THE STRANGER AND THE STEER.
“Whoop-ya! Looket thar, will ye? By the great horn spoon! Cut fer the
kitchen, Wing Hi, an’ fetch me the rope that’s hangin’ thar. D’ye
hear, yeh goggle-eyed yaller mug? Wake up an’ move--quick, afore
I kick yer half-way thar. Wow! Never seen sich er thing as thet
afore--an’ comin’ right down on ther camp, lickity larrup.”
The mining settlement of Sun Dance, baking in the mid-day heat
half-way up the wall of Sun Dance Cañon, stirred languidly with the
whooping words that clattered among its adobes.
There was not much life in Sun Dance during the day--night was its
period of excitement and activity--but what little life there was
began to show itself.
Gentleman Jim, the gambler, was dozing in a hammock stretched between
two posts in the shade of the “Alcazar.” He heard the wild yell,
located it as coming from the vicinity of the Lucky Strike Hotel, got
out of the hammock, and went to investigate.
In the street he met Hoppy Smith, barkeeper at the Dew Drop; One-eye
Perkins, postmaster and proprietor of the general store; Stump
Hathaway, boss of the Spread Eagle honkatonk, and Lonesome Pete,
who had ridden in from up the gulch to get a supply of tobacco and
cigarette-paper.
“What’s the trouble?” asked Gentleman Jim.
“I’m by,” replied Hoppy Smith, halting in his wild rush down
the street and resting his game leg. “Somebody dropped a remark,
seemedlike, over around the Lucky Strike.”
“Dropped a remark?” echoed One-eye Perkins. “The feller’s mouth went
off like a string of bombs!”
“All o’ that,” averred Stump Hathaway. “The noise jumped me out of a
sound sleep.”
“I thort, fer a brace o’ shakes,” struck in Pete, “thet Injuns was
up, an’ raidin’ ther camp. My skin began walkin’ all over me with
cold feet.”
The party had paused for only a few moments. During most of the
talking a rapid movement was being made in the direction of the Lucky
Strike.
Spangler sat in the shade, in front, taking a comfortable catnap on
his two chairs.
“Wake up, Spang!” cried Gentleman Jim, giving Spangler a shake that
made him quiver like a bowl of jelly.
Spangler opened his eyes, wheezed, and made a convulsive gesture with
his ragged palm-leaf fan.
“What’s ter pay, Jim?” he demanded.
“Didn’t ye hear that yell, a minit ago?” inquired Hoppy Smith.
“Didn’t hear nothin’.”
“It come from this a-way,” said Lonesome Pete. “Reckon nothin’ short
of er cannon kin wake you, Spang, arter ye once drop off.”
“It ain’t often that anythin’ happens in camp durin’ the day,”
returned Spangler. “If you fellers got business anywheres else, don’t
let me detain ye a minit.”
Spangler settled the broad of his back against the wall behind him
once more, apparently bent on continuing his nap. Just then, however,
Hank Tenny, a “digger” from up the gulch, plunged around the corner
of the hotel, wild-eyed and full of excitement.
He carried a riata, and was making it ready for action when he hove
in sight.
Behind Tenny came Wing Hi, the dining-room boy, and right at Wing
Hi’s heels came Wong Looey, the hotel cook.
“Was that you, Tenny, that let off that yell?” shouted Gentleman Jim.
“Well, I reckon,” answered Tenny.
“What’s the rip?”
“Cast yer eyes up at the rim o’ the cañon.”
What the men saw was startling in the extreme.
A red steer was flickering along the rim of the cañon, head down, and
flecks of foam covering its dusty hide. To the steer’s back a man
was tied. Both steer and man could be plainly seen, and the unusual
spectacle brought exclamations of astonishment from every onlooker.
The man was stretched out along the steer’s back, and securely roped
in that position. Whether he was alive or not it was impossible for
those on the “flat” to tell. The unfortunate man did not move--but
the ropes alone would have prevented that.
“Great glee-ory!” gasped Hoppy Smith.
“Wust thing o’ the kind I ever seen!” averred Lonesome Pete.
“Must be Injuns are playin’ didoes some’rs around here!” chimed in
Stump Hathaway.
“You’re shy, Stump,” said Gentleman Jim. “Whoever knew Injuns to
treat a white like that? So far as I can see, the man on the steer
still has his scalp. What’re you going to do, Hank?” he added to the
man with the rope.
“It’s dollars ter doughnuts,” said Tenny, “thet the steer’ll foller
the stage-trail right down inter camp. If thet’s the case, I’m goin’
to drop a rope over them horns.”
For quite a long distance the stage-trail followed the rim of the
cañon. Hank Tenny had sighted the steer and the man when they rushed
into sight. Wing Hi had got the rope for him, and immediately
afterward Tenny had rushed for the front of the hotel.
“I had jest put my cabyo in the stable,” said Tenny, while he and all
the rest continued to watch the rim of the gulch, “an’ was walkin’
fer the front o’ the hotel, when I fust seen the critter. Nacherly I
let off er yell, an’ follered it up by tellin’ ther Chink ter git a
rope fer me. Jest as soon’s I got my hands on the rope, I started for
the front o’ the----”
“By George!” exclaimed Gentleman Jim. “The steer has taken the turn,
and is sashaying right down on us!”
Tenny’s forecast had proved correct. The maverick, whirling from the
rim to the down-grade, could be seen charging down the steep slope.
Without a word, Hank Tenny made a rush along the street toward the
point where the trail entered it. There he went into hiding around
the corner of the Alcazar.
“Keep away, you fellers!” he yelled. “Don’t show yerselves, kase if
ye do ye’ll skeer the critter off. Jest hang around the background,
an’ watch how I rope ’im.”
Clustered about the front of the Lucky Strike, Gentleman Jim,
Spangler, Hoppy Smith, and the rest watched succeeding events with
intense interest.
They saw the steer charge into the street, saw Tenny’s right arm
shoot out, and the noose settle over the steer’s horns, and then they
saw Tenny make a frantic effort and take a half-hitch with the end
of the rope around a hitching-post.
A long breath escaped the onlookers. For an instant they experienced
a feeling of relief; then, the next instant, the relief gave way to
wildest anxiety.
The hitching-post, loosened by long use, had been torn from the
ground the tremendous strain placed upon it by the steer. Tenny,
hanging to the extreme end of the rope, had turned a somersault in
the air and landed on his head. The steer, with its helpless burden,
dashed on across the road and vanished behind the walls of the Spread
Eagle honkatonk.
“The animile is chasin’ straight fer the precipice!” bawled Lonesome
Pete, beginning to run. “It’ll go over the precipice an’ the man’ll
be done fer!”
This dread dénouement seemed very likely to happen. At the edge of
the “flat” there was a steep bank, dropping sheer downward to the bed
of the cañon. In one place, the trail from below followed a steep
slope--but the steer was not headed toward the slope, but toward the
precipice.
Maddened by the unsuccessful attempt made to stop its flight, and
still further frenzied by the yells of the men, there was small doubt
but that the steer would hurl itself over the edge of the high bank,
break its own neck, and crush out the life of the man on its back--in
case the man happened to be still alive.
“Who’s got a gun?” shouted Gentleman Jim, as all hands plunged along
after the steer. “Get a rifle, somebody!”
“We’d be as li’ble ter hit the man as ter hit the steer,” puffed
Hoppy Smith.
“It’s a chance we’ll have to take,” averred Gentleman Jim
breathlessly.
“But there ain’t a rifle among the lot o’ us,” said Stump Hathaway,
“an’ no time ter git one.”
At the rear of the Spread Eagle the men came to a halt. A level
stretch lay between them and the top of the bank. The steer was
almost across the stretch, and pounding onward without lessening its
speed in the least.
“The fellow is as good as done for,” said Gentleman Jim, leaning
against the wall of the Spread Eagle and drawing his sleeve across
his dripping forehead.
“He’ll go over in spite o’ fate,” muttered Hank Tenny, joining the
group at the rear of the honkatonk. “Who’d hev thought thet rotten
post would hev let go like it did? If it hadn’t been for that, I’d
hev stopped the maverick.”
“When a man’s time comes,” said Gentleman Jim, “he’ll get his due,
whether by bullet, or water, or six feet of rope--or a red maverick
steer. Too bad, too bad! Ah, the steer sees the break in the ground
ahead, and is getting ready to go over. If we only had a rifle----”
Gentleman Jim was interrupted by an abrupt _crang_, and a puff of
white smoke arising from a thicket of scrub off toward the edge of
the “flat.” Astonishment filled all beholders. While the echoes of
the rifle-shot were dancing musically up and down the gulch, the
steer was seen to leap into the air and to come down in a heap at the
very brink of the high bank.
A second later a lithe form sprang out from among the bushes and
started hastily for the fallen animal. It was the form of a girl in a
natty brown sombrero, buckskin blouse, and short skirt, and tan shoes
and leggings. In her right hand, as she hurried, she swung a rifle.
“Dell Dauntless!” shouted Gentleman Jim; “Buffalo Bill’s girl pard
has turned the trick. Bravo! A neater shot was never fired in Sun
Dance Cañon!”
And “bravo! bravo!” jubilated the others as they followed Gentleman
Jim toward the steer and the stranger--a stranger who might be in
luck, and who might not, according as to whether he had come through
that Mazeppalike ride alive or dead.
When Gentleman Jim and the others came close to the steer, Dell
Dauntless had already cut away the ropes, freed the stranger, and
dragged him to one side. The girl’s shot had sped true, and the steer
lay dead, with a bullet through its heart.
“Miss Dauntless,” said Gentleman Jim, removing his sombrero, “I take
off my hat to you. Your rifle got in its work in the very nick of
time. Half a minute more, and the steer would have been over the
bank. You’re a wonderful hand with a rifle.”
“Well,” smiled the girl, with a deprecating shake of the head, “that
steer was a good-sized target, and what excuse could I have made if I
had missed?”
“The steer was on the run, Miss Dauntless,” said Gentleman Jim, “and
you had to put a bit of lead into a vital place.”
“I happened to be in a favorable position,” said Dell. “Any one of
you, who happened to be placed as I was, and with a rifle in your
hands, could have done the same thing. While waiting for Buffalo
Bill and the rest of my pards to come back from down the gulch, I
was taking a stroll to the edge of the ‘flat’ to see if they were
in sight. I heard the yells from the camp, saw the steer coming,
and went down on one knee and bided my time. That was all,” she
finished, turning away. “Instead of talking, we’d better be giving
our attention to the stranger.”
“Correct,” returned Gentleman Jim, stepping to the stranger’s side
and sinking to his knees.
The stranger was young--evidently well under thirty--and had every
appearance of being a placer-miner. He wore a flannel shirt, blue
overalls, and rubber boots, all earth and water-stained. His hat was
gone, as might be expected, and there was no revolver-belt at his
waist, and no sign of weapons elsewhere about him.
“Any of you boys ever seen the man before?” asked Gentleman Jim.
None of the men could remember the stranger’s face.
Gentleman Jim laid one hand on his breast.
“His ticker’s going,” said he. “Hand me a flask, one of you.”
Lonesome Pete dug into his hip pocket and brought up a pint-flask.
Unscrewing the top, he handed the flask to the gambler. The latter
lifted the stranger’s head and allowed some of the liquor to trickle
into the throat of the unconscious man.
The effect was well-nigh magical. A minute afterward, and while
Pete was in the act of transferring the flask to his pocket, the
stranger’s eyes opened.
For a space, the eyes were blank and void of realization. The
man’s glance passed vacantly about from one face to another; then,
suddenly, he sat up and began rubbing his hands and arms where the
rope had chafed them.
“How do you feel, pilgrim?” asked Gentleman Jim.
“Feel like I’d been tangled up with a cyclone,” answered the man.
“Where am I?”
“You’re in Sun Dance Cañon.”
“This is where I was bound fer, but I wasn’t expectin’ ter git here
on a maverick longhorn. You fellows roped the critter?”
“I tried ter,” spoke up Hank Tenny, “but the animile yanked a
snub-post up by the roots an’ got away from me. He was headin’ fer
the edge o’ thet precipice, thar, with the idee o’ jumpin’ over an’
takin’ you with him, when this young lady, who happened ter be handy
by with a gun, let drive with a bullet. It’s the bullet thet saved
ye, pilgrim.”
The stranger swerved his eyes to Dell.
“I’m obliged to ye, miss,” said he. “What might yer name be?”
“Dell Dauntless,” said the girl.
“Buffalo Bill’s girl pard!” exclaimed the stranger, his dull eyes
lighting a little. “I won’t forget this, Dell Dauntless.”
“It’s nothing--nothing at all,” deprecated Dell. “Any one else would
have done the same thing, had they been situated as I was.”
“Some one else,” said the stranger grimly, “might have put a bullet
inter me instead o’ the steer. Howsumever, we’ll let that pass, fer
now. My name’s Blake, Henry Blake,” he went on, addressing generally
the men who were grouped about him. “I left Pass Dure Cañon yesterday
mornin’ with a bag o’ dust, calculatin’ ter come ter Sun Dance an’
take ther stage fer Montegordo. Just under the lee of Medicine
Bluff I was stopped by Cap’n Lawless and some o’ his murderous
scoundrels----”
“Captain Lawless!” exclaimed Gentleman Jim, astonished, and the words
were taken up and echoed by all the other bystanders--Dell Dauntless
being particularly interested.
“That’s right,” pursued Blake, a savage frown gathering about his
brows, “it was Cap’n Lawless, of the Forty Thieves, an’ no one else.
I know the whelp by sight, but, if I hadn’t known him, he’d have
settled my doubts, fer he told me himself who he was.”
“I thought Lawless and his gang had been chased out of the country
for good,” said Gentleman Jim. “Buffalo Bill and his pards gave him
the worst of it, and we had all made up our minds, here in Sun Dance,
that Lawless would profit by the lesson.”
“Well, he didn’t,” continued Blake. “He’s on deck like always, an’
up ter his old tricks. He lifted my bag o’ dust, my guns, what stuff
I had in my clothes, and my horse. I was held a pris’ner all last
night, in the outlaws’ camp by Medicine Bluff. This morning that
maverick steer was roped and thrown, and I was tied to the brute’s
back. Lawless told me I was going to Sun Dance, and that I was to
carry a message to some enemies of his. It was a written message, and
consequently it wouldn’t make much difference whether I reached Sun
Dance alive or dead.”
A fierce scowl returned to Blake’s face.
“I’m hopin’,” he went on, “that I’ll live to play even with that
whelp an’ cutthroat. He’s as cold-blooded as a channel catfish, an’
as murderous as a Sioux Injun. If I ever git a chance at him----”
Blake finished with a vengeful glare and a tense gripping of his big,
sinewy hands.
“You say the message is written?” queried Gentleman Jim.
“Yes,” answered Blake. “If I got here alive I was ter ask fer a
gambler called Gentleman Jim.”
“Which is me,” said the gambler. “So far as I know, Lawless hasn’t
ever crossed my trail. Why he makes himself my enemy is more than I
can tell.”
“The message ain’t fer you, Gentleman Jim,” said Blake.
“But you just said----”
“Wait till I tell ye the whole of it. Lawless said I was to ask for
you, and that I was ter tell ye Lawless believed ye was that rare
thing, a square gambler. This message fer Buffalo Bill----”
“Ah!” murmured Dell, her interest growing. “Then the message is for
the king of scouts?”
“That’s the way I sense it,” answered Blake. “It’s fer the king of
scouts, but it’s ter be given ter Gentleman Jim.”
“Talk about yer puzzles!” cut in Lonesome Pete. “This takes the
banner an’ leads the percession, I reckon. Lawless sends a message
ter one man an’ tells ye ter give it ter another.”
“How do you explain that, Blake?” asked Gentleman Jim.
“I don’t explain it,” continued Blake, “an’ I’ve told ye all I know.”
He dipped into the breast of his shirt and removed a long envelope,
soiled by much handling.
“There it is,” said he, handing the envelope to Gentleman Jim. “If
I’d petered out before the steer got here, ye might have found that
on me, an’ ye might not. It was Lawless’ roundabout way o’ doin’ the
thing.”
“He and his gang,” remarked Gentleman Jim, “must have chased the
steer toward Sun Dance, and have drawn off only when sure the brute
would come peltering down into the camp.”
“That must be the way of it, although I lost my senses some time
ago. I’m purty husky, but what I went through on that steer’s back is
somethin’ I never want ter go through ag’in.”
Dell looked over Gentleman Jim’s shoulder while he read the writing
on the envelope.
“A message for Buffalo Bill,” read the writing; “to be delivered to
Gentleman Jim, in Sun Dance, and by him opened in the presence of the
scout.”
“That’s plain enough; eh, Miss Dauntless?” said the gambler.
“It’s plain enough,” agreed the girl, “but a brain-twisting puzzle,
nevertheless. If the scout----”
At that instant a fall of hoofs struck on the ears of each member of
the group. All eyes turned in the direction of the trail leading up
and out of the cañon.
Four riders were approaching that particular part of the “flat.”
Buffalo Bill, on his big black horse, Bear Paw, was in the lead.
Behind the scout came Wild Bill, Nick Nomad, and Little Cayuse.
“Well, well!” exclaimed Gentleman Jim, “this couldn’t have happened
better.”
Putting their horses to the gallop, Buffalo Bill and his pards were
soon drawing rein close to the group near the dead steer.
“What’s been going on here, friends?” queried the king of scouts,
sweeping a curious eye over the scene before him.