THE AVENGERS ARE DELAYED.
After an hour’s hard riding, the avengers came upon the body of a steer
lying in the trail.
The sight of the beast’s carcass seemed to madden the owner of the
Double Cross ranch.
“Look at that steer!” he yelled. “Never was a better beef grazed the
plains! And here it lies, dead from being driven to death! Curse the
fiends! _I’ll make them suffer for raiding my cattle and then running
them to death!_ After them, boys, don’t dally to examine, the steer!”
“Easy, Sam, easy,” returned Sandy. “We’ll get ’em, don’t worry. But it
won’t do any harm to look at the crittur. A few minutes won’t make any
difference, and we can tell from the heat of the body about how far the
lifters are ahead of us.”
Scarce a moment after the foreman had voiced this suggestion was it
before Deadshot was on the ground.
Still smarting under the sarcasm of his boss over his failure to pick
out the horse tracks when they struck the trail, the cowboy had no
sooner gained the side of the prostrate steer than he was upon the
mesquite. And, even as Sandy spoke, with skilled hands, he was running
over the hide.
Eagerly the others awaited his verdict as to the time the animal had
been lying there.
But Deadshot spoke never a word.
“Well?” snapped his master, unable to restrain his impatience when
several minutes had passed and the cowboy had not voiced his opinion.
“The body’s cold, Sam. But it ain’t stone cold.”
“Which means we’ve got some tall riding to do if we expect to overhaul
the ornery cusses before they lose themselves in the swamp,” commented
Pinky.
“That shows how much _you_ know,” retorted the ranchman. “We’re a
good twenty mile from the home corral, which is about half way to the
bottoms, according to Deadshot, and the steer is cold. Consequently,
the rest of the bunch must have passed here a good six hours ago. No
man, unless he had wings, could overtake the cowlifters before they
reached Sangammon, eh, Sandy?”
“Reckon you’ve got it about right, Sam,” returned his foreman. “The
raiders had all of six hours start, and judging from the condition of
this steer, here, they’re running the critturs to the limit. If that
animal ain’t thirty pound poorer than when he left the corral, I don’t
know anything about cattle.”
“Then you think we haven’t gained on them?” demanded Bowser, anxiously.
“None to speak of.”
“And, what’s more, we won’t be able to cut down enough of their lead to
make it worth while to kill our ponies trying to,” interposed Deadshot.
“Sandy’s telling it straight when he says the devils are running the
steers for all they can. If we don’t come across more than half of them
before we get to the swamps, I’ll miss my guess.”
A moment the ranchman pondered over these opinions.
“That being the case, then, there’s no use of keeping to the trail,” he
finally exclaimed.
“Why not?” demanded the others, surprised at the words as they
remembered their boss’s vow.
“Because we’ve got to go over to Henry Hawks’ and get him to send some
of his men to guard Sarah and what’s left of my cattle in the corral.”
“And if you’ll take my advice, you’ll get old Hen to join us with
a couple or so of his boys,” asserted Deadshot. “Rounding up these
lifters ain’t going to be any child’s play--especially when they’re
hiding in the swamps!”
“Righto,” rejoined Bowser. “The more of us, the better. Come on, every
jump we take along this trail now is leading us farther from the Star
and Moon. By striking for it now, we ought to reach Hen’s in time for
dinner.”
Accordingly, the avengers abandoned for the time being the trail made
by the cattle thieves, and, turning their ponies straight for the
South, set out to obtain protection for the lone woman left on the
Double Cross home ranch and reinforcements to their own numbers, that
they might the more quickly run the miscreants to cover.
The tax upon their ponies incurred by galloping through the tall grass
and sagebrush was greater than in following the cattle track and, in
consequence, their speed was less. Notwithstanding that handicap,
however, they made fairly good time, and the sun was directly overhead
when they cantered into the yard of the Star and Moon home ranch.
At the sound of the rapid hoofbeats, Mrs. Hawks came to the door.
“Well, Sam Bowser, if I’m not glad to see you,” she exclaimed,
cordially, as soon as she made out the identity of the riders. “Put
your ponies in the corral and come right in. You’re just in time for
dinner. I guess I’ve got enough, if I haven’t, I can mighty soon get
it. I’m----”
Believing that the woman’s volubility would soon wear itself out,
Bowser had waited for her to pause of her own accord. But when, after
extending her hearty invitation for the riders to come in and eat, she
started on a fresh tack, the ranchman decided to interrupt.
“Isn’t Hen home?” he asked, the failure of the man to appear suggesting
the far from welcome idea.
“No. He and the boys have been gone three days driving in the cattle
for shipping. I expect him back this afternoon, though. He said it
wouldn’t be more than three days at the longest.” Then, noting the
look of disappointment that her words brought to her neighbor’s face,
she asked hastily: “There isn’t anything wrong, is there? Nothing’s
happened to Sarah?”
“Sarah’s all right; at least, she was when we left at daybreak. But
some ornery cowlifters got into my home corral last night and made
off with fifty head.” And briefly he told Mrs. Hawks the uncanny
circumstances of the raid.
With eyes growing bigger at each word, the good woman listened to the
account of the mysterious spectre.
“Sakes alive! and you’ve left Sarah alone with that thing liable to
drop in on her any minute?” she exclaimed, in consternation. “If I were
she, I wouldn’t stay there by myself a minute. No, sir, not a single
minute. It isn’t fair of you to make her, Sam. I’d just like to see
Henry Hawks leave me alone under such conditions.”
This vigorous scolding for failure to afford protection to his wife
shamed the owner of the Double Cross, and hot flushes glowed beneath
his weather-tanned face as he strove to excuse himself.
“That’s just what I came over here for,” he stammered. “I wanted Hen
to let me have a couple of his boys so’s I could use mine to trail the
raiders.”
“It makes no difference what you intended to do,” declared Mrs. Hawks.
“You men are all alike. You seem to think that we women can take care
of ourselves, no matter what happens. And, as though it weren’t enough
to make us live way out in the plains, you go and leave us whenever
you feel like it. If I were Sarah, I’d let you know what I thought of
such treatment, especially with a spook hanging about.”
“Well, thank goodness, you’re not Sarah,” muttered Bowser under his
breath, though aloud he said: “To tell the truth, Amy, I was so riled
up over being tricked the way I was that the only thing I thought of
was getting on the lifters’ trail. But, after what you’ve said, I see
it wasn’t just right toward Sarah.
“Pinky, cut out one of Hen’s ponies from the corral and ride back
to the ranch just as fast as you can travel. Remember, I shall ask
how long it took you when I get home,” he added, noting the look of
disappointment and anger that spread over his cowboy’s face at the
instructions.
But Pinky knew that orders were orders, especially when delivered by
the owner of the Double Cross ranch, and, without any ado, wheeled his
pony, rode over to the corral, picked out one of the Star and Moon
bronchos and without as much as a glance toward his grinning bunkmates,
dashed from the yard.
Yet, to himself, the cowboy was telling in no uncertain words or polite
language what he thought of “meddling old women.” And, so many were his
ideas upon the subject, that he was still intent upon expressing his
opinion when he reined into the yard of the Double Cross, some three
hours later.