floor and looked at the four men. Kohler swore
softly and caressed his cheek. From the kitchen came the sound of the
Mexican cook, banging the dishes as he prepared breakfast.
“Baldy, there is something wrong around here,” said Meline coldly.
“Somebody stole that letter I sent you, and somebody knew that our cargo
was coming through that place tonight. There’s a traitor, and the sooner
we find out who it is the better.”
“Not better for him, Doc,” said Baldy angrily.
“You don’t need to look at me, Doc!” snapped Horan. “If I was a traitor
I wouldn’t take a chance like that. I think too damn much of my ribs.”
“Nobody’s accusin’ any of you boys,” said Baldy.
“You walked into the trap with me.”
“Then where is he?” queried Meline. “He’s on the inside of our deals.
You don’t know whether it was Government officers or not?”
“How could I? Still, they don’t usually bushwhack. I’ve got a hunch that
somebody stole our cargo for themselves. Somebody knew that we were
comin’ across last night, that’s a cinch. If it had been Government
officers they would ’a’ tried to nail us along with the stuff.”
“Yes, that’s true. Do you suppose it could have been the work of those
strange cowboys?”
“It sure could,” grunted Kohler, his hand going to his neck.
“Torres!” exploded Baldy. “By God, this is his work. He’s in with Steve
Guadalupe, and I’ll bet he found out about that cargo. They’re both Mex,
damn ’em.”
“Yes, and Hartley and Stevens are in with Torres,” growled Kohler. “If
they wasn’t, why did they block us? I vote that we go and get them two
smart punchers.”
“But that doesn’t prove that there is a traitor among us,” said Meline.
“Who got that letter? Torres had nothing to do with your mail, Baldy.”
“Mebbe the letter was lost and Torres found it,” suggested Horan.
“Hardly probable. What kind of a person was this Blair?”
“Blair was all right,” said Baldy, adjusting the bandage on his wrist.
“I sent Blair out to trail Torres and Garcia the night Blair was killed.
Them two Mexicans went out of here, headin’ south, but they must have
circled and bushwhacked Blair.”
The Mexican cook announced breakfast, and they all trooped in to eat.
The loss of the big cargo was a blow to Meline, who had paid for it in
hard cash. He was still complaining about the loss of the money he had
sent to Big Medicine Hawkworth, which he had only valued at five hundred
dollars with the express company.
And he was half-afraid of Baldy Kern and his hard-riding crew. He could
not bulldoze them, and he knew that their loyalty to him was only
because of the fact that he paid well. It was true that Baldy Kern had
an interest in the business, but dollars did not mean as much to Baldy
as they did to Meline.
“What about Lee Yung?” asked Baldy, as they ate breakfast. “Can yuh
trust him, Doc?”
“Why not? He lost as much as I did on the deal.”
“If he wasn’t in on it,” suggested Baldy meaningly.
Meline shook his head. He did not believe that the Chinaman would
double-cross him. The boys finished breakfast and rolled into their
bunks for a sleep, while Meline sat down and tried to figure out who was
trying to spoil his game; a game that was causing much concern among the
customs inspectors and making big money for those actively interested.