ON THE TRAIL.
Having learned, when they rounded up the stampeded cattle, that the
openings in the corral fence were on the Southern side, Bowser and
his men rode in that direction, spreading out into a wide semicircle
in order that they might cover as much territory as possible, thereby
locating the more quickly the trail followed by the fifty head which
had not been found.
Back and forth they dashed, peering through the lessening darkness
for some sight of the missing animals and straining their ears for a
distant bellow or sound that would give an idea to their whereabouts.
And as the light grew stronger and stronger, they were finally able to
scan the grass for the wide course where the cattle had trampled it in
their flight.
Several times, one or another of the searchers thought they had found
the trail, only to learn, after following it for a few minutes, that it
had been made by one of the bunches of steers they had driven back.
Such was the position of the men that Deadshot was on the extreme
right, or Western, end of the line, while Pinky, Sandy and the owner of
the raided ranch stretched away toward the East, in the order named.
As an hour of daylight went by without the discovery of the track, the
cowmen began to realize that the pursuit of the cattlelifters would be
no easy task, judging from the manner in which they had managed to
conceal the trail of fifty odd steers.
The realization, however, only made them the more determined to pick up
their track, and they settled down to the work grimly.
At first they had ridden to and fro, rising now and again in their
stirrups to survey the plains about them.
Finding this method of no avail, the ranchman rode over to Sandy and
ordered him to begin and systematically ride back and forth, advancing
about three hundred yards at each turn, telling him to pass the word to
Pinky, who would, in turn, inform the cowboy on the extreme West.
“If we can’t pick up the trail within five miles, we’ll try the same
tactics to the West and then to the North and East. A man can’t put
fifty steers in his pocket and carry ’em off. The trail’s round here
somewhere--and it’s up to us to get busy and find it!” snapped Bowser,
as he whirled his pony and started back.
Before the new order could be communicated by Sandy to Deadshot,
however, the latter suddenly rose in his stirrups and waved his arms
wildly. But, failing to attract the attention of his companions, he
whipped out his six-shooters and fired three times.
The barking of the guns produced the desired effect.
Wheeling their ponies, the others beheld their comrade waving his hands
to them in signal to ride to him.
“Have you found ’em?”
“Can you see ’em?”
“Did you shoot at any one?”
These questions were shouted at the cowboy who had resorted to such
startling methods to attract the attention of his fellows.
“Do you think I’d be sitting here, waiting for you all to come up if
I’d sighted the cattle or fired at any one?” demanded the cowpuncher,
with fine scorn.
“Then what have you brought us over here for?” demanded the owner of
the Double Cross, his anger rising as he began to suspect some trick on
the part of his cowman.
“Now, don’t get het up, Sam,” chuckled Deadshot, with a calmness that
exasperated his bunkmates. “I ain’t seen the cattle, as I said, but
I’ve found their trail.”
“Where, man?” asked Pinky.
Ere the cowpuncher, who was enjoying to the full the whetting of the
other’s curiosity, could reply, however, the men rode up to him.
There, stretching away as far as their eyes could see, was a lane, some
twenty feet wide, where the fleeing cattle had trampled the grass down
as cleanly as though the path through the waving mesquite had been cut.
“Say, they certainly was going some,” exclaimed Sandy, surveying the
trail intently. “There must have been at least four or five lifters at
their heels to make them steers hit it up like that.”
“Well, don’t sit there on your pony, arguing,” cut in the ranchman.
“Get down and search the ground for horse-hoof tracks. Deadshot,
you’ve always been bragging how all-fired clever you were at picking
out trails, now show us if you can produce.”
This calling upon their comrade to “make good” in the matter which
formed his favorite topic for bragging, brought smiles to the faces of
the other cowboys, and they sat back in their saddles preparatory to
awaiting the result of Deadshot’s scouting.
But their delight in the situation was rudely banished.
“Don’t sit there like a bunch of tenderfeet waiting for a guide to
drum up some game,” snapped Bowser. “Get down and see if you can’t
beat Deadshot to it. You want to remember there’s such critturs as the
Injuns call ‘heap talk’ men.”
The owner of the raided ranch was not the one, however, to leave all
the work to his men, and even as he spoke, he slipped from his saddle
and was soon crawling about on his hands and knees, peering at the
trampled grass, now and then pushing it aside as he scanned the ground
intently.
Spurred to action by the stinging words of their boss, the three
cowpunchers were doing the same thing, and for several minutes the only
sound audible was the panting of the ponies as they strove to recover
their wind after their hard run.
“Must have been a shoeless broncho,” grumbled Pinky, as no imprints of
a horse’s hoof rewarded his search.
“What did you expect, cavalry horses?” grunted Deadshot,
contemptuously. “You mark my word, before we round up this gang of
cowlifters, we’ll know we’ve been on the trail!”
“For once, you’re talking sense,” grinned Sandy.
And chafing one another good-naturedly, the cowboys continued their
careful examination.
The task, however, of discovering any tracks of ponies in the trampled
and cloven-hoof cut ground proved too great for the powers of the
plainsmen and at last they abandoned the attempt.
“It’s no use wasting any more time,” declared the ranchman
straightening up. “After all, it doesn’t make any difference how many
of the sneaks there were. _Whether their band numbers two or a dozen,
we’re going to get them!_ We’ve found their trail, that’s the main
thing.”
Chagrined to think he had not been able to “make good” on his
oft-repeated assertions of his ability to track anything that went on
legs, Deadshot was finally obliged to mount his pinto and ride after
the others, who had mounted as soon as their boss had called the search
off, and were following the well-defined trail through the grass.
“Where do you reckon the cowlifters are headed, Deadshot?” asked
Bowser, as the man overtook them.
Determined not to venture another opinion not founded on good grounds,
the cowpuncher stood up in his saddle and scanned the horizon ahead
and to the right and left.
“Course, there ain’t no way of saying _for certain_,” he began, “but,
from what I know of cowlifters’ little ways and the lay of these here
plains----”
“Oh, cut it short! We ain’t no pleasure party being toted round on a
‘rubberneck’ expedition,” growled Pinky. “If you’ve _got_ any idea, out
with it.”
“As I was saying, from my knowledge of the tricks of cattle raiders
and these plains,” repeated Deadshot, ignoring the interruption of
his bunkmate, “I should say the lifters were headed for the Sangammon
bottoms. They ain’t more than forty mile away, and there’s swamps in
there with grass high enough to hide an elephant.”
With various comments, the others received this suggestion of the
destination of the Midnight Raider, but no one ventured an open
contradiction.
“I reckon you’ve hit the mark this time, Deadshot,” finally declared
the ranch owner. “Though I’d hoped the devils might have headed for
the old Indian catacombs, over in the Haunted Valley. It would be an
all-fired sight easier to rout them out from the tombs than from the
Sangammon swamps--and not so dangerous to us. A man’s liable to strike
a mudhole and be sucked under before his pals could find him.”
“Perhaps Deadshot ain’t right,” suggested Pinky, to whom his boss’
words brought up unexpected dangers.
But none of the others offered any comment, and in silence, each man
absorbed in his own thoughts, the quartet, bound on their mission of
revenge, swept along over the trampled trail.