PREPARATIONS FOR PURSUIT.
As the cowboys, who knew him so well, heard the grim words uttered
by the doughty ranchman, they realized that he would keep his vow of
trailing the cattle thieves until he had, indeed, run them to their
lair.
“We’re with you, Sam,” declared the foreman.
“That’s what!” chorused the other cowpunchers, while Deadshot added:
“There can’t no bunch of cowlifters say they fooled Deadshot Pete--and
got away with it!”
“But as I was a going to say,” continued Sandy, “it strikes me we ought
to round up the cattle and get ’em back before we start out.”
“And let those sneaks get away while we’re doing it?” snapped the owner
of the Double Cross. “I’d rather get _them_ than all the cattle on my
ranch!”
“That’s all right, Sam. I know how you feel; that is, I know how I’d
feel in your place. But they can’t get away. We’ll trail ’em from Old
Mex to Canada--if we have to. A few hours’ start won’t do ’em any good,
consequently. So I say, what’s the use of letting the cattle run wild?”
Already the animals which still remained inside the raided corral were
beginning to quiet down, the cause of their disturbance having been
removed, and the reasoning of the foreman, therefore, was sound.
“Reckon Sandy’s right,” opined Pinky. “The critturs won’t run very far
on such a night, and unless there are enough of the devils to follow
each bunch, daylight won’t find ’em more’n a mile or so from home.”
Several minutes the ranchman sat pondering, vouchsafing no reply, while
his men anxiously awaited any word or movement that would indicate
their boss’s intentions.
“That’s horse sense, I suppose,” he exclaimed, at last. “But I hate to
let the skulks think I care more for my cattle than for getting the
first opportunity to pump them full of lead.”
“But ain’t it more businesslike to get both the cattle _and_ them?”
inquired Sandy.
“It ain’t only the business end of it--it’s the effect it will have on
any other thieves who might take a flier at cutting out your critturs,
that you’ve got to think of, Sam,” declared Deadshot.
“If you hit the trail without rounding up the cattle, so many
cowlifters would strike for the Double Cross there wouldn’t be room for
’em on the home ranch. They’d argue as how you couldn’t chase ’em all
and so some of ’em would be able to drive off a bunch of critturs--and
for the value of the cattle they’d be willing to risk pursuit. On
the other hand, if you _first_ round up the cattle and _then_ the
cowlifters, getting both of them, there won’t a dirty greaser nor a
renegade buck dare to lift a finger against the Double Cross outfit.”
Though this argument was crude and expressed in a roundabout way, it’s
meaning was perfectly clear.
“There’s no getting away from the fact that your reasoning is sound,
Deadshot,” responded Bowser. “So we’ll wait till daylight and then
round up the cattle.” Though his reluctance to abandon immediate
pursuit was evidenced by his next words, as he added: “But I do hate to
let a man take a shot at me--let alone two--without sending at least
one shell in return.”
“If that’s all what’s worrying you, cheer up,” rejoined Pinky. “You
seem to be forgetting it was you who started the game by taking a pot
at the spook, when it was floating around.”
“That’s so. I didn’t think of that,” returned the owner of the Double
Cross. And from the tone of his voice, his men understood that the
memory had appreciably tempered his regret at being obliged to await
the coming of day before picking up the trail.
Quieter and quieter were the cattle in the raided corral becoming, a
sign the cowpunchers interpreted to mean that the thieves had taken
their departure after the last shot. Consequently when the end of an
hour brought no fresh outbreak, the ranchman ordered his men to return
to the horse corral and gather together the things they would require
when they took up the pursuit.
To their amazement, when they rode into the yard, there was not a light
to be seen in either the home or bunkhouse.
“You don’t suppose they’ve run off with the missus, too?” suggested
Pinky, in alarm.
But their anxiety as to the safety of Mrs. Bowser was allayed even as
the cowboy spoke.
“Who goes there?” demanded a voice, meant to be stern, but in which
there was an unmistakable tremor, from the direction of the home front
door.
“It’s all right, Sarah. It’s the boys and I,” hastily replied her
husband.
“Glory be! I’ve been scared almost out of my wits,” exclaimed the woman.
“Scared?” repeated the men, in surprise.
“Yes. Just after Deadshot had left, I heard some one ride into the
yard. Thinking it was either him or one of you, I rushed to the door.
‘Get inside if you don’t want a bullet in your head!’ shouted a voice.”
“The fiend!” ejaculated the ranchman. “Did he shoot at you?” he asked,
anxiously.
“No. I didn’t give him the chance. When I found it wasn’t any of you, I
ducked down, slamming the door and then I put the lights out.”
“But what became of the lights in the bunkhouse?” inquired Sandy.
“I put them out, too,” returned Mrs. Bowser. “You see, after I got over
the first surprise and scare, my nerve came back. I grabbed one of
Sam’s guns, crept across the yard, extinguished the lamps and then took
up my stand in the doorway, determined to take a shot at any one else
who came along.”
“Thank goodness, you had the foresight to speak before shooting,”
exclaimed her husband. “It was the last thing I ever thought of your
being on guard.”
“Oh, I may be a ‘’fraid cat,’ but I’m no fool,” asserted the woman.
“That’s what you’re not, Sarah.”
“And there ain’t many other women with the nerve to stand watch in
the dark after they’ve been threatened,” chimed in Sandy, in evident
admiration of the bravery displayed by the wife of the ranch owner.
During the conversation, the men had dismounted and Pinky had relighted
the lamps in the bunkhouse, which they all entered, leaving their
ponies standing, ready saddled in case of emergency, by the door.
In the light of the lamps, Mrs. Bowser was able to notice for the first
time that her husband was hatless, while the others all had their
sombreros on.
“How’d you lose your hat, Sam?” she queried.
“Shot off,” replied the ranch owner, laconically. And then, in response
to her eager inquiries, he told her all that had transpired in the
cattle corral.
“Land sakes! How many of them do you suppose there were?” she asked,
as the narration of the exciting incidents of the stampede, the
disappearance of the mysterious spectre and the shooting was concluded.
“There must have been four or five, at least, judging from the number
of openings there were in the fence,” answered Pinky, eager to take
part in the conversation.
But his remark was ignored in the attention given to Deadshot.
“How many did you see riding through the yard, Mrs. Bowser?” he asked.
“Only one.”
“Which means the gang has split up,” declared Sandy.
“Oh, you can’t tell anything by that,” asserted the ranchman. “The
fellow may have been cutting through to join the rest of his bunch.
Just stow your saddlebags with grub, shells and cartridges, then look
to your guns. We must be off with the first break of day.”
In obedience, the cowpunchers set about making their preparations for
the pursuit, while the ranchman and his wife crossed the yard to their
home.
With the first flush of light in the East, the Double Cross outfit rode
forth to gather the strayed cattle, the majority of which they found,
as Pinky had prophesied, within a few miles of the home-ranch.
Driving them back to the corral as quickly as possible, the men took
stock and found they had recovered all but about fifty.
“That’s probably all the ‘lifters’ thought they could handle and make
their getaway,” exclaimed Sandy.
“More likely it means there weren’t so many of the raiders as we
think,” rejoined his boss. “Come on, now. We’ll pick up the trail of
this bunch of fifty and see where that brings us.”
And with the promise to his wife that he would have a couple of the
cowboys from Henry Hawks’ ranch come over to protect her and the
cattle, the owner of the Double Cross dashed away to pick up the trail
of the Midnight Raider, followed by his cowpunchers.